Two day had passed since Kael opened his eyes in the infirmary. Counting back, that made it five days since the incident — three of which had been swallowed by unconsciousness.
He lay now in his dormitory room, staring at the faint hairline crack running across the ceiling. The provisional assignment issued to him blinked patiently from the desk in the corner, its indicator light flaring every few minutes in quiet insistence.
"Persistent little thing, aren't you?" he muttered.
He had not responded to it. Had not even turned it over to read the details. The thought of stepping outside, of pretending that nothing had changed, felt absurdly distant.
When he had been discharged yesterday, he hadn't lingered. He had nodded at the medics, accepted their carefully neutral reassurances, and walked straight back here. No detours or anything. No attempt to seek out Elias or the girl. The hallway conversations had blurred into background noise. All he had wanted was the familiarity of his own room and the illusion of control that came with closing the door behind him.
Confusion lingered at the forefront of his thoughts. The wound that had pierced through him — deep enough that it should have required surgical reconstruction—had begun closing on its own within days. The medics had explained it in clinical tones, calling it some kind of an accelerated cellular regeneration, possibly a latent Gnosis response to extreme trauma. But he had seen the subtle tension in their shoulders. They had never witnessed something like it progressing that quickly.
That wasn't normal.
But the second thing was worse.
Fear.
Not of the Abjection, nor of dying.
But of that pain.
His fingers curled slightly against the sheets. It had not been ordinary agony. It had felt like something inside him had shattered — no, not one thing.
Three.
Three distinct ruptures, all at once.
He could still remember the sensation: a simultaneous cracking deep within his chest and skull, followed by an eruption of white-hot torment that swallowed thought, sound, and self. It had been so absolute that for a moment, he had genuinely wished for death.
"How much longer till that damned trial..." he muttered, rolling onto his side.
Less than two months remained before conscription. Two months before he would be deployed beyond the relative safety of this world and into territories where a realm where hesitation meant death.
If he remained like this — skipping assignments, isolating himself, flinching at the echo of phantom pain — he could easily be deemed unfit until that fateful day. And without a clean record, without consistent performance, no sponsor would take interest in backing him for his trial.
"Not that anyone's lining up," he added dryly.
He had neither the pedigree nor the reputation that drew investment. But spiraling like this would only ensure the door stayed closed before he ever had the chance to knock.
His gaze drifted to his own hands resting atop the sheets. They looked ordinary. Steady. Human. Nothing about them suggested the presence of something capable of tearing itself apart from within.
And yet, he could still see it when he closed his eyes.
Four faint orbs suspended in a vast darkness.
If those orbs were tied to his Gnosis — if they were constructs embedded within him since awakening — then the incident had not been random. It had been a trigger. A release. Or perhaps... a malfunction?
Sooner or later, he would have to investigate it. He would have to confront the possibility that whatever resided within him was not standard.
But that required clarity of mind.
And clarity required stability.
A low, drawn-out sound broke through his spiraling thoughts.
His stomach growled, sharp and insistent in the quiet room.
He blinked, momentarily disoriented, before the mundane reality of hunger settled in. He had not eaten since the morning before his discharge. He hadn't even bothered to drink more than a few sips of water. His body, miraculous regeneration aside, was still human. Still bound by basic needs.
He exhaled slowly and pushed himself upright. The room tilted for a brief second before stabilizing, the residual weakness in his limbs reminding him that healing did not meant a recovery.
One step at a time.
"…Let's grab some food first."
***
By the time Kael reached the cafeteria, evening had already settled in.
It was the hour when most trainees had finished their final simulations and drills. The long rows of overhead lights cast a sterile glow over metal tables and muted uniforms. Voices overlapped in low waves of conversation, filled by the occasional clatter of trays and utensils.
Crowded.
Not suffocatingly so, but busy enough that no one stood out unless they wanted to.
Kael collected his tray and scanned the room quietly. There were open seats scattered along the edges and a few half-occupied tables toward the center. He chose a place near the wall, angled slightly away from the main flow of traffic.
The food steamed faintly in front of him — rice, protein, something green on the side that looked more decorative than edible. His stomach twisted again, reminding him that whatever turmoil occupied his thoughts, his body still operated on simpler priorities.
He took a bite.
Chewed.
Swallowed.
It tasted like texture more than flavor.
His gaze drifted across the room without truly focusing on anything. A cluster of Offcials laughed too loudly at something on a projection screen. Two Sinners nearby were arguing about assignment rankings, their trays forgotten as numbers and percentages took precedence. At another table, someone leaned forward with intense focus, replaying a recorded combat sequence on a handheld display.
Normal.
Everything looked painfully normal.
Kael lowered his eyes back to his tray and idly pressed his fork into the rice, carving small, thoughtless lines through it.
"Two months," he murmured faintly. "You're all acting like it's two years."
The words dissolved into the noise around him. He wasn't even sure why he had said them aloud.
He prodded the protein slab with unnecessary focus, as if it might answer him back. The hunger that had driven him here had dulled into something else. He wasn't enjoying the food; he was simply fulfilling an obligation.
"You look like you're interrogating it."
The voice cut through his spiraling thoughts
He knew that voice. He didn't need to look up to confirm it — but he did anyway.
Elias stood at the edge of the table, tray balanced casually in one hand, posture relaxed in a way that felt almost deliberate. Beside him was the girl — the same composed presence as before, her gaze was steady and unreadable.
"Mind if we sit here?" Elias asked, tone light.
For a moment, Kael simply stared. He hadn't sought them out after being discharged. Part of him had assumed — perhaps hoped — that the incident would remain unaddressed.
"Oh." He blinked, straightening slightly. "Su— sure. Yeah."
Smooth, he thought grimly.
Elias didn't comment on the stumble. He slid into the seat across from Kael with unhurried ease, setting his tray down. The girl took the chair beside him, aligning her tray neatly before folding her hands in her lap for a brief moment before reaching for her utensils.
The three of them formed a small, contained triangle within the broader cafeteria noise. Silence didn't fall immediately, but it gathered at the edges of the table. Kael became acutely aware of his posture.
The girl turned her gaze toward him fully now.
"My name is Serin." Her voice was calm and even.
Kael straightened slightly. "Kael."
"I know," she replied.
A faint pause followed, not uncomfortable but deliberate, as though she were choosing her next words with care.
"Thank you," Serin added at last, her expression unchanged. "For that day."
Kael felt something tighten unexpectedly in his chest. Gratitude was not unfamiliar to him in theory — but in practice, it unsettled him more than hostility ever had.
"It was…" He trailed off, then shook his head slightly. "It wasn't anything special."
He didn't look at her when he said it.
Serin didn't argue the point. She simply gave a small, almost imperceptible nod and returned her attention to her tray.
Another stretch of silence unfolded, softer this time but no less present. The cafeteria noise filled the gaps easily, yet at their table, the absence of structured conversation felt obvious enough.
Kael poked at his food again, acutely aware that he had agreed to this arrangement out of reflex. Refusing them a seat would have been unnecessarily rude, especially in a crowded cafeteria. Still, sitting here now felt like standing on uncertain ground — aware that something needed to be said, yet unsure what shape it should take.
'Say something,' he urged himself.
Anything.
He cleared his throat, lifting his gaze from his tray and forcing a semblance of casual curiosity.
"So… is it true?" he asked, trying — and failing — to make it sound offhand.
"Are you two actually… engaged?"
Serin didn't react. She continued eating with the same measured pace as before. If the question unsettled her in the slightest, it didn't show.
Elias, however, gave a small hum of acknowledgment.
"Something like that," he said.
"That... doesn't sound very convincing," Kael replied before he could stop himself.
Elias smiled faintly at that. Not embarrassed. Not particularly proud, either. Just accepting.
"Our families have known each other for a long time," he explained.
"Business partners. Old alliances. We grew up seeing each other at gatherings, events, that sort of thing. Childhood friends, technically."
Serin gave a single, small nod at that, confirming the statement without adding to it.
"And then," Elias continued, "one day the discussions changed. What started as cooperation between families turned into something more… formal. By the time we were old enough to understand what was happening, the decision had more or less been made."
Kael blinked. "So they just — decided it?"
"In simplified terms," Elias said lightly, "yes. It was presented as mutually beneficial. Strengthened ties, predictable futures. The usual reasoning."
Kael stared at them for a moment longer than was polite. Some kind of... arranged marriages then. He thought that kind of thing only happened in comics. Or those old serialized dramas. But before he could press further, Serin set her utensils down.
"I'm finished," she said.
Her tray was nearly spotless.
She rose smoothly from her seat, gathering it in one hand. "I'll be heading to the training wing."
Elias looked up at her, brows lifting slightly. "Already? You should take it easy for a while."
Serin's gaze flicked to him briefly. "Recovery doesn't improve through laziness."
"That's not what I meant."
"I know."
There was no bite in her voice — just certainty. She adjusted her grip on the tray.
"You don't need to worry."
And with that, she turned and walked away, disappearing into the steady flow of cadets without once looking back. Kael could only watched her go, unsure whether he had just witnessed concern, dismissal, or something in between.
Elias let out a quiet sigh once she was out of earshot. "Sorry about that," he said, rubbing lightly at the back of his neck. "She's… not very good at these kind of things..."
"Is there something wrong between you two?"
"No, she just… hasn't been in the best mood lately."
Kael glanced at him. "Because of the engagement thing?"
Elias shook his head. "No. Because she hasn't secured a sponsor yet."
Kael blinked. "Wait. What?"
He then frowned. "I thought…" He hesitated, then gestured vaguely between them.
"From the way you two talked about your families, I figured you'd both already have backing from them."
He paused.
Unless… maybe their families weren't as influential as he had assumed. Maybe he had simply projected status onto them because of their composure.
Elias seemed to catch the direction of his thoughts.
"It's not that our families lack influence," he said evenly. "They do. But that doesn't mean we're obligated to use it."
Kael looked up.
"There are… expectations attached to that kind of backing," Elias continued.
"Obligations that extend beyond the trial itself. Some people don't mind inheriting a path already laid out for them. Others would rather choose their own."
"And you?" Kael asked.
"I'd rather owe my results to myself," Elias replied. "Even if that means making it harder."
He said it without arrogance. Just fact.
"Even so," Elias added after a moment, "I already have a sponsor's interest. Independent of my family."
Kael raised a brow. "So it worked out anyway."
"For now," Elias said lightly.
"And her?"
Elias's gaze drifted briefly toward the cafeteria entrance where she had disappeared. His expression shifted — not quite concern, not quite frustration.
"I'm not entirely sure," he admitted.
"You don't know?"
"I have guesses."
"Guesses?"
Elias let out a quiet breath. "She's not particularly… proactive about socializing. Sponsors don't just evaluate performance metrics. They look for presentation too. Engagement are kind of important in these kind of things."
Kael frowned faintly. "She seems composed enough."
"She is," Elias agreed. "But she doesn't play the game. If someone approaches her with veiled offers and careful phrasing, she answers directly. Sometimes too directly."
Kael leaned forward slightly. "What does that mean?"
"She... probably declined all the offers that were given to her."