【Interstellar Contract Magician】Ruyuanke

I thought of the implanted syringe in the optical chip on the bedside table. It must have been arranged by that man. I've never used it, nor do I intend to. Back then, I wasn't sure what awaited me; in fact, I had opportunities before. But I didn't trust them. The commotion outside grew louder, but the piercing alarm stopped. It probably meant that all available personnel were in place, and further conscription was unnecessary.

The hospital corridor lights were switched to wartime mode, whiter and colder than usual. The air smelled of disinfectant and machine oil mixed together, occasionally mingled with the acrid smell of metal being rubbed at high temperatures, seeping intermittently from the ventilation system. I could hear the low-frequency vibrations of transport trucks starting up in the distance, like muffled thunder rumbling against the floor, pressing down deep into my chest.

I was still sitting in that chair, an IV drip attached to the back of my hand, the clear liquid slowly flowing into my veins, the dripping sound unusually clear in the environment. The emotions from just moments ago seemed to have been drained away, leaving a dull emptiness—neither painful nor relieved, just hanging in the air.

It was like suddenly waking up, a sudden realization that this was no longer a hospital ward. Not the space with windows, a bed, a vase, and the occasional comings and goings of that man. This felt more like a transitional area deep within the hospital, a public rest area outside the doctors' offices, specifically for medical staff to briefly rest during intensive shifts. A simplified war zone map hung on the wall, several areas marked in red, indicating temporary medical nodes and evacuation routes. I could understand it without my supercomputer; those red dots weren't far from here.

That alarm just now was clearly not a drill.

What's wrong with me?

I slowly stood up, the IV stand making a soft rolling sound on the floor, sounding out of place in the empty corridor. I instinctively moved more quietly, as if afraid of disturbing something, but in fact, there was no one there. The medic was gone, and the medical staff had probably all been temporarily reassigned. The access light at the end of the corridor was constantly green, indicating that wartime access had been granted.

Nobody is watching me.

There was no supervision, no guard, no reassurance, and no obstruction. In the face of this emergency, I was implicitly excluded from the "priority of handling" matters.

This feeling is not unfamiliar.

On the battlefield, it usually means two things: either you are already dead, or you are temporarily insignificant.

I raised my hand and touched behind my ear; the skin was intact, with no signs of implantation. The syringe was still lying on the bedside table, not far from here, yet it felt like there was a transparent barrier between us. I knew very well that as long as I went back and used it, I could reconnect to the system, regain my identity, location, permissions, payment, and communication—everything would be restored within seconds.

But I didn't move.

I don't want to take it back under these circumstances.

Not as a processed object, not as a "problem solution" that is reclassified, rearranged, and reintegrated into the system, but as myself.

Even now, this "self" is still not even clearly defined.

A short broadcast notification came from the end of the corridor. It was a tactical briefing automatically broadcast on the internal communication channel. The sound was very low, but I still managed to make out a few keywords: outer perimeter contact, half-king level, northern flank defense, medical evacuation preparation.

That's not something I should hear.

But it's also content that I'm quite familiar with.

My body reacted strangely at that moment. It wasn't excitement, nor fear, but a highly reflexive tension, as if my muscles were preparing to move before I even received a command. My shoulders and back straightened involuntarily, my breathing rhythm changed slightly, and my gaze unconsciously swept towards the exit, trying to find the shortest path.

Just like that military doctor.

This was left over from military academy training.

It was left behind on the battlefield.

It's the same reaction mechanism I've relied on countless times.

And now, these reactions have been triggered under an absurd premise—

I am no longer a soldier.

At least at the system level, no.

I stood there for a few seconds before realizing I had stopped moving. The IV stand stopped too; the fluid sloshed slightly in the tubing before settling back down.

Several hurried footsteps echoed from the other end of the corridor. Someone pushed an empty stretcher quickly past, the wheels making a continuous clattering sound on the ground, but no one noticed me. I stood in the shadows, as if automatically categorized into the background by the hospital's structure.

This gave me an unusually clear sense of disconnect.

The body still remembers the battle.

The nerves still remember the commands.

The muscles still remember to execute.

But the identity system has already removed me.

I no longer belong to any organization, no longer belong to any team, and am no longer a variable in any tactical plan. Even if I rush out now, even if I actively request support, no one will give me authorization, no one will give me a position, and no one will see my existence in the command system.

I can't even prove who I am.

I stood there, and I understood.

It's not that I've lost my right to fight.

It was the battle that cost me my life.

The "self" at the system level no longer exists.

The shock of this realization was colder and more real than the emotions I had just felt. It was like a block of ice slowly pressing down on my chest, compressing every breath.

I instinctively looked towards the end of the corridor, the passageway leading to the outer area. The heavy blast door was half-open, and outside was probably a makeshift wartime medical station or transport hub. The sound of air flowing came from there, carrying a low-frequency resonance.

I know that if I wanted to, no one could stop me now.

I also know that if I really go out there, I will be nothing.

No identity. No mission. No belonging.

It doesn't even have a legitimate way of existing.