Mr. Magical Girl

Chapter 36. 11:59:45 PM (2)

Sniff Blood smell.

The first sensation I felt as consciousness returned.

Gradually reclaiming awareness, I recalled my last memory.

A purple syringe stuck in my head, and the realization that all the drugs injected so far were simply water.

Is it a sleeping pill?

I don’t know how plain water can function as a drug, but for her, that must be normal.

If I were to ask how to punch a hole in resources purely with power, the only answer I’d have is, “Just do it.”

After all, whether they are entities from another world or heroes, they are all like that. What’s the point of reasoning about it now?

As I pondered for a moment, the feeling of panic completely vanished.

If it’s plain water, so what? Any kind of medicine works just fine.

Then, opening my eyes: I have to unveil the identity of the blood smell.

With both eyes opened, a white ceiling comes into view:

A familiar ceiling, the standard accommodation of the Association. I hadn’t been moved elsewhere.

My body is still restrained by a belt, but since it doesn’t hinder my movements, I raise my upper body.

The view of the accommodation is just as I last saw it: The only difference is the dried blood splattered here and there and the grimy shapes of my students soaked in blood.

“Oh, you’re awake?”

Standing in the middle of the bloodbath, the figure of an oxymoron turns its head towards me.

“What the hell happened here?”

“Just some training while cutting each other up a bit.”

It turns its head towards the students. Faces exhausted, likely having fallen asleep. I worried if they had sustained any injuries, looking at my own body, but it appears that the blood splattered was all from the oxymoron alone; there aren’t any wounds on the students’ skin.

Is all of this the oxymoron’s blood? Then there’s nothing to worry about: it’s probably for the better.

“How’s their skill?”

“Well, their robes are still quite young. They haven’t shed their common sense yet, but their healing efficiency is at least at a level usable in real combat.”

Laughing, the oxymoron must be referring to Han Ah, whose white robe is stained red with blood.

“What about Baek Sihyeon? Isn’t she supposed to have healing magic too?”

“Did she? No idea.”

“You don’t know?”

An unexpected response.

Han Ah was rated as usable, yet the evaluation for Baek Sihyeon is that she doesn’t know.

“Is there a problem?”

“What should I say…?”

With a mouth full of many words, the oxymoron sticks to the edge of the bed and opens up:

“The talent for healing magic is exceptional. If she trains for about ten years, she might surpass them all.”

Ten years. It feels long yet short.

“However, there’s a significant flaw in her as a healer.”

“A flaw?”

No matter how angry one gets, if an oxymoron that’s been butchered like Hippocrates enough to tell me this, what could the flaw possibly be?

“It seems she can’t imagine other people’s perfect form. She can heal wounds on herself, but unless she witnesses the injury firsthand, she can’t restore it.”

“What are you saying? Speak clearly.”

“It requires knowing how the other person got injured. It’s more of a limitation of personality than of ability?”

“Useless then.”

Ultimately, it seems her healing ability is limited only to herself, barring special situations.

Another example of that genius’s screw being loose.

What went wrong with that kid?

“Fortunately, she isn’t totally incapable of healing.”

The oxymoron says that while holding out both hands in front of me.

“This is the hand that treated me. Do you notice anything strange?”

At first glance, it looked normal. Sure, one of its fingers had grown back, and the skin was clean, without any strange lumps or scales.

“I’m not sure.”

“Hmm. What a pity. Both of my hands are right hands now.”

Isn’t that amusing?

Hearing that, I examined her hands more closely.

Indeed, both hands were identical in shape.

There’s got to be a bizarre point that’s clearly noticeable that I overlooked—the most fundamental flaw.

“Probably, she must’ve seen my other hand and adjusted it to that. Being A-Rank, regenerating lost parts should also be possible.”

“The Association said not to label heroes with ranks.”

“Still, that’s more straightforward than anything. If used well against enemies…”

The oxymoron chuckled with her mask on, and in front of my eyes, she sliced off her left hand, attaching her original hand that had fallen to the floor.

“Hmm. It’s a bit old, but it’s not a problem at all. Glad it hasn’t rotted away.”

Better not worry about what the oxymoron does.

“It’s a bit uncomfortable, don’t you think? Having both as right hands isn’t that bad?”

The oxymoron spoke strangely. Ignoring that, if you worry, you lose.

“Anyway, both are usable, right?”

“Basically, both hands have no problem with ability. It’s just that I couldn’t raise my power since I couldn’t find a good mentor.”

Is she referring to herself as a good mentor? Skipping over that point, though there are slight issues, she’s saying both improved their skills.

“Thank you, oxymoron.”

“You don’t have to thank me. They’re adorable juniors. Naturally, I should let you know.”

With her eyes squinting, the oxymoron smiled cheerfully. I returned the gesture with a smile too.

Two heroes laughing in a room thick with blood smell. That’s our relationship.

“Oh right. There’s one exception though.”

Suddenly, the oxymoron wiped her smile and opened her mouth.

“The gray-haired one said that she can only heal herself, but there was one exception.”

“An exception?”

“My right eye. I restored it perfectly.”

Right eye?

Can you see?

Hearing that, I blinked a few times, and I could detect a presence.

The empty eye socket that had surely been vacant until I fell asleep now had a new eyeball growing in.

So naturally was it restored that I almost forgot the fact that my right eye had disappeared.

“This isn’t the left eye, is it?”

“I checked that. The optical nerve connection was a bit shaky, but aside from that, it was perfect restoration.”

Essentially, she can only heal herself, but I’m the exception.

Is it because I’m her fan?

It’s a complicated problem, and no answers would arise from overthinking; thus, I dropped the thought.

Well, that’s not to say a hero’s powers are standardized; there are various strengths out there, especially when there are quacks with plain water acting as a drug.

“Is that why she passed out like that?”

“Yes. It seems she exhausted all her mana. Restoration for the loss is a bit tough.”

“Then what about Han Ah?”

“She just got tired.”

A wry smile crept onto my face.

An A-Rank hero fainting from exhausting all her mana is quite a surprise gift.

It seems I have wrapped up all discussions about the students, so now I should prepare for the next battle.

“How much time is left?”

I asked the oxymoron while gazing at Unho, snoring next to me.

This kid also hasn’t been out in a while.

With talk halted for a decade, the white fluffball has been lounging about at home.

Looks like this kid will finally earn its keep after a long time.

“One day left.”

“Eh, what?”

“They’re probably still under cultivation.”

“Right.”

Lowering my upper body back down, I sunk into the plush bed again.

The thud thud of war approaches. How many will die, and how many will survive?

The atmosphere in the meeting room is pepped up, claiming it’s been a while since an opportunity to showcase their skills has come about, but I already know that this is an act to mask their fear.

For the sake of a new era, the Awakeners of the old have thrown their bodies away to erase their existence from history.

Not just me; everyone lives like that: hiding fear and disguising hearts, simply clinging to vanity.

I, too, don’t think at all about dying in this war.

Yet, how many people will die, and how many civilians will become casualties?

I can’t help but fear that: now that I know this story veers close to catastrophe, no one would blame me, but still, my name is unmistakably tied to this war.

Perhaps because of the smell of blood wafting through the room and that consuming fear, I feel like I’ve returned to old battlefields after a long time and muster my honest feelings to speak out.

“What do you think about the kids these days?”

Fifteen years since the Association has been established.

The actions we took for the rights of the Awakeners are now reflected in the current heroes.

What are my comrades thinking?

“I don’t particularly like my name.”

“Are you serious?”

“If not, what can I do?”

The oxymoron removed her gas mask and nestled next to me.

Her skin was a pale brown, close to white.

Her features were almost ethereal.

Her long black hair flowed over the white blanket as she stepped out from the mask.

For someone like her who wants to keep her face hidden from the outside, it must be a long time since she’s shown her face to others.

“The difference from our time, I suppose, is that everyone seems brighter, right?”

“Brighter?”

That’s a good thing: the Association was created to ensure that our darkness wouldn’t be inherited.

Yet,

“In return, everyone seems weaker. Will they all be able to survive and return?”

Because they haven’t faced hardship, their resolve weakens.

In a peaceful world where such weak heroes were sufficient, enemies have appeared.

“Those who haven’t faced hardships shouldn’t call themselves heroes. Heroes should show their own resolve.”

I hear unexpected words from behind.

“Isn’t that what a similarly gray-haired brawler would say? Honestly, it’s something anyone could say.”

A light laugh accompanies that.

Her smiling face, unobscured by the gas mask, came into view.

“Perhaps it’s a good opportunity. Now they will face hardships and face judgment regarding their qualifications as heroes.”

Her narrowed eyes held a certain gaze.

The deep intensity reflected a mirage of emotion.

“What do you think about the kids these days being called heroes?”

That crossed a dangerous line. If this were usual, I’d never say such a thing.

But, I may not have another chance to see her.

That’s why I wanted to ask.

What do you think of the current kids, if keenly perceptive?

With that single phrase, one could figure everything out.

“Personally, I’m unhappy about that.”

Al’lib’s face crumpled as if recalling unpleasant memories; deep lines etched on her forehead.

“The reason we opted to use the term ‘hero’ instead of ‘Awakener’ was to provide a reward for the children who face adversity and tear through the battlefield.

But there’s no reward for it.”

Indeed. In the battles to come, we should provide some small solace: so they’re not discriminated against and can be treated as humans.

“So, the kids who don’t know anything and just smile being called heroes is something I dislike too.”

As she unravels each layer, the scars etched on her body reveal themselves:

A large cut on her back. The many stitches left behind.

Different-colored skin etched above her abdomen. A metal piece lodged in her neck.

These are traces of her power being insufficient to completely erase the wounds of her past.

Her hand stretched out to my face.

“Uncle.”

“What’s up?”

Hearing that familiar call after so long gives an odd feeling.

“Are you the gray-haired brawler?”

Quickly widening my senses:

Heartbeats, breaths, the sound of movement—possibly a mechanical noise.

There are no special reactions around except for the usual steady breathing of my students and Unho.

“Are you worried someone will hear us? Don’t worry; everybody has sleeping pills stuck in their throats.”

Al’lib nonchalantly reveals her actions.

There’s nothing to doubt there; she speaks as if it’s the most natural thing, maintaining calm.

“Doesn’t the Association’s official documents matter? The gray-haired brawler is my cloned monster.”

“Hmm? The way its limbs were broken looks just like your hammering technique.”

Following the oxymoron’s comment, laughter erupts whimsically.

Her hand squished my cheeks, and she continued telling her tale.

“I’ve seen countless times working at the Association. The forms of those you’ve broken. There’s no way I wouldn’t know.”

Is it because we’ve built a bond over decades? She pinpointed me with absurd information.

Then what about the other meeting participants? What about the Infinite Architect who met me directly?

The situation is more dangerous than expected.

“Will you relay the information to the Association?”

I could whip out my hammer to silence her straight away, but logic told me: am I going to swing my hammer at a comrade?

Thus, I posed what might be the last question.

“I won’t do anything. I like both sides.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I hope that after this war, children reconsider what it means to be a hero.”

She gave a nonsensical response, seemingly avoiding something, a meaningless remark.

Her warmth enveloped my body.

Long limbs and legs. A comforting temperature.

In the past, I used to hold her close, but now I was the one being held tight in her embrace.

The child Al’lib playing with needles has transformed over time into the adult oxymoron.

She nestled her head against mine and opened her mouth.

“Don’t die holding all the burdens like the Thunder God, okay?”

The vibrations from her voice were carried to me.

Shared emotions, the same passage of time, connected fates, and the events we experienced together.

All those vibrations resonated with everything within me.

“Sure.”

Time passes.

The Association, the new heroes, Linsha, and the people. But why do I remain as I am?

Just like thirty years ago.

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