The gray light that filtered through the window cut across the agitation outside, but inside that medical room, a oppressive silence reigned. My thoughts boiled silently while Blake, the unexpected protagonist of that chaotic day, lay inert in a hospital bed.
I looked at the cloth that wrapped his severed arm - a brutal reminder that, in the heat of combat, the lines between narrative and reality can fade. The fabric around his trapezius was like a curtain hiding the traces of a battle that, perhaps, I had forgotten to moderate.
His white hair, symbols of purity in direct contrast with the gravity of his injuries, framed his face marked by the pain of induced sleep, small strands rebelling against the order, seemed to question the actions that led to such an outcome.
"I think I was a bit too harsh with him", the confession arose in my mind, not as a speech, but as a whisper of guilt. Was it my role as an author that had failed to protect my character, or part of me rejoiced in the drama that I had created?
The agitation outside formed a distant background, diminutive in comparison to my internal duel. The Pentagonó academy, a campus of heroism and achievements, seemed today to witness a more human, poignant drama - a reminder of fragility.
Blake, asleep by the anesthesia and the effort, was alone with me in this disheartening room. These injuries could seal the end of the career of a rising hero, devastate the future that could have been drawn with traces of greatness and triumph. Because critical injuries like these have the weight of permanently editing the story of a life, indifferent to the appeals of a young heart or the desires of an author.
And the question that embedded itself in my mind was a distorted echo of the narratives themselves intertwined with the fabric of that context: Did this make Blake just another character dancing according to the rhythm of the script that I had written?
Immersed in the paradox of my own creations, I let the sigh escape as I contemplated the silence of the room. My aversion to drama seemed invalidated by the very theater that I had set up, an irony not lost in my introspection.
Sitting there, next to the window, the thoughts came and went like shadows passing through the light. "Sam must be able to deal with that idiot demon..." The murmur barely crossed the lips, a mere vibration in the air loaded with the room, a silent prayer for the narrative that followed outside that sterile cubicle.
The reflection that the window returned showed more than the image of an author; it was the reflection of a destiny articulator. My blue eyes met, silent witnesses of the choices made and those that still danced on the edges of the imagination. Blake's gaze, also blue but speckled with terror, accused me with the gravity of a consequence never before so tangible.
Another sigh marked the transition of feelings - from guilt to curiosity. Blake, now deprived of an arm, faced a new path not only in the plot, but in the essence of who he was as a character. The mutilation could be a catharsis, a necessary purgation for the evolution of his journey, the forced detachment from an unhappy fixation on Ellie, perhaps even a new beginning.
And that future, still uncertain, unfolded fascinatingly before me. "What reaction will he have when he wakes up?" I wondered, more to myself than to anyone else present. "Will he, consumed by anger, try to attack me?" The probability did not seem remote, but that was the spice of good plots - the uncertainty, the possibility, the potential of a character to be reborn from the ashes of his own tragedies.
Suddenly, the atmosphere in the medical room was a tapestry woven with threads of tension and anticipation. The sound of footsteps echoed through the corridor with a cadence that hinted at importance and urgency. They were heavy steps, not in the physical sense, but in the metaphorical one, carrying the gravity of a family legacy and the strength of countless battles fought.
As the door opened slowly, the world seemed to hold its breath. The figure that emerged from the corridor needed no introduction; his presence emitted a narrative of its own, rich in triumphs and tragedies. It was Ethan Nightshade, father of the wounded hero, a titan among men whose name was synonymous with power and distance.
He entered with the imperturbable nature of a harsh winter, closing the door with a smoothness that belied his imposing stature. Dressed in a formal black suit impeccably tailored, each thread seeming to absorb the dim light of the room, Ethan was the personification of strength and authority. His white hair, more a badge of distinction than of age, contrasted vividly with the scars that mapped his skin, indelible records of confrontations whose stories could fill entire libraries.
His blue eyes swept the room, pausing briefly on Blake, before settling on me. They were eyes that had seen the impossible give way to the inevitable, that had faced horrors beyond mortal comprehension and emerged with a cold flame of determination.
"And he got these injuries while facing a Rank F boss alone?" Although Ethan's voice conveyed a superficial concern, there was a subtext of expectation and evaluation, typical of someone whose life was guided by excellence and overcoming.
I, sitting in the comfortable chair near the window, faded silhouette against the faded light of the day, returned my gaze to the sleeping son, letting a moment of contemplation heal my usual disdain. "It was no longer a Rank F. It mutated, raising the danger. He faced it alone - quite a feat, considering the circumstances."
"Quite a feat? Ruining his career with the recklessness of facing a Rank F dungeon." Ethan retorted with disdain, the tone sharp as the hiss of the wind on a starless night.
Our eyes crossed then, two icebergs in an ocean of unexpressed feelings. Clearly, he considered Blake - his masterpiece - as someone who had failed not only as a hero, but as a Nightshade.
And I, trapped in Ethan's severe gaze, already savored the narrative that unfolded with the inevitability of the tides. I let the silence settle between us like a bird of prey, before launching the question that could alter the course of Blake's saga irrevocably: "Are you going to disinherit him from your family?" The question floats in the space between us, laden with consequences and waiting to define not only the fate of a character, but of the whole story he inhabited.
Ethan Nightshade, the patriarch of the Nightshade family, was a study of contradictions. He observed my contours, the evaluation in his gaze as penetrating as the blades that his enemies feared. To him, I seemed to be nothing but an insect, a being of overwhelming insignificance. Yet, some spark of recognition illuminated the depths of his mind, an instinct warning that that "insect" in front of him was wrapped in veils of mysterious relevance.
Ethan averted his gaze to the window, where the external chaos painted a violent scene that contrasted with the silence of the hospital room. "Disinheriting him would be an extreme action." His words came out measured, like chess pieces moved with the caution of a strategist. "Although I am disappointed... It would be bad of me, to disregard that he faced a boss alone." His gaze weighed on his son's severed arm, a final consideration hanging in the air, "Let's see how he will lead his life with a limitation imposed on him..."
I agreed with a nod, subtle and thoughtful, also curious about Blake's future trajectory. Ethan then prepared to leave the medical room, his hand already resting on the doorknob. But before his final farewell, the grave voice resumed, launching a question that pierced the quietness of the room: "The doctors tried to use all kinds of healing potions, regeneration potions, spells, enchantments and still, they could not regenerate his lost arm. From what I heard, you were with him in the boss room. Can you tell me if the dungeon boss contained any poison or deadly weapon with an aspect: Anti-life?"
Ethan's cunning was disconcerting. He was treading the labyrinth of truths and lies in search of a hidden answer. He suspected that the story described did not match the evidence that, without a doubt, he would collect. The truth was dangerous, a dagger under the robes, and I, the holder of that dagger, had to handle it with care.
A sigh of mine briefly filled the room, a prelude to the words that would come. "I have no idea." The answer was a shield, forged in the forge of ambiguity and survival.
"I see..." Ethan replied, his tone balancing on the edge of distrust and acceptance. He then left, closing the door behind him, his footsteps reverberating a fleeting echo in the corridor.
We remained there, Blake unconscious, witnessing in silence the weight of his new realities, and I, carrying the burden of secrets and intentions that the light of day could never reveal.
---
Leaning against the coldness of the window, I let myself be carried away by the events of the day, which unfolded like a TV series of dubious budget where all the special effects were reserved for the final heroes. At the tip of the iceberg, Sam, Diana and Ellie would probably be delivering the final blow to the demon. "I believe you can do it," I murmured to myself, with a sense of certainty nurtured by similar episodes that I created.
Reflecting on the other students, in particular, two extras that I added while living my life as an author who did not think about waking up early and spent the nights eating pizza and drinking soda. These two extras were added to die. Thinking now, they were my classmates... There was a pinch of dark humor in the consideration that being called an "extra" in such a narrative could be, at least, a subtle upgrade of euphemism. Reality is not a blockbuster where everyone gets an epic scene, after all. Some of us are only there to make the heroes look good - or to inflate the body count so that the audience really understands how scary the villain can be.
Sighing something between resignation and recognition of this inconvenient truth, I rested my head on the window, the coldness of the glass seeming to refresh not only the forehead, but also the ideas. "At least the freezer is working well," I thought, looking for a breath of humor in the midst of fatigue.
Waiting for the day to drag on to its eventual end, there was a biting anticipation to see what would follow. What would be the headlines the next day? "Heroes Triumph, but is the world's largest hero academy really that safe?", or perhaps, "Demon Annihilated, Statisticians Mourn the Loss of Perfectly Good Data"? The mental sarcasm served as a defense mechanism, a way to keep sanity when the reality around seemed determined to challenge it.
[...]
Author's notes:
Hello readers! Next chapter will show the repercussion and the outcome of the events inside and outside the artificial dungeon.