CHAPTER 64: MEETING

Chapter 63: Meeting

Hospital Ward

---

The first thing Leon registered was the sharp sting of disinfectant.

White curtains swayed softly around his bed, and the faint glow of healing wards pulsed above him.

His body ached from head to toe, every nerve sore, as though he had been thrown into a furnace and left to cool.

"...We’re... alive?"

His lips cracked the words out like a question.

Across from him, Aiden sat propped up with bandages wrapped tight around his torso, grinning weakly.

"Barely. Damn, Leon, remind me never to pick fights with demons again. Hurts like hell."

"You say that like you won’t do it again tomorrow,"

Elara muttered from the next bed, her pale hair loose against the pillow. Even her usually composed face was pale, eyes rimmed with exhaustion. Still, her gaze was sharp, following the steady flow of the healing runes around the ward.

Selena stirred beside Leon, her hand clutching the sheets. She looked fragile, her scythe nowhere in sight, but her lips curved into a faint smile.

"We... did it, didn’t we?"

Lyra, sprawled on another bed with one arm in a sling, snorted.

"Yeah, at the cost of nearly getting ourselves killed. Brilliant plan, geniuses."

Her voice cracked, but the fire in her tone hadn’t dimmed.

The room was full of injured first-years. Aurelia was awake but leaning against the wall, eyes scanning each of them like a ledger. Justin had bandages around his jaw and ribs; his arrogance had been battered as much as his body. Emily and Alice were unconscious but stable, healers chanting softly over them.

And in the center of it all

"Michael..." Selena whispered, her voice trembling.

The boy lay motionless on the farthest bed. His white hair was matted with dried blood, his chest bandaged so heavily it seemed like a second armor.

His mana circuits, once overflowing with unnatural brilliance, flickered faintly as though each pulse of energy came at a cost.

A healer-saint stood over him, robes shimmering with golden light. Her eyes glowed with divine magic, and every word of her incantation seemed to thread through the air like a hymn. Still... her brow was furrowed.

"His wounds run deep," she said at last, her voice grave but gentle.

"The mana backlash from overextending beyond his Rank... it shredded his meridians. By rights, he should be dead."

Leon’s hands clenched the sheets. "...But he isn’t."

The healer nodded. "He isn’t. Something within him is holding on, reforging him. I’ve never seen mana pathways adapt this quickly, not even in Saints."

The room fell silent. The only sound was the soft hum of runes and the faint rhythm of Michael’s breath.

---

Aiden broke it first, his voice low.

"He was the one who really led us, wasn’t he? That ice domain... that sword aura... he bought us the time to destroy the pillars."

Elara’s fingers curled on her blanket. "...Without him, we wouldn’t be here. Not one of us."

Selena closed her eyes, whispering like a prayer. "He carried us when we faltered."

Even Lyra, who usually mocked or teased, looked away with a quiet frown. "...Stupid idiot. Who told him to burn himself out like that?"

Leon didn’t answer. Because in his heart, he knew. Michael had fought like someone who carried more than his own life. Someone who had decided long before the battle began that he would bear every burden, no matter the cost.

And Leon... Leon felt it gnawing at him.

That wasn’t the Michael I knew.

The quiet boy who trained alone, who seemed ordinary compared to the rest of them tonight he had fought with the instincts of a veteran, the resolve of a commander.

Leon’s chest tightened. Michael Willson... who exactly are you?

---

The healers worked tirelessly. Warm light seeped into torn flesh, knitting wounds, mending bones. But not everything could be healed in an instant. The exhaustion ran too deep, the mana strain too heavy.

Hours passed like that. One by one, the students slipped into uneasy sleep. The ward dimmed, only the glow of wards casting long shadows.

Leon remained awake, staring at the faint rise and fall of Michael’s chest.

"...Thank you," he whispered, the words barely audible even to himself.

"But don’t think for a second I’ll let you carry this alone."

---

Meanwhile, outside the hospital doors, murmurs grew. Nobles’ aides, professors, and reporters loitered in the corridors, waiting for news. The Academy itself seemed to hold its breath.

Because everyone knew the boy lying unconscious was not the same boy who had entered the Ball.

And his name was already spreading on lips that would twist it into both praise... and danger.

---

(Eric POV)

The corridors outside the infirmary smelled of medicine and incense.

Low voices carried from behind the curtain where healers worked, but Eric William could not hear the words.

He stood alone, leaning against the stone wall, one arm strapped tightly across his chest where the bandages pressed into his ribs. Every shallow breath ached, but the pain wasn’t what ate at him.

It was humiliation.

How did it come to this...?

His hands trembled slightly. Not from weakness—he had fought demons before, he had bled before—but from the bitter taste of failure.

Eric William, heir of House William, bearer of Light and Wind, trained since birth under masters and priests alike... had been saved. Not by his noble peers. Not by his own shining blade.

But by Michael Willson.

The boy who should have been beneath him.

The "extra."

Eric clenched his jaw. He remembered it clearly the moment Michael had unleashed that Ice Domain, the way the battlefield had shifted. The pillars had faltered, the summoning was disrupted, and their hopeless struggle had turned into something resembling victory.

And then there was his command. His voice.

"Leon, cover Selena’s left. Aiden, you’re with Lyra, draw their attention. Aurelia, prioritize suppression!"

Those orders had come sharp, clear, without hesitation. For a moment, even Eric had obeyed without question, his body moving before his pride could catch up.

Why did I listen to him? His chest tightened. Why did it work?

Eric slammed his fist against the wall, ignoring the sting in his knuckles. His reflection glimmered faintly in the glass window nearby messy hair, bruised cheek, tired eyes. He looked nothing like the noble scion who was meant to stand above commoners.

"Pathetic..." he muttered.

---

Steps echoed down the corridor.

Alastor Greythorn, the Sword Instructor, passed by with his usual calm, but his eyes flicked toward Eric for just a moment. A glance sharp enough to cut.

Eric stiffened. Did the old instructor know what was in his heart? The shame? The anger? The burning sense of being overshadowed?

"...You fought well enough," Alastor said finally, his tone neutral. Then he walked on, cloak brushing against the floor.

Those words should have been a balm. But to Eric, they felt like a knife twisted deeper. Well enough? While that nobody is being hailed as a commander?

---

Whispers stirred at the far end of the hall. Other nobles had gathered he recognized Aurelia’s attendants, Maria Frostheart’s retainers, even a messenger from House Stromfang. They spoke in hushed tones, voices sharp with accusation.

"...If this continues, the Willson boy will overshadow our heirs."

"...It’s unacceptable. He is not of proper blood. Not of proper standing."

"...Perhaps the Principal intends to protect him. Favoritism? A hidden agenda?"

Eric’s stomach churned. He knew their game. The nobles didn’t want Michael elevated. They wanted him punished, discredited, maybe even expelled. And part of him ashamed, bitter wanted to agree.

But another part of him remembered the battlefield.

The ice. The voice. The way Michael had thrown himself forward without hesitation while others faltered.

That memory gnawed at him.

I couldn’t do it.

Eric lowered his gaze. His fists were still trembling. Not from anger anymore... but from something he didn’t want to name.

Was it envy? Or was it respect, hidden under too much pride to admit?

He didn’t know.

The infirmary curtain shifted. A healer stepped out, exhaustion etched on her face.

"Michael Willson remains unconscious, but stable. His mana circuits are in flux. He will need time."

The nobles muttered again, sharp whispers like daggers. Eric felt the weight of their voices pressing on him.

"...Stable."

He exhaled slowly. His reflection in the glass caught his eye once more. For the first time, he didn’t see just a noble heir. He saw someone standing at a crossroads.

One path clung to pride, to the whispers of noble politics. The other... accepted the bitter truth.

Michael Willson had saved them.

And Eric William... owed him his life.

---

Far away, beyond the corridor lights, shadows stirred. A figure cloaked in black leaned against the far wall, unseen by any but the darkness itself.

Derisu Vengraud’s lips curved into a cold smile as he listened to the nobles whisper.

Ah, how fragile pride is. How easily broken.

His eyes glowed faintly crimson.

"The boy’s rise will bring chaos," he murmured. "And I will make sure it consumes them all."

The shadows swallowed him whole.