System Mission: Seduce the Final Boss [BL] Chapter 108: I called him

"But just... how do I get information about, well, everything?"

At this point, could he even trust the system?

It was a strange thing to question now, after everything that had already happened. From the very beginning, he had relied on it more than he wanted to admit.

Not blindly, but enough that its absence would’ve left him fumbling in complete darkness.

And despite all its faults, despite how utterly useless it could beco at the worst possible monts, there was one thing he couldn’t deny.

The system had never actually lied to him.

It withheld information and answered questions in the most frustrating ways imaginable. But whenever it did provide sothing tangible, it had always turned out to be true.

Especially the rewards.

At the start of all this, there had been one reward in particular that genuinely helped him move forward with a mission.

Character information.

"Spoon, open shop."

The ceiling screen flickered to life almost imdiately, the translucent interface opening right in front of him.

Blake slowly raised his arm. Even that tiny movent sent a dull ache through his shoulder.

He ignored it and typed:

Character.

However, nothing appeared.

"Mh."

He tried again but, this ti, he searched Hero Lab Disaster.

The novel appeared instantly.

Blake stared at it for a few quiet seconds before looking away.

’Not now, maybe later...’

Once he was certain he had pieced together enough of this ss to actually understand what he was looking at.

Right now, buying the novel felt less like gaining answers and more like willingly handing himself another migraine.

"Hey, Spoon," he muttered tiredly, "why is there no character information? Shouldn’t every reward be purchasable?"

The screen blinked once.

[ No, Dear Host. Not all rewards provided through the system can be obtained through the shop. Certain rewards are exclusive to the reward system itself. ]

"Ah."

Blake stared blankly at the ceiling.

"Can I trust you?"

It was an indirect question, quite the vague one, maybe even pointless.

Still, he asked it anyway.

Because the truth was, from the very beginning, he had trusted the system. Not fully, not comfortably, but enough to depend on it when things beca critical.

And sohow, in those monts, it always delivered just enough to survive and keep moving.

Maybe he had taken that for granted.

Especially considering the system still hadn’t answered the actual thing he ant.

The screen glowed softly.

[ Dear Host, you will never be hard by , if that is your concern. ]

Blake let out a weak breath through his nose.

"No," he murmured, "that’s not what I was asking."

Slowly, he pushed himself upright.

Imdiately, his entire body protested.

Pain crawled through his limbs like rust grinding between old gears. His muscles felt heavy, stiff, unbearably sore. Even sitting there made him want to lie back down and stay motionless for the rest of the day.

But he needed to eat sothing.

At the very least, he needed a painkiller.

Without one, even basic movent was becoming difficult.

Using the edge of the bed for support, Blake forced himself to stand.

The mont he straightened up, a burning sensation spread through his body.

He froze.

Yesterday hurt, but this was different, much worse and much more familiar.

His knees weakened slightly, forcing him to catch himself against the wall.

"...What the hell?"

Why did he feel weaker than yesterday? That shouldn’t even be possible.

He lifted a hand and pressed it against his forehead.

Way too hot.

The heat practically radiated against his palm, enough that his expression twisted imdiately.

’A fever, of course.’

Because apparently having his body beaten by bullets wasn’t inconvenient enough already.

For a second, Blake genuinely wanted to cry.

What kind of miserable combination was this? A ruined body and a high fever?

He dragged himself toward the kitchen anyway.

Each step felt annoyingly unstable, his body stiff enough that even walking required conscious effort.

By the ti he reached the counter, he already felt exhausted again.

Opening the fridge, Blake stared blankly inside for several seconds before grabbing the first things he saw.

Bread, cheese, ham.

Good enough.

He made himself a sandwich with slow, sluggish movents, standing there in complete silence while trying not to think too hard about how much his head hurt.

Even swallowing felt uncomfortable.

Still, he forced himself to finish eating.

Then he grabbed a bottle of water and took the painkiller.

The dicine slid down his throat along with a long breath.

Honestly, it wasn’t as if he had anything else to do.

So after putting everything away, Blake imdiately returned to bed.

The mattress dipped beneath his weight as he collapsed onto it with zero grace.

’God. Jesus. Buddha. Everything hurts.’

For a while, he simply stared at the ceiling again.

Then, after a mont of hesitation, he reached for his phone.

There was one person he could call.

Well, not directly the person.

The secretary.

The line rang twice before soone picked up.

"Young Master Blake?"

The man’s voice sounded as composed and professional as always, though underneath it lingered a kind of exhaustion that never really disappeared.

Blake had no idea how soone could sound overworked through a phone call, but sohow this man managed it consistently.

"Can you send soone to pick up?" Blake asked quietly. "Now, preferably."

That text he sent Myles... it was ridiculously false.

Actually, no.

Forget ridiculous.

It sounded suspicious as hell.

But there was no taking it back now.

Especially because if Myles got involved, Blake was absolutely certain the situation would spiral imdiately.

Whether personally or through soone else, Myles would check on him sohow.

In fact, Blake was pretty sure that if Myles called him right now and casually asked how things were going, Blake would answer normally, and imdiately get caught anyway.

Just from his tone, or breathing, or the way he paused between words.

Sohow, the man always noticed things he shouldn’t.

There was a brief silence on the other side of the line before the secretary finally spoke.

"...May I ask why, Young Master?"

His voice remained respectful, though Blake could practically hear the fatigue hidden underneath it.

"And unfortunately," the man continued carefully, "by Master’s explicit instructions, I cannot send personnel directly to the residence."

Blake closed his eyes as he let out a long sigh.

"...Because I feel like absolute trash," he said flatly. "I have a high fever, and I got beaten up by gangsters."

Complete silence on the other side.

Blake pulled the phone slightly away from his ear and stared at it for a second.

Then he put it back, still silence.

Honestly, he could almost picture the secretary rubbing his forehead right now, or silently reconsidering every life decision that had led him to this job.

Finally, the man spoke again.

"Understood."

Another pause.

"You will be picked up shortly, Young Master. However, you will be brought to Madam’s quarters."

Blake sat upright so quickly his spine imdiately regretted it.

"What? My stepmother’s quarters?!" he blurted out.

The secretary sounded confused now.

"Well, yes."

"Why would I go there?"

Another small silence followed.

"You usually go there when feeling unwell, Young Master."

"Ah, right."

"Yes."

The secretary sounded increasingly perplexed.

"As Madam is rarely present there personally, it has generally been considered an appropriate environnt for you to recover privately."

Blake stared blankly ahead.

’Hold on, rarely present?’

"So... she won’t be there?"

"She never goes there."

The man paused.

"At least, not during these situations."

Blake’s eyebrow twitched slightly.

’These situations? What situations exactly? How often did this happen?’

Unfortunately, asking those questions would imdiately expose him.

So instead, he rubbed his forehead again.

"...Right."

God, his head hurt.

"When’s the car coming?"

"Approximately one to two hours."

That was good enough.

"Okay."

After ending the call, Blake dropped his phone beside him and slowly exhaled.

One hour.

Maybe two.

Fine.

He could survive that long.

Probably.

He set a tir anyway, just in case he accidentally passed out.

Then he laid back down and stared at the ceiling once more.

Honestly, resting barely helped.

Yesterday, he had simply been exhausted beyond reason. Too tired to think. Too drained to move.

But today his body felt horribly stiff, every muscle ached.

Even breathing too deeply made his ribs complain.

He shifted slightly and imdiately regretted it.

"Am I even going to make it to the car?"

At this rate, he might collapse halfway there.

Ring!

Blake turned his head slowly toward the sound. The screen lit up beside him, and the mont he saw the caller ID, his chest suddenly felt heavier.

Myles.

Blake stared at the screen in silence while the phone continued vibrating softly against the mattress.

He had texted him earlier.

But texting and speaking were completely different things.

Texts gave him ti, control and well, kept a distance.

A phone call didn’t, because it ant Myles would hear his voice.

The mont he answered, Myles would realize sothing was wrong almost instantly.

Sohow, absurdly, terrifyingly fast.

Blake swallowed.

The phone kept ringing.

For the first ti he could rember, he slowly turned the screen face-down instead of answering.

Ignoring Myles on purpose felt strangely difficult.

Unnatural, even, like he was doing sothing he shouldn’t.

The ringtone finally stopped and silence returned to the room.

Blake stared at the ceiling again, feeling his heartbeat pound unpleasantly against his aching body.

Then his phone buzzed once more, it was a notification this ti, but he didn’t check it.

Instead, he simply closed his eyes, one arm draped weakly over them while heat burned beneath his skin.

The tir beside him continued counting down quietly.

And sowhere beneath the pain, exhaustion, and fever, one thought kept circling endlessly in the back of his mind.

He really, really did not want Myles to see him like this.

Was it sha?