Chapter 20
Health ward
IAM lay still on the stiff bed, its worn springs jabbing through the thin mattress like dull needles. The grey hospital top and trousers he wore clung awkwardly to his sore, overheated skin. Everything felt uncomfortable—scratchy, cold, and too tight around the chest where the pain still lingered.
He stared up at the blank ceiling, breathing shallowly, trying not to trigger another fit of coughing.
He vaguely remembered Althea mentioning something earlier—about how lucky he was to be here early. The real expeditions into the Deadline hadn't begun yet. No major scouting missions. No real clashes with the opposing camp, Claw. The inevitable casualties, injuries, and trauma hadn't started flooding in. If they had, this ward would've been packed wall-to-wall with broken bodies and pain-wracked moans.
For now, it was quiet.
The ward had thirty beds and there were five rooms just like this, but only two others were currently occupied—and those were set to be discharged soon. Minor cases, compared to him. His own bed was one of the few available for Ascenders at the "experience" level, while more seasoned fighters—Masters—were given their own private rooms, away from the open ward. He imagined they had softer beds. Real doors. A sense of dignity.
IAM didn't know whether to feel grateful or resentful.
Maybe if he had arrived on time, like everyone else, he wouldn't be lying here like this. Maybe he would've had the opportunity to pace himself. To form his avien gradually. To follow the guidance. To avoid making the kind of mistake that landed him in this pitiful state.
A long, weary sigh escaped him.
Immediate regret.
A sharp, fiery burn exploded in his throat. A violent coughing fit overtook him, his chest heaving with dry, ragged wheezes. The sound echoed in the quiet ward, ugly and raw. If someone had closed their eyes, they might have mistaken it for the final breaths of an old man.
The ceiling above was unchanged—still blank, still indifferent.
IAM stared at it in silence.
Althea had instructed him to remain in the hospital ward for a full week before discharge. IAM was almost certain now—this must have been the building with the green "H" he had spotted vaguely from a distance during his earlier arrival. He'd guessed correctly that it was a medical facility, and ironically, he had even joked to himself that he'd probably be frequenting it often.
He just hadn't expected to check in so soon—less than three days in.
If he could move without triggering a riot of pain in his body, IAM would've shaken his head in bitter amusement.
His mood had improved slightly since the blow of the bad news. The vomiting helped. Strange as it sounded, after the third time he'd emptied his guts in front of the strikingly attractive Althea, most of the self-loathing had been replaced with raw embarrassment. Somehow, shame was more manageable than despair.
Still wanting to crawl under a rock from the mortification, he'd tried to cover his face when she calmly summoned two male nurses—both bearing no stars on their uniforms, likely new recruits—to help him shower. The health ward's showers were built like the communal cube outside, except these had small wooden chairs inside. IAM figured they were for patients with combat injuries, long-term disabilities, or just those temporarily broken like himself.
He had begged—pleaded—with the nurses to be careful and delicate with his 'mech'. His wording, very deliberate, was met with silent judgment. The dry stares they gave him said it all: we don't want to be here either, man.
Now, hours later, IAM lay motionless on the stiff bed, limbs stretched out like a starfish, and contemplated the greatest dilemma of his new life so far:
Too many men had seen his greatest treasure.
Ryan and the four volunteers from that first humiliating day. The two nurses today. And... the incident with Joe.
His stomach twisted.
He didn't even want to count anymore.
At this rate, he feared his reputation would be permanently marred before he even had the chance to build one.
How could anyone take him seriously now? He was supposed to be a mysterious, determined new arrival. A man with a hidden past and a sharp future. Not... a guy whose 'mech' had practically become public knowledge.
This world is cruel in ways he did not foresee.
As IAM lay motionless, still deeply contemplating solutions to his increasingly dire and embarrassing situation, a guest arrived.
It was Ryan.
The green-eyed man stepped confidently into the ward, his gaze sweeping across the neat and sterile room before landing on IAM. His expression shifted instantly into one of concern. Without hesitation, he made his way over.
IAM spotted him from the corner of his eye but didn't quite know what kind of face to make. His pride was still raw, and this visit—unexpected as it was—only added to the complexity of his emotions.
Ryan arrived at the bedside and reached out, grabbing IAM's arm.
"AHHH—!" IAM cried out instinctively, pain flaring through him like fire.
Ryan flinched and quickly let go. "Shit—sorry, sorry! Damn, I didn't think—my bad!" he apologized, eyes wide with worry.
He paused, then crouched slightly beside the bed. "I heard what happened," he said. "Why did you—... Anyway, I heard how bad it was. But don't worry, man. I'll cover for both of us while you recover."
His voice softened, tinged with warmth. "And don't think I'll abandon you over this. We're both from the slums, right? We've gotta look out for each other. Soon enough, we'll be soldiers. Together."
He winked. It seemed sincere.
...
But in his head, Ryan smirked.
Perfect. Better than I planned.
He had originally intended to pressure IAM by showing off his progress, maybe crush his confidence a little. A subtle push to widen the gap. But this? This was a gift.
Mana exhaustion? Near total reset? You beautiful idiot.
If this had happened earlier, Ryan might've been irritated, maybe even angry. But now? This made things easier. The gap between them had grown—and now, when the instructors or others compared their progress, IAM would be the perfect example of what failure looked like. A convenient contrast to highlight his brilliance.
And that wasn't all.
By supporting IAM publicly—being kind, loyal, trustworthy—he'd gain points with the others. When new recruits arrived, they'd see him as reliable, as someone who doesn't abandon the weak. That kind of impression was gold. With a little time, he could gather a quiet circle of loyal followers, IAM included. Meatshields. Supporters. Pawns.
The higher-ups always appreciated someone who could control the herd. A natural leader. Someone dependable.
This isn't a setback, Ryan thought, smug. This is momentum.
All thanks to IAM. The poor bastard.
One man's suffering... another man's springboard.
...
Ryan eventually stood and said goodbye, promising to visit again.
IAM didn't say much. He just watched as Ryan left the room, his mind numb, heart heavy.
Something deep inside him stirred uneasily, but he couldn't place it—not yet.