Patient

At Shrek Academy, he had trained desperately, thinking about how to grow stronger, how to become a top-tier Soul Master, how not to disappoint his teacher's expectations.

Back then, he had been injured, bled, and been left aching all over after training.

But he had never smiled after being wounded.

Never felt excited at the edge of death.

Never treated that feeling as something necessary for staying alive.

But the child before him did.

This nine-year-old child had already made a habit of death.

He treated pain as enjoyment.

He treated struggling at the brink of life and death as proof that he was alive.

This was wrong.

Something was wrong with this.

This should not be happening.

Wu Zhangkong looked at Zhong Shenxiu, at those molten-gold vertical pupils that still burned, at that blood-covered face that was still smiling, and suddenly felt something strange.

He was looking at a patient.

A patient who was gravely ill, yet utterly unaware of it.

No.

It was not that he was unaware.

He knew, but did not care.

He had accepted it, grown used to it, and had even come to like it.

That was even more terrifying.

Wu Zhangkong remained silent for a long time.

The only sounds in the training room were Zhong Shenxiu's heavy breathing and the occasional faint crack of ice crystals breaking.

After a long while.

Wu Zhangkong sighed.

The sigh was so soft it was nearly inaudible.

Yet in the silent training room, it still reached Zhong Shenxiu's ears clearly.

Zhong Shenxiu raised his head and looked at Wu Zhangkong.

The flames in those molten-gold vertical pupils had dimmed considerably, but they were still burning.

He watched Wu Zhangkong turn and walk toward the door.

That snow-white figure faded in and out amid the icy mist, like a ghost on a snowfield.

Wu Zhangkong did not look back.

He reached the door, pushed it open, and walked out.

The door slowly closed behind him, sealing the chill and bloodstains of the training room inside.

Zhong Shenxiu looked at that door without saying anything.

He merely knelt there, bracing himself with his spear as he gasped for breath.

Golden blood was still flowing, but he did not bother with it.

He simply stared at the door, a complicated emotion flashing through those molten-gold vertical pupils.

There was satisfaction in that emotion, exhaustion, and a trace of... indescribable loss.

It was over.

He had returned to being alone again.

Zhong Shenxiu lowered his head and looked at his hand.

The Sky Light Dragon Spear in that hand was already beginning to dissipate.

Its blazing white light turned into specks of luminous rain, drifting down through his fingers and vanishing into the frigid air.

He watched the falling light, then looked at his hand.

That hand was covered in blood. Golden blood and red blood had mixed together, making it impossible to tell which was his and which had flowed from his wounds.

But he did not care.

A very soft laugh.

Softer than any of his previous laughs.

Wu Zhangkong stepped out of the training room and closed the door.

He stood outside without leaving immediately.

He simply stood there, watching the morning sunlight spill across the campus, watching scattered students pass by on the distant field, watching those ordinary lives, those ordinary people.

Then he raised his head and looked at the sky.

The sky was blue, pure and beautiful.

He looked at it for a long time.

Then he lowered his head and started walking.

He did not return to the teachers' dormitory, nor did he go to his office.

He headed in another direction.

There lay Eastsea Academy's infirmary.

No.

Not the infirmary.

The school doctor's office.

Wu Zhangkong walked steadily, every step firm and resolute.

Yet his gaze was more complicated than usual.

He was going to find a doctor.

Not to treat Zhong Shenxiu's injuries—those wounds were severe, but for a Soul Master, as long as they were not fatal, they could slowly heal.

He was looking for another kind of doctor.

One who could treat that kind of illness.

The illness of treating death as a habit.

The illness of treating pain as enjoyment.

The illness of treating struggle at the brink of life and death as proof of being alive.

That illness was called post-traumatic stress disorder.

It was called the aftermath of war.

It had... far too many names.

But Wu Zhangkong knew those names did not matter.

What mattered was that this child was sick.

Very sick.

And he did not know it himself.

Or rather, he knew, but did not care.

That was the most troublesome part.

Wu Zhangkong continued walking without slowing.

His figure looked especially upright beneath the sunlight, and especially lonely.

His white clothes were like snow, his sky-blue hair lightly stirring in the breeze.

There was no expression on his face. He still looked as cold and indifferent as frost.

But in his heart, he was thinking about what he had just seen.

That child covered in blood, yet still smiling.

That child struggling at the edge of death, yet exhilarated as though he had been reborn.

That child whose eyes burned with mad flames when he said, "Continue."

Wu Zhangkong took a deep breath, then slowly let it out.

He knew he could not handle this child.

It was not that he did not want to. He simply could not.

That kind of illness could not be cured through lectures, guidance, or concern.

That kind of illness needed a professional doctor.

It needed someone who truly understood.

At the same time as yesterday, after school in the afternoon, the Intermediate Division field welcomed the second day of the Class Promotion Tournament.

The setting sun hung low in the sky, dyeing the entire field a warm orange. The competition platform still stood in the center of the field, its metal panels gleaming with a hard, cold sheen beneath the sunlight. The Soul Guidance Barrier Generators around it had already been debugged and could be activated at any time.

But today's atmosphere was completely different from yesterday's.

At this time yesterday, the field had been sparsely populated. Only some students from Class Three had come to gather information. Class One and Class Two could not even be bothered to watch a Class Promotion Tournament whose outcome seemed predetermined.

Today—

The field was packed.

Not only were there upper-year students, but even some teachers had appeared in the spectator area.

The crowd bustled with activity, discussions rising and falling one after another. Everyone's gazes occasionally swept toward one direction—

The first-year Class Five team.

No, it should be called first-year Class Four now.

That class, which had still been last in the entire grade yesterday, was standing quietly at one side of the field. Their formation remained neat, their posture still straight, exactly as it had been yesterday.

But the way everyone looked at them had completely changed.

"Is that the class? The one that wiped out Class Four in ten seconds yesterday?"

"I heard one person did it. One person against four, and he took them all down in ten seconds."

"No way, right? Even if Class Four was weak, they were still assigned according to talent. How could one person wipe them all out in ten seconds?"

"Why would I lie to you? My cousin is in the first year. He saw it himself yesterday. After that guy used Martial Soul Possession, his entire body turned golden. One spear, one man—he charged in and went straight at them. Those four from Class Four did not even have time to react."

"...Holy shit."

Similar conversations repeated throughout the crowd.

Those upper-year students who had originally held no interest in the Class Promotion Tournament now craned their necks, trying to find the legendary person within Class Five's formation.

They found him quickly.

Because he stood out too much.

In Class Five's formation, the other three were all looking straight ahead with focused expressions.

Only one person stood at the far left of the formation, his hands hanging naturally at his sides, his calm gaze fixed on the competition platform ahead.

His stance seemed casual, yet it carried an indescribable certainty.