Chapter 115: EXPOSED [2]
Chapter 114: Exposed [2]
(Michael POV)
’Good. He’s buying it.’
The faintest smile tugged at the edge of his lips.
’He’s not treating me like a suspect anymore, just a curiosity. That’s manageable.’
He risked a glance at Gileard’s aura — it had settled to a low, disciplined hum, no longer trying to crush him. That, in itself, was a victory.
But deep down, he could feel Darken humming faintly, resonating against his palm as if amused.
The blade’s presence was weighty yet strangely reassuring, like a living being purring in satisfaction after asserting its dominance.
’Yeah, yeah, don’t get cocky, you edgy piece of metal’
Michael thought dryly. I almost coughed up my lungs just to keep up appearances.
’Still, the irony wasn’t lost on him only five seconds ago, he was a step away from being branded a demon worshiper, and now, thanks to a single bluff and a blade that shouldn’t even exist in this world yet, the whole script had flipped.’
—-------------
Gileard stopped pacing, his boots halting near the shattered remains of the earlier chair. He turned back toward Michael and spoke again, tone measured.
"This sword... How long have you had it?"
"One month before the entrance exam," Michael replied, his tone even. "I went into an E-rank dungeon. Alone."
The inspector’s eyebrows lifted slightly at that.
"Alone? At G– rank?"
Michael nodded. "I wanted to test my limits. I found the sword buried beneath a black crystal formation the moment I touched it, it reacted. It was... painful, but I felt power pour into me."
He paused for effect, allowing just enough hesitation to make the memory sound organic rather than rehearsed.
"When I came out, my body was different. Stronger. I trained day and night after that because I didn’t want to waste the chance. I thought it was just a lucky find."
A faint, self-deprecating smile followed. "Guess it wasn’t just luck."
---
(Gileard POV)
Gileard rubbed his chin, silent for a long moment.
’So, the kid’s saying his growth was catalyzed by an artifact infusion... a dungeon find. Hm. We’ve seen stranger cases. The Tower researchers once found an A-rank farmer who awoke because a cursed hoe leaked mana into him for years.’
It’s not impossible. Rare, but plausible. And the aura’s source clearly isn’t his body — it’s that sword.
He looked again at the weapon, feeling the subtle thrum in the air — like a heartbeat echoing through mana itself.
That thing’s alive, in its own way.
If he’s lying, he’s doing it flawlessly. Either he’s the best liar I’ve ever seen... or this boy’s luck is truly monstrous.
He sighed.
"Luck... sometimes, it’s just another kind of strength."
---
(Michael POV)
Michael raised an eyebrow at that remark but didn’t respond.
He could feel Gileard’s suspicious softening, and he didn’t want to ruin it with unnecessary words.
Instead, he let the silence hang. A negotiation tactic as old as time says nothing, let the other person fill the air with their own reasoning.
And it worked.
Gileard finally nodded to himself, as if reaching a conclusion.
"Alright, Michael Wilson. I’ll take your word for it — for now."
He gestured with one hand, and the pressure in the room faded entirely. Even the faint mana distortion that lingered from the earlier clash began to dissipate.
"You’re no demon worshiper or dark contractor. If you were, that sword would’ve corrupted you the moment it fused mana with your body."
Michael exhaled a slow, relieved sigh that he didn’t bother hiding.
"Thank you, sir."
He forced a small laugh to break the tension. "Honestly, I was starting to think I’d get burned alive before explaining myself."
The inspector’s lips quivered.
"You might’ve, if you’d lied poorly."
Michael raised an eyebrow, half in jest.
"So I did well?"
Gileard answered coldly .
"Moderately."
Michael trying to ease the tense room as half jokingly.
"I’ll take it."
---
The guard outside, hearing the shift in tone, peeked through the small viewing window. Gileard noticed, waved him off, and the man disappeared again.
Then the inspector’s eyes drifted back to the broken chair. With a short, sharp whistle, he signaled.
The door opened, and another guard entered, carrying a replacement chair.
The sound of boots echoed briefly.
Creek—
The new chair was set down, the broken one taken away.
When the guard left, silence fell again but it was no longer suffocating.
"Sit," Gileard said.
Michael obeyed, lowering himself onto the new chair. This time, it didn’t crack beneath invisible pressure.
He placed Darken gently across his lap; the blade’s aura had quieted, like a beast returned to slumber.
---
For a moment, neither spoke. Then Gileard finally exhaled and leaned back against the table.
"You’ve got the nerve, kid. Most students would have fainted under that much pressure. You held on and even fought back."
Michael tilted his head, pretending to think about it. "Guess I’m stubborn."
"Or stupid," Gileard said dryly.
"Why not both?"
The inspector chuckled again a rare sound, rough and genuine. "You remind me of someone I used to know."
"Someone who survived your interrogations?"
"Barely."
Their brief exchange dissolved into silence, but it wasn’t hostile now.
Michael could feel his heart rate finally stabilizing. The adrenaline that had kept him upright was ebbing away, replaced by a dull ache in his muscles.
---
(Michael’s POV)
’If I hadn’t summoned Darken, I’d be pasted on the floor right now.’
’I was right about one thing though — his mana wasn’t full power. That pressure was controlled, like a test. But still... if he’d gone serious, I wouldn’t even have had time to think.’
He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling quietly.
’Damn. This world doesn’t pull punches, even when it’s not trying to kill you.’
Darken pulsed faintly in response, as if mocking him.
He muttered under his breath, "Yeah, yeah, I know you saved my ass. Don’t get used to me thanking you."
The sword’s faint hum in his palm almost sounded like a chuckle.
—------
Then Gileard’s tone shifted again, this time serious, but no longer confrontational.
"Alright. You’ve convinced me you’re not a cultist. But that doesn’t mean you’re clear of suspicion yet. We still have to address the accusations that brought you here."
Michael nodded. "Understood."
"Good. Then let’s continue the investigation properly."
He opened the folder again, pulling out a set of documents with crisp, deliberate movements.
His tone had returned to business—measured, deliberate, yet carrying a subtle undertone of curiosity.
> "Alright. Let’s continue."
He opened the file, the soft rustle of paper filling the silence.
> "Michael Wilson," Gileard began formally, "you are charged with bribery, bullying, and abuse of authority in your position as Chief of the Disciplinary Committee. The complainants claim you’ve been taking money in exchange for leniency."
He pulled a thin sheet from the folder and slid it across the table.
> "Here’s the first piece of evidence—a bank statement."
The paper stopped inches from Michael’s hand. The young man didn’t reach for it immediately; he stared at it for a heartbeat, then finally picked it up, eyes scanning the neat rows of printed numbers.
---
(Michael’s POV)
He didn’t understand what evidence they could have submitted to Law Enforcement Hall. So full focus on it.
’So that’s how they’re playing this.’
’Each line was clean, precise deposits marked under random names, all dated within the last two weeks. The amounts weren’t large individually, but consistent. Enough to make a pattern. Enough to make it look real.’
’But the problem was simple.’
’He didn’t receive any of it.’
Michael looked up slowly, his voice calm but edged with disbelief.
"These transactions aren’t mine. Check my official Academy account. There’s nothing like this recorded there."
Gileard didn’t respond immediately. He flipped another document open, expression unreadable, and handed over a second sheet.
"We did. This isn’t your Academy account. This is a secondary account registered under your name."
The words hit like a stone dropped into still water.
Michael’s hand froze midair. His eyes flicked down at the page again—this one carried not just transaction data, but identity registration details. His own name, printed clearly across the top.
His pulse quickened.
’Another account? That’s impossible. I’ve never made one... unless—’
The thought struck him like lightning.
The original Michael.
’His predecessor. The body’s previous owner—the boy whose soul, memories, and past he’d replaced when he transmigrated.’
He let out a sigh..
’If this account existed, and he didn’t know about it, it could only mean one thing.
"Those memories were sealed off. Locked. Or erased entirely.’
He skimmed the page, his gaze snapping to the small footnote at the bottom the one line most people would’ve ignored.
Account frozen: 9th July, 3880.
Reactivated: 14th June, 3892.
Michael’s pupils narrowed.
’What the Fuck! Reactivated... just a few months ago.’
And not by him.
Someone had revived the account, using his name and credentials.
His jaw tightened. Whoever did this wasn’t just framing him; they had access to information buried even he couldn’t reach.
’Who is it plotting on me to this level?’
(To be Continue)