Chapter 222: Awakening
When Unit One opened her eyes, the first thing she saw was an unfamiliar wooden
ceiling.
Gone was the eternal, stagnant grey sky of the Necrotic Realm, and the grand,
ossified dome of the palace. This was a simple room.
She stared at the ceiling for exactly three seconds, using her peripheral vision
to confirm the absence of any magical circles or surveillance devices. Only then
did she slowly turn her head to observe her surroundings.
The room was small, roughly ten square meters. A bed, a desk, a few chairs, and
a wardrobe. In the corner sat several pots of blue orchids, exhaling a faint,
clean fragrance. The window was ajar, allowing a stream of sunlight to spill
across the floorboards.
Sunlight?
The Necrotic Realm had no sun. Therefore, the teleportation had been successful.
She was indeed within the target Plane.
Unit One continued her assessment. The furnishings were spartan but meticulously
clean. A ceramic pitcher and several cups sat on the desk. Beside the bed was a
woven reed basket filled with herbs she didn't recognize. Aside from the scent
of the orchids, there was a lingering, medicinal bitterness in the air.
Just then, the door creaked open.
A white-haired old man walked in, carrying a wooden bowl that emitted wisps of
steam. Seeing Unit One with her eyes open, a smile creased his weathered face.
"Yo, finally back with us?"
He approached the bed, setting the bowl on the nightstand with an air of mock
solemnity.
"The surgery was a complete success. Congratulations—starting today, you're a
magnificent young boy."
Unit One offered no reaction. She simply stared at the old man with a flat,
clinical gaze.
The old man blinked, his smile faltering into an awkward chuckle. "Just a joke,
just a joke. Trying to lighten the mood a bit."
He pulled up a chair and sat down, scrutinizing her. "I found you in the forest.
You were a mess; honestly, I didn't think I'd be able to anchor your soul back
to your body. How do you feel? Any acute pain?"
Unit One remained silent.
She was analyzing him. From an external perspective, this was a mundane human
elder—white hair, deep wrinkles, and a slightly hunched back. He wore a simple
linen robe and had the calloused hands of a laborer. He looked every bit the
part of a provincial town doctor.
But Unit One knew better.
She specialized in concealment and reconnaissance; she could sense the subtle
ebb and flow of energy. Even though her own Od was currently depleted, her
fundamental sensory instincts remained sharp.
This man possessed magic. Not just any magic, but a pure, concentrated
resonance. It was an energy signature saturated with the Sacred Attribute. Based
on her data from other conquered worlds, such a signature belonged to only two
classes of people: high-ranking clergy or Holy Knights.
This 'harmless' old man is at least Priest-tier, Unit One calculated.
Simultaneously, she felt a flicker of relief. It was fortunate her Od was
entirely exhausted. As long as she refrained from actively drawing Mana from the
atmosphere to restore her strength, no one could gauge her true Tier. To him,
she would appear as nothing more than a common girl who had suffered a
catastrophic trauma.
This was optimal for intelligence gathering.
The old man watched her eyes dart from the ceiling to the window and then to the
orchids, yet heard not a single word. He let out a long sigh.
"Alas, what a pity. So young. Having your face ruined is one thing, but it seems
the impact rattled your brain, too. A little silent doll, aren't you?"
At the mention of her face, Unit One's hand moved. She lifted her fingers to her
cheek.
The texture was a map of jagged ridges and uneven craters. She moved her
fingertips slowly, feeling the expanse of raised scar tissue that ran from her
temple, across her eye socket, down her cheek, and into her jawline. Nearly the
entire surface was a ruin of healed trauma.
Unit One's brow furrowed. It was her first display of expression since waking.
It wasn't sadness or vanity. It was a tactical assessment. In every infiltration
mission she had ever conducted, a pleasing aesthetic was a vital tool. Humans
were visual creatures; beauty elicited favor and lowered defensive barriers.
Now, that tool was broken.
She calculated the cost-benefit ratio in her mind. With her true strength at
Tier 5, restoring her features would be trivial once she regained her Od.
However... she paused.
She made a decision. She would not heal them.
Her current objective was long-term reconnaissance and establishing a baseline
for the coming war. She didn't need to infiltrate the high nobility yet. In this
context, a scarred face might be more effective. It would elicit pity and lower
suspicions. No one would view a disfigured girl as a threat, and she wouldn't
draw the kind of "unwanted attention" a beautiful woman might attract in a human
settlement.
Furthermore, she had no intention of restoring her full power in this world. She
would stop at Tier 2—just enough for self-defense. Anything more carried the
risk of exposure to the Empire's detection arrays.
Unit One dropped her hand and looked back at the old man.
"I am not a doll," she said.
The old man jolted, his eyes brightening. "Oho! So it can talk!" He leaned in
closer, firing off questions like a repeating crossbow. "What's your name? Where
do you hail from? How did you end up pulverized in my woods? Do you have kin? Do
you remember the assault?"
Unit One watched him, delaying her response.
She was parsing the interrogation. His questions seemed casual, but they were
designed to extract key identifiers: name, origin, cause of injury, social ties.
If she were a truly traumatized human girl, these questions would have triggered
a panic.
But Unit One was a Planar Wraith. Handling interrogations, weaving false
identities, and layering lies with "verifiable truths" were part of her core
programming.
First, she had to confirm one thing: the linguistic system.
She had spoken in the Common Tongue. The old man had responded in kind. This
confirmed that at least this region of the Plane utilized the standard
linguistic framework. Communication was viable.
Unit One composed her voice, letting a hint of practiced confusion color her
tone.
"I... do not remember."
She stared at her hands, projecting a sense of lostness. "I remember being in
the forest. Then... the world turned to shadow. Nothing else remains."
The "Amnesia Protocol." It was a standard for a reason. It explained her
ignorance of local customs while allowing her to dodge questions she couldn't
yet answer.
The old man's expression softened with understanding. "I see..." He nodded
slowly. "Not surprising. With the state you were in, surviving at all is a
miracle granted by the Sovereign. Memories... they're fickle things. They might
return in time, or they might stay buried."
He stood and walked to the desk, bringing the wooden bowl over. "Here. Drink
this while it's hot. It's a medicinal broth I brewed. It'll help anchor your
constitution."
Unit One looked at the bowl. A brownish liquid with fragments of herbs floating
on the surface. Her nose twitched. No toxins detected. She recognized several
ingredients—common herbs used to stimulate Od circulation and blood flow.
She took the bowl and sipped it. It was incredibly bitter.
Her expression didn't change a fraction. To her, it was no different from
drinking plain water.
The old man watched her, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his
eyes. Most people, even soldiers, would winced at the bitterness. And an
amnesiac girl should have shown fear or unease. But this girl was... unnervingly
still.
He said nothing of it. He simply sat and waited for her to finish the broth.
"Anyway, we've been chatting for a while and I haven't even introduced myself,"
the old man said with a smile. "I'm William. William Gray. I'm the doctor for
this little town."
He looked at her expectantly. "And you? Since you don't remember your past...
what shall I call you?"
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