Did I Hit Kal'tsit? Seriously?

"Think carefully. Who would specifically come to Zone C just to blow up a wall? If someone could benefit from something inherently meaningless, then they might not necessarily be trying to gain anything from the act of blowing up the wall itself."

"Maybe they wanted Anthony or me to leave our original cells so they could make further moves. Right?"

Hearing that, Barton froze for a moment, then began considering the possibility.

But he quickly let out a cold laugh, looking thoroughly unconvinced. Anyone with eyes could tell he was trying to bait something out of him. "Don't take me for an idiot, Gerald. I know you and Anthony get along pretty well."

But Gerald gave him no chance to indulge in that kind of wild speculation. "Ah, try thinking about the objective facts, Barton."

"You'll find that if it were merely a blown-up wall, Randall would at most lose his temper, have someone find out what went wrong, arrange the cleanup, and call it a day."

Leaning leisurely against the wall, he smiled.

"But if someone really wants to play this loud game of cat and mouse in the prison, then Mansfield will have to conduct major searches every so often for the next few months. And when that happens, the person in charge of the operation won't be anyone else. It'll be you, the one Randall trusts most."

Gerald watched Barton's shifting expression and knew his words had worked.

"My advice is, if you want to avoid overtime, think about some other possibilities."

"For example, someone has to clean up this mess. If you needed people to clear away this mess or rebuild the wall, who would you go to?"

Recently, Saria seemed to have turned her attention to the prison's layout. The investigation was probably hitting a wall, so he might as well use this chance to help her fish in troubled waters.

"If I were you, I'd look for clues among those construction workers newly assigned to the prison, as well as the inmates in Zones A and B."

"You're saying that since last night, a piece of cloth you can't tear no matter how hard you try has suddenly appeared on your body, and it can even use Originium Arts?"

Early that morning, Barton had sent Saria to Zones A and B for roll call and patrols. With Barton deliberately concealing the matter, she hadn't yet received any news about Zone C.

Just as she was preparing to ask Gerald at noon what exactly had happened, he told her everything that had occurred that morning—apart from the dream.

She silently looked over his bare upper body, covered in exaggerated scars. Rare concern and guilt appeared in her eyes. "I... I'm sorry. I haven't noticed these past few days."

"Noticed what?"

Gerald had even expected her to comment on his scars. But seeing that expression on her face... why did she look like she was staring at someone with little time left?

"Hallucinations, and pathological changes."

Saria's response was brief.

"I'll explain it to Ms. Duma in the infirmary. If you can feel the cloth wrapped around your body, it may indicate a disorder in your nervous system. It needs to be treated immediately."

Before Gerald could explain anything, Saria grabbed his arm and leaned close to inspect the symptoms on his body.

Even in a prison like this, she still carried a faint fragrance. Perhaps it was some kind of naturally scented shampoo, but Gerald's reason rejected that answer. In his view, the smell of industrial products couldn't be concealed. And once that possibility was ruled out, there seemed to be only one answer left.

Calmly, he cut away the part of his mind that belonged to desire. This Vouivre seemed never to understand the meaning of personal space, though the situation was likely the result of her duty as medical staff.

But he wasn't sick. This was only happening because the relic he had just acquired was messing with him.

No wonder Saria had misunderstood. After all, anyone who saw their friend suddenly strip completely bare from the waist up while explaining something, then tug furiously at empty air with a serious expression while muttering, "I can't tear it no matter how hard I pull," would have to wonder whether something was wrong with their mind.

Come to think of it, if someone like Saria ever regarded this sort of thing as perfectly normal, then he'd probably need to accompany her to a psychiatric hospital for an examination.

"Your conversation and emotions are normal. For now, we can rule out mental illness. You don't have a high fever, so meningitis is unlikely. Your sleep duration and mental state are stable, so it isn't that either."

"Now, we need to immediately conduct imaging on your brain. If it's temporal lobe epilepsy, then the situation is already very serious. I'll ask you several questions next, and you must answer honestly—"

Gerald gently pulled his arm free from Saria's grasp and sighed helplessly.

"No need. On page sixty-eight of the fourth book you gave me, Foundations of Neurology and Psychopathology, it says that if the temporal lobe were diseased, I should already be suffering from severe déjà vu, strange smells or tastes, or even sensory loss—not simply seeing a few illusions."

"Besides, my neural reflexes, logical thinking, and language skills are all within normal ranges. Saria, you're a doctor. You should understand that."

He tried to keep his voice calm, but when he saw Saria's expression, he knew nothing he said would work.

So he chose a more direct method.

"Come on. Attack me with your Enamel."

"Don't be impulsive, Gerald." Saria shook her head. Her usually placid gaze had finally changed. "These examinations won't hurt you. You know that."

"I also know that when a patient refuses to cooperate, doctors can use violence and coercive measures to make them comply, including but not limited to knocking someone unconscious with their bare hands."

"That sentence wasn't in any of the books I gave you."

"Of course not." Gerald silently sighed. "That sentence was written by war. You've definitely never read any of its books."

"That's a terrible joke." Saria forced herself to relax and took a deep breath. "But I can't deny that, in certain circumstances, those words do have practical value."

Enamel gathered with astonishing speed. With a single flash, Saria's fist appeared before Gerald.

Smack.

To Saria's surprise, Gerald, for the first time in his life, made no attempt to dodge or defend himself. He simply watched as her fist nearly struck his jaw.

Then he casually raised a hand and caught Saria's wrist.

In that instant, she felt as if countless loaches were slipping through the Enamel around her arm, or as though innumerable fine needles were lightly pricking her skin, stabbing again before the previous marks could even remain.

Again and again.

Then, the Enamel coating her arm melted away like ice and snow.

The gray-white Enamel possessed incomparable hardness and strength, but it was equally incapable of resisting collapse from within. Within moments, it fell from her arm, then reassembled itself in midair with the movement of the wind, becoming a short sword that landed in Gerald's hand.

Saria instinctively took a step back, trying to create a safe distance. Gerald instinctively stepped forward, driving her into a dead end.

Her back pressed against the cold wall, while his left hand held the short sword against her throat.

"Now."

"It's my turn to cheat, Saria."

Who Has PTSD? Me?

It was difficult to describe the expression on Saria's face.

When Gerald held the short sword to her throat, the emotion in her eyes was neither frustration nor relief, nor even any of those other feelings too complex to name. Rather... it was very straightforward.

Gerald knew that look well.

Every time his blade crossed with that Feline general's, he would use all four ears to catch the sound of the wind and discern the direction from which that monster was coming, while his eyes remained fixed on the trajectory of the blade.

In the instant blades and steel flashed together, the sun hanging high in the sky would pour its light upon the earth. The mirror-like blade would reflect his figure—and that Feline general's figure.

He couldn't remember what it looked like, nor could he summarize it. There was too much to review after every battle, and wasting memory on such insignificant details would have been pointless.

But upon seeing Saria's eyes, he suddenly felt that he could describe exactly what kind of expression he himself had worn back then.

The image reflected by the blade in his dreams and the words conveyed through Saria's gaze at this moment were nearly identical—

Freedom.

Unrestrained freedom, without taboos.

Yet that desire flashed past in an instant and was quickly hidden deep within her eyes. Her familiar calm returned to her face, as though that moment had never existed.

Just like the sky that could only be seen while passing the second-floor corridor in this prison.

"Surprising... You really can ignore the suppressor's interference."

Saria moved her fingers slightly, and the Enamel short sword in Gerald's hand turned into fine dust, instantly dispersing into the air.

Her gaze fell on the Originium Arts Suppressor on Gerald's arm. After repeatedly confirming that it displayed a green light, she nodded solemnly.

"My judgment was wrong. I'm sorry, Gerald."

"Seeing isn't necessarily believing, and theory is only theory in the end—I think I'll remember this lesson."

She paused, arranged her thoughts, and continued, "But back to the matter at hand, something abnormal must have happened to your body. I can't determine whether that's good or bad in a confined environment like Mansfield."

Her gaze shifted slightly, as though considering a reasonable answer. "For instance, another possibility that would allow you to use Originium Arts is infection from Originium crystals within the prison. But there clearly isn't an environment here where you could inhale or come into contact with active Originium dust or blood."

"If there were an environment sufficient to meet those conditions, this prison would already be unable to function normally. It couldn't be that only you have developed this abnormality."

"Unless..."

But at that moment, Gerald raised a hand, signaling Saria to stop for now.

Saria looked at him in confusion. "What is it? Did something happen?"

"No. I just have a question."

Gerald's expression gradually turned subtle. He silently found a chair, sat down, and leaned against the backrest as he looked at the Vouivre before him.

The bookshelves around them stood like massive black shadows, silently watching their confrontation.

A faint scent of long-stagnant dust floated through the air. The still atmosphere shrouded the entire space like a heavy curtain, making the ticking of a distant clock especially clear.

"I can't understand one of your answers." His tone carried an unsettling calm. "As far as I'm concerned, you've forgotten a possibility that a doctor shouldn't ignore."

Gerald stood and walked slowly to the bookshelf. In one clean motion, he pulled out a thick book and casually placed it on the table.

The dull thud of the book striking the tabletop sounded to Saria like a heavy hammer falling to the ground, making even the surrounding air seem to tremble.

"Trauma, Ninth Edition. Chapters forty-seven, fifty-five, and sixty-three all discuss records and treatment guidelines for post-traumatic stress disorder, PTSD. Do you need me to recite them for you?"

His pace quickened, and an aggressive edge entered his voice.

"A world-class doctor failing to consider the possibility that a soldier who survived a war might develop a stress disorder sounds rather concerning."

"Or do you think mentioning it would further worsen my mental state?"

Saria stood silently where she was, her gaze fixed on a point on the floor.

Her fingers curled slightly, then quickly loosened. Her fingertips had faintly turned white.

Those who knew her well might recognize this as her characteristic reaction when she felt at fault.

At times like this, regardless of whether she had a reason to explain the other person's doubts, she would only maintain her silence.

The problem was—

Gerald had absolutely no idea why Saria was suddenly acting like a turtle hiding its head in its shell.

He had thought such a straightforward question would earn an equally straightforward answer. Instead, it now seemed like Saria was the one with suspected PTSD.

A question mark seemed to pop up over his head. He desperately rubbed his hair and cried out in frustration.

"I'm not accusing you! I'm just asking!"

"What on earth made you think I have PTSD? I don't have that crap at all?!"

?

"No, what are you [?] about?" Gerald could feel the heavy confusion and incomprehension in Saria's gaze, which only made him more bewildered. "Do I look like someone who trembles all over at the sight of Originium Arts, clutches his head, and sobs in a corner?"

"Based on that statement alone, I think you need to retake the exam." Saria sighed, a rare sight. "The symptoms of trauma-related stress disorders go far beyond that."

"On the second day after I met you, you were in your room holding a makeshift sword, spinning your body three hundred and sixty degrees through the air. Not only that, you kept exchanging moves with the air, as if there were an imaginary person within your field of vision."

Gerald answered with silence.

That did seem to have happened, when that Feline general sent him home for the second time—he had been racking his brain over how to deal with the general's sword techniques.

But that should only count as nostalgia for the battlefield, right?

"When I entered the room, you began provoking me and asked me to attack you." Saria continued.

Gerald broke out in a cold sweat.

Her Enamel-coated fists might not have been as fast as that Feline general's, but they were indeed among the few things in this prison that could threaten his life. Using them as a substitute was satisfying enough.

He had been too excited. It was understandable—but seen from her perspective, her conclusion also seemed understandable.

"In the end, when I tried to stop you from continuing, you began attacking yourself." Saria concluded. "I don't know what other reason besides PTSD could explain that behavior."

Gerald covered his face with one hand.

Enough. He understood completely now. There was no need to say any more.

He had gotten used to life in prison. When he was with a guy like Anthony, of course he could do whatever he wanted. But the only civilized person who wouldn't avoid him after seeing those kinds of actions was probably the person standing before him.

He would have to mind his behavior after getting out.

"Therefore, I had no choice but to temporarily restrain your actions. But judging by the current circumstances, my thoughts at the time differed greatly from reality."

"According to the files, patients with backgrounds similar to yours had a ninety-five percent chance of developing PTSD."