I reached Novak as fast as I could, but deep down, I still felt like I should have been running. As if every second of hesitation was giving someone—or something—a greater chance to get ahead of me.
When the door opened, Vaclav greeted me with his usual impassive gaze, though this time, there was a tension in his eyes. He stepped aside to let me in and shut the door behind me, as if cutting us off from the outside world.
"Come in, sit," he said curtly, gesturing towards my usual chair.
I sat down without sparing a glance at the spectacular view from his window.
On the table, a teapot and a cup were already waiting. The aroma of Pure Thoughts—citrus, honey, and mint—filled the room, mingling with hints of alcohol and caramel, though I saw no sign of a bourbon glass.
Novak's first order of business was filling my cup. He gestured for me to drink.
This time, I didn’t overthink it and drained it in one go—burning my tongue and nearly choking in the process.
"Kh… It's hot!"
"Your own fault," Novak said.
"The news seemed urgent," I shrugged.
"Rahman reacted to the ring," Novak nodded. "Don't rush—let the tea work."
For about a minute and a half, we sat in silence while the tea worked its magic. Warmth spread through my body, sinking into every muscle, dissolving the fatigue and tension, replacing them with lightness and clarity. More importantly, my thoughts became less chaotic, more structured—I could focus on what really mattered.
At last, I understood why he always served it to his guests—he didn’t have to deal with jittery idiots. Novak was simply preserving his nerves. And probably his time. Thinking was a lot easier in this state.
I barely smiled, but Novak caught the shift and gave me a slight nod, encouraging me to speak.
"First, she stared at it like she was mesmerised. Then something seemed to glitch in her—she grabbed her head, swayed on her feet. Said it was a migraine, but she looked like she'd had a short circuit in her brain. I mean—serious pain."
Apparently, tea didn’t change my way of speaking.
Vaclav thoughtfully rubbed his chin.
"Did she mention the ring out loud? Say anything about it?"
"No. She didn’t even try. Just got out of there as fast as she could."
Novak slowly leaned back in his chair, gazing out the window as he tapped a rhythm on the armrest with his fingers. Then he turned to me, his piercing, tiger-like stare sending a shiver down my spine.
"We’ve already checked her," he said.
"The same way you checked me?" I asked. What I really wanted to know was whether she’d been given “the tea”—not Pure Thoughts, but those two drops that had turned me into a weak-willed vegetable for a few minutes.
"I haven’t met her personally," Novak replied.
"That’s not what I meant."
"I know…" Novak said, getting up from his chair. He stepped into the adjoining room and returned with a glass of bourbon and a tablet.
The screen was frozen on a paused video. He handed it to me.
"Watch," he ordered, taking a sip of his drink.
I pressed play.
Rahman was sitting in a medical office—standard white walls, cabinets stocked with supplies, monitors displaying a patient’s vitals. The setup reminded me of the diagnostic room in the infirmary.
She looked calm, though slightly troubled. Or maybe just tired? Her face showed no strong emotions—no anxiety, no curiosity. Maybe a faint hint of discomfort, nothing more.
The doctor, a woman in a white coat, instructed her to bare her shoulder.
Without a word, Rahman unzipped her jumpsuit, pulled it down past her shoulder, exposing part of her skin, and extended her arm. The soft click of a contactless syringe barely broke the silence as the injection was administered.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
Rahman didn’t even flinch.
Her gaze remained empty, as if she were looking through the doctor rather than at her. She acted as though the entire procedure was routine, not worth paying attention to.
The doctor took out a scanner—a standard “pan” model, just like the ones I’d seen with Robinson and Diego 015—and waved it near Rahman’s temple. Then she leaned in, looked her straight in the eye, and began the simple questioning.
"Name?"
Rahman answered dully.
"Nour Amira Rahman."
The doctor shifted her gaze from the girl’s eyes to the dynamic graph on one of the monitors.
"Date of birth?"
"June twenty-third. Why do you need this?" she asked. "It’s all in the system."
"I’m monitoring your brain activity," the doctor said. "One of the cadets in your batch has shown signs of memory issues."
"I think I know who you mean…" Rahman murmured sluggishly.
The doctor glanced at her, then at the graph…
"Place of birth?" the doctor asked.
"Kampung, Pahang."
"Age?"
"Eighteen."
Her voice had become steady, the fatigue gone. No more objections, no hesitation, no delay between question and answer. She wasn’t thinking about what she was saying.
It felt eerily similar to the tea Novak had given me.
I glanced at Vaclav. He was watching me over the rim of his bourbon glass.
I turned back to the video.
The doctor picked up the pace.
"Tell me about your family."
For the first time, Rahman visibly blinked. This time, she had to make an effort to process what was being asked.
"Father—Rahman Faiz. Mother—Zahra Amina. Father is an engineer, mother teaches mathematics."
"Where are they now?"
"Kampung."
"When was the last time you spoke to them?"
"Before boarding the shuttle to Verdis."
"What is your name?" the doctor asked again.
"Nour Amira Rahman."
"Have you suffered any serious injuries?"
"Yes."
"Describe them."
"Cranial trauma from an accident. Emergency surgery was performed—there was a risk of losing coordination and memory. Coordination remained intact, but my memory was partially affected."
"When did the incident happen?"
"Two years ago."
"What do you remember from that time?"
Rahman made another barely perceptible pause.
"Hospital. Treatment. Rehabilitation."
"Do you wish death upon anyone?"
"Yes."
"Who?"
"Roslan Ismail."
Rahman blinked and jerked her head toward the doctor. It seemed the last question had been too emotionally charged—it had yanked her out of the drug’s hold. Novak’s tea had kept me under longer, or at least that’s how it had felt.
I looked up. Novak took a sip of bourbon, set down his glass, and took the tablet from me, pausing the video.
"Ismail Hakim Roslan," he said, "was involved in the accident that injured Nour and killed her younger sister. The two were quite close. According to the records I dug up, Roslan was behind the wheel of the car that forced the Rahman family's vehicle off the mountain road. He’s currently serving time for that crash."
"Could a demon really preserve a person’s memories and emotions?" I asked. It was the only explanation I could come up with, even under Pure Thoughts. Maybe she was a willing agent?
No, that was ridiculous. Helping demons wasn’t about wanting one person dead—you had to want the whole world to burn.
"We don’t know," Novak said. "But it seems unlikely."
"She definitely reacted to the ring!" I shook my head.
"But she chose to run from you," Novak countered. "What if she mistook you for a demon?"
I raised an eyebrow.
That was unexpected.
"You lot have terrible internal communication in your secret club," I said.
"You think she was recruited the same way you were?"
"If she was, then she’s reporting to her boss right now, just like I am."
Novak tapped his fingers in rhythm again, taking another sip of bourbon.
"So," he asked suddenly, "what are your plans for the day?"
"Uh…" I hesitated. "Honestly, I was planning to just rest…" I shook my head, smiling. "But I guess that’s off the table now," I added, nodding toward the teapot.
After a cup of Pure Thoughts, my body no longer felt fatigued or tense. On the contrary, it was as if I’d just slept ten hours, eaten well, and done a light warm-up. Energy surged through me, waiting to be put to use.
"Good," Novak said calmly. "After this tea, it’s best to channel that energy into something useful before it starts spilling over. What do you plan to do?"
"The Fist Garden?" I suggested, not quite sure what he was getting at. "I don’t know how much you’ve heard…"
"I know about your progress and your enlightenment," Novak said. "Kate told me."
"And about the hyper-sensitivity formation on my armour? The upgrade?"
Vaclav nodded.
"Alright… Then I’ll try working with the formation switched off."
He gave another approving nod.
"Good choice."
Picking up his tablet again, he opened something, then, without explanation, turned the screen toward me, displaying two photographs. The first showed a young man and woman in standard jumpsuits, both with threes on their collars.
The guy was short but broad-shouldered, with dark hair tied into a short ponytail and a slight squint in his eyes, as if he was always on alert. The girl was a little shorter than him, with an open expression and a light smile.
His arm rested on her waist. If I had to guess, they were a couple.
The second image showed the same pair, but now in full combat gear—massive black-and-white sets of armour with the academy emblem on the shoulders.
"Who are they?" I asked.
"My students," Novak said. "Adam Weyron and Lina Kawesh. Unlike Kate, they already know about our problems and are actively helping to solve them. They'll be the ones keeping an eye on you while I figure out whether Rahman is an agent of one of my colleagues."
His voice was calm, but I had no doubt he’d already mapped out several contingency plans in case things turned out worse than expected.
I glanced at the photos again, studying their faces.
"They going to shadow me?"
"No, they'll just take shifts in the garden for the next few hours. If something happens, they’ll step in. And if anyone’s looking for you, they’ll probably find them too."
I raised a sceptical eyebrow.
Novak smirked.
"Go to the garden, Jake. Don't waste your energy on idle talk."
He poured the last half-cup of Pure Thoughts from the teapot and handed it to me.
I downed it in one go, set the cup down, and got up from the chair.
"As you say, boss."
He huffed and nodded toward the door. Didn’t bother seeing me out.