(Michael POV)

The sterile white of the VR Hall's recovery lounge felt cold and suffocating. A faint medicinal scent clung to the air, a stark contrast to the phantom smell of ozone and terror that still lingered in my mind.

My teammates had been escorted away by medical staff, their faces pale but their eyes holding a new, hard-won respect. Seraphina had even managed a stiff, reluctant nod in my direction before she left a gesture that spoke volumes more than words.

Now, I was alone. Or rather, I was alone with the two most powerful instructors in the first-year curriculum.

Evelyn Whitehound's office was a space of minimalist elegance and barely concealed danger. The walls were a stark, polished obsidian, reflecting the soft glow of floating mana crystals.

One wall was a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the Academy grounds, the setting sun painting the sky in hues of blood-orange and violet.

There were no cluttered bookshelves, no stacks of parchment—just a single, large desk of dark, petrified wood and three chairs. It was less an office and more an interrogation chamber with a view.

I sat in one of the chairs, my posture straight, my hands resting on my knees. My body screamed with a phantom exhaustion that no VR pod recovery system could erase.

The mental battle had carved something out of me, and the dull throb behind my eyes was a constant reminder.

Evelyn sat behind the desk, her platinum hair catching the fading sunlight. Her usual teasing smile was gone, replaced by an expression of cool, clinical neutrality.

She hadn't spoken since we'd entered, content to let the silence stretch, to let it press down on me.

Alastor Greythorn stood by the window, his massive frame a silent, imposing silhouette against the fiery sky. His arms were crossed, and his gaze was fixed on the campus below, but I knew his attention was entirely on this room.

Finally, Evelyn steepled her fingers, her sharp, intelligent eyes pinning me in place.

"Michael Wilson," she began, her voice smooth and devoid of emotion.

"The official report states that you resolved a 'System Anomaly.' A vague, sanitized term for what the technicians are now calling a catastrophic psychic feedback loop caused by a viral code of unknown origin."

I remained silent, my expression neutral. This was a minefield, and every word was a potential misstep.

"The technicians are baffled," she continued, her gaze intensifying. "They say purging that virus from the NOVA AI's core while under its direct psychic assault is a theoretical impossibility. It would require a will of steel, an unprecedented resistance to mental corruption, and a fundamental understanding of AI architecture that even our top programmers lack."

She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper. "And yet, you did it. Explain."

This was the moment I had been anticipating, the question that could unravel everything. My mind, still raw from the psychic battle, felt sluggish, but the core of my strategy was clear: partial truths, wrapped in a narrative that fit the image I had already built.

I took a slow breath, letting my gaze drop to my hands as if gathering my thoughts, a practiced gesture of a student facing a difficult question.

"I don't know how I did it, not exactly," I began, my voice deliberately measured, tinged with a hint of lingering shock. "When I entered the vortex, it wasn't a choice. It felt like I was pulled in. Everything was… chaos. The fears of the other students, hitting me all at once."

I let a shudder run through my shoulders, a performance of trauma that wasn't entirely fake.

"But then… something in my head just… clicked," I continued, looking up to meet her gaze. "I have a unique trait, Instructor. I've had it since before the Academy. It gives me a high resistance to mental effects. The labyrinth's illusions… they felt different to me. Weaker."

Evelyn's eyes narrowed slightly. "A trait for mental resistance? Such things are rare, but not unheard of. It doesn't explain how you reprogrammed an AI."

"That's the other part of it," I said, leaning into the lie, weaving it with the thread I'd given Inspector Gileard.

"It's connected to the sword I found, Darken. When I'm in extreme danger, my trait seems to… interface with it. The sword showed me things. Not images, but… patterns. Lines of energy. I saw the 'virus' as a knot of corrupted energy at the center of the storm. And I saw the path to cut it."

I gestured vaguely, as if trying to describe a dream.

"I just followed the path. My will became the blade. I cut the knot. That's all I remember."

It was a perfect story. It explained my mental resistance, incorporated the "mysterious epic weapon" narrative, and attributed the impossible feat to an instinctive, uncontrollable burst of power—the kind of thing prodigies in stories were always having.

It was believable because it was rooted in the fantastical reality of this world.

For a long moment, Evelyn was silent. Her sharp intellect was dissecting my words, searching for holes, for inconsistencies. Her gaze was so intense I felt like my very thoughts were being audited.

Then, Alastor spoke for the first time, his voice a low rumble that seemed to make the very glass of the window vibrate.

"The boy's telling the truth," he said, without turning around. "Or at least, what he believes to be the truth."

Evelyn's head snapped towards him. "You're certain?"

"I've trained him," Alastor said, finally turning to face us. His expression was grim, his eyes holding a fierce, protective light.

"I've seen it. When he's pushed to the brink, something else takes over. It's not a technique he's learned. It's raw, untamed instinct. Like a cornered beast unlocking a hidden strength to survive."

He looked at me, a silent message passing between us. I'll back your play, brat. Don't you dare make me regret it.

"This 'trait' of his," Alastor continued, his gaze returning to Evelyn, "combined with a sentient weapon? It's the only explanation that fits the facts. He didn't outthink the AI. He survived it."

Evelyn leaned back in her chair, her fingers tapping a slow, rhythmic beat on the polished desk. Alastor's endorsement had given my story the weight of credibility it needed. He was the Sword Saint, a man whose judgment of a warrior's spirit was beyond reproach.

"A unique trait, a sentient weapon, and the instincts of a survivor," she murmured, more to herself than to us.

Her gaze on me was no longer just suspicious; it was filled with a chillingly keen interest, like a scientist who had just discovered a new, highly volatile element.

"You are becoming more and more of an anomaly, Michael Wilson."

I merely inclined my head. "I'm just trying to survive, Instructor."

Her lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile.

"Oh, I think you're doing far more than just surviving." She stood, walking around the desk to stand before me, her presence filling the space.

"The Principal has been notified. The incident is now classified at the highest level. You are not to speak of what you saw or did inside that vortex to anyone. Is that understood?"

"Understood," I replied without hesitation.

"Good." She paused, then her expression softened almost imperceptibly.

"You saved a lot of lives today, Michael. The official story will be that the instructors intervened to stabilize the system. Your involvement will be officially erased. But we,"

she glanced at Alastor, "will know the truth. The Academy is in your debt."

It wasn't praise. It was a statement of fact, and it carried the weight of a chain. Being owed a debt by the Academy meant I was now a piece on their board they would not be willing to lose.

"Now, get out," she said, her tone shifting back to its usual briskness. "Go to the infirmary. Get your mind checked. That's an order."

"Yes, Instructor." I stood, bowed stiffly, and walked towards the door, my legs feeling heavier than ever.

As my hand touched the doorknob, Alastor's voice stopped me.

"Michael."

I turned.

"You did well, brat," he said, and for the first time, his grin held no mockery, only a deep, gruff pride.

"Rest up. The real tournament is next. And after today, every eye in this Academy will be on you."

I nodded, a faint smile touching my own lips, and stepped out of the office, the door clicking shut behind me.

The weight of their scrutiny was immense, but I had navigated the storm. I had protected my secrets, reinforced my cover story, and earned a powerful, unspoken acknowledgment.

But as I walked down the empty corridor, the setting sun casting my long shadow before me, I couldn't shake the feeling that I hadn't just won a battle.

I had just been drafted into a much larger war. And I was no longer sure who all the players were.

(To be continued)

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