【Interstellar Contract Magician】Ruyuanke

Although I spoke very firmly, as if I had already figured out what to do next,

But in reality—I know I can't do anything.

I can't use another lie to suppress Ye Lin. That man's eyes are too cold and sharp; he'll see right through me the moment I open my mouth. He's not the kind of officer who can be fooled by sweet talk, much less someone who would be deceived.

Besides, I'm in such a state that I can't even convince myself, so how could I possibly convince him?

I can't use any more lies to cover up the "abnormal gender detection" triggered in the military academy system. Even the slightest deviation in the military database will set off alarms across the board. And now, I've already stepped into a minefield.

I cannot change the system, I cannot stop data uploads, I cannot control whether the higher-ups will hold a meeting to discuss my identity, and I have no control over what will happen next.

—Review

Accountability

--isolation

—Re-evaluation

This is a process that I have absolutely no ability to intervene in.

There's only one thing I can do: pretend.

Pretend nothing happened. Pretend there wasn't that stack of reports. Pretend Ye Lin's anger, questioning, and relentless interrogation weren't there. Pretend I'm just an ordinary new male military academy cadet, pretend I belong to this team, this battlefield, and this place, just like everyone else.

Pretending my gender is not a problem. It's not a hidden danger. It's not a trigger that could shake up the entire system.

I must force myself to remain calm, force myself to stand firm, and force myself back to that position—"a new male military cadet capable of handling any role."

Even if I am not.

Even if my true identity is revealed, it means countless conflicts and loopholes in the rules, as well as thorny issues that will give everyone a headache.

As I walked down the corridor from the medical ward, every step felt like walking on thin ice.

I had to appear natural, nonchalant, and calm, even though my heart was still pounding because of the report.

I must make everyone who sees me believe:

I am still "the same me." Still a military academy student. Still a combatant. Still don't need special treatment. Still can continue to fight.

Even though my physical abilities, my physical structure, and my psychic responses are not what a new man should be like.

This is the only way I can lie. I lie to everyone. And most of all, I lie to myself.

Because I have no other way to go now.

I suppressed the surging exhaustion in my heart, straightened my back, and made myself look like a qualified Imperial reserve soldier who had just recovered from injuries.

But the deepest voice in my heart still whispers: "You're not. You're just pretending."

I took a deep breath and kept walking.

We must continue. At least...

We need to hold out until the next official document is issued.

But when I finally mustered up the courage and gritted my teeth to return to the unit "like a normal military academy student," I soon discovered that I had no idea where I was.

Outside the room's window was an unfamiliar architectural layout, unlike a military academy or a temporary camp.

There were no shouts of drill training, no wind whistling across the parade ground, and none of the bustling noise and chaos one would expect from a field hospital.

The corridor was so clean it didn't look like the rear of a real battlefield. The light was soft, and the smell was a faint, almost undetectable mixture of disinfectant and grass—the herbal medicine smell unique to the Healing Department.

I stood by the door frame, feeling increasingly uneasy.

I don't know where they are. I don't know where the troops are. I don't even know how far this place is from the front lines.

I don't know if I'm being watched or "under house arrest".

Because there are no iron gates, no restraints, and no threats—

There was only one gentle obstacle: "You'd better not leave."

That kind of gentleness is harder to refuse than rudeness.

Several medical staff members were startled when they saw me get out of bed. They weren't being aggressive; rather, they were genuinely worried.

"You can't wander around."

Your wound hasn't healed yet.

"It's too dangerous to go downstairs now."

"If there's anything you need, we'll help you with it."

Each and every one of them was heartbreakingly kind. There was no coercion, no scolding, only patient persuasion and a sincere desire to protect.

But these words—like a soft, yielding net—trapped me in place.

I asked, "Where are the frontline troops now?"

They looked at each other, as if they were worried about something, or as if they were avoiding the question.

"Your most important task right now is to recover."

"Other things will have to wait until you're more settled."

"Don't worry, someone will come to let you know."

I understand. This means they haven't given me the answer. Or... they can't give me the answer.

I continued walking deeper into the corridor, my footsteps so light they were almost inaudible. My heart, however, sank lower and lower.

I tried asking again, "Where is Ye Lin? Your... General Ye, where is he?"

My answer was neither hesitation nor perfunctory.

But -

blank.

Has he left the front lines?

"Is he injured?"

Has he been here before?

The medical staff exchanged glances, as if they were all stumped by the question.

In the end, Cynthia gently shook her head:

"I don't know. We really don't know."

Her eyes were honest when she said that, and she didn't seem to be lying. But it felt like something was tightly squeezing my heart.

—He really didn't come.

—I never saw him again.

There wasn't even a single word from them.

I suddenly realized a fact:

I've disappeared from their ranks. Vanished without a trace. Like someone salvaged from the battlefield and placed in another world.

There were no messages, no orders, no accountability, and no notifications.

Ye Lin is not there.

The whole world was eerily quiet.

I held onto the cold corridor handrail, my breath as light as the wind, slowly being eroded by a sense of emptiness.

I don't know which unit I've been assigned to. I don't know if I've been placed in "protective custody." I don't know if I've become a "special individual" requiring further observation.

The worst part is—I don't know where to go, or if I can ever go back.

That unease rose little by little from the depths of my heart, like a cold mist, slowly enveloping me.