"Are you asking me what a Gift is?"
Ron was sitting on the sofa reading the newspaper when Quân's voice suddenly cut through the quiet.
Quân nodded, turning to look into Ron's eyes with an unmistakable sparkle of interest.
"Yeah. Moris told me you have a Gift."
Hearing Moris's name made Ron sigh inwardly. He set the newspaper down on the table, pausing to collect his thoughts.
"Strictly speaking, a Gift is somewhat like a Path, yet entirely distinct at the same time. It's something more intimate, yet strangely objective. Truth be told, I don't fully grasp its nature myself."
"Ha! So what's yours then?"
"My Gift... That's honestly hard to say, given that I've never actually used it a second time."
"Wait—the first time, then?"
Ron rested his knuckles against his chin, thoughtfully plumbing his memories.
"The first time? If I recall correctly, back then I deduced that my Gift was..."
Ron traversed the quiet corridor of the hospital, searching for a washroom to scrub away the thick coat of blood clinging to his frame.
After all, he had people waiting under his care; appearing before them drenched in blood would hardly be appropriate.
Stepping into the first-floor restroom—which doubled as an access point to the shower stalls—Ron froze dead in his tracks for a lingering moment.
"..."
It had to be understood that despite having frequented hospitals many times, Ron had never dared venture into their public restrooms or shower facilities. Part of it was because he rarely stayed past a single day, and part of it was due to the perpetual crowds.
Thus, he hadn't anticipated just how chaotic the space would be.
Well, it is a hospital, after all, Ron mused. The facility was packed with every imaginable type of patient—ranging from mild to severe, lucid to delirious. It differed starkly from the medical centers of his old world.
Passing by rows of waste bins, he pushed deeper into the facility. Had he still possessed a functioning sense of smell, the sheer stench of the place would have surely overwhelmed him.
Entering a shower stall, Ron nonchalantly pulled out a fresh set of hospital garments stored inside. Securing the door with his monofilament black threads, he turned on the water and began to wash.
Because the dried blood clung stubbornly to his skin, he resorted to using chemical solutions to expedite the cleansing process.
Even so, a strange flush remained over his unnaturally pale complexion. Unsure whether the metallic scent of blood had truly dissipated, he figured this would have to suffice for now.
If push came to shove, Ron wouldn't hesitate to smear antiseptic all over himself to mask any lingering scent.
Once dressed in the patient attire, Ron picked up his long black overcoat. Drawing a blade, he drove it directly into the fabric, puncturing a hole before casually rending the entire coat into two separate pieces.
The old garment was thoroughly saturated with blood and unfit for further use. Yet, as it was made of durable, expensive material, he had to pierce the structural seam designed for tearing before disposing of it completely.
Heading back toward the room where his sports bag was stowed, Ron pulled out a replacement coat nearly identical to the old one and slipped it on.
Suddenly, his fingers twitched faintly.
Ron cast a glance toward the window. The sun had already climbed high into the sky, casting a stark, bleached sunlight across a sprawling, low-profile city. Far in the distance, long rows of structures merged into a massive, interconnected complex.
Turning his gaze toward the ward door, Ron felt as though he were gradually deciphering the underlying rules governing these supernatural anomalies.
After a brief pause, he made his way down to the kitchen, swiftly gathering emergency rations. Most were sealed pre-packaged meals—their taste left much to be desired, but their nutritional content was undeniable.
Grabbing two extra bowls of meat porridge, he carried them back upstairs toward the room where the two siblings, Emy and Mark, were staying.
Click~
Stepping into the room, a subtle shift instantly registered in Ron's vision.
Within his line of sight, young Mark—lying on the bed—seemed to emit a faint, delicate aura. It was so faint that a single blink of an eye might cause it to vanish completely.
Ron shifted his gaze toward the older sister. Though she was holding her younger brother tightly, no trace of a similar radiance emanated from her.
"...A Gift?"
Ron recognized it immediately: the distinct signature of someone possessing a Gift and actively employing it.
Rubbing his chin, Ron contemplated the sight. While a Gift itself wasn't entirely unheard of, exercising one while remaining unconscious was a phenomenon he found genuinely novel.