【Interstellar Contract Magician】Ruyuanke

I don't know what I was thinking; I might have gone a little crazy.

Perhaps it was the lingering echo of the alarm in my mind, or perhaps it was the weightlessness that had been suppressed finally finding an outlet. Almost driven by an obsessive impulse, I groped my way out of bed. My body swayed as my feet touched the cold floor, my knees buckled, the IV tubing tightened, and the IV stand emitted a small but piercing metallic clang.

I reached out and steadied it.

I pushed the IV pole with its wheels at the bottom, making a slight scraping sound in the corridor. The sound seemed particularly jarring at that moment, because the entire medical area had entered a different rhythm—faster, colder, and more tense. People kept running past in the distance, the echoes of tactical boots on the floor dense and short, but no one stopped for me.

They all knew where to go.

But I don't know.

The personal terminal was gone, my access was gone, my location system was gone. I was like a temporarily discarded part, left outside a giant, running machine. No one stopped me; probably no one expected a patient who should have been lying in a hospital bed to be pushing an IV stand around.

Or perhaps, no one really has the energy to care about me right now.

I don't know how long I walked. The corridor turned several corners, and the disinfection lights flashed across my retina again and again, blindingly white. My heartbeat gradually quickened, not because of physical exhaustion, but because of some kind of gradually rising emotional tension that had already taken over my nerve endings before I could even name it.

When I pushed open the door to the doctor's office, the movement wasn't big, but it still made a clear sound.

It's very bright inside.

There was no artificially softened lighting like in a hospital ward; only pure white work lighting illuminated everything clearly. The holographic war zone map on the wall was being updated, with cool-colored markers flowing through the air, representing Zerg activity areas, friendly movement routes, and the medical emergency zones being redrawn.

The military doctor stood in front of the table.

He had his back to the door, his shoulders taut, like a bow stretched to its limit but not yet broken. His hands were resting on the edge of the table, his knuckles white, indicating he had been in this position for some time. The lag from being able to access information only through the office's fixed terminal only amplified his sense of powerlessness.

He seemed to pause for a moment when I came in.

It's not because I heard a sound—it's because the sound shouldn't have been there in the first place.

He turned his head.

His face was ashen.

It wasn't the usual, professional coldness, but a deeper layer of repression and anger, forcibly suppressed beneath his skin, even his breathing carrying a restrained weight. His gaze swept between me and the IV stand, his brow visibly furrowing.

How could you—

He hadn't finished speaking.

Because I laughed.

It wasn't polite, nor was it self-deprecating; it was a laugh that came out of nowhere, with a sharp edge. Like a long-stretched string suddenly released, but instead of returning to its original position, it bounced back into another uncontrollable form.

I could hear it myself; the laughter sounded off.

Too clear, too loud, and too devoid of warmth.

"Are you feeling really bad right now?" I asked, my tone light and almost cheerful. "Standing here, looking at the map, watching the casualty warnings, watching the dispatch orders pop up one after another, but you can't do anything about it."

The medic's pupils visibly contracted.

“You should go back to your ward,” he said in a low voice. “Now is not the time for you to wander around.”

"Running around?" I seemed to have heard something interesting, and my smile deepened. "I just came out to see what kind of expressions you 'critical resources' left in the safe zone have now."

I know those words have started to take a wrong turn.

But I can't stop.

He couldn't control the corners of his mouth.

It's as if something that has been accumulating for a long time has finally found an outlet, even if that outlet is neither correct nor respectable.

"It must be tough not being able to go to the battlefield, right?" I tilted my head and looked at him. "You know everything and can do everything, but you can't go to the front line. You can only stand in the back and wait for the wounded to be brought back, and wait for others to take the shockwaves, severed limbs, corrosive insects, and mental pollution for you."

My voice began to carry a hint of laughter, even a deliberate lightness.

“You’re like a protected species right now,” I continued. “You’re kept in the safest area, untouchable and unmovable, you can only be protected and left behind.”

I accidentally pushed the IV stand, and the roller hit the corner of the table, making a slight but jarring thud.

I didn't pay attention.

“Before the first wave of wounded arrives, you don’t even have the right to be ‘busy’.” I looked into his eyes and said, word by word, “You can only stand here, you don’t even get a chance to take a bow.”

I was laughing at him.

I know this matter better than anyone else.

I mocked him for not being able to go to the battlefield, for being forced to stay in the safe zone, for having to hide behind others and wait until others bleed before he was qualified to reach out.

But the moment those words left my mouth, I didn't feel any real pleasure.

Only something sharper was surging upwards.

The military doctor's expression turned completely cold.

It wasn't the habitual calmness, but a coldness tinged with controlled anger. His jawline was taut, his gaze shifting from my face before quickly returning, as if he were desperately suppressing some kind of instinctive reaction.

“That’s enough,” he said.

The sound wasn't loud, but it was exceptionally clear.

“You’re not in a position to use offensive language against anyone right now.” His tone returned to its professional calm, but was lower than before. “Go back to your ward.”

I laughed even harder.

“Aggressive?” I repeated the word. “You think this is aggression? Then what you’ve seen on the battlefield, are they all considered gentle?”

I took a step forward, the IV tube was stretched out, the IV bag swayed, and the transparent liquid inside the bag rippled gently.

“Or,” I looked at him, “is it that you just hate being told the truth?”

At that moment, I clearly saw his fingers tighten slightly.

It's not out of control.

Instead, it was a prick that struck a nerve.

He was silent for a few seconds, his breathing becoming deeper, as if he were deliberately rebuilding some kind of internal order.

“You’re not speaking sanely right now,” he said. “You’re venting your emotions.”

"Really?" I tilted my head. "And what about you? Are you standing here now, performing your duties, or are you itching to rush out but being held back by orders?"

The air suddenly felt very tight.

The holographic map in the office refreshed silently, marking a section in deep red, signifying a communication blackout and an unclear battle situation. A flash of light crossed his profile, making the shadow cast that instantaneously sharper.

I looked at him, and I knew—

He wasn't afraid of not being able to go to the battlefield.

He was afraid that he was being abandoned on the battlefield.

I laughed too fast, too hard.

It's not because I really wanted to hurt him.

Rather, I know better than anyone what it feels like to be excluded.

I passed that feeling on to him exactly as it was.