【Interstellar Contract Magician】Ruyuanke

The man's eyes were downcast, an expression never seen in any news report. "Sorry I'm late," he said.

I just stared at him silently, unsure how to react. In fact, my body made the choice before my emotions—I didn't back away, nor did I look away; I simply maintained my original posture, as if confirming whether he was truly there.

“I don’t know what Xiao Lin did,” he said, “but that’s not an excuse for me to shirk responsibility.”

The man crouched down, his gaze level with mine. This gesture itself was a concession, a gesture of temporarily relinquishing power. "I'm sorry I'm late."

He said it twice.

The second time was even lighter than the first, as if finally acknowledging that the statement wasn't just a polite gesture, but a fact.

I could feel something slowly tightening inside my chest, but it didn't actually break. It wasn't anger, nor was it resentment; it was more like the hesitation of being forced into a suspended state, only to suddenly find someone standing below, but arriving too late. I didn't know whether I should fall.

"Do you know how long I've been awake?" I finally spoke, my voice more steady than I'd expected. It wasn't an interrogation, just a confirmation.

He didn't shy away from the question. "It's not long," he said, "but it's long enough for you."

This answer left me speechless for a moment. He didn't try to brush me off with units of time, but acknowledged the weight of the feeling itself. For a fleeting moment, I almost wanted to laugh, yet felt the thought itself was too dangerous.

"Where is Ye Lin?" I asked.

He was silent for a second. Just a second, but I caught it. His breathing deepened in that instant, as if adjusting some kind of internal order. "He's been transferred," he said, "after you're out of danger."

I nodded, as if I had expected this answer. There was no anger, no questioning. Because I knew that if things were really that simple, he wouldn't have shown up here in person.

“Where you are now,” he continued, “is not a prison, nor a frontline hospital. You can think of it as… a buffer zone.”

He spoke very cautiously, even deliberately choosing a vague word.

"Where's my personal terminal?" I asked.

“It’s with me.” He didn’t hesitate. “I’ll return it to you once your health returns to a safe level.”

I looked at him and suddenly realized something—he had been answering, but never ordering me to accept. He was explaining, not judging. This sense of proportion made me even more uneasy. Because the real danger is never force, but this seemingly gentle yet calculated approach.

“Aren’t you going to ask me what happened?” I asked.

He shook his head. "I know part of it," he said, "but the more important part is for you to decide whether or not to tell me."

I didn't know how to talk to him, or rather, I couldn't see each other's positions at all. I didn't know if the man standing in front of me was the highest-ranking military commander, or a father who was late in life. Or perhaps, both, just with different weights.

So I chose to remain silent.

He didn't seem to mind my reaction. There was no urging, no probing. He stood up, his movements very quiet, as if afraid of disturbing something still unsettled. The fabric of his uniform rustled softly as he rose, a sound that was unusually clear in the excessively quiet room.

He tucked the blanket around me.

This action was so ordinary, so commonplace, that it almost shouldn't have happened to him. I could smell a faint metallic and cool fragrance emanating from him, the kind of scent that only someone who had long been in command would have—restrained, clean, yet always carrying a sharp undertone.

The moment his fingers left the blankets, the air changed.

It wasn't the wind, nor the temperature fluctuations, but a more direct sense of presence—like a layer of space being gently parted. Rose vines with tiny thorns grew from his palm, their dark stems extending segment by segment, the thorns sharp yet unassuming, as if deliberately tamed. The vines weren't arrogant, but simply unfolded slowly with his movements, carrying an almost reverent sense of order.

I know what that is.

That's his special ability.

In the database of the capital planet, this ability is described as "high-level materialized plant-type, extremely stable, possessing both offensive and healing attributes." Of course, this healing attribute is definitely different from that of a female healer. But the specifics of how it works are certainly not readily available in the database. However, when one actually sees it, all the cold words lose their meaning. It's not a form used for combat, but for another purpose.

The rose took shape in his hands.

The petals are layered upon layered, their color deep, almost dark red, yet they gleam with a soft sheen under the light. Each bloom is perfectly timed, without a single superfluous leaf or stray thorn. The vines fold and gather on their own, eventually transforming into a complete bouquet.

He put the bouquet of roses in the vase by his bedside.

The vase was clearly new; it was thick and sturdy, with a cool color, as if it had been prepared to contain this presence. After the rose left his hand, the vines broke off automatically, the cut clean and without any sign of struggle, as if they had known their fate from the beginning.

A subtle scent has appeared in the air—not strong, but very clear. It's like the smell of plants breathing in the air after the cold soil has been turned over.

I stared at the bouquet of flowers and realized something.

He wasn't trying to comfort me.

He was showing me an attitude—the power of restraint, and the willingness to set aside one's sharp edges. Roses have thorns, yet he folded them into bouquets; dangerous abilities, he used to adorn his bedside.

“The temperature here,” he said in a low voice, “should be just right for you. If you feel uncomfortable, you can just tell me.”

He said "I," not "the medical team."

I have captured this point very clearly.

I didn't answer, but just blinked slowly. My gaze shifted from the vase back to his face. That face, almost identical to Ye Lin's, appeared even more serene in the light and shadow; the marks of time had made his features colder and more composed.

He didn't urge me, nor did he say anything more. He just stood there, as if to confirm that I was still conscious, or as if to give me time to reconsider—whether I wanted to acknowledge his presence in this space.