Chapter 23
[Embercrown 30th (8th month), Year 1356 of the Arcane Calendar]
| 8:40 PM |
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[Celestara, infermary]
A sharp clank rang out, metallic and uneven, like a rusted chain dragged across the bedframe. The sound carved through the calm, and my pulse spiked.
My gaze snapped to the cot opposite mine, veiled behind a thin, ghostly white curtain. A chill crawled up my spine—not from the draft, but from something heavier, deliberate, like the air itself was alive and watching.
My fingers tightened on the curtain, heart hammering as I yanked it aside.
The figure on the bed stirred.
My throat tightened. "Weren't you… supposed to come tomorrow?"
Felix's eyes cracked open just enough to look at me. Pale gold. Hazy. Like he wasn't sure if I was real or just part of a dream.
His white hair, streaked with frost and faint sky blue at the back, was a tangled mess spilling across the pillow. Sticking up in random places.
Where normal humans had smooth cartilage, Felix had branch-like ears. They twitched every so often, probably running on autopilot.
He slouched so deeply into the bed it looked like he'd fused with it. One leg was dangling off the edge, like pulling it back up was too much effort.
A faint chill lingered in the air. Mist curled lazily, soft and slow, almost like the whole room was sighing.
"Yo…" he mumbled. His voice is scratchy. Heavy. Each word dragged out like it weighed a ton.
He yawned so wide it nearly split his sentence in half.
"Saw your stuff in the room…" He paused. Another half-yawn. "…figured you already dragged yourself here."
His eyes finally landed on my arm. Surprise. Concern.
"Arm's busted, huh? Heard you got wrecked in that duel. Thought I'd check if you were still alive, but…"
A long yawn cracked his jaw. His eyes closed for a beat before fluttering back open.
"…yeah, you were out cold. Then I hear you talking with the nurse, so I… figured, eh… guess you're fine."
His head flopped back onto the pillow with a dull thump. Half-speaking into the fabric now.
His gaze drifted lazily past me, unfocused, like eye contact cost too much energy.
Another stretch. Another yawn. He sank even heavier into the bed.
"Guess my suppressor slipped off," he muttered, lips tugging into a lazy half-smirk.
"Too chilly for you?"
The words slipped out with yet another yawn—half chuckle, half sigh—like he was a single breath away from passing out mid-sentence.
His hand moved sluggishly, fumbling under the bed until he found the small rune-carved device that tethered his icy aura. The cold spiked for a moment—a prickling, needle-like sting across my skin—before he clipped the suppressor back around his neck like a necklace. The air softened, though the unease didn't.
Felix wasn't human—not fully. He was a Hyokiju, a beast of ice and trees. A rare, unsettling hybrid born from the union of human flesh and the ancient spirits of frost-bound groves.
Not like the snow wraiths, who lured souls to icy graves with predatory beauty, nor the grove spirits, whispering guardians of sacred woods.
Felix was something else. Indifferent, not cruel. His presence was like standing silently through a blizzard.
Frost traced faint crystalline patterns across his skin, glimmering like bark etched by winter. They seemed to sway with a wind I couldn't feel.
"Wanna head to the room?" he asked, voice still low.
"Yeah. But let's wait for the others—they said they'd be back after dinner."
Felix's pale golden eyes—sharp as cracked ice under a winter moon— He pushed himself up slightly, one twig-like ear twitching, the air around him chilling despite the suppressor humming faintly at his collar.
"Sure," he drawled, lips curling into a lazy smirk. Already sinking deeper into the bed, he tugged the sheets over himself and added, "Nurse Mina, I don't feel so good. I'm gonna rest up a bit too." He threw in a wink, his mischief sparking through the drowsy delivery.
"Sure. Knock yourself out. You being here keeps it cool anyway," Mina replied dryly, not even glancing up from her work.
Hmm. A living air conditioner. Pretty handy.
A few minutes later, the others came back, chatter trailing behind them as they crowded the doorway. We gathered our things, thanked Nurse Mina, and started heading out. Felix, though, was still buried under the sheets, too tired to even twitch.
"Let's go, Felix," I said, grabbing hold of his blanket and tugging at it.
Like a stubborn kid refusing to wake up for school, he groaned and yanked the covers back over his head, fighting me for them with surprising determination.
"…But how 'bout you carry me?" His muffled voice dragged out from under the sheets, lazy and teasing. "That'd be the dream."
I scoffed, shaking my head. "Are you seriously asking me that? Not happening. Get up."
Felix peeked out from beneath the blanket, one golden eye half-lidded, his smirk barely holding against another yawn. "Tch. Cold-hearted. And here I thought Varae were supposed to be gentlemen."
I rolled my eyes, finally ripping the sheets free while he groaned like I'd just ruined his whole life.
"Thanks, Miss Mina," I said, stepping out where the others waited.
She waved me off without looking up.
Felix slid off the bed. His movements were slow, as though every gesture carried a quiet weight.
He drifted past Mina with lazy steps, shoulders slouched, the usual tiredness painted across his face.
But as he passed her side, his head tilted just slightly. His gaze wandered toward the window, where the night sky loomed heavy and dark, the distant cries of birds echoing against the silence.
His voice slipped out in a whisper so faint it vanished almost as soon as it was spoken.
"My dear little sis… You know better than to disturb my precious sleep."
The words dissolved into the air, too soft for anyone to hear, swallowed instantly by the low hum of the infirmary's lanterns.
For the briefest moment, his eyes lingered on the window—distant, unreadable—before a yawn dragged him back into his usual mask of indifference.
"Let's go. Stop daydreaming," Dain called from the doorway. "We're leaving you behind if you don't move."
"Yes, yes, I'm coming," Fuyuki muttered, his voice carrying that same drowsy drawl, like even answering was too much work. He stretched his arms overhead in slow, lazy arcs, joints cracking, before shuffling toward us with the unhurried pace of someone who had all the time in the world.
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After a few rounds of cards in Reis's room, we kept hanging out until the weight of exhaustion finally dragged us down. By the time we called it, the clock was already pushing 1 a.m.
Everyone decided to head back to their own rooms—except Felix, who had already knocked out halfway through the second game, dead to the world and drooling into his sleeve.
Dain and Liam carried Felix to my room since Felix and I were roommates.
If I remember it correctly, they said it was like carrying a bag of chilled cement, but they were used to it. After dropping him off, they waved goodnight and left me alone.
I didn't waste time. I turned off the lights, slid into bed, and let myself sink into the mindscape.
The world shifted. A pulsing void unfolded around me, speckled with ghostly white stars. Slowly, they bent and twined together, shaping into a human figure.
"Alright, Cornelius, let's scheme," I said with a smile, snapping my fingers.
The void rippled. Bit by bit, a room bloomed into being—my own little corner of Earth, reborn here. It wasn't perfect, but it was bigger, brighter, and more spacious than the original. A mind-made replica, sculpted from memory.
It had taken time to master the shaping of this inner world—my soul sphere's physical representation, which is called mindscape. At first, forcing it into the shape of my old room had been clumsy, every detail slipping like wet clay. But now, the process came almost naturally, as if my thoughts themselves carried sculptor's hands. In here, imagination wasn't just a tool—it was law.
Of course, it wasn't only imagination. If it were, the whole place would be overflowing with junk pulled from stray thoughts. The key was will—focused intent. Whatever I willed into existence took form, nothing more, nothing less.
I dropped into a gaming chair that spun lazily under my weight, then turned toward the bed where Cornelius lounged. Or rather—sprawled. He had claimed the entire mattress like it was a throne.
His gaze flicked up to me, his mouth curving faintly. "I'm glad you accepted me as your contractor, Oliver."
He bit into something with a loud crunch. I blinked, caught off guard. "Glasses? Really? Didn't know you cared about fashion."
Cornelius wore transparent black-framed lenses while holding a bar of chocolate—rich and glossy, the kind I'd only ever tasted back on Earth. He snapped off another square, letting it melt on his tongue before replying.
"I wanted to change things up a bit," he said smoothly.
"Fair enough," I grinned, waving him on.
"This sweet you call chocolate… It's really good," he murmured, almost reverent.
Another bite. Another satisfied sigh. For all his sly, sharp presence, in that moment, he looked like someone who had just discovered the meaning of life in a candy bar.
"Okay," I said, leaning back. "Top of the list: one, survive psycho Selene. Two, make sure today's fight doesn't come back to bite us. Three, dig up more information about this world. Any ideas?"
"For Selene," Cornelius said, tone shifting, "with the knowledge from your world and the magic from this one, I do have a way to shut her up. But it requires you to study magical engineering. Also,"—he raised the chocolate like a pointer—"not one of the three, but Mina's expertise in anatomy will be useful to you later. Different species, different limits. Worth learning."
"The first two will take time," he added, stretching out on the bed. "Let's circle back when the timing's right."
"Fine," I muttered. Just the name made my jaw tighten. "But Selene… I can't even look her in the eye without feeling like I'm standing in quicksand." I clenched my fists.
"Is there a way to cure this psychological trauma imprinted on me, and why am I being affected if it's Kyzens memories? Is it because my mind's being tricked into believing Kyzen's memories are my memories??"
Seemingly deep in thought, Cornelius finally spoke in his measured, scholarly tone."Your assumption is not wrong. Consider, for instance, this experiment: a blindfolded subject is told he will be killed by the bite of a venomous snake. In truth, he is merely pricked with a needle. Yet he still dies, not from venom, but from belief."
He leaned closer, his eyes glinting. "What you face may be a similar case—only on a far greater scale. Memories of 17 years not your own, but every detail is known to you now, until they are now inextricably a part of you."
I kept nodding, pretending to accept his reasoning, though every word made my chest tighten. I understood what he meant—I just didn't want to believe it.
"That would be the likely assumption if we were using the concept of the brain's stored memory, but when I checked your spiritual memory, it disproved that assumption."
I looked at Cornelius, confused by what he meant.
"You carry Kyzen's memories, not just in your mind but in your very spirit. That shouldn't be possible—unless you were Kyzen from the beginning. "
"Your situation is far from ordinary. Even I cannot fully explain how you came to live in his body. Such things lie beyond human reason. Most likely, your fate has been shaped by the gods—and their will is never simple to understand."
For a while, neither of us spoke. I knew he could read my thoughts if he wished.
Fine. Let's put that aside for now.
"By the way, when you explained that experiment," I said slowly, "I might have a plan to make sure Lotar doesn't trouble us again. Read my thoughts."
Within seconds, a faint smile tugged at his lips.
"If only it were the thirteenth of Friday," he murmured.
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The boys' dorms were silent, the second floor bathed in the faint glow of lanterns.
Lotar's desperate grunts echoed.
"Stop, you bastard! I'll kill you—stop, I'm sorry, nooo!" he thrashed in sweat-soaked sheets.
In the dream..., no nightmare would be a more suitable word.
He staggered through the mist, his fifth-year arrogance stripped away. A snapped branch shook in his hands, useless against what hunted him. His boots slapped mud, each step a panicked squelch.
"Who's there?" His voice cracked, breath fogging in the icy air, eyes wide with terror.
Twisted trees loomed, branches clawing at a blood-red moon.
I shaped the nightmare: a hulking shadow in a bone-white mask, pitted like a grave-worn skull. The machete gleamed with a cold hunger. My voice rolled through the fog, calm and absolute:
"Run."
He bolted.
First loop: he tripped on a root, face plunging into muck. The machete tore him open in the dirt, his scream cut short by a fountain of blood. Reset.
Second loop: he clawed his way through the forest, branches raking his skin. He thought he'd found a path. Wrong. The clearing swallowed him again. My blade fell from above, splitting bone with a wet crunch. Reset.
Third loop: he tried hiding, pressing himself against a tree, praying I'd pass by. I didn't. My shadow loomed, breath steady. The blade slid across his throat, hot spray painting the fog crimson. Reset.
By the fourth loop, his mind was cracking. He wasn't just running anymore — he was searching for escape. His body screamed forest, but his subconscious whispered for home. For his bed. For safety.
And the dream bent.
The mist thinned. The forest peeled away, shifting into the lantern-lit corridor of the boys' dorms. His door stood there. His bed. His sheets. He stumbled toward it, gasping in relief. His hand fumbled at the knob—
CRASH.
The door splintered. My machete punched through first, shattering wood. I stepped in, mask gleaming, voice cold as steel.
"Nowhere to run."
Lotar screamed, stumbling back, but the blade carved down. His body hit the floorboards, blood slicking the cracks. Reset.
Fifth loop.
This time, he didn't just run. Something inside him snapped awake — the faintest spark of awareness. His trembling hands curled into fists.
When I closed in, machete dripping black-red in the moonlight, Lotar lunged instead of fleeing. With a desperate scream, he swung wildly and slapped the mask from my face.
It hit the ground with a hollow crack.
For one frozen heartbeat, the fog parted. The blood-red moon glared overhead, casting its hellish glow across the clearing. And I stood there barefaced—Kyzen Ashford's face—lips twisted into a slow, crooked smile. Blood streaked my skin, my hair clinging to crimson-stained cheeks. My clothes were drenched, the stains dark and wet, a butcher's work worn proudly.
Lotar froze. His chest heaved, eyes blown wide, terror choking him worse than any wound. He realized it then. This was no random nightmare.
It was a nightmare about me—one where I stood at the very center of the horror.
I took one step closer, smile widening, machete hanging loose at my side.
"Even here," I whispered, voice low, steady, crawling under his skin.
The horror broke him. Lotar's dream-self collapsed to his knees, clutching his head, screaming until the sound cracked apart. The nightmare fractured, shattering into nothing.
I released Oneiric Step. Nausea roiled through me, temples pounding from the strain.
Cornelius's voice curled through the dark like smoke. "Five loops. Enough to plant a seed of fear in him."
I let out a slow breath, calm, composed. Hopefully, scars that don't heal easily. That's the goal."
Cornelius smirked, eyes glinting with cruel approval. "He'll have trouble opening his eyes when seeing you, even if it's in a nightmare."