Morning arrived without announcement.
Too soft.
Too restrained.
Thin bands of sunlight slipped through the tall dormitory windows, painting the stone floor in pale gold.
The academy hadn't rung its bells yet, but it was already awake—footsteps echoed through the halls, low voices murmured behind half-open doors.
Kayden lay flat on his back, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
He hadn't slept.
Not because of fear.
Not because of dreams.
Because of absence.
The System hadn't spoken since last night.
No quiet pulse at the back of his mind.
No subtle corrections.
No familiar presence he had grown used to pretending wasn't there.
Nothing.
Kayden sat up slowly, elbows resting on his knees.
You're there, he thought. Not calling. Not demanding. Just… acknowledging.
Silence answered him.
He stood, stretched, and tested his balance. Everything felt normal. His heartbeat was steady. His senses sharp—but unchanged.
That unsettled him more than any warning ever could.
The System could guide him.
It could restrain him.
And now, he understood something new.
It could choose.
After washing up and pulling on his uniform, Kayden stepped into the corridor.
Students were already gathering, yet something felt off. Conversations were quieter. Laughter ended too quickly.
Even the usual early-morning arguments sounded restrained, as if everyone was subconsciously careful.
Rayden burst out of the neighboring room, hair still damp, faint sparks dancing around his fingers.
"Tell me I'm imagining this," he said, squinting down the hall. "Why does it feel like the academy's about to announce an execution?"
Kayden shrugged. "You're dramatic."
Rayden scoffed. "Yeah, but I'm usually wrong dramatic."
Liora joined them moments later, posture calm, eyes sharp. She scanned the corridor once.
"There are more seniors out today," she said.
"That's not normal."
Rayden groaned. "Fantastic. Nothing like being silently judged by people who can accidentally level a building."
Kayden didn't respond.
He had noticed something else.
The seals embedded in the walls shimmered faintly—reinforced. Not flashy. Not obvious.
Intentional.
Whatever today was, it wasn't routine.
Instructor Halden Voss stood at the center of the main grounds.
The moment students saw him, the noise faded.
Tall and broad-shouldered, his expression unreadable, Halden was flanked by several senior cultivators—some familiar, others complete strangers. All of them watched with quiet focus.
Kayden felt it immediately.
This wasn't discipline.
This wasn't reward.
It was measurement.
"Listen carefully," Halden said, his voice carrying effortlessly. "What follows is not a response to your performance in the Ruins Zone."
Murmurs rippled through the first-years.
Halden raised a hand. Silence returned.
"This is an evaluation phase," he continued. "Designed to observe your limits. Your restraint. Your awareness."
Rayden muttered, "That's punishment wearing polite clothes."
Liora elbowed him.
"There will be no rankings," Halden added.
"No winners.
No public results."
Kayden's chest tightened.
No public results.
"This evaluation is not about strength," Halden said. "Anyone attempting to prove otherwise will be removed."
Rayden straightened. "Hey—"
Kayden's hand closed around his sleeve.
"Don't," he murmured.
Rayden hesitated, then clicked his tongue and stayed quiet.
Barriers rose. Platforms shifted. The academy itself seemed to reorganize, dividing students with mechanical precision.
Group F was guided toward the eastern training field.
Kayden noticed immediately.
Their zone had more observers.
Rayden noticed too. "Why do I feel stared at?"
"Because we are," Liora replied calmly.
At the edge of the field stood Primyte, arms crossed, watching.
Their eyes met.
No nod.
No signal.
Primyte simply looked away.
The message was clear.
Don't exceed what you can explain.
The evaluations were subtle.
Balance tests on unstable platforms.
Reaction drills that punished overcorrection.
Precision exercises where excess power counted as failure.
Kayden performed exactly as intended.
Average. Controlled. Explainable.
The System remained silent.
Rayden struggled.
"Why can't I just blast it?" he complained after another restraint-heavy trial.
"That would defeat the purpose," a senior replied flatly.
Rayden groaned. "I hate growth."
Liora almost smiled.
As the tests continued, Kayden noticed something else.
The observers weren't watching everyone.
They were watching patterns.
Who adapted too fast.
Who reacted before cues.
Who adjusted instinctively.
Once, Kayden hesitated—deliberately.
A senior's gaze lingered.
Then moved on.
Good.
By midday, Rayden was visibly irritated.
"They keep watching you," he muttered.
Kayden raised an eyebrow. "Feeling insecure?"
"No," Rayden said. "Annoyed."
Liora glanced at Kayden. "Your control doesn't fluctuate. That draws attention."
Rayden frowned. "Since when is consistency suspicious?"
Kayden smiled faintly. "Since today, apparently."
The final test focused on endurance—not of the body, but of focus.
Light distorted. Sound warped. Gravity shifted.
Kayden steadied himself.
Not with the System.
With himself.
When it ended, the supervising senior paused while writing.
That pause carried weight.
Then it passed.
Dismissal came quietly. No results. No reassurance.
As they left, Rayden clapped Kayden's shoulder. "You did fine. Too fine. Which is unsettling."
"I'll take that as praise," Kayden replied.
Rayden narrowed his eyes. "You're hiding something."
Kayden met his gaze calmly. "Aren't we all?"
Rayden snorted. "Fair."
Liora followed a step behind, watching Kayden's back.
He felt… distant.
Not weaker.
Just farther away.
Behind sealed doors, quiet voices spoke.
"He doesn't fit any category."
"No output spikes."
"His control curve is wrong."
"Too stable."
A pause.
"Monitor him."
That night, Kayden sat alone in his room, the lights left off. Beyond the tall window, the city glowed faintly, distant and indifferent, its lights blurred by the thin barrier of glass.
The academy was quiet, but not asleep.
Somewhere far away, a door closed.
Somewhere closer, footsteps passed and faded.
None of it reached him.
Primyte's voice echoed in his mind, calm and precise in the way only truths could be.
Adaptive system users don't retire.
They disappear.
Or they're erased.
Kayden let out a slow breath, resting his elbows on his knees, fingers loosely interlocked.
He had heard those words hours ago, yet they hadn't settled. They hovered, sharp-edged, waiting.
The System remained silent.
Too silent.
Then the thought came.
Not gently.
Not gradually.
His parents.
Kayden's breath hitched, just slightly. He had never known the full story. Only fragments. Only the finality.
They were gone. No bodies. No witnesses willing to speak. No clear explanation—just a neatly wrapped conclusion he had accepted because there was nothing else to hold onto.
Until now.
His fingers tightened.
What if they weren't ordinary?
The question lingered, heavy and unwelcome.
He tried to dismiss it, to tell himself it was coincidence, paranoia born from stress and whispered warnings. But the gaps in his memories refused to stay closed.
The missing reports. The sealed records. The way certain names were never spoken aloud.
The room felt colder.
Not because the temperature had changed—but because something unseen had shifted.
Kayden leaned back against the wall, eyes closing.
If Primyte was right…
If adaptive system users were erased…
Then maybe his parents hadn't vanished.
Maybe they had been removed.
And for the first time that night, in the quiet of his room—
The silence didn't feel empty.