【Interstellar Contract Magician】Ruyuanke

I curled up in the chair, feeling somewhat exhausted. Perhaps my blood sugar and blood pressure hadn't kept up with my adrenaline. The IV tube formed a thin, transparent arc under the skin of my hand, the coldness creeping up my veins, making me both alert and weak.

I stared at that hand for a long time.

The old needle marks still lingered on the back of my hand, the faint bluish-purple tinge hadn't completely faded, and my knuckles were slightly white from dehydration and stress. It was a familiar hand, the hand that had once held a gun, given orders, and pulled my comrades out of the blast radius.

But at this moment it was holding nothing.

I have nothing now.

There is no quantum computer.

In this era, losing a quantum computer is almost equivalent to social death. There is no identity verification, no access to assets, and no long-distance communication capabilities. Even the most basic transportation system cannot be accessed, let alone information retrieval, data access, or entry into any restricted areas.

I don't even qualify as being in the state of "lost" right now.

Because getting lost at least means you can still move, while I can't even confirm my direction.

I slowly tightened my fingers, then loosened them again.

The IV stand beside me made a very faint metallic sound, reminding me that my body was still being maintained by some system. But apart from that, I felt like a fragment that had been pulled out of the structure of the world and temporarily placed in a white space, belonging neither to the front line nor the rear nor to any organization.

No number.

permission denied.

There is no sense of belonging.

Are there really civilians on War Star?

I suddenly recalled a situation I'd witnessed on the battlefield—severely wounded soldiers were temporarily removed from the front lines, their equipment stripped, their identities frozen, and their access suspended, leaving only the life support system operating at a minimum. It wasn't because they were abandoned, but because the system couldn't confirm whether they could continue to bear the risks.

And right now, that's my situation.

But no one told me whether I would be taken back.

My battle partner.

Two plants.

The thought seemed to be triggered by some deep nerve node, appearing almost instantly. I subconsciously looked up, my gaze sweeping around the office, but I saw nothing.

They are not here.

Of course not.

I know. Given my near-death experience at the time, it was impossible for me to take them with me. They weren't standard equipment, weren't registered in the military system, and wouldn't be considered items that "must be transferred with the wounded." They would only be treated as abnormal life forms, unknown derivatives of supernatural abilities, or simply added to the disposal list. Those were combat plants.

It may even have already been isolated, sealed, tested, or dismantled.

I don't know which one it is.

And right now, I don't even have permission to query.

This realization chilled me to the bone even more than the physical weakness.

That's not the feeling of losing a weapon.

It's the feeling of losing "connection".

I used to be accustomed to a state of extremely high information flow: battlefield data, teammate status, environmental parameters, threat assessments... They were like a second nervous system, attached to the outside of my consciousness, allowing me to make judgments and reactions in a very short time.

And now, my world has suddenly become extremely narrow.

There is no interface.

There was no notification sound.

There is no red dot warning.

No identity cursor.

There is no "you are here" marker.

I simply sit in this chair, visually surveying the room, feeling the air temperature with my skin, and listening to the distant, indistinct footsteps in the corridor.

It's as if we've been forcibly regressed to a very primitive state.

I looked down at the hand receiving the IV drip and suddenly realized a more specific and real problem—

I can't even leave this building now.

If I were placed in any unfamiliar neighborhood on this planet, I would be unable to buy food, access public facilities, call for medical help, confirm my location, or contact anyone.

He will become a complete outsider to the system.

In this era, being an individual outside the system does not equate to freedom.

It is equivalent to non-existence.

This thought was like an extremely cold needle, precisely piercing an area that had not yet fully regained its senses, causing me to finally feel a belated sting after a brief period of numbness.

I slowly curled up and hugged my knees to my chest.

The chair was a bit too high for me; my toes could barely touch the ground, and my posture looked somewhat disproportionate. The IV line was pulled during this movement, and I instinctively softened my grip to avoid backflow of blood.

I realized that I was unconsciously maintaining the standard behavior of a "post-war patient".

Avoid pulling on the catheter.

Avoid getting up suddenly.

Avoid expending physical energy.

Avoid creating unnecessary medical variables.

This is a standard procedure that I repeatedly internalized when I saw wounded soldiers during my time as a combatant.

And now, I'm doing it to myself.

This realization left me momentarily dazed.

I am no longer a soldier.

This wasn't the first time the idea had crossed my mind.

But this is the first time it has hit me in such a specific and structured way.

This is not an emotional judgment.

It's not identity anxiety.

It's not self-denial.

It is a clear and even cold-blooded judgment of fact—

I currently do not possess any operational subject qualifications as defined by the military system.

No equipment.

permission denied.

No API call was made.

There is no action scheduling path.

There is no assigned task.

There is no organizational position.

I am currently just a patient.

The patients were not even active-duty personnel.

Rather, he is an individual who has been temporarily housed and whose identity reconstruction process has not yet been completed.

That is to say-

Until the system completes its re-authentication of me, I am neither a soldier nor a civilian.

I am in a suspended state.

The word came to mind with an extremely precise chill.

Suspended in mid-air.

There is no landing point.

There is no fixed track.

There is no regression path.

They don't even know what will happen next.

No one read out any procedures to me.

No one told me the timeline for my post-injury assessment.

No one explained whether my identity status, combat qualifications, and psychological assessment level were still valid.

No one even confirmed whether I was still within the military system.

I was simply put back into my ward. Food was brought to me. My dressings were changed. My vital signs were monitored. My life was sustained.

But apart from that, there is no "direction".

This is not appeasement. This is a blank.

I've never been good at tolerating silence.