Chapter 146

I thought I’d be directly transferring into the Royal Academy… but that didn’t happen.

First reason.

It’s vacation time.

Schools in the capital all have breaks around the same period, and it’s summer vacation right now. For reference, the Royal Academy and the school where Victoria studied as a Wind-up Knight are both located in the capital.

Second reason.

The Bern City folks who helped people during an incident were invited to the royal palace for commendation. Including Victoria, quite a few of them.

Apparently, publicly awarding honors improves public morale, which is good for maintaining order—it’s a win-win situation.

But every news outlet only talks about the sudden disaster and the good deeds of those who helped without explaining why such an event happened in the first place. They focus solely on individual stories.

In other words, this Bern City incident was either staged or hints at a deeply troubling, unresolved issue.

While expecting another disaster, I got shipped off to the royal castle.

Yeah, shipped.

That afternoon when the letter arrived, a literal airship hovered above my house. Then a bunch of people wearing exoskeletons came down, grabbed me, and hauled me aboard the airship.

They said they were escorting me, but since I had no say in the matter, it felt more like an abduction.

Under their lead, I arrived in the capital within a day.

From the airship, I looked down at the royal palace.

Walls painted to look like wood, decorations and structures made of brass, wide windows with iron frames scattered here and there.

On the other hand, tall stone towers and pointed roofs stretched out in every direction. Two architectural styles from different eras harmoniously coexist in the vast garden. The palace is surrounded by military bases.

The airship docked at a mooring station a bit away from the fortress.

As I descended, I glanced back at the airship.

It has propellers, but they’re too small to actually keep the ship airborne. It probably uses some kind of lightweight material. Since I didn’t have much time to observe, I idly wondered if it used hydrogen before following the heavily armored person.

By the way, these guys resemble faded memories of space marines. Human aesthetics don’t seem to differ much after all.

Anyway.

I arrived at some location inside the palace.

It looked significantly sturdier than other places, prioritizing functionality over aesthetics.

I thought I might be dragged somewhere to slurp spicy soup, but nothing like that happened.

After passing through several doors, and noticing fewer people following me each time, I eventually met a man who looked exhausted.

I recognize him from TV—he’s the king of this country.

“Hello.”

When I greeted him, his eyes slightly wrinkled. There was a hint of disdain on his face.

However, judging by his expression, it wasn’t hatred toward people but rather a fleeting annoyance caused by perceived breaches of etiquette.

Etiquette is originally a tool to control subordinates and differentiate social levels.

This concept of behavior patterns, called habitus, explains why newly rich individuals are often dismissed as nouveau riche—they lack the refined mannerisms of true aristocrats and thus come across as uncouth money-grubbers.

Similarly, whenever someone behaves inappropriately for their status, it naturally causes discomfort.

Looks like I fall into that category.

“You’re Bell, aren’t you? The outsider who bestowed the miracle of blessings upon people.”

His tone feels odd.

Even though he must’ve received reports about me, why does he speak like this?

Or is this some sort of test?

Beyond reading emotions, I can’t tell much.

So, I’ll stick to what I’ve been doing—no lies, just one consistent action.

“I currently go by the name Bell.”

Meaning it’s not my real name.

“What was your original name?”

“I don’t have one. You don’t need a name when you’re alone.”

There are terms that describe me, but no one exists to call me by them.

Sure, if left alone for too long, others resembling my kind may appear, but they steal my warmth, so I’ve killed them all—and will continue to do so.

Because stealing warmth is something I simply cannot allow.

Meanwhile, he intensely scrutinizes me.

He scans me from head to toe while I just stare blankly.

There’s no reason for me to feel tense. Of course, having a potential harvester standing in front of me means I should flatter and coax him into signing a contract to create an automatic harvesting system.

But I won’t do that.

No matter how slow-witted I may seem, I still know one thing:

The moment I show desire, it will strangle me.

I don’t underestimate myself against experts skilled in using social tactics. One mistake could be fatal.

Thus, I patiently endure until the right moment to strike.

Humans grow old and weak eventually.

Could you endure waiting for that one chance?

It’s incredibly difficult. Most humans would give in.

Biologically, we resist pain and loss but find it nearly impossible to suppress growth. After all, it’s about improving oneself, not others.

You can’t even feel jealous because it’s your own progress.

If I had been overweight and suffering from adult diseases, the wait might’ve been shorter.

This king seems excessively well-trained physically.

I regret it.

“So, I’ve heard many things about you. About that blessing… Would you consider using it for our royal family?”

I barely managed to suppress a smirk.

Are you asking me to willingly become a harvester? I want to say “Of course,” but I must hold back—for now.

Just a little longer.

“If you wish, I’ll do it. Do you wish?”

Choices are made by yourselves; I merely act according to requests like a simple vending machine.

Since I operate objectively, all subjectivity remains yours.

The king responded to my question like this:

“I wish.”

“Yes, understood.”

I nodded. Originally, I should add that I can handle three people per day, but in this world, I’ve already processed thousands daily.

Mentioning three serves two purposes: controlling harvester production and giving my handlers peace of mind after creating three harvesters daily.

That is, reducing vigilance.

Now that I understand better, Yasurel let me roam freely because he knew I’d relax after creating three harvesters.

An obedient outsider poses no significant threat. The problem arises when others approach such an obedient outsider.

Thus, surveillance shifted from me to those approaching me.

In hindsight, it was a good decision.

But it’s too late now, so let’s move on.

Anyway, the king calmly explained what I’d be doing here: follow orders, attend the Royal Academy, and study certain subjects.

There’s no explanation as to why I must do these things. Slave-talk, really.

Then he added:

“From now on, you’ll be staying in the palace. If you cooperate, we’ll help you achieve what you desire.”

What you desire is exactly what you want from me—but I swallowed that retort. Everything’s going smoothly, almost suspiciously so.

Then the king called a man standing by the door—a surprisingly general.

Shouldn’t generals stay in uniforms at command posts? Why is he wearing heavy armor?

Or is this a world where even generals are expendable?

While pondering these minor questions, the two exchanged brief words before leaving the room together with the king.

Hmm? Am I being led away to some kind of holding cell?

When told to follow, I went along with them.

We exited the building and headed toward the outskirts of the palace, presumed to be a military base, accompanied by dozens of soldiers.

There, we entered an unusually white building.

Inside, people bowed to the man in front but knelt upon seeing the king behind him.

The king, looking tired, said something and brought me further inside. We stopped at a certain spot.

It was just a room with chairs, but through the window, I noticed long hoses and strange devices hanging off people.

Ah.

This is a hospital.

I know magic can fix lost limbs, yet quite a few critically injured patients are here.

Some are covered in bandages, others have green-stained amputated areas. There are soldiers, but also children who clearly aren’t soldiers lying there.

At that moment, an elderly man emerged from a glass door.

“Your Majesty, you cannot proceed further.”

“Still so stiff, even after retiring as imperial physician.”

Though rude, neither the king nor the doctor seemed bothered.

The soldiers behind glared at the doctor, but the general in front gestured for them to lower their gazes.

“I’m merely doing my duty as a doctor.”

The old doctor didn’t care.

Then the king pointed inside and said:

“Treat these patients alongside this person. Perhaps everyone can be healed.”

Upon hearing this, the doctor stared intently at me. His face was full of wrinkles, but his eyes were clearer than most young people’s.

The doctor provided us with special clothing, fully covering us before leading us inside with the king.

Apparently, all patients untreatable by magic end up here.

I recited the contract.

Consciousness isn’t necessary; this transmits directly through light.

Everyone’s hair turned purple. Nearly 90% of their skin turned blue.

But every single one regained perfect health.

As the old doctor observed me curiously, the king thanked me.

To which I replied:

“You wished it.”

All responsibility rests with you—I refuse to take any.

Some people gasped in shock at being revived, others marveled at their blue skin, and a few cried prayers while looking at me.

But I kept my gaze on the king.

I detected a peculiar desperation in his expression.

The verification of my abilities is happening too quickly.

Someone needs me.

Someone who requires me.

Hi hi.

It’ll be easy to exploit this situation.

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