Chapter 27: A sibling Visit

"Edward…"

A soft, familiar voice reached my ears—gentle, but carrying a current of unmistakable worry.

I squinted slightly, adjusting to the bright hospital lights as I turned my head. And then, I saw her.

Long, cascading coffee-brown hair—the exact shade as mine. A beautiful, composed face framed by strands hastily tucked behind her ears. And those caramel-colored eyes… They shimmered with unshed tears. A fragile mixture of concern… and something deeper. Grief, maybe. Or guilt. More likely guilt.

Emilia Brightwill.

My half-sister.

Someone both painstakingly, painfully close… and yet, quietly, irrevocably distant.

"Hello, dear sister," I said with a faint, almost practiced smile.

Without warning, she rushed forward, her arms enveloping me in a tight, desperate hug.

"Arree… That I didn't expect," I muttered, blinking into the sudden warmth of her embrace.

"You're awake now—you have no idea how worried I was!" she said, her voice trembling, holding onto me like I might truly disappear again. "You were unconscious the whole day."

"Well," I said with a lopsided grin, trying to lighten the moment, "I must say, it's an honor to be worried over by the esteemed eldest daughter of the Brightwill household."

She pulled back abruptly—and then, with a sharp tug, pinched both my cheeks.

"Ow—okay, okay!" I protested, rubbing my face.

"What's with that cheeky attitude?" she scolded, narrowing her eyes, though a hint of relief softened her features. "And why are you talking like I'm some kind of royalty?"

"Aren't you, though?" I countered, raising an eyebrow playfully.

She sighed, a weary breath. "Then that would make you royalty too, Edward. You're part of the house as much as I am."

I didn't respond. Just let the faint smile linger on my lips, a noncommittal gesture.

Then she paused. Her expression shifted, the softness fading into something serious, almost pained.

"Say, Edward… Why did you do that?"

Her voice was quieter now, serious. One of her hands reached up, gently resting against my cheek, her caramel eyes locking onto mine, searching.

"Do what?" I asked, feigning ignorance, though I knew exactly what she meant.

"You know what I mean. Why did you fight like that—so recklessly, so violently? You got yourself hurt. That wasn't like you. What were you thinking?".

I tilted my head, staring at the ceiling for a moment, the smooth white surface offering no easy answers.

"I don't know," I said flatly, the lie slipping out easily. "It just… felt right. So I did."

Her brows furrowed, her face darkening with concern and disbelief. "You're seriously saying that?"

What could I say?

A mysterious figure crawled out of my mirror in the middle of the night, whispered something cryptic, gave me a power-up, and told me to make tomorrow's duel brutal. And, like a good little puppet, I listened.

...Obviously, I didn't say that out loud.

"Hmmm… how about we change the topic?" I offered, forcing a light, dismissive tone.

She didn't push. The tension in her shoulders eased slightly. "Okay, but on one condition—you promise you'll never do something that reckless again."

"Yay, I swear in the name of my father," I said with an overly dramatic grin, a cynical edge to my voice.

"Really?" she said flatly, her skepticism clear. "You expect me to believe you'd invoke Father's name for anything?"

Heh. Fair point.

Even Emilia knew better than to take that seriously. She looked at me, clearly not buying it, and honestly… could I blame her? It wasn't exactly a name I used for anything. Not out of reverence. Not out of respect.

Just… apathy. Indifference. A void where something should've been.

"Anyway," I pivoted, not missing a beat, steering the conversation away from dangerous territory, "how have you been?"

"Busy, to be exact. There's been an increase in workload for second-years… It's been a hectic week. But we got a break — today and tomorrow are off."

I gave a small nod. "Sounds rough."

"And you?" she asked, her gaze still lingering, trying to read me.

"Nothing worth mentioning. Just the usual."

Which wasn't entirely a lie. Just... carefully edited.

"So you're basically free, right?" she asked, a tentative hope in her voice.

That raised a flag. An immediate, subtle alarm.

"…Why do you ask?"

She hesitated, just for a moment, her gaze darting away. I could tell she'd been rehearsing whatever came next, steeling herself.

"Listen, Edward. I'm only saying this because I care about you," she began, the familiar preamble tightening my chest. "How about… you come back to the house?"

Ah. Here it comes. The inevitable invitation, the recurring plea.

"Emilia, look—"

"Please, Edward," she cut in before I could finish, her voice fragile now. "You've been away long enough. Why won't you come back? Or…" Her voice dropped further, softer, laced with a plea. "Do you hate me that much?"

And there it was—the twist of the knife. Straight into the tender spot...

I looked at her. Caramel eyes, just a little too glassy, holding back more than she wanted me to see. She always did that—pretended to ask a question when what she really wanted was an answer she could live with. An answer that absolved her.

"I never hated you, Emilia," I said quietly, the words feeling heavy on my tongue.

"But the thing you're asking for… it's not something I can give."

"Why?" she whispered, barely audible, her voice breaking.

I didn't look at her, my gaze fixed on a distant point on the wall. "You already know the answer. And hearing it again won't change anything, will it?"

Silence.

It stretched between us, heavy, unspoken, bitter. A wall built of history and unspoken truths.

She had no more words to throw at me. Or maybe she had plenty—but all of them had vanished somewhere between her heart and her throat, caught in the raw emotion.

"...Well." I broke the silence, the clinical quiet of the hospital room feeling too vast. "I think it's time for you to go. They're probably waiting back at the house."

She didn't respond right away. Just stood there, still, a statue carved from quiet despair.

Then, a small, almost imperceptible nod.

No protests. No begging. No last, desperate attempt to reach me.

She left—slowly, quietly—her footsteps soft against the infirmary floor, fading with each step. At the door, she paused and looked back one final time.

Not with anger. Not even disappointment.

Just a quiet kind of grief. A profound sadness.

"Take care," she said, her voice a thin thread in the silence.

And then she was gone.

The air felt lighter, the silence of the infirmary suddenly a welcome reprieve. The weight of her expectations, lifted with her absence.As I watched her figure fade down the hallway, the faint, practiced smile on my lips disappeared, replaced by the usual indifferent mask.

Hah… It's really exhausting—dealing with this kind of thing first thing in the morning. Pretending to be someone I'm not, managing emotions I barely understand.

With a quiet sigh, I pushed myself fully up from the bed.

My hands moved on their own, a curious instinct guiding them as I began unwrapping the bandages wrapped tightly around my torso, my arms, my ribs—layer after layer falling away, soft and crumpled, gathering at my feet.

And beneath them... smooth skin. No bruises. No scars. Not even the faintest scratch remained.

Just clear, unblemished flesh.

"So that's the gift he was talking about," I muttered under my breath, recalling the cryptic words of that mirror-born figure.

I opened the status screen again—not to admire the numbers, but to confirm something specific, to understand the miracle beneath my skin.

[Innate Trait: Quick Recovery]

> A rare regenerative trait capable of healing deep wounds, fractures, or critical injuries as long as the host receives sufficient rest. The recovery rate is not instantaneous—it scales with the severity of damage and the rest received.

>

> Caution: This trait does not apply to poisoned or infected wounds. Proper treatment is required in such cases, or the condition may become fatal over time.

>

I closed the trait description and shifted to the next entry, eager to understand the scope of what had been granted to me.

[Skill: Observation Eye — Tier 2]

> Forged for battle, this unique ocular skill perceives movements, patterns, and combat cues beyond the normal range of human sight. Capable of predicting enemy momentum, detecting minute shifts, and identifying physical or magical limits with increasing precision over time.

>

I studied the details with a mild, almost academic interest, my gaze tracing the flickering text. The Quick Recovery trait explained my alarming recovery well enough—and of course, it came with a caution.

I definitely read the caution. Every word. Not like I'm planning to get bitten by some cursed beast and then just snooze it off, hoping my body does its magic while I dream of sunshine and safety.

Right. Totally foolproof.

#blessed #QuickRecoverySupremacy #kissGoodnightAndHeal

...Alright, enough of that. My inner monologue was getting insufferable, even to me.

My gaze shifted to the skill section. Observation Eye. The words alone stirred something—an echo of heat behind my eyes, a subtle pulse I remembered during my fight with Leon. That quiet warmth... like my sight had peeled back a layer of the world, revealing its hidden mechanics.

"So that was the other gift," I murmured, my voice low, a hint of genuine fascination breaking through my usual apathy.

Not bad. Not bad at all.

So…

Will I be getting more of these so-called gifts if I keep poking the protagonist?

If I keep playing along with whatever grand twisted play is unfolding around me—

Do I just keep leveling up for surviving the next act?

Tch.

Doesn't sound like a bad deal on paper.

Just have to bleed a little, break a little, maybe die a little inside... and voilà—new powers. A neat, transactional exchange.

Sounds easy enough, right? A simple cost-benefit analysis.

But playing the role of a side villain?...

Yeah… not really my style. I had higher aspirations, even for a made-up role in a story I hadn't chosen.

I mean, look at me.

Where else do you find a young noble—cool, composed, terrifyingly good-looking, if I do say so myself—getting handed the background mob antagonist gig? It felt like a cosmic insult.

At least make me a major villain.

You know, the kind who haunts the protagonist's dreams, burns down a village or two, delivers poetic monologues while sipping red wine, and dies in some glorious, tragic duel.

But no.

That kind of role's already taken.Probably by some perpetually brooding anti-hero with a tragic backstory and a perfect jawline.

Newcomers like me?

We don't get to pick our parts.

Unless you're some nepokid—born into the script with connections and screen time, guaranteed a spotlight—you just grab what's left after the plot vultures finish their feast, after the main characters have taken all the prime real estate.

Scraps.

That's what I got.

The elegant leftovers of someone else's story, a supporting role in a play I hadn't auditioned for.

Well, enough of that. Moping about my existential casting crisis wouldn't solve anything.

After dismissing the status screen with a dismissive wave of my hand, I made my way toward the door. Each step felt light, almost weightless, a testament to my newfound recovery.

Yes, I was leaving the patient ward. No discharge papers. No formal goodbyes.

Why?

Simple. I'm already fine. Physically, at least.

So what's the point of being a patient if there's nothing to be patient for? Why linger in a place of sickness when I was inexplicably, unsettlingly well?

Exactly. The logic was irrefutable.

That's why I'm moving.

The hospital hallway was quiet in the early morning — too quiet, really, for such a bustling institution. Only a few cleaners shuffled about, dragging mops across spotless white tiles, their movements slow and heavy with the dawn. The air smelled of disinfectant and faint, stale coffee.

I approached one on my way out, my footsteps surprisingly light, echoing softly in the sterile corridor.

"Hey," I said casually, my voice cutting through the quiet hum of the building. "What time is it?"

He looked up from his mop, blinking slowly like his soul was still in bed, dragged reluctantly into the day. His eyes were bleary, unfocused.

"Uh… it's 7:20," he mumbled, surprised by the interruption.

"7:20, huh? Cool." I nodded, as if this information was of critical importance. "Keep doing your thing—you're doing good." My tone was genuinely appreciative, in a detached way.

Then, as I passed him, I added, "Oh, and take a look at the third ward to the left. You'll find some used bandages on the floor. Some genius decided to leave their biohazard trash like it's a picnic spot." A smile touched my lips. That genius, of course, was me.

His face tightened with that universal look of 'Why me?'.

Not my problem though.

I kept walking.