051 Archer’s Apology

With a loud bang, the door to the intensive care ward of the Arca Camp’s medical division was thrown open. Theresa stepped out, her face pale and ashen, her movements unsteady. She staggered forward, supporting herself against the wall, and stopped at a corner where she pressed her stomach and retched a few times, clearly shaken to her core. Yale followed closely behind, emerging from the ward as well. Seeing her condition, he approached with deep guilt, gently patting her back and apologizing, “I’m sorry, Theresa. I forgot you’ve never performed such an operation before…”

At the mention of “operation,” Theresa’s already poor complexion turned even paler. She hurriedly waved her hand, signaling Yale to drop the subject, then fished out a bottle of invigorating tonic and gulped it down. Only when the potion’s effects kicked in did she let out a relieved breath and say to Yale, “It’s all right. Sooner or later, I’d have to face this. Whether it’s now or later, it makes no difference.”

Though she said as much, Yale’s guilt was not so easily assuaged. Yet Theresa had no time for his remorse. She waved him off, steadied herself against the wall, and walked away.

It was Yale’s carelessness that led to this. He’d grown accustomed to treating Theresa as his peer, so when he needed an assistant, he didn’t consider her age or gender; he simply pulled her into the operating room, forcing her to confront the gruesome wounds of the severely injured. For someone unprepared, it was a significant blow. She managed to finish the procedure, but expecting her to recover quickly was unrealistic.

Leaving Yale and his regrets behind, Theresa wandered slowly down the medical wing’s corridor. Watching the busy medical staff and the patients with varying injuries, she felt, for the first time, the fragility of life so keenly. As she was lost in thought, a familiar figure flashed through the crowd and vanished, causing her to halt, frowning as she searched. After a few seconds, the figure appeared again in her line of sight—

“Archil, when did you sneak off with the team to face the beast tide!” Theresa’s low voice sounded behind Archil, laced with such menace that the back of his neck went cold, his hairs instantly standing at attention.

“T-Therese, what are you doing here?” Archil jumped up, guiltily glancing at Theresa, forgetting even the bandaging of his arm.

Theresa glared at him fiercely, shoved him down onto a bench, and took over the bandaging from the medical staff, checking his injuries herself. In her silence, an unmistakable aura of authority pressed upon Archil, making him restless—he felt guilty, having snuck out, impersonated a camp soldier, disrupted military order, participated in combat without permission, and then tried to hide his injuries… Any one of these offenses would have landed him in serious trouble.

Feeling guilty, Archil obediently followed Theresa’s every move. When she sat, he sat; when she stood, he stood; when she walked, he trailed behind. His docility amused those nearby—many of the soldiers awaiting treatment had fought alongside him in the beast tide counterattack. Seeing his meek demeanor, they couldn’t help but snicker, their strange laughter merging into a formidable force. Yet Archil’s composure was remarkable; he remained unfazed, stoic in the face of their amusement.

However, his calm was only skin-deep. Once they left the medical division, he finally bent over, carefully pleading with Theresa, “Therese, Therese, I was just feeling cooped up. Yesterday’s assembly order was only for mid-level personnel, so it wasn’t too dangerous. Besides, the camp leaders know I’m from the Aubrion family—they wouldn’t let me face anything truly formidable. So, you don’t need to worry, really!”

Theresa, hearing this, couldn’t help but laugh in exasperation. “Are you saying I worry too much?”

Seeing her smile, Archil felt the same chill he’d felt when she had caught him in the medical ward. He hurriedly replied, “No, no, I’m just not good with words. I’m worried you’ll wear yourself out from worrying, that’s all, really!”

Theresa rolled her eyes and said nothing, continuing onward—the morning’s exertions had left her in need of rest, not debate.

Archil watched her carefully, noting her fatigue and poor complexion, and wisely kept silent, though his mind was already plotting something…

After a long, deep sleep, Theresa woke not refreshed but aching all over, every bone in her body seeming to protest no matter how she lay—she was simply exhausted.

Unable to ignore her discomfort, she reluctantly left the warmth of her bed, slumped against the headboard, gazing blankly into space. Suddenly, a streak of pale gold drifted across her vision, prompting her to refocus—a familiar golden hue. Her alchemical automaton, the Gold Spider, was diligently cleaning, its eight legs spread wide and pressing a rag as it scuttled about.

It had been nearly a day since she last activated the Gold Spider, yet it remained energetic. This pleased Theresa greatly—her mood improved, and her discomfort seemed to ease. She summoned the Gold Spider for inspection. With wolf bones added as support for its eight legs, it was not only cuter but far more practical. Her latest modifications had been a complete success.

The wolf bone experiment reminded Theresa of the wolf blood she had purified with medicinal powder. By her calculations, it should be ready for use. She hurriedly dressed, threw on a cloak, and opened her door—

“Archil, what are you doing here?” Theresa asked in surprise. Outside, Archil was leaning against the wall, fiddling idly with the leaves of a potted plant, looking utterly bored.

The instincts of an alchemist drew Theresa’s gaze to the plant in Archil’s hands. The pot was small enough to be held in one hand, filled with the permafrost soil common to the ice fields. From it grew a pale red plant, its fiery branches and leaves contrasting beautifully with the blue-green earth—a striking scene.

“Here, Therese, this is for you,” Archil said with a sycophantic grin, offering the pot to Theresa.

She accepted it, giving Archil a scrutinizing look that made him uneasy, then turned and closed the door, leaving him outside once more.

Left facing the closed door, Archil could only rub his nose and slink back to his room. After he closed his door, he had no idea that Theresa’s door opened again, and she, cradling the potted plant, smiled like a cat who’d stolen cream, heading happily toward the laboratory.

The bridesmaid cat still cannot return home; this chapter was written in an internet café. Sigh, it’s not my beloved laptop, and it feels so awkward to use…