CHAPTER 538: UNKNOWN GROWN

Liam pushed himself upright from the floor, rolling his shoulders once before rubbing the side of his neck where her hold had pressed down hardest. A low breath slipped out of him, half amusement and half lingering ache. "That was... quite some move," he muttered, still feeling the ghost of her legs tightening around his upper body.

"Thanks, but it’s nothing special," Mabel replied in her even tone as she extended a hand toward him, offering to help him up.

"Nah, I’m good." He brushed off the gesture without hostility, just his usual stubborn preference for relying on himself. Rising to his feet, he turned away and headed toward the exit with steady strides. "And... thanks, by the way. For helping," he added in a level but unmistakably sincere tone as he glanced over his shoulder before stepping out of the hall.

The doors closed behind him, and as he walked down the quiet corridor, something tugged faintly at the back of his mind. ’There’s something I want to ask her... but I can’t figure out what the hell it is.’ The thought gnawed at him as he disappeared down the hallway.

Back in the vast silence of the training hall, Mabel remained where she stood, her posture calm as she watched the door he’d walked through. Only after a long, steady exhale did she lift her hand and remove her mask. Her face—elegant, composed, and softened by the subtle sheen of exertion—was revealed fully to the empty room.

She wiped the faint traces of sweat from her cheek with a slow, measured motion, her expression thoughtful.

’It’s been almost a month since he woke up... and his progress is still as rapid as ever,’ she mused. ’Even his hand-to-hand combat has changed since the first time we did this.’

Liam’s request had been simple: he didn’t want his combat instincts rusting while he rebuilt his physical condition, so he’d asked her to spar with him after his endurance sets. A means to sharpen his movements, refine his reactions, reawaken the parts of him that slept with his body. They only did it twice each week—just enough to push him, not enough to break him.

And it was working. Each session revealed some new edge he’d rediscovered, or rebuilt, or carved out entirely on his own. His timing was crisper. His reading of her stances sharper. His counterattacks—despite their improvised ferocity—were growing more thoughtful, more calculated.

But there was something else.

Something she couldn’t ignore.

She’d always known Liam picked things up fast. His instincts, his adaptability, his strange ability to observe once and mimic twice as well—all of that had been part of who he was long before the war. But now... there were subtle shifts she’d never seen before. Slight changes in tone, in posture, in the way he assessed a situation. His eyes sometimes carried an awareness that felt older. Sharper. Too sharp for someone his age.

’It feels like he’s grown in some hidden way,’ she admitted inwardly.

Not physically—mentally. Emotionally. As if he had lived far longer than the months his body had been unconscious. As if something inside him had stretched through time she couldn’t see.

Despite everything, Liam was still technically a teenager. Some of his choices—his occasional impulsiveness or the rare stubborn flicker—always reminded her of that. But the new traits she had been noticing since he woke... they didn’t belong to the boy she remembered before the war. They belonged to someone older. Someone tempered. Someone who had seen too much in too little time.

She didn’t know how such a thing was possible. She didn’t understand it. But the thought that he had spent far more time in the Mind Realm than his body suggested refused to leave her. It lingered there every time she watched him fight, every time she felt his presence shift, every time she caught those flickers of maturity that simply hadn’t existed before.

And she wasn’t bothered by it.

If anything... she found the change pleasing.

After letting herself dwell on the thought for a moment longer, Mabel released a slow, centered breath. Then she slipped the mask back over her face, her calm demeanor reestablishing itself like armor sliding into place.

"I should get back to watching over him," she murmured, her voice faint beneath the mask.

A swirl of blue mystic smoke enveloped her feet, rising sharply until it consumed her entire form, and in a blink, she vanished from the hall.

***

In the heart of Tynoon—the thriving capital of Zone 8—the Tempest Palace rose with its usual majesty, its marble towers gleaming beneath the midday sun. The sunlight spilled generously across the city, bathing its busy streets and towering structures in a warm, golden radiance that made the capital seem almost serene despite its constant activity.

Inside the palace, where polished floors reflected the brilliance pouring through the tall, arched windows, Queen Lucy sat within her private office. Soft light washed over the neatly arranged documents and scrolls that lay across her desk, each item perfectly aligned, reflecting her precision and sense of order. She worked with quiet focus, her quill gliding over parchment in swift but elegant motions, her posture poised and regal as always.

Across from her, seated with the grace of a sculpture carved from moonlight, Mystica waited patiently. Her long, dark hair framed her composed face, and her violet eyes held their usual playful glint even in silence. She remained still, elegant, and attentive, allowing Lucy the time she needed to complete her work before speaking.

After several moments, Lucy placed the quill gently beside the inkwell and exhaled a measured breath. She leaned back in her ornate chair, the sunlight catching in her calm emerald eyes as she finally lifted her gaze to Mystica.

"Glad to see you today as well, Mystica," she said in her steady, composed tone.

"The pleasure is mine, Your Majesty," Mystica replied with a small, respectful bow of her head.

Lucy acknowledged the gesture with a faint motion of her hand, her expression softening just slightly. "So tell me," she began, her voice calm but carrying a thread of expectation beneath the surface, "how is everything going?"