Chapter 104: The List (24)
The thunder, the betrayal, the epic clash of light and shadow, all of it melted away in an instant.
Reality reasserted itself with the subtle grace of a brick to the face, the faint smell of herbs lingering in the air, and the cool weight of cards in Lucien’s hands.
He blinked once, twice, and then stared down at the humble spread before him.
His gaze lingered on the Jellyfish.
That cursed, flimsy card he had mocked since the moment it surfaced in his hand.
He had cursed its flopping artwork, its awkward presence, its uselessness.
And yet…
Lucien slowly exhaled.
‘I’m sorry, Jellyfish.’
He rubbed a thumb along the card’s edge as though it could feel his apology.
‘I underestimated you. I thought you were dead weight. But your measly 1 point in defense, just 1, turned the tide.’
The memory of the match was so unromantic compared to the theatrics Vivien had conjured in her own mind.
For Lucien, it was simple.
Three cards laid out.
A stat chosen.
Numbers added.
Vivien’s three creatures had given her a total defense of 12.
His, the snake, the knight, and yes, the pitiful Jellyfish, had reached 13.
The greater number won.
That was it.
No fireworks.
No vile schemes.
No sacrifices of souls.
Just… math.
Lucien chuckled softly under his breath, shaking his head.
‘...I misjudged you,’ he whispered in his head. ‘Forgive me, oh gelatinous savior. You were the keystone. The unsung hero. The one I needed most. A real champion in disguise.’
For the first time, he felt a flicker of pride.
His first victory in this strange new card game, secured not by grand strategy or raw strength, but by the fragile Jellyfish he had scorned.
He lifted his eyes, expecting Vivien to shuffle her deck and ready herself for round two.
But instead.
She sat stiffly, her hands clutching her three cards to her chest.
Her eyes shimmered wet, lip trembling as though she were on the verge of collapse.
Lucien blinked.
“…Huh?”
Vaelira tilted her head, brow furrowing.
“Vivien? Are you… crying?”
Balt leaned forward from his seat, concerned.
“Was it that bad a loss?”
Lucien opened his mouth, closed it, then glanced helplessly between the two.
It’s just numbers.
Why does she look like she’s about to give a eulogy?
Vivien suddenly stood, her chair scraping violently against the floor.
Her voice cracked as she cried out, “I’m sorry, Phillip!”
And before anyone could react, she bolted—clutching her cards like fallen comrades, tears streaming down her cheeks as she ran out of the infirmary.
The three left behind stared at the swinging door.
“…What,” Lucien said flatly.
Vaelira rubbed the bridge of her nose, muttering,
“Did… did losing one round really break her that badly?”
Balt scratched the back of his head, baffled.
“There are still two more rounds. She’s acting like she lost her entire family tree.”
Lucien slumped back in his bed, still holding the Jellyfish card between his fingers.
“Unbelievable,” he muttered.
“She’s crying like her world ended.”
He turned the card over, almost sheepishly.
Vaelira glanced at him.
“…You are thanking the Jellyfish now?”
Lucien met her incredulous stare with total seriousness.
“That thing’s a hero.”
For a moment, silence reigned, the absurdity of the entire situation weighing down on them.
Then Balt let out a low whistle.
“I don’t know what’s more worrying. Vivien running off crying, or you falling in love with a jellyfish.”
Lucien scowled, hugging the card closer.
“Shut up. Show some respect.”
In response the nurses as usual hissed and snapped.
“Quiet!”
And so the infirmary, moments ago the stage of Vivien’s grand fantasy, became instead a chamber of confusion, one girl running off to mourn her imaginary tragedies, and three bewildered witnesses left behind, with only a humble Jellyfish card to remind them that, somehow, a round had been won.
***
The infirmary quieted down one companion at a time.
Balt had gone first, stretching his broad shoulders and muttering something about needing to get proper rest if his leg wasn’t going to heal like a crooked branch.
He gave Lucien a nod on the way out..
Corin followed later, after returning from his cryptic conversation with the nurse about the translation bracelet.
He muttered a curt “Don’t die” in passing, which Lucien suspected was the closest thing to affection he’d ever get from the man.
And so, the last one to linger was Vaelira.
She hadn’t sat far, still perched on the edge of his bed where she’d planted herself earlier, her braid sliding neatly over one shoulder, her amber eyes studying him like he was a puzzle she hadn’t quite solved.
There was a softness to her expression now that the others were gone, a familiarity in the way her voice lowered as though this was their own little world.
“You know,” she said lightly, breaking the quiet, “you should at least try not to spend the best years of your youth in a sickbed.”
Lucien let out a chuckle, rolling his head against the pillow.
“Believe me, it’s not like I want to. Fate just seems to have this… persistent grudge. Every time I think I’m standing on my own two feet, boom-”
He gestured vaguely at his propped-up arm.
“Flat on my back again.”
Her laugh tinkled in the low light, bright but soft.
“At this rate, you’ll be remembered as ‘the boy who single-handedly tested the limits of our infirmary’s patience.’”
He smirked at that, though the corners of his lips faltered when he caught the shift in her eyes, less teasing, more earnest.
Vaelira exhaled slowly, her gaze dipping toward her lap before lifting again, her smile gentler now.
“…I miss sorting apples with you.”
Lucien blinked, the words landing like a small stone rippling across his chest.
The orchard.
Those endless afternoons in the estate’s dusty storage sheds, baskets of red and green stacked to the ceiling, the two of them perched side by side with tired hands and stained fingertips.
Coming out of the sorting room smelling like a mix of cider and apple pie.
Mundane, tedious work… and yet, for her, it carried a fondness, maybe even a kind of longing.
“Yeah…”
He said in a warm agreement after a pause, his voice quieter, touched by the fond memory.
“That had its charm.”
But then his smirk returned, slyer now, mischief curling into his tone.
“Still, I worked hard to get into this academy specifically so I’d never have to rate and sort another apple again.”
Vaelira’s jaw dropped in mock offense before she swatted his good shoulder with a firm smack.
“Lucien!”
“Ow, hey! That’s my only working side!”
He laughed, holding up his free hand in surrender.
“Serves you right,” she sniffed, but her lips betrayed her with the faintest curve upward.
“If you don’t start taking your classes seriously, you’ll be back at the estate sorting apples before you know it. And don’t think I’ll save you this time.”
Lucien tilted his head, feigning a wounded pout.
“Wouldn’t you help me again if it came to that?”
She crossed her arms and gave a delicate huff, though the pink in her cheeks was visible even in the lantern glow.
“Unlike you, I have been attending my classes. Diligently. Some of us actually intend to pass our courses.”
Her voice softened after a moment, almost reluctant to break the mood but steady with resolve.
“And if you must know, I do have more classes tomorrow. I need to get some sleep.”
Lucien grinned, leaning back against his pillow, eyes glinting.
“Yeah, yeah. Miss Scholar can go have her nap now so she can absorb the maximum amount of knowledge bestowed to her tomorrow.”
Vaelira rolled her eyes, though laughter slipped from her anyway.
Then, before he could react, her hand darted out and tugged at his cheeks, stretching them with a playful cruelty.
“Get well fast, will you? I don’t like seeing you stuck here.”
Her fingers let go, but the warmth lingered, and so did her smile, earnest, a touch wistful, but undeniably sincere.
“Good night, Lucien.”
He could only nod, his lips tugging upward despite the sting in his cheek.
“Good night, Vaelira.”
She rose gracefully, braid swishing behind her as she walked toward the doors.
At the threshold, she cast one last look over her shoulder, that small smile still lingering, before slipping out into the quiet halls.
Lucien lay there, smiling to himself, a warmth blooming in his chest that the cold infirmary blankets couldn’t take credit for.
And then.
“...She really does care about you.”
Lucien flinched at the raspy voice, whipping his head toward the bed beside him.
Phillip, eyes barely open, was half-propped against his pillows.
His entire body was still battered, but his lips managed to curl into a faint, almost teasing smile.
Lucien stared at him for a beat, then huffed a soft laugh, scratching the back of his neck with his free hand.
“…Yeah. She really does.”
And for once, the smile that lingered wasn’t just for himself.
