The medical ward reeked of antiseptic, cut only by the steady hum of equipment. Third morning since returning from the otherworlder base, and my hand still ached with phantom pain. The body remembered fingers that no longer existed.

  "Healing remarkably fast. Especially for a wound treated without magic."

  Professor Marston carefully removed the bandage, revealing purplish-pink scars where the cut had been.

  He made no effort to hide his surprise. Wounds like this usually took weeks. My body was recovering at an unsettling speed. Another anomaly I couldn't explain.

  "When can I return to training?"

  I tried to keep my voice steady, but impatience churned inside me.

  Marston pursed his lips, studying my hand thoughtfully.

  "Technically, a couple of days. But you understand you'll have to relearn everything? Balance, grip strength, precision..."

  I nodded. Understood better than I wanted to. Even buttoning my shirt was an ordeal.

  "I'll manage."

  Marston grunted, applying a fresh bandage—lighter this time, allowing more movement.

  "Everyone manages, young man. The difference is the price they pay for it."

  Outside the window, voices drifted up: a group of younger students heading to morning classes. They laughed, carefree the way only those who'd never seen real danger could be.

  "Thank you, professor."

  I hopped off the examination table, hit by a wave of dizziness. Marston instinctively moved to help, but I raised my good hand.

  "I can manage. Thank you."

  The professor stepped back.

  "Of course." He paused. "Remind me—you're from the class that was involved in the... incident?"

  The word made me flinch. "The incident"—that's what the director had called it. Technical malfunction. Programming error in the combat robots. No one mentioned the modified demon, the strange portal, the deliberate elimination of inconvenient students.

  "Yes. Fortunately, everyone survived."

  Marston nodded. Something like sympathy flickered in his gaze.

  "You're strong kids. Your class surprised a lot of people."

  His eyes dropped.

  "You do understand that extra attention isn't the best idea right now?"

  I tensed.

  "What do you mean?"

  Marston walked to the door, checked the corridor, and shut it firmly. When he turned back, his expression had changed. The mask of professional indifference was gone.

  "We have new staff. Not teachers. Monitors. They're particularly interested in your class."

  I clenched my left fist, feeling a strange pulse where the severed fingers should have been.

  "Otherworlders?"

  "Don't call them... that. Not within academy walls. Nexus Corporation—official sponsors of a new educational program. Their representatives have full authority to attend classes and study... methodologies."

  Methodologies. Elegant euphemism for watching those who'd seen what they shouldn't have.

  "Thank you for the warning."

  Marston returned to his desk.

  "Don't mention it. I'm merely informing a student about changes in academic life. Nothing unusual."

  Leaving the medical ward, I walked straight into the new reality. In the eastern wing, where alchemy classrooms used to be, a sign now hung: "Nexus Research Division." Two men in business suits guarded the doors—too fit for ordinary staff.

  Students gave the area a wide berth. Even teachers quickened their pace when passing.

  "Hey, Eight-fingers!"

  Mira caught up with me near the turn to the cafeteria. She wore academy uniform with a damaged sleeve—a memento from the explosion at the otherworlder base.

  She carried herself casually, almost playfully, but I noticed her eyes lingered on my hand for a moment before darting to my face—a quick, assessing glance. She hesitated visibly, then, as if making a conscious decision, firmly hooked her arm through mine.

  "Technically all my limbs are present and accounted for. just slightly modified."

  I smiled, but it came out strained.

  "And missing two fingers is such a minor detail?"

  She squeezed my arm tighter, as if proving to herself she wasn't afraid.

  "Come on. Val and Tara are already in the cafeteria."

  "How's Val?"

  I started feeling awkward, aware of a strange warmth from her touch.

  "He'll live. His wound's almost closed. Tara slipped something into his tea—some family recipe from her village, she said."

  "And Kyle?"

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Mira rolled her eyes, relaxing for a moment.

  "Angry, as usual. Nearly took the head off a training dummy yesterday. Said he was picturing that robot."

  We passed through a large archway heading toward the main building when Selena appeared from a side corridor, flanked by two students from her class. She froze when she saw us—or rather, when she saw Mira's arm still linked with mine.

  "Luten. I see you're recovering quickly."

  "Thanks to my classmates' care."

  I tried to match her neutral tone. An awkward pause hung between us. The students flanking Selena exchanged glances.

  "We were coming back from a checkup."

  Mira broke the silence, almost apologetically.

  "Professor Marston said the wound is healing well."

  "Glad to hear it."

  Something strange slipped into Selena's voice.

  "Elliot was worried about you too."

  At the mention of my brother, I tensed involuntarily. Selena noticed and quickly changed the subject.

  "We should go. Professor Allarid asked us to arrive before first class."

  "Of course. We won't keep you."

  When Selena and her companions disappeared around the corner, Mira exhaled, realizing she'd been holding her breath.

  "Ugh, blue bloods. Always make me feel out of place."

  "She doesn't bite. At least not with witnesses around."

  Mira snorted, a reluctant smile crossed her face.

  "You two… Are you actually friends?"

  I shrugged, deciding not to get into the complicated history with Selena.

  "I don't know."

  Mira nodded, not pressing further. I was grateful for that. For a moment, something like silent understanding passed between us, a rare moment of ease after everything that had happened.

  "Come on, Eight-fingers hero. The others are waiting."

  We headed down to the cafeteria, where Val, Tara, and Aris already sat at a far table. Before, our class had been scattered. Everyone on their own. Now we at least tried to stick together, awkward as it was. Val lazily poked at his breakfast with a fork. Tara quietly lectured him about something. Aris stared silently out the window.

  When we approached, the conversation stopped. Val gave me a nod: a brief acknowledgment, nothing more. Tara didn't bother with formalities.

  "How's the hand?"

  "Healing."

  I sat down next to Aris, who shifted slightly to make room. The silence at the table went quiet.

  "What about further training? Are we continuing?"

  Val's question hung in the air. Everyone wanted to know: would we keep pretending everything was fine, or admit the obvious—someone had tried to eliminate us?

  Across the hall, I spotted Elliot. He sat next to Aura, too close for "just friends." Our eyes met for a moment. My brother looked away first.

  The days after returning from the base became a monotonous, exhausting ritual. Small things I'd never thought about now became trials.

  Writing. I used to hold my pen between index and middle fingers—now gone. Had to grip it between thumb and ring finger, which tired my hand quickly.

  Shirt buttons, utensils—everything required relearning. In the cafeteria, I tried to sit so my wound was less visible.

  One morning, Tara noticed me struggling with my notebook during History of Magical Conflicts.

  "Ever try regeneration potion?"

  "Tried. Only made the phantom pain worse."

  She thought for a moment, fiddling with her pendant of dried herbs.

  "Maybe I could make something different. Not a standard potion—something based on traditional medicine."

  I nodded, grateful for the concern, though I doubted it would help. For some reason, healing magic didn't work on me.

  After class, I went to the library searching for information on ancient weapons. Elliot's scythe wouldn't leave my mind.

  The library greeted me with silence. Between the shelves, I spotted upperclassmen from the combat magic class. Three of them: a tall blond, a stocky redhead, and a thin guy with dark hair. The redhead spoke first.

  "Well, look what crawled out. The powerless gimp."

  I pretended not to hear, pulling a heavy tome from the shelf. But the blond picked up where his friend left off.

  "Heard they sent them on that mission to dump the garbage, and they actually came back. Director must be livid."

  I slowly closed the book and turned. A familiar feeling—slow-boiling anger—rose from somewhere deep.

  "Got something you want to say to my face?"

  The redhead stepped forward. His palms glowed orange—he was preparing a fire spell.

  "For you, even one spell is overkill. Unless it's out of mercy."

  Normally I'd have raised a barrier. But I had no magic now. Only this strange, heavy feeling inside that threatened to break loose.

  Suddenly a wall of darkness wove itself between us. Shadows condensed into a human shape. Aris.

  "Three against one?"

  His quiet voice was almost silky.

  "How interesting."

  The shadows around his hands pulsed, ready to become blades.

  "We were just talking."

  The redhead lowered his hand. The flames died.

  After they left, Aris and I walked out of the library in silence. Only at the dormitory entrance did he finally speak.

  "Did I imagine it, or were you actually ready to face a combat mage without any magic of your own?"

  I shrugged.

  "Ever think of calling for help? You do realize they're right, don't you? The director really did want to get rid of us. And he'll try again."

  The next morning brought something new. Val waited for me by the training grounds. He didn't bother with greetings.

  "Heard the rumors about your... chat with those upperclassmen."

  "Nothing worth mentioning."

  "It will be, if you keep walking around unarmed."

  He tossed me a wooden training sword.

  "Let's see what you can do without your... special gift."

  Soon, others joined our training sessions. Tara brought restorative brews. Mira sometimes sparred with us. I couldn't say we'd become friends, but something had definitely changed.

  On the seventh day, Kyle brought a training scythe.

  "I saw you with a scythe before we boarded the otherworlder airship."

  He held out the wooden replica.

  "Want to learn how to do it right?"

  I carefully took the scythe with my good hand. The balance was wrong—a clumsy copy, too light.

  "Nothing like the real thing."

  "First you need to understand the basic movements."

  An hour later, my shoulders burned with strain, and the bandage on my right hand had soaked through with a little blood.

  "That's enough for today."

  I responded.

  "I can keep going."

  "I don't doubt it. But weapons deserve respect, and bodies need rest."

  That night, I couldn't sleep. Something itched beneath my skin—a restlessness impossible to quiet. Throwing on a cloak, I returned to the training grounds.

  Moonlight silvered the grass. I picked up the real scythe Kyle had left for tomorrow's session. Its weight felt strangely familiar.

  Slowly, I began the basic sequence. Swing. Turn. Strike. Shift grip. With each movement, my body adapted a little better. Strange, but during the motion, the phantom pain retreated—as if acknowledging the rightness of what I was doing.

  On the tenth sequence, I caught myself in a strange sensation: I wasn't controlling the weapon anymore. It was guiding me. Like forgotten knowledge awakening in muscle and bone.

  flickered through my mind.

  The scythe traced a perfect arc, slicing the air with a whistle. For an instant, I felt I was seeing its movement with different vision—not my eyes, but something deeper, tracking the currents of air.

  I stopped, breathing hard, and leaned the scythe against the wall.

  "Whoever I was before... seems like weapons were part of my nature."

  As the words left my mouth, I sensed a presence and spun around. Aris stood in the shadow of a tree. When he noticed my gaze, he didn't look away.

  "That's not like you. The way you move. The way you hold the weapon."

  He paused.

  "Like you're someone else wearing your skin."

  His words sent a chill between my shoulder blades. Not because he was right—but because I felt the same thing.