PREMONITION OF MAGIC

CHAPTER 13

Ethan closed the yellow folder containing Dr. Elliot's text. It was three in the morning. He'd deliberately stretched out the reading, savoring every page, though he could've finished it in a couple of days. Dr. Elliot's skill was remarkable—not only had he dissected the intricacies of the "Nasuverse," but he'd also woven in details from Ethan's own life. Now it clicked why Elliot had pestered him with so many questions. Those moments Ethan had shared in the Kendo hall—like executing a somersault with a run-up, a pirouette, and a final flip—were all there in the text. Elliot had cheered him on, along with the other kids. The kids. His ties with them had faded to a cool indifference—not quite a boycott, but close. If he approached them, they'd probably be polite, but that was the extent of it.

A new supervisor had replaced Elliot: Dr. Monge, a balding old man with glasses, hailing from somewhere down South. Naturally, he didn't bother with fencing or magic lessons. Monge stuck to private chats or group sessions, depending on his mood—both dull and uninspired. Ethan responded to him mechanically, and Monge didn't seem to mind. He was just clocking in, which felt strange. Old folks usually relish talking to younger people; the older they get, the more they crave it. Dr. Monge defied that stereotype. Ethan pictured him as an outdated computer that had barely passed the Turing test—think perforated punch cards, no spark, no creativity, just a flat imitation of small talk. That was the sum of Monge's sessions.

The other patients in the suicidal wing seemed to agree. Ethan often caught Kirito leaving Monge's office with a look of quiet suffering. After tossing and turning for another half-hour, Ethan gave up on sleep and headed to the bathroom. The corridor stretched out empty, its dim lights casting an unpleasant glow. Since Elliot left, the place had taken on a hospital vibe—and Ethan despised hospitals. Who doesn't? That sterile, communal atmosphere—no warmth, no comfort. And the smell—that sharp, unmistakable hospital scent. Even without the chaos of a trauma ward, the hallway felt oppressively clinical.

Back at his room, Ethan froze. Kirito was leaning against the wall by his door, looking oddly at ease. He was decked out in Kendo gear, twirling a shinai—a wooden training sword. Ethan nearly demanded what he was doing there at this hour but held back.

"Surprised?" Kirito asked, spinning the shinai with a grin.

"What are you doing here?" Ethan replied.

"Couldn't sleep. Neither could you. Want a sparring match?"

Ethan almost snapped a refusal, but something in Kirito's tone made him pause. This wasn't just a random late-night challenge.

"What about the orderly? He'll hear us."

"He won't. The Kendo room's soundproof. They used to stash violent patients there—padded walls, rubber-lined door frames. That's why Elliot turned it into a practice space. You can swing away without bothering anyone."

"Okay," Ethan said with a nod. "Give me a sec to change. I'll meet you there."

In the Kendo room, Kirito threw Ethan a curveball he hadn't seen coming. "Want to make a deal?" Kirito asked as they squared off in full armor. His voice echoed, muffled and strange, through the helmet.

"What kind of deal?"

"If I win, you let me read the orange folder. If you win, I'll answer all your questions."

Ethan smirked. Sneaky.

"You've got a year of training here, and I've barely got a month. That's your idea of fair? How about we box instead?"

"Boxing's for peasants," Kirito shot back, his tone playful. "A noble knight doesn't brawl like some tavern thug."

Ethan grinned. He's really was into this knight stuff.

"Fine. Deal."

Kirito fought fair. Ethan lost, though it was tight—he'd almost pulled it off. Kirito had skill and a burning passion for the blade, but Ethan had something too: a buried instinct that flared with every move. Another month of practice, and he'd have won. Still, a year's edge tipped the scales. Kirito yanked off his helmet and slumped against the wall, catching his breath.

"Man, you're unreal," he panted. "What kind of beginner are you?"

"Still lost," Ethan said, peeling off his own sweaty helmet.

They sat quietly for a moment before Ethan got up. "Alright, come on. I'll give you the folder. Just bring it back tomorrow."

But Kirito waved him off. "Hold up. I'll still answer your questions. It wasn't a fair bet."

Ethan shook his head. "A deal's a deal. Forget it. I've already got a solid guess about what you're all up to."

Kirito's eyes lit up. "Oh? Lay it out for me."

Ethan tapped into his sharpest instincts. "Think about it—what's it mean to land in another world? You'd be nobodies—weaklings surrounded by elves or orcs. No one's rolling out the red carpet for you. No heroics, just shame or death. And you only get one wish! You can't all turn into epic warriors or mages. So, someone's got to bend the rules or give up their wish for the group. Strength's in numbers. A collective wish—even the CONTROLLER can't brush that off. René's the key—he'll carve the way. Then you all use your wishes to boost your skills."

Kirito's grip tightened on his tare, the thick felt armor guarding his hips. "You eavesdropped on us?!"

Ethan stared him down. "Let go. I don't snoop. I'm not desperate enough to spy on a bunch of lunatics."

Kirito loosened his hold. "Man, you've got a mind on you. Almost like Doc."

"You reading the folder or not?" Ethan asked, brushing off the compliment.

"Yeah, I will," Kirito said.

Ethan stood. "Let's go. Thanks to you, I might actually sleep tonight."

"We could do this again tomorrow," Kirito offered, perking up. He seemed eager for more—maybe to talk, maybe to get an outsider's take.

"Nah. I'm out of folders—no yellow, no green. What'd I trade you next time?"

Kirito shrugged. "Just for kicks. Plus, I could fill you in on our plan about "Star Bridge"…"