Vellora's voice carried through the heavy door—muffled, urgent.

  Notch's blood chilled.

  He turned swiftly. Through the narrowing gap, he caught the last glimpse of Vellora closing the door behind her, auburn hair disappearing into the hospital ward.

  Was she talking about... me?

  His heart hammered against his ribs. The fractured core had just been healed, but now a different kind of pain bloomed—pure, visceral panic.

  "This is bad. Real bad." The words came out barely audible as he clutched at his shirt.

  She'd seen something. Despite the healing, despite the reassurances, she'd noticed an abnormality of sorts. Some kind of restriction.

  Notch looked out the large window dominating the corridor, seeking distraction, seeking escape routes, seeking anything to calm the spiraling thoughts.

  In the distance, silhouetted against the setting sun, Lord Roger was returning. His distinctive blonde hair caught the orange light as he rode back toward the estate, probably finished with imprisoning the remaining bandit and messaging the knights at the capital.

  Notch sluggishly walked back toward the room Svenn had pointed to earlier. His legs felt heavy, each step requiring conscious effort. Exhaustion was finally catching up—physical, emotional, magical. Everything hurt in ways that healing spells couldn't touch.

  "Hey, Notch!"

  Crystal's voice cut through the fog. She ran toward him, light footsteps on stone floor, and wrapped her arms around him in a delicate squeeze—careful not to hurt him or crush Sly, who was still coiled around his shoulders in exhausted sleep.

  "How are you doing now?" She released her grip, stepping back to study his face with genuine concern.

  "Yup! I'm all better now." Notch forced a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "All thanks to one of those pretty healers."

  Crystal pet the sleeping Sly gently, scales smooth under her fingers, then helped guide Notch toward the dormitory entrance. The common room beyond was spacious—multiple rows of beds, simple but clean, with personal storage chests at each footboard. Most were already claimed, children settling in with the few possessions they'd brought.

  The last bed available was tucked in the corner near another window. Private, at least. Away from the main traffic.

  Crystal helped him sit, then settled on the edge of the mattress beside him, hands folded in her lap.

  "So, Notch." She spoke quietly, almost to herself, but his enhanced hearing caught every syllable clearly. "Why don't you tell me about yourself?"

  "Oh?" Notch laughed nervously, the sound strained. "Sure. What do you want to know?"

  Crystal's face lit up with sudden emotion—surprise and delight that he'd actually agreed. "Really?" She practically cheered, then immediately lowered her voice, embarrassed by her outburst. "Why don't you tell me what you do for fun?"

  Notch tilted his head, reaching for memories that felt increasingly... fuzzy. The original Notch's experiences were there, but they seemed to be fading, making room for Viktor's dominant consciousness. Or maybe trauma was just doing what trauma did—erasing the mundane details while amplifying the important moments.

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  "Games! I love to play them."

  It was true for both lives. Viktor's hundred thousand hours in Urylia. The original Notch's childish fantasies of adventure.

  "Oh? What kind of games?" Crystal replied instantly, leaning forward with interest.

  "Action!" The word burst out before Notch could think it through.

  Immediately, he realized the problem. There weren't a lot of action games one could play in a medieval fantasy setting. No controllers, no screens, no digital anything. Just physical games—tag, wrestling, stick-fighting.

  Crystal opened her mouth to respond, but was cut off.

  "Why don't you play with us then?"

  A voice came from behind them, confident and slightly mocking.

  Notch and Crystal both turned at the intrusion.

  Behind them stood a boy from what the original Notch's memories identified as "the bullies group"—kids who'd made his life miserable with casual cruelty disguised as play. This particular boy was surprisingly well-built for someone who hadn't done much farm work yet, muscles already developing despite being around Notch's age.

  The original Notch really was a lazy ass, Viktor's consciousness observed clinically.

  "What do you say?" The boy grinned like he was offering a deal nobody could refuse. "Wanna join us?"

  "Sorry, I don't really want to." Notch kept his voice as polite as he could manage, trying to defuse before things escalated.

  The boy seemed genuinely shocked, like rejection was a completely foreign concept.

  "Maybe you don't know who I am." He puffed his chest out slightly. "The name's Rennik. And I'm probably the coolest kid you'll ever meet."

  Notch inhaled sharply, fighting down laughter at the absurdly corny statement. Viktor had worked with grown men who talked with more self-awareness than this twelve-year-old peacocking in a dormitory.

  "Well, I don't know who you are, and I really don't care." The words came out harsher than intended, Viktor's adult irritation bleeding through Notch's child filter. "I don't want to play with you. So please leave."

  Rennik's expression darkened immediately. Shock gave way to anger, the kind of wounded pride that made teenage boys do stupid things.

  Then he noticed Sly.

  "Is that a snake?" His hand shot out, reaching for the serpent coiled around Notch's shoulders—whether from genuine curiosity or deliberate provocation, it didn't matter.

  Notch was faster.

  His hand snapped up mid-swipe, catching Rennik's wrist in an iron grip. Viktor's factory-trained reflexes operating through a twelve-year-old body, perception allowing him to track the movement before it completed.

  He squeezed. Hard.

  "Ahh! Let go of me!" Rennik cried out, genuine pain cutting through his bravado.

  His friends—three other boys who'd been hanging back—moved to help, but Rennik signaled them to stop with his free hand. Pride wouldn't let him be rescued.

  Instead, he formed a fist with that free hand and threw a wild punch at Notch's stomach.

  It connected.

  It hurt.

  The impact drove air from Notch's lungs, sent pain radiating through his recently-healed core area. Not serious damage, but enough to trigger something primal in Viktor's consciousness.

  Fury.

  Notch gently lifted Sly from his shoulders and placed her on Crystal's lap—the serpent stirred but didn't wake, too exhausted to care.

  Then he stood and walked directly at Rennik.

  The other boy backpedaled instinctively, but not fast enough.

  Notch threw a jab. Clean. Precise. Viktor had been in enough factory-floor fights to know the basics—how to throw your weight, where to aim, how to follow through.

  The punch caught Rennik square on the jaw. A wet crack, and the metallic taste of blood filled the air.

  He stumbled backward, shocked, hand going to his face. Blood trickled from his split lip.

  But it wasn't over.

  The fight shifted naturally to the conveniently large center of the room as other children scrambled out of the way, creating an impromptu arena. Some looked scared. Others excited. Crystal called out for them to stop, but her voice was drowned in the sudden chaos.

  Rennik threw his own jabs in quick succession—right, left, left, right. Wild swings powered more by anger than technique.

  Viktor had experience. Notch had perception greater than any normal human.

  The combination was devastating.

  Notch slipped the first punch, ducked the second, caught the rhythm. Then he threw a straight punch directly at Rennik's face.

  Connect.

  Blood sprayed from Rennik's nose. The boy's head snapped back.

  Another punch. Same target.

  Connect.

  Rennik's legs gave out. He dropped to the stone floor, dazed, hands coming up too late to defend.

  Notch mounted him immediately—pure instinct, the kind of ground-fighting that came from desperate brawls where losing meant getting stomped—and drew his fist back for another round.

  "Okay, okay! That's enough of that, no?"

  Lord Roger's voice cut through the chaos like a knife through butter.

  Everything stopped.

  The shouting children fell silent. Notch's raised fist froze mid-swing. Even Rennik's whimpering ceased as everyone turned toward the doorway.

  Lord Roger stood there, dressed casually now—simple linen shirt and dark trousers, the kind of practical clothing that still managed to look expensive through cut and quality alone. His blonde hair was slightly disheveled from travel. He surveyed the scene—two children on the ground, one mounted over the other with blood on both their faces, a crowd of witnesses, Crystal holding a snake and looking distressed.

  Then he smiled.

  That same grin he'd worn when he saw what Notch had done to the bandit earlier. Not disapproval. Not anger.

  Interest.

  And he had that sleeper build kind of physique, Notch noticed—the kind where someone looked deceptively lean in clothes but was clearly dangerous once you saw them move. Roger carried himself with the easy confidence of someone who knew exactly how much damage those unassuming arms could deliver.

  Notch's stomach dropped.

  I'm screwed, he thought.

  Roger stepped fully into the room, hands clasped behind his back, still smiling that unsettling smile that suggested he'd just discovered something fascinating.

  "Well, well," he said softly, voice carrying to every corner despite its quietness. "Looks like the talented monsters can't control themselves."

  His eyes locked on Notch's, and for a moment, the world narrowed to just the two of them—a twelve-year-old child covered in blood, and a young lord who collected dangerous things.

  "I think," Roger continued, "we need to have a very interesting conversation."