Divine Celebrity 88

My guide had an impatient look on her face as I let her appear, which was enough to earn a frown. “What took you so long,” she said, not even looking around to take her surroundings. 

It was bad, because the previous times I had pulled her back, she was not really aware of the passage of time, and it was the sense of headache that had forced me to let her out. 

Looking back, it was possibly the impact of the draining effect she had on me, though whether she was pulling from the System, or directly from me — or a mixture — was still to be determined. 

The fact that she became aware of the passage of time was bad, and not just because it removed a handy manipulation tool from me, but also because implied her abilities might improve enough to observe me from there as well. 

A shuddering thought. 

“It took a while for me to handle the paperwork at the hospital, and I didn’t want to bother you while that many people were around,” I said, giving an excuse. Not a good one, and her tightening face told me that she was very much aware that it was a nonsense excuse — another evidence that her childish silliness had gone — but she didn’t push me further on the topic. 

“Tell me about the assassins,” she ordered.

“As you wish,” I said, and started explaining, though with one major difference. I didn’t mention the trick I managed to pull with the Intent. 

Despite the necessity, giving a report like that was chafing. I was annoyed with her sense of entitlement, but I was also not willing to push forward to conflict with her directly. I still didn’t know her full capabilities of her in terms of the System, and there was no guarantee that it didn’t include ripping the System away from me. 

I didn’t want to lose those abilities — and even worse, I suspected the cost of such a move wouldn’t have been just returning to my previous state. 

Playing the obedient hero distracted by vices was easier. Her response to the nurses and the delay was obvious distaste but nothing else, giving me a space to operate without directly confronting her. 

Conveniently, it was not too far away from my actual personality. 

“Worrying,” she murmured as I finished describing two attacks in clinical terms. 

I waited five seconds, giving her the opportunity to tell me more about the nature of the attackers, conjectures about their source, anything. 

Yet, she kept her mouth shut, radiating her intent to keep her cards close to her chest, unaware that she had just committed a major infraction from my perspective. 

The information she possessed was precious, but her clear reluctance to take initiative on a topic that clearly worried me was a horrible sign. It was not conclusive as well, so rather than pushing that, I changed the subject. “Can you protect me against them?” I asked, faking more fear than I was actually fearing. “I’m afraid to go to sleep.” 

“Don’t worry, I will protect you,” she said in a dismissive tone. Though, it wasn’t a careless dismissal, like the police giving a cursory response, but a big sister promising to protect his five-year-old brother from his bully, completely confident that she could deal with it. 

Unfortunately, I didn’t share her confidence. I still remembered the shock she had experienced as she tried to put out what she called a cursed fire at the ritual site, pushing herself far more than she could, and getting comatose. 

And while she gave a more competent aura, looks didn’t necessarily carry into actions. 

“Get me some history books, I need to have a better understanding of what happened,” she said. 

I nodded, suppressing my desire to bite back and order. Luckily, I had already picked several books on the topic to refresh my understanding of the subject, trying to make sure I had everything, so I didn’t need to bother with a midnight run to the library — especially since my car was still at the parking lot. 

I pulled a selection for her — ones that I found particularly unhelpful, to test her reaction —  and put them into a pile on the table. 

“Put them next to each other,” she added, and I followed her command. She didn’t explain the reason, but she didn’t need to, not when she stood in front of one and waved her hand, and the page flipped. 

Which confirmed to me that, at the moment, she had the ability to interact with the world, but only to a very limited degree. Lifting a book was either too laborious, or impossible for her. Moreover, I didn’t know it was a capability she always had and just didn’t bother to use, or something that developed recently. 

I would have preferred to have a more accurate assessment, but it was still better than nothing. 

Before sleeping, I spent quite a bit of time on social media, responding to the well-wishes of the people on my page — my number of followers growing immensely in the process, showing the signs of touching six digits — and checking the other news. 

I was happy to see the earlier attempts of the school to suppress the fight had utterly and completely failed. And, even better, every piece had me as the poor victim, while positioning the offensive team as annoying bullies encouraged by Coach Spencer’s horrible coaching. 

“Fascinating,” I murmured as I read the news, realizing the extent the which public opinion was shifting. I had hoped to create a big commotion as a last-minute attempt to farm Intent from the football team before I get kicked out, with a possible hopeful outcome of staying on the team if I could create a big enough mess. 

Yet, the punch proved to be more effective than I had expected. 

Location and audience were a part of it. Not only he punched me directly in the middle of the field, but also he did so while teams and spectators, and more importantly, cameras were present. 

But, looking at the videos, I realized that Unarmed Trait had an unexpected benefit, making my fall after the punch extremely realistic, selling the idea that he sucker-punched me while I was just a poor guy that didn’t expect violence from his exalted coach. 

The rumors of the hospital report — coming from my helpful nurses, and fueled further by Megan — had been exaggerated, enough to 

However, I clearly miscalculated the impact of suddenly turning into the convenient victim of the storyline. 

The stories had managed to dig both my orphan status, and my status as a chess player — not that they were particularly hidden in the first place — and combined all of those to make Coach Spencer even a bigger villain than he actually was, positioning him as an evil schemer that deliberately worked to ruin the careers of underprivileged students. 

Rather than the truth, which he was a vainglorious moron.

Ultimately, I didn’t care much about Coach Spencer’s fate. 

I was not a nice person in the first place, and Coach Spencer certainly didn’t deserve such assistance. 

What I cared about was miscalculating the media reaction, and not just by a fraction. I had been expecting the school to successfully suppress the news this time as well, while assuming, even at its most effective, Megan’s social media push would barely ensure I would stay in the team and continue playing. 

I didn’t expect to be wrong in an order of magnitude. 

Another fortunate detail was the amount of Intent that I was receiving despite the media coverage. It was still generating some, but certainly not as much as I had been expecting considering the number of the news article that was popping up. I would have expected people to feel intensely about the subject. 

Then, it clicked as I continued to read the comments. 

People were angry, but that anger was solely directed at Coach, while people were sending their hopes and well-wishes.  

That didn’t surprise me after growing up in the streets. Pity was a distant, cold emotion, the kind that people easily ignored. Oh, they did their best to convince themselves that they cared more, but I knew from experience that it was the opposite. 

Most people wouldn’t even bother to give a dollar to a freezing child in the street, but the same people would do their best to chase the same child several blocks just because he swiped a half-eaten pastry off their table and run away. 

Anger was much stronger than pity, both in real life, and it seemed, for the System as well. 

“Bad times,” I whispered as I let the sleep take me. 

I had another big day tomorrow.