The room was designed to make people feel small.
Smooth black stone walls curved inward just enough to distort depth, etched with faint runes that drank in light rather than reflecting it. No windows. No decorations. Only a single long table of pale crystal and three high-backed chairs on the opposite side.
Kael sat alone.
Not restrained.
Not bound.
That, more than anything, told him how afraid they were.
A soft hum filled the chamber — containment magic layered so densely it felt like pressure on the skin. Not meant to imprison him. Meant to measure him.
Kael leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.
The silence reminded him of the end.
Not the loud ends. Not the ones with fire and screaming and collapsing worlds.
The quiet one.
The seventh.
He remembered standing at the edge of the continent, the sea frozen in mid-wave, stars locked in place like they'd forgotten how to move. No wind. No time. Just him and the echo of what had been erased.
He opened his eyes.
Footsteps approached.
Three presences entered the chamber.
The Headmaster walked in first, his posture straight but tense, age lines around his eyes deeper than Kael remembered. Behind him came the crimson-mantled professor — Archmagus Serelis — and a third figure Kael didn't recognize.
The third man wore no Academy robes.
His clothes were simple, dark, unmarked. His eyes, however, were sharp in a way that had nothing to do with magic.
A Watcher.
Kael almost smiled.
They were escalating faster this time.
The Headmaster took his seat. The other two followed.
For several seconds, no one spoke.
Finally, the Watcher broke the silence.
"You killed a divine envoy in front of three hundred witnesses," he said calmly. "Do you understand what that means?"
Kael shrugged. "It means you won't be able to lie about it."
Serelis bristled. "Watch your tone."
Kael turned his gaze to her. "Or what?"
The air tightened.
Then the Watcher raised a hand, and Serelis stilled.
Interesting, Kael thought.
The Watcher leaned forward slightly. "Let's start simple. Your system."
Kael didn't answer.
"You do have one," the Watcher continued, eyes never leaving him. "It simply doesn't respond to standard divine architecture."
"No," Kael said. "I don't."
The Headmaster frowned. "That's impossible. All sentient beings—"
"—are indexed," Kael finished. "Tracked. Quantified."
Silence.
He tapped the table once with his finger.
"I opted out."
Serelis laughed sharply. "You can't opt out of reality."
Kael met her gaze.
"I did."
The Watcher's expression changed. Just a fraction. Curiosity slipped through the professional mask.
"How?" he asked.
Kael considered the question.
He could tell them the truth.
That he stayed behind when the world ended.
That he walked a dead timeline alone.
That he learned how reality behaved when no one was left to observe it.
But truth without context sounded like madness.
So he chose something simpler.
"I survived something I wasn't meant to," Kael said. "And the system doesn't forgive that."
The Headmaster exhaled slowly. "You're saying you existed beyond the reset."
Kael nodded once.
Serelis whispered, "That's heresy."
"No," Kael replied. "That's inconvenient."
The Watcher folded his hands. "If what you're saying is true, then you represent a threat on a conceptual level."
"Everything worth changing does."
The Headmaster leaned forward. "Kael… do you understand why the gods reset the world?"
Kael looked at him.
"Because they're afraid of what happens when mortals learn too much," he said. "And because failure is easier to erase than to fix."
Serelis slammed her palm against the table. "Enough. You speak as if you've seen them."
Kael didn't respond.
He didn't need to.
The silence answered for him.
The Watcher stood.
"I will report this as a Tier-Zero anomaly," he said quietly. "Containment is no longer sufficient."
The Headmaster's face tightened. "You're calling the Conclave?"
"I'm calling reality insurance," the Watcher replied.
Kael chuckled under his breath.
That earned him a sharp look.
"You find this amusing?" Serelis demanded.
"No," Kael said. "I find it familiar."
The Watcher paused at the door.
"One last question," he said without turning around. "If the gods attempt direct intervention… will you resist?"
Kael thought of frozen stars.
Of screaming light.
Of a god's neck snapping beneath his hands.
"Yes," he said.
The Watcher left.
The door sealed behind him.
For a long moment, only Kael and the Headmaster remained.
The old man looked tired.
"I remember you," the Headmaster said quietly. "Every reset. You always sat in the third row. Always asked questions that were… uncomfortable."
Kael nodded. "You always answered carefully."
A sad smile touched the Headmaster's lips. "This time is different."
"Yes," Kael agreed. "It is."
Outside the chamber, Eryndra stood alone in the corridor.
She pressed her palm against her chest, heart beating too fast, memories brushing the edges of her mind like ghosts she couldn't quite see.
Why does it hurt when he's near?
Why does his silence feel heavier than fear?
Far above the Academy, beyond the sky mortals believed in, the gods convened.
For the first time in countless resets—
They did not argue about balance.
They argued about survival.