CHAPTER 14: LONELY INFLUENCE
***
Five days had passed since the student vacation at the La Luna Sangre Hotel began.
With only two days remaining before the retreat reached its conclusion, the atmosphere among the student body had shifted.
In less than a week, a lifetime of events had unfolded—some joyous and celebratory, others dark and permanent.
However, one event stood out above the rest.
To some, it was a moment of justice to be remembered.
To others, it was a tragedy that demanded to be forgotten.
They called it the punishment of the Devil.
On Friday, Nomoro Ketatsuki was cornered and beaten by a mob of students.
The assault followed an accusation that he had "harassed" the school's most radiant star, Izha—the famous influencer of Malacca, who was also known as Trizha Frantzes.
The supposed crime had sparked in the heart of the Mirror House during the Japanese cultural festival prepared by Yuri Calypso and spilled out into the night.
Witness accounts were fractured.
A few dared to suggest a misunderstanding, but their voices were drowned out by the overwhelming weight of Nomoro's reputation as the "Demon of Nine Years Ago."
To the majority, his guilt was a foregone conclusion. Yet, the chaos didn't end there.
Hours later, witnesses reported a second, more shocking conflict.
Trizha had been found in a fractured state, but her "loyal" friends, Margaret Sensha and Wyne Kylie, were the ones who emerged with injuries.
The paparazzi and her fans found themselves hitting a wall.
Wyne and Margaret refused to speak, and Trizha had retreated into a guarded silence.
Without testimony or concrete evidence, the truth remained buried under a layer of hotel rumors and student speculation.
***
Inside the quiet sanctuary of the clinic, Wyne stared at her phone, the glow reflecting off her tired eyes as she finished reading the latest student forum post.
She was intentionally avoiding the investigators, keeping her secrets locked tight until she could make sense of the wreckage herself.
She lay flat on the thin mattress for a moment before slowly sitting up. Her gaze drifted to the adjacent bed where Margaret lay in a deep, medicated sleep.
"..."
Wyne's face was a mask of sheer exhaustion.
She reached out, her fingers trembling slightly as she softly caressed Margaret's hair.
It was a silent gesture of comfort, one she knew her friend couldn't feel, but one she needed to give.
"I'm sorry, Margaret," Wyne whispered into the sterile air, her voice cracking. "I let you get caught in the crossfire. I just... I couldn't control it. Not after seeing what she did. Trizha... she isn't the person we knew. That wasn't her, anymore."
She closed her eyes, and the image of Trizha's face burned into her retinas—the cold arrogance, the way she had looked down on them like they were dirt under her expensive shoes.
Tears finally spilled over, hot and bitter.
Wyne realized then that Trizha's greatest tragedy wasn't her mistakes, but her inability to face them.
***
Outside the clinic door, Nomoro stood in the shadows of the hallway.
He watched Wyne through the small rectangular window of the door, his expression unreadable.
He remained a portrait of a broken man; a fresh bandage was wrapped around his forehead, and his right arm was now heavily bound in white gauze.
"So, you're the one playing guardian angel for those two? That's quite a change of pace for the local demon."
Nomoro started at the voice, spinning around to find T. Myrcella standing just a few feet away.
She was leaning against the wall, a soft, uncharacteristic smile playing on her lips.
"Teacher...?" Nomoro asked, his voice low and cautious.
"Yep, it's me," T. Myrcella replied, stepping closer.
She reached out and patted Nomoro's shoulder with a casualness that stunned him.
"You're carrying the worst injuries in this building, yet you're out here checking on everyone else instead? I haven't even finished disciplining you, and you're already acting like a gentleman. That's my student."
Nomoro stared at her, his eyes narrowing slightly as he tried to process her behavior.
This was a side of her he had never seen—casual, warm, and utterly lacking her usual bite. For once, he decided to let his guard down.
"You're being awfully soft today," Nomoro remarked, his gaze returning to her face.
"What, you expect us teachers to be strict monsters 24/7?" Myrcella snorted, raising her hands in a mock surrender before grinning smugly. "I'm actually quite kind to people I like. And I happen to like people who care for others more than themselves."
She paused, as if realizing how that might sound, and gave his shoulder a playful shove.
"But don't get your hopes up—it's not a romantic thing."
"You really didn't need to tell me that," Nomoro replied flatly.
"Harsh! But fair," T. Myrcella laughed, the sound echoing slightly in the empty hall.
She patted his shoulder one last time, a silent warning not to get too cheeky. "Common sense says students and teachers stay in their own lanes, after all."
But then…
…Her laughter died down abruptly, and her demeanor shifted.
The warmth vanished, replaced by the sharp, piercing gaze of an educator who saw too much.
"Now, let's get straight to the point—the real reason I'm here," T. Myrcella said, her tone dropping into a serious register. "I'm here to check on the girls, yes. But I'm also here to ask you a question."
Nomoro felt his pulse quicken.
His hand instinctively went to the bandage on his right arm, his fingers brushing the rough fabric.
"What is it?"
"Well... how do I put this?"
Myrcella crossed her arms, analyzing every twitch of his facial muscles. "Yesterday... those students. They gave you a brutal beating. A beating you didn't even try to avoid. So tell me, Nomoro: why didn't you fight back? Why didn't you even raise a hand to defend yourself?"
Nomoro's eyes widened.
It was a question that cut through his armor.
He was the one who could have beaten dozens of those students; he had the strength to end that mob in seconds.
And yet, he didn't.
He didn't attempt to lift a finger.
He stayed silent for a long time, turning his head back to the clinic window.
He watched Wyne and Margaret for one last moment before turning back to his teacher with a gaze that was disturbingly calm.
"Those students... despite how angry they were, and how cruel their actions felt..."
.
.
.
"...What they did was right."
.
.
.
T. Myrcella's jaw dropped. She stood frozen, her eyes searching for any sign of a joke or a mental breakdown.
She stuttered, her composure shattering for the first time in years.
"What... what are you talking about?" she hissed, her voice a mix of shock and rising anger. "Do you even realize what they did to you? They treated you like an animal!"
"I am aware," Nomoro replied calmly.
"Then are you acknowledging the cause of their violence?" Myrcella pressed, stepping into his personal space. "Or are you admitting that you did harass Trizha Frantzes?!"
"No," Nomoro said firmly.
"Then make me understand!" Myrcella's voice rose, though she kept it controlled enough not to disturb the clinic. "I came here to get the truth. Depending on what you say next, I might have to take you into custody myself. I won't hesitate, Nomoro. If you're guilty, I'll be the one to lock the door."
She shouted, but in a more controlled tone so that Wyne and Margaret from inside the clinic wouldn't hear her.
She clenches her fist, preparing herself for whatever Nomoro is about to say.
Her glare was valid—if Nomoro admits the 'wrong' part of what he did, she'll lock him up without even a care as long as he and the world finds him truthfully guilty.
She waited, her patience fraying, until he finally spoke again.
"They call me a demon." He said firmly. "They see me as the devil. And they believe me to be one. If that is their truth, if that is what they think of me, then what wrong did they do?"
Nomoro turned to face her fully, his eyes devoid of malice.
"It's about intentions, Teacher. People act on what they believe to be true. They hurt me because they believed they were protecting someone from a monster. In their minds, their cause was righteous. If an intention is rooted in doing what is right, then the act itself—no matter how painful to me—isn't 'wrong' in their eyes. I allowed them to hit me because I was taking the blows they felt I deserved. I was playing the role they needed me to play."
T. Myrcella felt the air leave her lungs. She was dumbfounded, her mind reeling.
This is the boy they call a devil? she thought.
This is the monster?
The moral complexity of his words was something she wasn't prepared for.
Every rumor she had heard about him portrayed him as a mindless brute, but this philosophy was something else entirely.
It was a level of self-sacrifice that bordered on the divine—or the insane.
"All that understanding..." Myrcella whispered, her grip on her fists loosening. "And you truly believe they were right to hurt you? You're kidding me..."
Her face softened.
She looked at him with a newfound sense of dread and curiosity.
What kind of life had he led to produce a child with a heart this scarred and a mind this detached?
She sighed, the heat leaving her eyes.
"I see. Fine," Myrcella said softly. "But here is my last question. With that philosophy in mind, what is the 'Demon of Nine Years Ago' going to do now?"
Nomoro didn't hesitate.
Even if people still see me as someone who's very destructive… destruction always falls into redemption out of realization. But that doesn't mean I fell into redemption—I've been the type to save since I was born."
"I'm going out there to save," he answered. "People see destruction when they look at me. And they're right—destruction always falls into redemption out of realization. But I haven't 'fallen' into redemption. Nor have I realized it. I never did. I never had to. I have been the type to save since the day I was born."
He gave her a single, respectful nod before walking past her.
His footsteps were silent on the carpeted floor.
Myrcella stood there, speechless, the weight of his words lingering in the air like a heavy fog.
"This guy..." she muttered to herself, a bewildered chuckle escaping her lips. "What the heck did he eat to be able to speak like that?"
She shook her head, her skepticism about the rumors finally winning out over her professional distance.
She turned to look after him, but the hallway was empty.
He had vanished like a ghost.
A sudden thought struck her, and her eyes widened.
"Wait... he didn't have a broken arm yesterday when we were cleaning him up."
Myrcella turned back to the clinic window, peeking inside at Margaret.
She remembered what the nurses had whispered to her that morning—that Margaret's arm, which had been grotesquely dislocated, was mysteriously healed and functional within hours.
Suspicion gnawed at her, but she pushed it down.
Between the mysterious black hole from that one time and the impossible recoveries, she was reaching her limit.
As a normal human, she chose the comfort of ignorance over the terror of the supernatural.
After all, there's no point in that if you're in debt of bills.