The Cursed Extra

Chapter 179: [3.52] The Only Story That Makes Sense

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Seraphina stood motionless in the tunnel’s center, her grey eyes tracking the dissipating wisps of alchemical fog. Her [Vital Sight] still screamed warnings at her—phantom echoes of the overwhelming power signature that had just vanished. The ability felt raw, overloaded, like staring directly into the sun and then trying to read by candlelight. freewёbnoνel.com

Marcus pressed himself against the tunnel wall, his tactical manual forgotten at his feet among the stone debris. His breathing came in short, sharp gasps that echoed off the carved walls. "That... that was..."

"Gone." Thomlin’s sword drooped in his grip, the blade’s tip scraping against the floor. His knuckles had gone white around the hilt, and a muscle in his jaw twitched repeatedly. "Just... gone."

Seraphina’s analytical mind catalogued their reactions even as her healer’s instincts took control. Marcus exhibited classic shock symptoms—elevated heart rate, shallow breathing, dilated pupils. Thomlin showed the rigid posture of someone fighting panic, his body locked in a defensive stance despite the absence of immediate threat.

But her [Vital Sight] wasn’t focused on them anymore. It pulled her attention to the three figures scattered across the blood-soaked tunnel floor.

Rhys lay crumpled against the far wall, his dark hair matted with sweat and grime. Even from this distance, Seraphina could see the damage—torn muscle fibers in his shoulder, at least two cracked ribs, and something wrong with the way his left arm hung. His vital signs flickered weakly but steadily, the rhythm of someone clinging to consciousness through sheer stubborn will.

"Help me." The words left her mouth before conscious thought formed them. She moved toward Rhys, her healer’s satchel already in her hands. "Marcus, bring your light closer. Thomlin, check the others."

Marcus stumbled forward, his mage-light wavering like a candle in a storm. "Should we... shouldn’t we follow that thing? Report to the professors? I mean, the theoretical implications alone—"

"Later." Seraphina knelt beside Rhys, her fingers already probing for the extent of his injuries. Through [Vital Sight], his body revealed its secrets—muscle tears that spoke of desperate combat, bone fractures from impacts that should have killed him, and an exhaustion so complete it bordered on mana depletion. "Right now, he’s bleeding internally."

Her hands moved, checking pulse points and assessing damage. The shoulder wound was the worst—deep punctures that had barely missed the major arteries. She could see where claws had raked across muscle and sinew, leaving ragged tears that would need careful stitching.

"Seraphina." Thomlin’s voice carried a hollow quality that made her look up from her work. He stood over a pile of stone and debris, his face pale in the mage-light’s glow. "I found... I think this is Jorik."

She didn’t need [Vital Sight] to confirm what Thomlin had discovered. The absence of any life signs from beneath the rubble told its own story. Jorik Ironwill, who’d boasted about his strength just hours ago, reduced to silence under tons of collapsed stone.

"And Petra?"

"Here." Thomlin’s voice cracked slightly. "She’s... she’s not responding."

Seraphina glanced toward where Petra sat hunched against the tunnel wall, her arms wrapped around her knees. The girl’s vital signs showed the chaotic patterns of severe trauma—heart rate spiking and dropping unpredictably, breathing shallow and irregular. Her eyes stared at nothing, reflecting the mage-light like glass.

"Catatonic shock." Seraphina’s clinical assessment came automatically. "She’ll need specialized treatment."

She returned her attention to Rhys, pulling out her healing supplies. As her fingers worked to clean and assess his wounds, her mind began assembling the pieces of what had happened here.

The tunnel told a story written in blood and violence. Eight goblin corpses lay scattered across the stone floor, their crude weapons broken or abandoned. Two massive hobgoblins sprawled in unnatural positions, their bodies bearing the wounds of someone who understood anatomy. And at the center of it all, the shaman’s corpse—throat opened with a single, clean cut that had severed the carotid artery with surgical accuracy.

But the patterns didn’t match.

Seraphina’s analytical mind catalogued the contradictions as she worked. Rhys’s injuries spoke of desperate, brutal combat—the kind of wounds you got when fighting for your life against overwhelming odds. Claw marks, impact trauma, the telltale signs of someone who’d been outmatched and barely survived.

The goblins, however, told a different story. Their wounds were tactical. Someone had known exactly where to strike for maximum effect. The hobgoblins’ injuries suggested combat expertise that went far beyond first-year academy training.

And the shaman... that kill was professional. Clean. Final.

Two different battles had happened in this tunnel. Two different fighters.

"His vitals are stabilizing." She spoke more to herself than to Marcus and Thomlin, but they hung on every word. "The shoulder needs stitching, but the internal bleeding has stopped."

As she threaded her needle, her mind drifted back to the goblin fight earlier. She’d used [Vital Sight] to monitor the team’s stress responses during combat. Marcus had shown typical fear patterns—elevated heart rate, adrenaline spikes. Thomlin had displayed controlled aggression, his body responding to training.

But Kaelen... Kaelen’s vitals had remained eerily calm throughout the entire encounter. No stress responses. No fear patterns. Just a brief spike of concentration right before he’d "accidentally" caused the rockfall that saved them.

She’d thought it was an anomaly at the time. Now, staring at the shaman’s precisely severed throat, she began to understand what she’d really witnessed.

"We need to get out of here." Marcus’s voice pulled her from her analysis. He’d picked up his tactical manual, clutching it like a security blanket. "We need to report this. The professors have to know about... about whatever that thing was."

"What thing?" Seraphina’s voice carried a coldness that made both boys freeze. She looked up from her work, her grey eyes reflecting the mage-light in ways that reminded them uncomfortably of recent events. "What exactly would you report, Marcus?"

"The... the Phantom! That creature! It spoke about impossible things, knew details that shouldn’t exist!" Marcus’s words tumbled over each other in his eagerness to make sense of what they’d witnessed. "The power signature alone defies every theoretical framework we’ve studied!"

"A ghost story." Seraphina’s needle moved through Rhys’s torn flesh with mechanical precision. "That’s what you’re describing. A figure that appeared from smoke and vanished the same way. No physical evidence. No witnesses except three traumatized first-years who’ve just survived a goblin attack."

Thomlin shifted uncomfortably, his sword still drawn despite the absence of threats. "But we all saw—"

"We saw a tunnel collapse that separated us from our teammate." Seraphina’s interruption cut through his protest like her needle through skin. "We found Rhys here, badly injured after fighting goblins and that shaman. Jorik died in the collapse. Petra is in shock from the trauma."

She finished the last stitch and began wrapping Rhys’s shoulder with clean bandages. Her movements remained steady, clinical, but her voice carried an undertone that made both boys step back.

"That is the only story that exists. That is the only story that makes sense. That is the only story anyone will believe."

Marcus opened his mouth to protest, but the look in Seraphina’s eyes stopped him cold. There was something predatory in that grey gaze, something that evaluated and calculated and found him wanting.

"Do you understand?" Each word dropped into the silence like stones into deep water.

Marcus nodded jerkily, his tactical manual forgotten once again. Thomlin’s sword finally lowered, though his grip remained white-knuckled around the hilt.

"Good." Seraphina returned her attention to Rhys, checking his pulse and breathing. "Help me get him stable for transport. We need to reach the extraction point."

As the two boys fumbled to assist her, Seraphina’s mind continued its relentless analysis. She wasn’t protecting Kaelen—she barely knew him beyond their shared classes and team assignment. She was protecting the mystery itself.

Whatever Kaelen Leone truly was, whatever power he possessed, it was an anomaly that demanded study. If the professors got involved now, if the academy’s full attention focused on tonight’s events, the truth would disappear under layers of official investigation and institutional politics.

But if she controlled the narrative, if she managed the flow of information...

Seraphina looked down at Rhys’s unconscious form, noting the way his breathing had steadied under her care. He would live. Petra would recover, given time and proper treatment. Jorik was beyond help, but his death could be explained by the tunnel collapse.

The Phantom, however... the Phantom was hers to unravel.