Solomon turned his back to the medical cart and slowly paced the length of the infirmary bay. The endless stream of questions refused to stop, stacking higher and higher in his mind as he analyzed the chaotic events.

The bizarre behavior of the royal prince bothered him deeply, but the lingering actions of the ancient Paladin felt equally suspicious.

He sat on the edge of the mattress and stared down at his hands.

"The Paladin said the ancient royals used to dip the crown directly into the royal font," Solomon muttered, narrowing his silver eyes in thought. "He explicitly stated the water reacted with the divine gemstone, transforming into holy water. The resulting liquid was then used to safely awaken their latent talents."

He tapped his index finger against his knee. If the kingdom operated on a system of holy water consumption to trigger awakenings, the Paladin’s final instructions inside the cathedral made absolutely zero logical sense.

He had specifically ordered him to swallow the raw, solid gemstone whole.

"Why would he tell me to eat a solid piece of a holy artifact instead of following the established ritual?" Solomon whispered to himself.

He considered his own SSS-rank talent, Convergence. The system requirements explicitly demanded he consume the essence of crowns to permanently claim the associated bloodline. The bizarre act of swallowing the Eden gemstone aligned flawlessly with the activation criteria of his dormant talent.

Solomon gripped his knee. "Did the Paladin actually know what my talent required? Did he force me to eat the crown because he knew it was the exact catalyst needed to trigger Convergence?"

"If the Paladin maintained his consciousness even after being cursed into an undead husk, he definitely knew the layout of his own palace," Solomon concluded, his gaze hardening on the white floor tiles. "He absolutely had to know that Uriel was permanently sealed inside the cathedral."

He rubbed his temples, fighting a renewed spike of the headache.

He genuinely wondered if the Paladin actively sent him there specifically to fight the angel knowing the divine entity was waiting, or if the deadly encounter occurred simply because the crown happened to be resting on that shattered altar.

"All these unanswered questions are just leaving a bad taste in my mouth," Solomon muttered, rubbing his jaw as he stared at the sterile white floor tiles.

"That is probably because the medical staff force-fed you an absurd amount of weird elixirs and foul-tasting medicines while you were passed out," a new voice chimed in.

Solomon snapped his head up. The door to the infirmary had silently slid open, and a man was casually strolling into the room. Solomon sat on the edge of the mattress and simply stared at the newcomer for a few long seconds, carefully assessing him.

"Who are you?" Solomon finally asked.

The man puffed out his chest slightly, a proud smirk crossing his face. "I am the one who saved your life. I dragged your unconscious body out of those ruins and brought you all the way back to the academy."

"Well, ’the one who’ should probably have an actual name," Solomon pointed out dryly.

The man waved a hand through the air, completely dismissing the notion. "Names aren’t important right now."

Solomon sighed but offered a genuine nod of gratitude. "Right. Well, thank you for bringing me here. I owe you my life." Solomon then raised his right arm, flexing his perfectly pristine fingers in the bright clinic light. "And I would also like to find out who was in charge of my recovery. I need to thank everyone who treated me and flawlessly healed my severed hand."

The proud smirk completely vanished from the man’s face. He fell perfectly silent, his eyes locking onto Solomon’s flexing fingers.

"No one on the medical staff healed you, kid," he said, his tone suddenly serious. "Your hand was perfectly attached and completely intact when I found you lying on those marble stairs."

Solomon froze. He lowered his arm slightly, his brow furrowing in deep confusion. "What? That is impossible. I vividly remember the angel cutting it—"

The man’s brow pinched into a deep frown. He stepped forward, his arm suddenly snapping out in an untrackable blur.

He snatched a knife from the nearby metal cart. Before Solomon could even process the sudden movement, the man slashed the razor-sharp blade directly across the palm of Solomon’s extended hand.

Solomon violently yanked his arm backward, but he was far too late. The man’s speed was absolutely monstrous, defying any attempt to track or dodge it. Part of his failure to react was also due to sheer shock as Solomon simply had not expected his supposed savior to randomly stab him in the middle of an academy infirmary.

"What the hell is your problem?!" Solomon shouted, gripping his wrist.

He looked down, fully expecting to see blood pooling onto the white floor. Instead, the angry words completely died in his throat.

Both he and Balzac stood in total silence, watching the deep, bloody laceration on his palm react.

The bleeding stopped almost the exact second the blade left his skin. Right before Solomon’s widened eyes, the severed muscle fibers, veins, and torn skin rapidly weaved and knitted themselves back together.

Within mere seconds, the vicious cut was completely gone, leaving absolutely no trace of a scar behind.

Both Solomon and Balzac stood completely still, staring at the flawless, unblemished skin where a deep laceration had been just a second ago.

Solomon slowly rubbed his thumb across his palm, feeling absolutely no phantom pain or tenderness. He looked up at the eccentric man. "Is... is that supposed to happen? Did you do this? Is this some kind of passive healing ability of yours?"

Balzac scoffed and tossed the bloody surgical knife onto the metal tray with a loud clatter. "I wouldn’t waste my precious energy on something so utterly useless. I just cut you to prove a point."

He crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes at the student. "Tell me, kid. Do you possess some kind of high-tier regeneration ability?"

"No," Solomon answered honestly, his mind racing.

Balzac tilted his head, carefully analyzing Solomon’s confused expression. "Did this sudden healing factor manifest after your fight with that angel?"

"I literally just woke up," Solomon replied, gesturing to the hospital bed. "The last thing I remember is finally killing the angel and passing out on the marble stairs."

Balzac’s gaze darkened slightly. "And how exactly did you kill it?"

"I decapitated him," Solomon stated matter-of-factly, glancing toward his greatsword. "I used my weapon and cut his head clean off."

Balzac let out a low, humorless hum. He leaned forward, resting his hands on the edge of the medical cart. "Is that so? Then what about brutally tearing its limbs off? Or violently ripping its internal organs out and scattering them across the courtyard?"

Solomon physically recoiled, his eyes widening in pure shock. A cold chill ran down his spine as he imagined the gruesome scene. "What? No. I didn’t do any of that. I definitely don’t remember doing something so completely unhinged."

He vividly remembered beating the angel in a fit of rage fueled by the ancient Paladin’s lingering fury, but ripping organs out ‌was entirely missing from his memory.

Balzac stared at him for a long moment. He didn’t even blink, his sharp eyes practically piercing straight through Solomon’s chest.

"Then tell me, kid," Balzac asked, his voice dropping to a deadly serious whisper. "What exactly did you do with the angel’s heart?"