It didn’t take long for the cryo pod to work its magic. Maybe five or six hours passed inside that icy cocoon, the kind that numbed more than just the body.
By the time I stepped out, my injuries were gone—patched up neatly like they never existed. Apparently, it wasn’t anything fatal, just the backlash from using mana too aggressively. Common stuff.
Now, I sat in the infirmary. Again. This time for a mandatory follow-up check.
The nurse assigned to me—still the same one—stood a few feet away. The pink-haired, deep-blue-eyed seductress who always looked like she belonged in a different kind of institution.
One with less clothing and more dramatics.
She wore the same sleek, form-fitting uniform that clung to every curve like a second skin. A nurse cosplay designed by a sadist. Probably the Academy’s idea of medical therapy: mix healing with humiliation.
But honestly, I wasn’t in the mood for lust. I had too much rotting in my head to think about anything else.
And to be brutally honest... I felt fine.
Not just physically. But mentally. Emotionally. Spiritually? If that even counted anymore.
The regret—the guilt—the so-called morality of ending over twenty thousand lives? Gone. Just poof. Like vapor under the sun.
It turns out I had a rather powerful antidote to guilt: justification.
And I was damn good at justifying.
So what if I twisted logic like a wet rag? So what if I cobbled together nonsense reasons to silence my conscience?
I lived by a simple philosophy: If I deemed you unworthy of existing, then you weren’t worth the air you breathed.
It was clean. Efficient. Personal.
Didn’t matter if you were man, woman, child, dog, demon, or god. I didn’t discriminate. I never had.
The universe is cruel. I just played along with the rules—no, I bent them to suit me.
And the cherry on top?
Name: Cassius Lancaster
Exp: 67,770 / 1,000,000
Element: Lightning, Nothing
[Flash Speed], [Lightning], [Thousand Slash], [Violent Fist], [Indigo Bloom], [Physical Enhancement], [Null Blade], [Silent Unravel]
[Violet Violent Swordsmanship], [Mana Control], [Swordsmanship], [Reading Comprehension], [Culinary], [Politics], [Blood Boost]
Health: 200,000 / 200,000
Stat Points Available: 10,000
Ten thousand stat points.
That number wasn’t just impressive—it was ridiculous.
But that was the thrill of rising through the ranks. Every Rank Up came with exponential benefits. A single star? You got 10 points. Two stars? 100. Three? 1,000.
The difference between ranks wasn’t just a step up—it was a canyon. And I’d just leapt across it.
Sure, the EXP requirement had ballooned into absurdity, and the climb to the next star would be hell, but who cared?
Right now, I was staring at a pool of raw potential. A tide of power just begging to be molded.
Getting stronger wasn’t a goal anymore—it was a religion.
But amidst the stats and the boosts, two abilities caught my eye.
They weren’t there before. I knew my arsenal. Every skill, every technique. These were new.
My instincts tingled the second I saw them. Not from excitement—no. From caution.
They didn’t reek of lightning. They weren’t anything like my current abilities. No sparks. No thunder. Just... silence.
’Nothing,’ I thought.
It was the second element listed under mine.
And I wanted to keep ignoring it.
It sounded poetic. Cool, even. But I’d long since learned that cool things kill. And "Nothing" was the kind of element that probably didn’t obey rules. Not natural ones. Not human ones. Maybe not even cosmic ones.
I wasn’t ready for that.
So, like the responsible, emotionally-detached, murder-justifying lunatic I was—I shelved the thought. Stuffed it in a box. Locked it. Buried it six feet under my psyche and threw away the shovel.
Because if there was one thing I hated more than weak enemies and forced sentimentality... it was complications.
"Your check-up is complete," the nurse’s voice cut through the air, snapping me out of my thoughts. "No major injuries detected. Just standard repercussions from mana overexertion. You’re stable."
She tapped something on her tablet, then added, "Also, ten credits have been deducted from your account."
I gave a simple nod. "Right. So, I’m good to go now?"
She didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she folded her arms under her chest, tilting her head slightly.
That same form-fitting uniform clung to her like a second skin, making her look more like a model from a questionable fantasy magazine than someone in the medical field.
Her pink hair shimmered faintly under the sterile lights, and her deep blue eyes locked onto mine with unsettling clarity.
"I have some questions for you."
I frowned. "Questions?"
"You may answer them," she clarified gently, "and then you can leave."
I raised an eyebrow. "May answer them. So, I don’t have to. There’s no actual obligation here, is there?"
She shook her head slowly, her expression neutral but persistent. "No. There isn’t. This is personal, I assume. I won’t cross any boundaries if you’re not comfortable."
"Then don’t ask the question," I replied coldly. "It’s that simple."
She sighed, brushing her hair back with a practiced motion. "I’m part of the medical department, Mr. Lancaster. When I see someone suffering, my first instinct is to help. Even if they don’t ask for it."
I met her gaze, unimpressed. "So, you think I’m suffering?"
Her voice softened. "Yes. I do."
I narrowed my eyes unconsciously. Her tone didn’t accuse me. It didn’t pity me either. It was just... factual. As if she’d already done her diagnosis.
She continued, "I’ve observed how you interact with people. The way you carry yourself. There’s a certain distance you maintain. But more than that... I’ve seen how you are when you sleep."
That made me pause. Sleep?
My expression shifted, subtle but sharp. "Do I sleepwalk or something?"
She shook her head. "No, nothing like that. Something worse."
"You curl into yourself," she said, almost in a whisper. "Your body language screams fear. Isolation. Like you’re trapped somewhere and just... surviving it. It’s not physical pain, but it’s deep. It looks like the echo of trauma."
Her words hung in the air.
I wanted to scoff, maybe even laugh. But the worst part? She wasn’t wrong. And she wasn’t just guessing.
She added softly, "That’s why I’m asking. If there’s anything weighing on you... you can talk. You don’t have to—but you can. I extended the same offer to the child too."
"Rufus?" I asked, my voice dropping.
She nodded. "Yes. He’s under my care as well."
Her eyes lowered slightly. "He’s alive. That’s the best I can say for now. But... he’s not speaking. Complete silence. It’s like the world’s too loud for him. Or maybe he’s too far away from it."
"No vocal response," she confirmed. "He reacts to stimuli. Flinches at sudden movement. But words? Questions? He shuts down completely. I believe it’s trauma-induced mutism."
"I figured as much," I muttered.
"Which is why no one should force him," she said firmly. "He must recover on his own terms. Pushing him will only worsen the damage. Let him be. Let him choose what he wants."
"That’s the problem though," I muttered, rubbing my temple. "We don’t know what he wants..."
She hesitated, then said, "He was muttering something. Quietly. When no one was around. I only caught pieces of it. And... he has this habit. He checks his hands and legs constantly. Like he’s searching for something that isn’t there."
My breath caught for a second.
Torture... That made sense. He’d been brutalized, over and over. His mind probably still lived inside that chamber, even though his body had escaped. Repetition carves deep into the psyche.
But then... something didn’t add up.
A question suddenly clicked in my head. One I couldn’t ignore.
"Can I ask you something?" I said, voice lower than before. "When you first received him—Rufus—was he... injured? Like... severely?"
The nurse furrowed her brows, puzzled. "No. Not at all."
"There wasn’t a single wound on his body," she continued, as if not realizing the weight of her words. "His condition is entirely psychological. No bruises, no lacerations. Nothing. We ran full scans."
That wasn’t possible. I saw him. I was there. He was nailed—nailed—through his fingers and feet. Blood-drenched, bone-deep. His limbs were broken.
His eyes—those blank, distant eyes—they were fading in real time. There’s no way anyone could walk away from that with zero injuries.
Unless someone—or something—intervened.
The nurse must’ve noticed my silence because she cleared her throat. "Was he... supposed to be injured?"
She was his therapist. She deserved to know.
"Yeah," I said finally. "When I found him, he was in a catastrophic state. His hands and feet were impaled with iron nails. His body was a canvas of bruises and cuts. He was... dying."
She inhaled sharply, a tremor of horror in her breath. "To do that to a child..."
I nodded grimly. "That’s why he checks his limbs. It’s not random. It’s a reflex. He’s probably expecting pain that doesn’t come. Phantom pain. Or worse—he’s just confused it’s not still there."
She placed her hand over her mouth. "Phantom trauma... yes. That would explain it. The mind is repeating the sensation long after the wounds are gone."
"But most likely," I said, eyes distant, "it’s a habit. One burned into him through sheer repetition. Pain was probably his only constant."
The nurse’s eyes hardened with resolve. "I need to go deeper into this. His trauma may be more complex than I thought. If he healed that fast with no scars... either there’s advanced intervention involved, or something is terribly off."
I didn’t answer. Because I didn’t know which one was worse.
But one thing was clear.
Something was wrong with Rufus. And whatever it was... it wasn’t just human cruelty anymore.
It was something deeper. Stranger.
And far, far more dangerous.