Surgery

After the presidential spokesperson's mention, news spread like wildfire that Nami had been admitted to Samsung Seoul Hospital. This time, society entered yet another phase when an anonymous tipster leaked footage of Nami being rushed to the hospital on a stretcher in an ambulance.

Netizens finally realized just how much effort Nami had poured into that one exposé. The news that a child with an unprecedented talent was ill hit people right in the gut. What if that interview footage turned out to be the last glimpse of her alive?

Meanwhile, Merlin Orphanage was swarmed by reporters out of nowhere. The intrusive camera gear looked expensive at a glance, and the adults were all suited up. The kids, raised in a Christian facility that prized silence, watched the chaos with wide-eyed curiosity. The reporters wanted interviews about "NoNaMe" and access to Room 206 where she'd lived.

"Bro, isn't 206 the haunted room...? Someone used to live there before, right?"

The room at the far end of the second floor, now shunned by all. Jae-hwan, the middle-schooler leader among the kids, crossed his arms and reminisced at the curious younger one's question.

"206 was definitely haunted."

I'd known for a long time that there was a problem with my Aura Heart. In my past life, it was called Restakaya Syndrome—a rare condition that only manifested when forcing 9th Circle forbidden magic through a human body. Surprisingly, in the modern world, it cropped up in one or two out of ten million people. Thankfully, this wasn't a world where anyone could casually wield 8th Circle magic. It was due to the globally low mana density.

The Aura Heart, expanded beyond its elastic limit, wouldn't snap back—it stayed deformed. Like thinning artery walls, the barrier between aura and mana crumbled, eventually rupturing and causing neurogenic shock death. Terrifying stuff.

The stopgap solution? Split the Aura Heart into seven parts. Not physically slicing it, but more like damming gates. In a drought, opening all floodgates drains the reservoir fast, but cracking one lets mana flow just enough to maintain levels. What mattered was proper mana-to-aura conversion and circulation—even partial use allowed normal life.

"This is the last one, Arin. Hold tight. Don't let go. Keep your eyes shut."

"Ughhh...! My heart's been pounding like crazy since earlier, like it's mad!"

"Hang in there, you got this. Hey, Baek Arin, no shaky hands! Focus!"

"Okay!"

Inserting aura-woven steel needles directly into my body required help. My assistant for that mini-surgery? Baek Arin. I didn't expect a clueless first-grader to handle aura, so I just asked her to grip the 15cm-long, 0.7mm-thick aura construct between her fingers.

Stab.

"Eeeeek!"

I was the one pierced, but Arin's toes curled in agony. Her face trembled from squinting so hard. Kids' imaginations could empathize with others' pain that vividly, huh.

"D-Done...?"

"Close? Needs a bit more push. I'll handle the rest."

"Nami, can I open my eyes now?"

"Yeah, if you want."

"Gasp...!"

Arin's eyes blinked open. Seven needles piercing my abdomen.

"...!"

She watched me adjust angles and nudge them in with my fingers—then she foamed at the mouth and passed out right there. Sadly, no time to tend to her on the cold floor. The next part was far more grueling and tedious.

I built rooms around the needle-thin "steel bars," sealing unique magics as central points in each. No need for precision prison circuits since they were trapped in my body anyway. Still, shifting coordinates later would complicate spell math, so I built decent "homes."

Medusa here, Erysichthon next, and finally Schadenfreude. The circuit formulas forming the unique magics morphed into perfect gatekeeper seals for ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the Aura Heart's inlets and outlets.

That's when Arin woke up. She kept peeking curiously as I meticulously clipped the protruding spines with nail clippers.

"D-Doesn't... it hurt...?"

"Nah. Not real steel. Once shaped, my body absorbs it."

"Hic... Still looks painful... Anything else I can do?"

"Hmm..."

Arin gazed with sparkling eyes, hinting she wanted to help more. Sighing, I gathered the clipped pieces.

"Put your palms out. Like this."

Arin obediently cupped her hands. I coated her palms with an aura membrane to avoid pricks and piled the remnants on.

"Trash bin in my room? Dump 'em there for me?"

"Yeah! I can do that!"

Somehow she'd become trash shuttle. Thrilled, she toddled toward the door.

"Waaah!"

"Baek Arin!"

Crash!

An old floor tile had buckled right underfoot—she tripped hard. The needles flew, embedding in walls and floor.

"Sniff... Waaahhh!"

"I'm done for. You okay, Arin?"

"I-I couldn't even do this right... Hic... Sorry, waaah..."

Arin clutched her bruised knee, sobbing like the world had ended.

"Not your fault. Gotta tell the nun to fix that tile. Right?"

"Sob... Hic..."

"It's fine, promise?"

I sucked at soothing kids. She stopped crying after 10 minutes, exhausted. She flopped backward onto the floor, then jolted and hugged me tight.

"What's up?"

"G-Ghost!"

"Ghost?"

"I heard a real ghost sound! What...? I swear I heard it!"

"Still hearing it?"

"N-No... But I did! Not lying, Nami! For real!"

"Okay, I believe you."

"It's true... Uuuh... Hng..."

A sudden thought hit me. Where she'd braced falling matched a needle embed spot. Suspicious, I flattened myself on the floor, sweeping my hand around.

I instantly knew the "ghost"—a fragment of the rage-forged unique magic Sekhmet, leaking via the needle. Grabbing a meteor marker pen, I X'd the spot on the floor.

"What... was it?"

"Ghost... ish?"

"Kyaaaaah!"

"Not dangerous."

I marked the other six spots too.

"Don't touch these for a while."

"What if I do?"

"Ghost sounds like before."

"Ghosts are real?"

"Nope."

"...?"

Schadenfreude's longest half-life was two weeks—symptoms would fade in two months. I drilled it into Arin not to touch the marks. No good teaching a kid curses early.

Ironically, she was soon adopted by a proper gentleman. She bolted from the stifling orphanage, leaving 206 vacant overnight. I still don't know what became of it.

"The surgery was a success. This MRI ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was just taken—see the nerve bundles wrapping the Aura Heart on the left image. That big cluster is the boundary interface."

"The size..."

"Yes, adult fist-sized? Ten times larger than a normal kid her age. Partly congenital, but surrounding organs are compressed, suggesting acquired expansion. See that bright tube? Main nerve—thick outer wall, luckily—"

The lead surgeon detailed the 12-hour marathon op to guardian Professor Cheon. They'd unstapled the crumpled Aura Heart, knotted off all but the main nerve to normalize mana absorption.

"The Heart self-partitioning? First in my 30 years. With patient and guardian consent, could we publish academically?"

Cheon flatly refused. The doctor didn't seem too bummed—success was enough.

Once he left, Cheon sighed deeply.

"Nami, you awake?"

His quiet call snapped my eyes open.

"How'd you know?"

"Hard to ignore those perked ears."

"Oh, was I?"

IV in my arm, nasal cannula? Whatever. I was basking in modern medicine's finest.

"Surgery went well, huh."

"Yeah... It did."

"Why so down, Professor? Not like you."

"Still hurting much, Nami?"

He must blame himself for my admission. Elsewise, no explaining that sad face. I raised my left arm, grasping his hand on the bedrail.

"If it hurts, I'll say so."

"Promise?"

"Pinky promise."

I extended just my pinky from my fist. Cheon's eyes widened; with a weepy-smiley face, he hooked his pinky in mine.

"Professor, that big tree back there—oh, a wreath. What's that?"

The colorful 'Prayers for NoNaMe Student's Recovery' caught my eye first.

"President Lee Jo-won stopped by yesterday."

"For real?"

"Just peeked at the door."

A head of state dropping by casually? Wait—rethinking, in Korea, not that weird. My old absolute monarchy brain made it feel like a royal visit, but nah—just a curious office worker #1 on his way home.

"N-No word on the terrorists?"

"Just greetings, then gone."

As expected. Was it genuine worry, curiosity, or PR? No way to tell. Better if he just handled my requests quietly without visiting.

"Room's too cramped—put wreaths in the hall."

"Should we?"

"Bothers other patients. Lobby's fine."

"Why not toss 'em?"

"Yeah, intent's what counts. Just clutter."

"Got it."

Not my style of decor anyway. Next day, absurd TV news.