The infirmary was a sanctuary of white linen and the sharp, medicinal scent of crushed moon-lilies. Matthew lay on a cot, his upper body wrapped in cooling bandages that hummed with a faint, blue light. Every breath felt like a serrated blade was sliding between his ribs, a reminder of Lyra's final, crushing strike.
Andrew and Andre had stayed until the healers chased them out, Andre promising to "tinker with something" to help Matthew's training, while Andrew simply squeezed his hand, a silent promise that he wasn't going to let Matthew fall behind.
Now, in the middle of the night, the ward was silent. Or at least, it should have been.
"The bandages won't work on you for long, you know," a voice said from the shadows.
Matthew bolted upright, hisses of pain escaping through his teeth. Sitting in a high-backed chair near the window was Dean Alexander II. He wasn't wearing his formal constellation robes; he was dressed in a simple black tunic, looking less like a headmaster and more like a reaper.
"The healing mana in those wraps is being slowly devoured by your chest," the Dean continued, gesturing to the dimming blue light of the bandages. "In another hour, they'll be nothing but dry cloth. You are a difficult patient, Matthew."
"I didn't ask for them," Matthew grunted, leaning back against the pillow. "And I didn't ask to be a 'Void.'"
"Nature rarely asks for permission," Alexander said. He stood up and walked to the foot of the bed. "I watched your spar today. You were pathetic. Your footwork is atrocious, and your grip on a sword is that of a frantic gardener."
Matthew looked away, the sting of the words hurting more than the broken ribs. "I know."
"However," the Dean's voice dropped an octave, "you did something today that defies the laws of this Kingdom. Lyra Ignis is a prodigy. Her flame is backed by centuries of noble blood. For a Rank 0 boy with no training to snuff it out... it shouldn't be possible."
The Dean pulled a small crystal vial from his sleeve. Inside, a single spark of white flame flickered, trapped in a vacuum seal.
"The Academy thinks you are a failure who got lucky. Inquisitor Vane thinks you are a tragedy waiting to happen. But I see a variable," Alexander said. "Tell me, Matthew. When you negated her flame, did you feel the fire?"
Matthew thought back to the moment of impact. "No. I felt... a coldness. Like the fire wasn't being put out, but like it was being invited into a cellar. It just... went away."
"Because you didn't block it," the Dean whispered, his eyes gleaming. "You consumed it. You are not a shield, Matthew. You are a predator that eats the very energy the world is built upon."
Alexander leaned in, his face inches from Matthew's. "This is why I have placed you in the F-Class. Not because you are weak, but because you need to stay invisible. If the Council realizes what you truly are—a being that grows stronger by eating the mana of others—they won't put you in a classroom. They will put you in a cage."
Matthew felt a chill that had nothing to do with his core. "Why are you telling me this? Why help me?"
"Because the monsters at Oakhaven were just the beginning," Alexander said, standing straight again. "The 'S-Class' events are increasing. The walls of our world are thinning, and the 'Heroes' we have are old and brittle. I need a weapon that doesn't follow the rules of magic. I need a Null."
The Dean reached into the air, and a heavy, leather-bound book materialized in his hand. It had no title, and its cover was made of a strange, matte-black material that seemed to absorb the light of the room. He dropped it onto Matthew's lap.
"Andrew is teaching you to read the Academy's way," the Dean said. "That is good. But this book is written in the language of the Void. You won't need math to understand it. You will need instinct. Study it in secret. If anyone—even Andrew or Andre—asks about it, you tell them it is a diary of your father's."
Matthew touched the cover. The book felt cold, vibrating with a frequency that matched the hunger in his chest.
"One more thing," Alexander said as he moved toward the door. "Lyra Ignis is curious about you. Curiosity in a noble is a dangerous thing. She will seek you out again. When she does, do not show her what is in that book. Show her only your mistakes. Let the world believe you are the 'Lucky Zero' for as long as possible."
After the Dean left, Matthew opened the first page. There were no letters, no "coefficients" or "ratios." Instead, there were drawings of flowing water being pulled into a whirlpool, and sketches of a lone man standing in a storm, his hands open as if to catch the lightning.
As he stared at the drawings, the pain in his ribs began to fade. It wasn't because he was healing; it was because his core was reacting to the book. The violet spark began to spin, faster and smoother than before.
He looked at the blue bandages. The light was gone now. They were just cold, grey rags.
He realized then that the Dean was right. He wasn't a hero, and he wasn't a student. He was something the world hadn't seen in a long time, and he was starving.
He closed his eyes and began to hum the same low, rhythmic tone the book seemed to be projecting. Tomorrow, he would go back to the training pits. He would let Lucius laugh, and he would let Alicia correct his "atrocious" footwork. He would play the role of the clumsy orphan.
But deep inside, the hole was getting bigger