Monday. Trial day. Trial Six. Failed.

  Rem didn’t bother waiting for the failure message to fade. He slipped into his alchemy workshop and let a smile tug at him. The night lilies were thriving in their beds, glowing softly and filling the room with their sweet, heavy scent.

  He dropped his satchel near the glyph wall and crossed to the central workbench. The materials were already laid out, waiting like obedient servants. He set to brewing.

  While the others raced timers and clawed for leaderboard scraps, he worked in silence. Vials lined up like little soldiers, each filled with pale restorative draught. He’d planned for six — enough, he hoped, to settle his debt to Mistress Vetra. He hated the thought of owing anyone.

  His hands cramped, wrists sore, but still he brewed. The workshop was a good place: better air than his locker, proper lights that burned steady above. When the last vial was corked, he called up the interface.

  Profession: Alchemy

  Rank I · Apprentice

  Alchemy XP: 24 / 100

  Trait: Alchemy Prodigy (+15% growth)

  Tracked Formulas: 2 / 5

  Formulas

  Health Potion · Lv 2 (30 / 200)

  Restoration Potion · Lv 1 (79 / 100)

  Already the numbers proved it — the trait was pulling him forward. He cleaned his bench, left the lilies glowing behind, and made for the academy.

  The plaza was alive, a storm of voices under the shifting glow of the public board. Names slid and flickered, places won and lost. His eyes found his own at the bottom — one place from nothing. Last.

  At the top: Eva Smit. First place. The board bathed her name in gold. The ripple surged through her and for an instant she seemed more solid, more vivid — as if the world bent sharper around her. She laughed, high and cutting, delight flashing like a knife.

  The first of his friends to four. Of course it was her. The system loved people like Eva. Mara beamed at her side, but Rem thought he caught a flicker — a flash of jealousy buried behind the smile.

  “Congratulations,” he offered, because politeness was expected. She turned that radiant smile on him, every inch of her basking in the proof of her philosophy: hard work, rules followed, results earned. Rem hated the smugness of it, but there was no use arguing.

  He was still standing among his classmates, orbiting Eva’s triumph, when the summons cut through. A message stamped in official red: Headmaster’s Office. Immediate.

  The noise of the plaza fell away. He excused himself and walked the long stair in silence, footsteps echoing too loud, the air colder with every stride. With each step, the ember of hope guttered lower.

  Expulsion. It could only be that.

  The Headmaster’s office was not the cold tribunal Rem expected. No bronze pipes, no tiered banks of screens blazing his failures. Instead: couches. Two of them, low and upholstered in worn leather, facing across a slim table. A long cabinet sagged under trophies, plaques, framed smiles with men in uniforms. The air smelled of polish, of dust and leather warmed too many years.

  “Come in. Sit.”

  Ordan didn’t turn. He stood at the window, hands clasped behind his back, graphite-gray coat trimmed with bronze piping, shoulders set so square they seemed carved there. His reflection cut a severe profile against the glass — clean-shaven jaw, hair combed to a razor line, a face that looked minted for coins. The arch loomed beyond him in the yard, pale and immense, a door carved into the sky.

  Rem sank into the couch. Cushions swallowed him. His palms stuck damp against his knees.

  “How’s your father?”

  The question dropped like a stone.

  “…What?”

  “I knew him. We both worked the ACA, back in the day.” Ordan finally turned, eyes severe as cut glass, but not without depth. “I recognized your name. I remember when he announced your birth to the whole team. Couldn’t shut him up about you.”

  A prickle crawled his neck. He could see it too clearly — his father flushed with pride, the impossible weight of expectation already settling on an infant’s shoulders, and the long march of disappointing years that followed.

  “It isn’t every day a man names his child after Rembrandt,” Ordan went on, pacing. Boots struck the polished boards in even, echoing beats. He carried a tablet loosely in one hand, the other flexing as though it longed to clench. “One of the great artists of our history. It spoke of vision.” He stopped, gaze cutting down on Rem. “Which is why I don’t take this lightly.”

  Rem shifted, wary, resting his arm across the couch as if bracing against a blow.

  “You’ve placed last in every trial.” The words came clipped, precise. “One. Last. Two. Last. Three. Last again.”

  The rhythm hammered him flat. He’d lived each humiliation already, but hearing them stacked — like nails driven into wood — stripped him bare.

  “My instructors say you’re disengaged. Listless.” Ordan’s boots clicked closer, the sound deliberate, each step as measured as his breath. “So tell me, why shouldn’t I expel you right now?”

  Rem braced. Heart pounding.

  “You’re expelled.”

  The hammer fell — and then paused. Ordan’s gaze lingered, steady, unsparing. “That’s what I planned to say. Tried, in fact. But the system won’t allow it.”

  Rem jerked upright. His pulse stuttered.

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  “Won’t… allow it?”

  “That’s right.” Ordan’s tone cooled to steel. “And I want to know why.”

  Silence pressed in, broken only by the faint hum of the building’s lights.

  “I can’t help you,” Rem muttered, folding his hands tight to stop the trembling.

  Ordan studied him — severe eyes boring through, yet not cruel. Patience itself drawn out like a blade. “Your scores drag the academy’s averages below standard. That sets our entry order for the cross-academy competition. Because of you, everyone suffers.”

  The words scraped. His chest hollowed. Nobody had mentioned that

  “There are two solutions.” Ordan lifted the tablet again, as though weighing it. His voice carried the same power it had in the amphitheater, the kind that filled mountains. “One: I make your life so intolerable you leave on your own. Mandatory classes, day and night, until you break. That improves our averages, but I still don’t learn why you’re unexpellable. And I suspect the answer to that may matter more than averages.”

  Rem’s jaw clenched. His chest ached from holding still.

  “Two: you stop wasting our time in trials, and you work with me. In return, I’ll tell you why the Academy is pivotal to your future — something your classmates can’t even glimpse. You give me enough to place you in a team competition. And you promise — your best, no excuses.”

  A cold prickle crawled across Rem’s scalp. His instincts screamed of traps. But … he couldn’t ignore that.

  . “If I agree the Academy is worth it, then I’ll commit. Otherwise, no.”

  Ordan’s eyes narrowed. “And you’ll give me what I need to place you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then a bargain is struck.”

  He leaned in, voice lowering, severe eyes steady on Rem. “Do you know what provisional citizenship means?”

  Rem frowned. “We all have it. Except—” he stopped himself.

  “It means your life is a lease,” Ordan cut in. “Fall short of expectations, lose their favor, your license is revoked. Your body ceases to regulate. You die choking on your own essence.” His voice hardened, boots planted firm. “That’s how they subjugated the planet in a month. Millions gone, system by system, body by body.”

  Rem shivered. The image burned in him — bodies folding in the street, essence unraveling like smoke.

  “If you complete two years here, your citizenship is upgraded to permanent status. No more provisional leash. Safe from reprisal. And more — that upgrade opens travel to higher sectors, higher levels. Provisional status caps you at Level Ten. The upgrade lifts the ceiling.”

  His mind reeled. Merit shielded him, but his friends, his peers — their lives dangled by a thread.

  “What about our families?” he managed. “Our parents? Siblings?”

  “If they excel in challenges, they may earn it. Otherwise they rely on you. When you ascend, you can bring them.”

  The weight of it settled sharp and undeniable.

  “That’s… a good reason.” He leaned back, but a new thought cut through. merit?

  With a thought Rem let the Guild Badge shimmer into existence, bronze crest materializing over his jacket.

  Ordan’s eyes locked on it. A brush of essence touched Rem, subtle as static. The Headmaster went still. For a heartbeat his composure cracked — breath catching, jaw tightening — then he stood sharply, pacing the length of the window with military precision, boots striking wood in crisp succession.

  When he turned back, his coat settled against him like armor, face once again composed. Only the lingering heat in his eyes betrayed the calculation racing behind them.

  “I understand now.” His tone was clipped, restored, but weighted. “That will be sufficient.”

  Rem dismissed the badge. The silence rang.

  Ordan inclined his head once, almost formal. “Thank you, Rembrandt. And for the love of God — stop taking my damn trials.”

  Day 7, L3 Challenge

  This was a good day.

  1. First day in my new workshop.

  2. Didn’t get expelled.

  3. Got a trial exemption instead.

  I couldn’t really enjoy it. At this point when something good happens I feel like something bad is not far behind.

  Still don’t know the point of leveling formulas and alchemy. Nothing seemed to happen when I leveled HP to 2. But likely not bad whatever it is.

  Banking interface, got list of banks I could use for guild account. Picked the first one since there didn’t seem to be any way to rank them.

  Opened a personal holdings account. Yeah. Balance. 0.

  So I guess when I sell potions they will transfer money there? feels weird to think of digital currency in Oldetown. We’ll see how it goes.

  Tomorrow, going to try and repel two surges. Fletchers and Blacksmiths both had items we can use to upgrade the defense. Back up plan.

  Tried to get the captain to move the wagon in front of the gates, to keep them from buckling. No good. I haven’t impressed him enough, or whatever - he doesn’t take the suggestion seriously. I need to figure out how to get through to him.

  Pretty sure if I bring in a bunch of healing potions, maybe something to help with exhaustion I can squeeze out an extra surge. Beyond that I don’t know. It’s probably enough.

  How much is this challenge going to cost me? Good thing oranges grow on trees.

  Commander de Vries stood behind his desk. The ACA headquarters had gone still. Only the floor striplights kept the darkness back. He usually stayed late, but tonight he stayed for the packet sitting in the center of the desk.

  He had gone through it three times already. “Gone through” was generous. The pages weren’t built for understanding. They were built to shut him out.

  He lifted the first seven sheets and let them run through his hand again.

  BioPsion Cognitive Systems, Inc.

  In response to Inquiry…

  Thank you for your continued partnership…

  Regrettably, your question cannot be answered in the manner requested…

  Per Agreement 12-114B you acknowledge that no outcome, biological or cognitive, may be construed as evidence of…

  All determinations regarding patient identity remain proprietary…

  Removal of Q-Series technology may result in discontinuities that are not indicative of pre-participatory states…

  Your signature affirms waiver of claims, public or private…

  Each line closed the door a little further. Each paragraph pushed him back across the threshold.

  Then came the one that tried to sound generous.

  BioPsion recognizes the emotional difficulty inherent to transitional cognitive events. However, speculation regarding alternative continuities is outside the scope permitted by the Q-Series trial and related governing statutes. We encourage you to focus on the successful stabilization of your dependent and make use of the family resources packet provided during Phase One.

  The word stuck first. Then . Then the quiet push toward a pamphlet.

  His jaw locked. Heat pressed along the side of his neck.

  The paper carried weight. Corporate stock with enough stiffness to feel important, enough thickness to hide behind. Seven pages built to keep him from his own son.

  He took the first page and folded it once. Then again. When the folds refused to take another crease, he forced them anyway. The fibers strained. He crushed the sheet in his fist until it collapsed into a tight, uneven ball.

  The office didn’t react. The status screens kept their soft hum. Somewhere below, a door beeped as someone ended their shift.

  He set the crushed sheet on the desk and kept his eyes on it. Not for the words. For the plain fact that this was all BioPsion had chosen to give him.

  His voice dropped to a low, steady line.

  “I asked you a simple question.”

  The paper stayed silent. It didn’t say whether the trial had killed his son and left an imitation in his place. It didn’t say whether his son was still trapped inside that altered mind, pushed down under something that wasn’t him. It didn’t say whether there was anything left of the boy he raised—or if he had already lost him for good.

  He picked up the second page. He didn’t hesitate. He folded it. Folded it again. Then crushed it down in the same slow, deliberate motion. When it held shape, he reached for the next.

  He worked through all seven pages this way. Fold. Crush. Set down. A small pile of ruined paper grew by his hand.

  When he finished, the desk was bare except for the mound of tight paper shapes.

  The building sat in its night-cycle. Screens dimmed. Ventilation pushed a low draft along the floor. None of it touched him.

  He stood still for a long moment. His breath came tight and even—the kind he used before walking into a fight he didn’t plan to lose.

  BioPsion had made its choice.

  He would make his.

  He reached for his coat. His fingers closed around the collar with a steady grip, not rushed, not shaking. He powered down the desk display and watched the last line of light disappear.

  The truth wasn’t in those pages.

  It was in the person they returned to him.

  And he would find it.

  On his own terms.