Physical Examination

The day had ended. 

Malphas laid on his bed, one hand resting over his stomach, while his other arm hung off the edge, fingers slightly curled. 

Though his body remained still, his mind was anything but at peace. His eyes twitched occasionally, and his fingers flinched as if an unseen presence was tugging at his nerves. It was an irritation that wouldn't go away, like an itch buried deep within his thoughts. 

'Why the hell did I do that?' he sighed internally, frustration simmering beneath his skin. Flashes of the fight replayed in his mind, each moment making him wince in embarrassment. His brows furrowed, and without thinking, he smacked his face in a swift motion. 'I got too caught up in the fight… I didn't consider Caelen's warning until the end. Damn it—I let myself get carried away.' 

His arm flopped back onto the bed, heavy with disappointment. His breath was steady, but his heartbeat pounded in his ears, refusing to settle. As the luminescent blue moonlight streamed through the window, washing over him in a cold glow, his thoughts drifted to something else. 

Not frustration, but confusion. 

'Why… why am I doing this anyway?' 

The thought lingered, gnawing at him as his mind scoured itself for answers. Fragments of memories surfaced—his arrival, his supposed purpose—but there were gaps. Who were his parents? What was his first trial? Why couldn't he remember? What exactly was the X-Factor? 

As if searching for reassurance, his fingers instinctively reached into his shirt, pulling out the pendant hidden beneath the fabric. It glimmered faintly under the moonlight, its light dim yet persistent. 'I know this has something to do with my resonance, but what?' 

Before he could dwell on it further, a sharp knock echoed against his door, snapping him from his trance. His gaze flicked toward it, an irritated sigh slipping from his lips. Yet, despite the annoyance, he pushed himself up with a stretch before heading over to the door. 

As it creaked open, two figures stood before him. 

One was a student dressed in the pristine white uniform of the science department. His black hair was a mess, spikes shooting in every direction, and a pair of goggles dangled around his neck. Though his uniform was meant to be spotless, dark stains streaked across his skin, evidence of recent work. 

The other was an adult, presumably a professor. He held a notepad in one hand, scribbling at a rapid pace, only glancing up for brief moments before resuming his relentless writing. 

Malphas blinked. "Uh…" He leaned slightly to one side, his expression unreadable. "What do you need?" 

The student was quick to answer, his tone clipped and efficient. "Malphas Darkwood, we're here to conduct your physical examination. You don't have one on record, so we need to complete it in the testing lab." 

"…Testing lab?" 

"Yes. If you come with us now, I promise you'll still get at least seven hours of sleep." 

Malphas narrowed his eyes. "R-right… One question." 

"Ask away," the student replied, his words swift and precise, wasting no time. 

"What's with all… that?" Malphas motioned vaguely toward the student's stained uniform and the professor's endless note-taking. "And why do you guys need a physical so suddenly?" 

"Excellent question, Malphas," the student responded without missing a beat. "The reason we collect this data is to design a combat uniform specifically tailored for you. Ever noticed how students on missions outside the academy wear different attire? That's because the science department develops custom gear to optimize their performance. In a sense, we serve as the backbone of the Fateweavers." 

"…Right." 

Malphas couldn't dwell on it for long. The tapping of the professor's pencil against the notepad grew increasingly irritating, grating against his patience. He shot a glance at the man, who remained unfazed, his focus solely on his notes. 

"Who's he?" Malphas asked, pointing at the professor with a flick of his hand. 

The student turned slightly, exchanging a brief nod with the professor before answering. "This is Professor Orr, a senior researcher in the science department. He's currently evaluating my qualifications to handle fieldwork like this." 

Malphas's brows furrowed. 'So they're tested on everything, even stuff as minor as guiding someone to a lab?' He thought for a moment before exhaling in mild exasperation. "Fine, I'll go." 

The student, now identified as part of the science department, wasted no time turning on his heel. "Follow me." 

Malphas hesitated for a second but eventually caved, stepping into line behind him. 

As they walked through the academy halls, life still stirred around them. Groups of students chatted in hushed whispers, couples lurked in shadowed corners, and lone figures sat by windows, absorbed in their studies. 

Malphas's gaze flitted from one scene to another, unable to fixate on a single thing for long. His head moved with his curiosity, much like a child taking in a new world. 

Their surroundings shifted—the dark wooden floors of the main building gave way to smooth concrete, and soon, they arrived at a set of glass doors. The handle was a polished silver, reflecting the dim hallway lights. As Malphas reached for it, the cool touch sent a shiver up his spine. 

The student opened the door for him. 

The moment he stepped inside, the temperature dropped. The warm air of the hall was replaced by an artificial chill, a stark contrast that unsettled him. 

Each step echoed against the metal flooring as Malphas took in his surroundings. Beyond the glass walls, students in lab coats worked tirelessly—tinkering with weapons, forging armor, brewing potions. It was a world of its own, buzzing with restless energy. 

Finally, they stopped in front of a particular lab. 

A silver tag on the side of the door caught Malphas's eye. 

"Lab 1224" 

"Sheineropp" 

"Sheineropp?" he muttered, reading the engraved name aloud. 

"Yes, that's my surname," the student confirmed. "Barnaby B. Sheineropp, to be exact." 

Malphas glanced at him. "Barnaby B…?" He tilted his head slightly. 'What does the B even stand for?' he wondered internally. 

The lab itself was fairly spacious but felt cramped due to the sheer number of machines crammed inside. Large devices hummed, wires tangled across the floor, and blinking lights flickered intermittently. The constant flurry of movement and activity was nearly overwhelming. 

As the door slid shut behind them, the professor took a seat in the corner of the room, immediately resuming his relentless writing. The sound of pencil against paper—scratching, tapping, dragging—itched at Malphas' nerves. 

Still, he ignored it. 

"Alright, Malphas Darkwood," Barnaby spoke up, motioning toward him. "I'll need you to remove your shirt. Your upper half must be exposed for the examination." 

"Right," Malphas replied casually, reaching for the hem of his shirt. 'Funny enough, this isn't the first time someone's told me to strip,' he mused dryly. 

As he pulled off the garment, Barnaby gestured for him to hang it on a protruding hook attached to the wall. 

Then, without delay, the student retrieved several small pads—each with a glossy black surface on one side. 

"Alright, Malphas," Barnaby continued, stepping forward, "lift your arms straight out so we can begin."