The battle was over, yet the aftermath lingered like a heavy storm cloud.
Connor worked methodically, peeling layers of webbing from the unconscious captives, checking their injuries, and ensuring no poison lingered in their veins. Once freed, the drained bodies of his classmates were stable, though pale. Then came the ritual of harvest: absorbing the vast reservoir of mana locked within the spider's corpse.
The act filled his cylinder to the brim, a success beyond the dreams of most first-years. Yet guilt stirred. He tried to offer a portion to Sina and Myael, but both refused. Myael dismissed the gesture with serene grace, while Sina struggled to hide the envy in her eyes, unable to accept what pride would not allow.
With the cylinder now heavy at his side, Connor returned. The mask still clung to his face, its presence both a burden and a shield. He thought of removing it, but hesitation held him back.
They discussed their paths forward. Sina would escort the wounded back, her bracelet restored now that the spider's death had lifted the chamber's curse. Her expression was tangled: regret for wasted time, relief that her companions still breathed, and quiet gratitude for survival.
Myael, however, remained calm. She intended to continue deeper into the dungeon, her cylinder unfinished. When asked about his own decision, Connor admitted he could leave now, but something gnawed at him. A spider of such high rank should not have been here—perhaps loot or answers remained.
Sina scolded his recklessness, yet Myael only smiled knowingly. She left first, her footsteps fading behind the stone gate.
For a brief moment, silence fell between Connor and Sina. Her gaze lingered on him—not the man, but the mask and the sword. She bit back her questions, vowing to demand answers later. But before leaving, she issued a challenge. Their rivalry, sharpened since their first meeting, had not dulled. She swore that next time, she would surpass him. Then, with a faint blush, she gave her thanks before vanishing in the glow of her bracelet.
Connor was left alone with his thoughts and the mask. He knew the truth: the dwarven blade was suspicious, but explainable. The mask, however, was far more dangerous. No excuse could cover what Sina had witnessed—the transformation, the surge of skill, the unnatural precision of his strikes.
His future self, Kyle, whispered reassurance. Myael, strangely, had shown no desire to press for answers. Sina, though, was unpredictable. She was proud, confrontational, but not a liar. Yet her persistence could be dangerous.
Connor destroyed the mask before leaving, letting it crumble into fragments of mana. Still, unease clung to him. What if the rumors spread? What if whispers of a masked warrior began to circulate?
The return bracelet activated, and light consumed him. At the last instant, he noticed something he had forgotten—his battered mercenary armor and old longsword, left behind in the chamber. Years of wear, countless repairs, discarded in an instant by teleportation. His heart twisted with loss.
Then came a vision—voices cloaked in shadow, speaking of wedges, of preparation, of glory in the stars. A chilling omen, gone as quickly as it came.
Connor reappeared in the return ward. White tents stretched under the open sky, filled with groaning students and bustling healers. The place was alive with cries, bandages, and the smell of herbs.
The nobles sneered at him as he arrived, assuming he had retreated in fear like them. But when the nurse recorded his state and he revealed his full cylinder, silence swept the ward. Eyes turned, wide with disbelief. Admiration, jealousy, suspicion—all emotions tangled in the stares fixed on him.
Connor raised the cylinder high, letting it gleam in the light like a trophy. If he could not avoid the attention, he would embrace it.
For now, victory was his.