Chapter 67: interviewing a Summoner

Chapter 67: interviewing a Summoner [Mass release 1/6] In the quiet infirmary, Rivet sat alone on one of the many white-sheeted beds. His face was buried in a soft pillow, but the comfort it offered barely touched the pain he was experiencing—not physically, but mentally. His thoughts spiraled in on themselves, his mind a battlefield of shame and regret. Silver had done all she could. Her healing abilities had stabilized him, stopped the bleeding, and numbed the agony. But the stump remained—a painful reminder of what was lost. His right arm was gone, most likely forever. She had told him gently, almost apologetically, "If your other half arm had been recovered... I could have reattached it. But without it... you’ll just have to live with this." The words had been simple, clinical, yet devastating. This was the first time Rivet had ever cried in front of someone. Real tears. Raw and unrestrained. He was thankful that the room was private, tucked away from the eyes of other students. No one had seen his breakdown—no one except Silver. She had stood there quietly, watching him with an unreadable expression. Then, after what felt like forever, she turned away and muttered softly, "Everything happens for a reason. Keep that in mind, boy." With that, she left the room, her boots echoing on the tiled floor as she disappeared into the corridor. But even after she left, her words echoed in his head. Rivet remained where he was for a long time, alone with his thoughts. Eventually, he grabbed his phone and started scrolling through random videos—funny ones made by students from Titanfang. Silly pranks, training fails, magical tricks gone wrong. Normally, these would have drawn a chuckle or at least distracted him for a while. But today? Nothing. The laughter of others only deepened his silence. He put his phone aside and stared at the ceiling, his mind beginning to drift elsewhere... back to his father. What would he say when he saw him like this? What would he think of his only son returning home maimed, one arm gone like a fallen soldier who failed the war? "This is a disgrace..." The thought cut through him. Rivet bit his lower lip hard, drawing a small trickle of blood. ’How in hell did I get beaten by a nobody? I’m the fucking son of the Thorne family...’ The answer came almost immediately, bitter and truthful. Despite being the Thorne family’s heir, he hadn’t done much since getting into Titanfang. He had coasted on his name, bullied weaker students, wasted time chasing girls, and flexed his inherited status instead of sharpening his strength. He had become weak. Useless. He gritted his teeth, Silver’s parting words resurfacing in his mind. ’Who cares if I only have one arm. I’ll train harder. I’ll become stronger. I’ll catch up to that bastard—’ Click. The door to the private infirmary room opened abruptly, interrupting his thoughts. A group of military personnel stepped inside. Three of them. Their presence was cold and disciplined, their uniforms crisp, expressions unreadable behind dark shades. Each of them held digital tablets, the glowing screens reflecting off their faces as they took swift positions around his bed. Rivet’s muscles tensed in surprise. He sat up slightly, trying not to show weakness. "Have you ever heard of a knock, assholes?!" he shouted, voice laced with anger. None of them flinched. None replied. They were used to attitude. They were here for something else. One of them, a tall man with gray at his temples, finally spoke. His voice was dry and to the point. "Mr. Thorne, we’re here to ask specific questions regarding the loss of your arm. Please answer accordingly." Rivet sighed and nodded. He understood immediately. Because of his family status, any injury like this would cause tremors within the circles of influence. The military needed answers to avoid potential conflict—or worse, war. "Your arm. Was it a human or a beast that did this to you?" The question was sharp, deliberate. Rivet’s mind flickered, and an image surfaced instantly—Kairos. The boy who had taken his arm. The one who had humiliated him. Revenge. This was the moment he could start it. Name him. Destroy his future. He opened his mouth to speak... But the words didn’t come. A memory pushed through—the memory of being spared, of being saved. He remembered Kairos could have killed him... but didn’t. He remembered how he had relied on others his entire time at Titanfang, never fighting his own battles, always sending pawns in his stead. That feeling... He was sick of it. He was tired of being a prince with no backbone. "It was a beast," he finally said, the words dry, almost robotic. The officers took note. None of them raised a brow. They simply moved on. "What grade was the beast?" "Abyssal rank," Rivet answered flatly. They continued with the routine: a full recounting of the mission, how his teammates had died, how he had landed the final blow against the creature. Luckily, Rivet was a gifted liar. Years of manipulation, bluffing, and scheming had honed his ability to spin tales. And this time, his story was flawless. He painted himself not as a coward or a failure, but as a warrior—wounded, yes—but one who made a noble sacrifice. Losing his arm in exchange for killing a deadly beast. A hero’s tale. One that kept his family’s name polished and untainted. Eventually, the questions stopped. Two of the military officers left, satisfied. But one remained. He stepped closer to Rivet’s bedside and tapped the screen of his tablet. "This was sent by one of your surviving teammates yesterday," he said, voice low. "Does this have anything to do with your current situation?" The screen flickered, and a video began to play. Rivet’s heart skipped a beat. The shadow wolf. He recognized it instantly—Kairos’ summon, devouring the massive spider. And in the top corner, the video had already been uploaded—Titanfang’s Tweet. It wasn’t just recorded. It was going viral. The blood drained from Rivet’s face. His mouth went dry. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. That shadow... that power... It would only take one person connecting the dots, one person recognizing his injury... He was finished. All he could say, his voice low and breathless, was— "Fuck."