"Hmm..."
The comforting darkness that had wrapped around me in layers of restless sleep—filled with nightmares about disturbingly smiling clowns and professors with icy stares—suddenly dissolved when a pale white light pierced through my eyelids.
It wasn't natural sunlight, but that harsh artificial glow that seemed to be the trademark of the detention sector.
I slowly opened my eyes, feeling every muscle in my body still quietly protesting yesterday's adventures.
The ceiling above me was white and dull, just like the ceiling of my previous temporary cell. But this time, something in the atmosphere was slightly different.
The suffocating smell of metal and despair wasn't dominant anymore. Instead, there was a faint scent of disinfectant… and perhaps a hint of actual food?
Oh God, am I dreaming? I thought sarcastically as I slowly sat up on the bed.
It wasn't a hard metal slab this time, but a real bed with a decent mattress—though it still couldn't compare to the luxury of my former suite in the Alpha Class residence.
I looked around.
I was in a small room, but it was definitely not a cell.
Neutral beige walls. A simple desk and chair. A built-in wardrobe. Even a small window—though it was covered with thick black metal bars and looked out onto another stone wall that was just as gloomy.
"Quite the breathtaking view," I muttered to myself with a sarcastic smile. "At least there's something to stare at besides my dark thoughts."
"The Secure Facility." That's what they called it when they informed me of my "promotion" from the temporary cell.
A reassuring name, right? Almost like a spa resort for students who accidentally cause A-rank disasters.
The truth, of course, was far less glamorous. I was still a prisoner—just in a slightly larger golden cage, under even closer surveillance.
I noticed the small camera fixed in the corner of the ceiling, its shiny black lens staring at me silently like the eye of a curious and somewhat rude bird.
"Good morning, dear observers," I waved at it with a wide, fake smile.
"I hope you enjoyed the show titled 'Adam Sleeping Miserably.'
The next segment will be 'Adam Tries Not to Trip on His Way to the Bathroom.' Don't miss it—full of suspense and excitement."
The routine in this "private wing" was mind-numbingly simple.
Three meals a day, delivered through a small slot in the heavy metal door.
The food, surprisingly, was slightly better than the gray cement-like sludge they served in the main cafeteria or the temporary cell.
Not gourmet cuisine, of course—but at least it looked like actual food rather than a failed scientific experiment rescued from the trash.
Maybe they think feeding me well will make me reveal my secrets faster, I thought while eating a piece of toast that, for once, wasn't rock-hard.
How naïve.
Aside from mealtimes, there wasn't much to do.
No books. No tablets—except my Cardinal device, which was still strapped to my wrist.
But its functions were restricted. It only displayed the time and possibly received emergency messages or official orders.
There was no way to communicate with the outside world… or even with my classmates, none of whom I had added yet.
The isolation was nearly complete, and the surveillance was constant.
I felt like a lab rat in a carefully designed maze. Every move I made, every word I said—even when I talked to myself, which I did quite often to preserve what remained of my sanity—was being recorded and analyzed by unseen eyes and ears.
Control freaks, I thought while pacing around the small room, which felt more suffocating with every passing hour.
What do they expect to discover? That I can shoot laser beams from my eyes if I concentrate hard enough? Or that I'm a secret agent for some organization?
Later that morning, after finishing breakfast—which consisted of something resembling scrambled eggs (this time a natural yellow color, miracle of miracles) and some fruit that looked like it hadn't completely surrendered to despair—the door suddenly opened.
"Creeeak!"
This time it wasn't a soldier, but a man wearing a white coat who looked like a doctor or a nurse. He carried a small tablet and a medical bag.
"Good morning, Student Lester," he said in a neutral tone, not even attempting a smile.
"I'm here to conduct some routine examinations to ensure that your physical and psychological condition is stable after… the recent events."
Recent events? How delicately phrased.
Does he mean the carnival that nearly turned us into masked puppets, or the interrogations that made me feel like a war criminal?
"Be my guest, Doctor," I said with a smile, sitting on the edge of the bed.
He performed a few quick checks—measured my blood pressure, pulse, temperature, and examined my eyes with a small light—then began asking some routine questions that were anything but routine.
"Have you experienced any nightmares or insomnia, Student Lester?"
"I dream that I'm forced to eat cafeteria food again, Doctor."
"Do you feel any unusual anxiety or stress?"
"Anxiety is my middle name these days, Doctor."
"Do you have any… strange or unusual thoughts?"
"Just the thought that I'm being detained because I survived a crazy clown. Would you consider that strange?"
The doctor typed quick notes into his tablet, his face showing nothing but cold professional focus.
Either he's used to dealing with insane students, or he's exceptionally good at hiding his disgust, I thought.
After finishing his questions—which seemed lifted straight from The Beginner's Guide to Diagnosing Mental Illness—he packed his tools and prepared to leave.
"Your physical condition appears generally stable, Student Lester," he said before exiting. "As for your psychological state… we'll require further evaluation."
Wonderful news, I thought after the door closed behind him.
More evaluation. That means more ridiculous questions, more scrutinizing looks, and more opportunities for me to prove that I'm not just eccentric—perhaps a mad genius or a danger to society.
What promising prospects for my future at this prestigious academy.
I returned to staring at the stone wall outside my barred window, feeling boredom creep into my mind again. But I fought it with a sarcastic smile.
Slowly, I began remembering some memes I had seen in my old world.
"Pfft!"
A quiet laugh escaped me.
"Hehehe…"
They weren't even funny. I hadn't laughed when I first saw them.
But now… they seemed suspiciously hilarious.
After the doctor's visit, I was left to my fate in my private wing for several more hours.
I spent them staring at the ceiling, counting the tiny cracks in the paint, and trying to recall details from the novel Pioneer Academy Chronicles that might relate to my current situation.
Had anyone in the story ever been detained or interrogated like this? Was there any mention of "secure facilities" for students who were "excessively interesting"?
I couldn't remember anything specific, which only strengthened my feeling that I was improvising in a narrative I had never actually read.
Maybe I'm just a background character from the original story who suddenly got promoted to the protagonist's role in this tragic show because of some catastrophic mistake, I thought.
What terrible luck… or perhaps the perfect setup for a dark comedy.
"Thump—Thump—Thump!"
I was just about to fall asleep from sheer boredom and overanalysis when I heard footsteps approaching my door again.
These weren't the steps of a soldier or a doctor.
They were lighter… and more hesitant.
Who now? I wondered, sitting up on the bed, ready to face whatever new surprise the day had in store.
Did they decide to send another clown to play with me? Or are they bringing a formal test to evaluate my sanity?
Damn it… did they see me laughing to myself? They'll definitely think I'm insane.
The metal door opened.
But this time there were no guards pushing me out, and no doctor carrying a bag of unsettling tools.
Instead, a man stood in the doorway—someone unexpectedly familiar in this place.
A man with pale black eyes, short hair streaked with gray, and a neatly trimmed beard. An elderly man with an astonishingly powerful build that bulged beneath his formal suit.
Dean Hargrove.
He stood there with a complex expression on his face—a mixture of concern, confusion, and perhaps… a hint of something resembling sympathy.
He held a hat in his hand, nervously rubbing its brim with his fingers.
"Student Lester," he said in a calm voice, completely different from the booming one he used in the assembly hall. "May I come in for a few minutes? I'd like to speak with you… informally, if possible."
I raised my eyebrows in genuine surprise.
Dean Hargrove himself? Here? And informally? Is this another trap? Or is he as bored as I am and decided to chat with one of his troublesome assets?
"Of course, Dean," I said, trying to keep my voice neutral as possible. I gestured toward the only other metal chair in the room, which looked like a carefully designed torture device.
"Please… it's not as luxurious as your personal suite, but it's… comfortable in its own way."
Dean Hargrove stepped inside and quietly closed the door behind him.
There were no guards accompanying him, which only made the situation stranger. He sat down carefully and placed his hat on the small table between us.
He was an S-rank monster, after all—why would he even need guards?
"…"
A brief silence filled the room. But unlike the tense silence in the interrogation rooms, this one carried a sense of cautious anticipation, as if we were both trying to gauge each other.
"How are you, Adam?" the dean finally asked.
His use of my first name surprised me slightly.
"I mean… how do you truly feel after everything you've been through?"
I looked at him, trying to read what lay behind his words.
Was this another test? A subtle attempt to draw out my emotions and make me reveal something?
My Perception stat isn't bad, I thought quickly.
And this man… he genuinely looks tired and worried. Maybe… maybe I can lower my guard a little. Or at least present him with a different version of Adam Lester than the one I showed Aurora Fenix.
"Honestly, Dean," I said slowly, choosing my words carefully, "I feel like I've been run over by a freight truck… then the truck reversed to make sure it did a good job… and then maybe I got attacked by a squad of insane clowns who enjoy terrible card games. Other than that… I think I'm fine."
The dean gave a faint, tired smile.
"I can imagine. What you and your classmates experienced… was not something any first-year student should expect or be prepared for. And I… as the dean of this academy, feel a great responsibility for that."
Oh, are we starting the self-blame game now? I thought sarcastically, though my face remained neutral.
"I've read the preliminary reports, Adam," the dean continued, his tone growing more serious.
"And I've listened to the recordings. I must admit… I'm confused. What happened in that gate, and the way you handled the situation as reported… goes beyond anything I've ever seen from a first-year student, especially with your recorded statistics."
"Maybe I'm just a different person under pressure, Dean," I said, repeating the same excuse I had given Aurora—but this time with less defiance and more fatigue.
"Sometimes, when you're about to die, you discover things about yourself that you never knew."
The dean nodded slowly.
"Perhaps… or perhaps there's more to it than that."
"Adam, this academy is not merely a school for teaching combat and exploring horrors. We are also here to nurture talent, to cultivate unique potential. And sometimes… that potential reveals itself in unexpected ways—or even ways that concern some people."
Is he hinting at something? I wondered.
Does he suspect I have some hidden skill, or is he just trying to make me comfortable enough to reveal my secrets voluntarily?
"I'm not trying to punish you, Adam," the dean said, looking directly at me.
This time, his eyes seemed to carry something like understanding… or perhaps the desire to understand.
"I'm only trying to understand you. To understand whether you represent a danger to yourself or to others… or whether you are, as I suspect, simply an exceptionally talented young man who found himself in an impossible situation and dealt with it the only way he knew how."
"…"
Silence fell again.
But this time I didn't feel the same pressure I had felt with Aurora.
Dean Hargrove, despite his authority and position, seemed… more human.
Less cold. More sympathetic.
Like a father—or a grandfather.
Maybe… maybe I can be honest with him… a little, I thought.
Not about the skill [Narrative Engineer's Blueprint], of course. That secret would go with me to the grave—or to the next gate that would probably kill me.
But maybe about my confusion and sense of being lost… and about the sarcasm that served as my only shield.
"Dean," I said quietly, "I don't know what you want to hear. I wasn't a hero in that gate. I was scared and confused. I was just trying not to become another mask in that clown's collection."
"If my actions seemed strange or illogical… it's because the entire situation was strange and illogical. I improvised, guessed, and maybe… maybe I got a bit of stupid luck in the end."
I looked down at my hands, which still bore faint marks from the cuffs.
"I'm not a danger, Dean. I'm just… someone trying to understand this crazy world he suddenly found himself in, and survive another day. That's all."
Dean Hargrove studied me for a few more moments, his expression still complex.
Then he let out a deep sigh, as if some of the tension had finally left his shoulders.
"I believe you, Adam," he said at last.
His voice carried a note of… trust? Or perhaps simply a desire to believe.
"Or at least, I want to believe you. There's something unique about you—something reports and statistics cannot fully explain. And I will do my best to ensure that you are given the chance to show it… the right way."
He stood up and picked up his hat from the table.
"Thank you for your time, Adam. I'll speak with Professor Fenix and the others. I hope we can reach a solution that satisfies everyone involved… one that doesn't require keeping you in this gloomy room any longer than necessary."
He gave a small, wrinkled smile. This time, it seemed genuine.
"Try to get some rest. I believe you've earned it."
Then, without another word, he left the room—leaving me alone once again with my thoughts… and a new mixture of confusion and caution.
Dean Hargrove… maybe not everyone in this academy is a soulless bureaucrat or an icy monster, I thought.
Or maybe… maybe he's simply a better manipulator than all of them combined.
I sighed.
Only time will tell.
But for some reason, I felt like his visit had changed something.
Maybe things weren't completely hopeless after all.
Or maybe… I was about to walk straight into a bigger, more complicated trap.
Either way, I smiled sarcastically.
Life at Pioneer Academy will never be boring. That much is certain.