The world wants to be deceived

A scream of anguish tears pierces the air and Brother Soma cracks his eyes open. As a Shaman, he truly loves his job, his role in society, but occasionally, he abhors it. Loathes it. Namely now, when it’s time to stop the kids from killing each other. He just couldn’t get any time for himself, to meditate for a minute and someone is already on their deathbed.

Jogging towards the source of the commotion, his eyes widen at the sight. A tall girl is standing over a bloody body, huffing, catching her breath. She raises her leg, poised to deliver the final blow. In a split second, Soma blocks it, preventing more paperwork and a lifeless mess. The body groans, rolling pitifully away from the girl.

“Miss, stop right now and follow me,” Soma growls. She shrugs her shoulders and steps away from her victim. Her face could have fooled him into thinking she was innocent, if he hadn’t been the one to end her assault.

He deftly picks up the battered boy and assesses the scene. Nearby, another girl is on the ground panting, purple bruises adorning her thighs. Her friend is tending to her, worry written on her features.

“You two should come along. I’ll get her patched up alongside this one,” he says, slinging the boy over his shoulder, mimicking a sack of flour. The friend nods, standing up with the injured girl, carefully steadying her.

“How are you feeling?”

“Way better, thanks to Brother Soma. These bruises will take some time to heal though,” replies Seulgi. They’re currently in the Medical Tent, Seulgi strapped to the bed and Irene accompanying her, sitting on a creaky wooden stool. Soma had just left, Joy at his heels, after tending to Seulgi and the wounded boy.

“She was too rough, huh?”

“Are you talking about me or the poor lad flaunting six broken ribs, courtesy of Joy?” Seulgi frowns, she sincerely hopes he won’t be crippled forever, but that’s too hard to tell.

“Both of you?”

“Honestly, I’ll recover in a few days. The other guy received the blazing wrath of Joy so your concern should be directed towards him instead.”

“Has Joy always acted this way? Sorry I’m asking too much,” Irene says hesitantly.

“Not at all, I enjoy answering! Hmmm, as for Joy she has always been very protective of me. Anyone who insults me in any shape or form typically ends up unable to move the next few days. Anyone who insults Joy has a death wish or aspires to be confined to crutches for the rest of their life,” Seulgi clarifies, the ghost of a grin threatening to materialize.

Irene shivers at the thought of an angry Joy. 

“I’ll crush you. Your face wouldn’t be recognizable,” taunts the boy.

“Is that so? What’s your name, punk?” sneers Joy.

“Mark. Remember who beat you today.”

“Consider it noted for your gravestone.” The fighters adopt their stances, waiting for the opponent to strike first. Circling around like hawks. In a flash, Mark closes the gap, firing jab after jab.

Irene watches in fascination as Joy calmly parries every single blow. The brawl is dragging on and sweat drips from the boy’s forehead. Desperation feeds off him, eating him alive. He snaps one more kick. Pain crashes down on his front leg, momentum working against his body. A force pushes his head down and agony erupts. He falls, clutching his stomach. Joy lowers her knee back down.   

“You !”

“Apologize to Seulgi.”

“I’ll never bend for that dunce! Scum of the earth!” Joy kicks him. Another screech.

“Last chance.” Mark spits at her, baring his teeth. Fury devours the girl, she snarls. There will be no mercy. Irene looks away, drowning the screams, muffling them in her mind.

After witnessing the ruthless fight, a mixture of fear and respect for Joy has developed. The insane speed, how she countered Mark’s kick with one of her own. Irene is amazed. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to ally herself with the martial arts prodigy. However, suspicion nags away, creating more questions. Something is amiss, a veil of deception in place. Joy was restraining herself during the fights in terms of skill. She seemed bored, uninterested. Coupled with the fact someone of her caliber shouldn’t be sorted into Vesalius, the group for misfits. Intrigued, she’ll ask Seulgi about it later.

Tranquility seeps through in the meantime. Heavy as a blanket, yet comforting. Minutes slip past, and awkwardness replaces silence.

“I’m bored. What’s your avatar?” declares Seulgi.

“You’ve asked me several times now,” Irene says, shaking her head. The bedridden girl’