Later That Evening
The domain unfolded around me in silence.
Panels rose.
Light stabilized.
The alchemical workspace reassembled itself with familiar precision.
No witnesses.
No interruptions.
Just me.
I stood at the central platform, the prototype suspended in midair—plates disassembled, core exposed, logic arrays rotating slowly like a living equation.
"Begin integration," I said.
The domain responded instantly.
[Adaptive framework—online.]
[Intent-pattern capture—initializing.]
I extended my hand.
Not to command.
To think.
The suit reacted—not to movement, but to inclination. Micro-adjustments rippled through the structure as it mapped decision latency, priority weighting, and predictive branching.
Good.
Very good.
Lina's idea wasn't just compatible with my abilities—it was made for them.
Instead of issuing directives, the suit learned my thresholds.
When I hesitated.
When I committed.
When a future became unacceptable.
Alchemy sigils rewrote themselves, abandoning rigid instruction sets in favor of probabilistic alignment.
The result wasn't automation.
It was anticipation.
[Heuristic synchronization—stable.]
[Cognitive friction—reduced by 87%.]
I watched as the final layer sealed itself, the armor no longer just a tool—but an extension of intent.
A suit that wouldn't slow me down.
One that wouldn't argue.
One that understood when I had already decided.
I exhaled slowly.
"…Excellent."
The domain dimmed slightly, systems settling into dormant readiness.
I stepped back, studying the finished construct.
She was right.
I allowed myself a brief, quiet acknowledgment of that fact.
Then I archived the suit and let the domain fold inward once more—silent, sealed, and waiting.
Above all of it, one thought lingered.
Not about Justice.
Not about the government.
Not even about the future.
Just a simple realization:
Inviting Lina had been the correct decision.
Even if I still didn't understand why.
Yet.
⸻
Later That Night, Eli noticed it halfway through his debrief.
Not a spike.
Not a surge.
A shift.
He paused mid-sentence, fingers curling slightly as the air around him tugged—faint, directional, like gravity remembering where to lean.
The handler frowned. "Mr. Origami?"
"…Sorry," Eli said. "Can you repeat the question?"
They exchanged a glance before continuing. "School. Anything unusual?"
Eli hesitated.
"Neo's… different," he said carefully.
That earned him their full attention.
"How?"
Eli searched for the right words. "It's not power. Not directly. It's like—" He tapped his chest once. "Being near him feels quieter. Like things make sense faster."
Silence.
One of the analysts slowly set down her tablet.
"You're describing alignment effects," she said.
Eli blinked. "Is that bad?"
"No," she replied. "It's rare."
Another voice cut in. "Did he do anything?"
Eli shook his head. "That's the thing. He didn't. It just… happened."
The room went still.
Finally, the handler spoke. "And his project?"
Eli shrugged. "No idea. It's Neo. You don't ask him what he's doing—you just find out later."
That earned a few tight smiles.
"Keep observing," the handler said. "No interference."
Eli nodded.
As he stood to leave, the pull returned—gentle, distant, but unmistakable.
Neo had moved again.
Not in space.
In capability.
⸻
Elsewhere, The quarry was empty.
The equipment cold.
The ground undisturbed.
Which was wrong.
The proxy crouched at the edge of the testing site, fingers brushing against the air itself.
Nothing resisted.
Nothing reacted.
"…Clean," they murmured.
No residual force.
No alchemical decay.
No distortion fields.
Whatever had been tested here hadn't strained reality.
It had cooperated with it.
The proxy straightened slowly, eyes narrowing.
"So this is the Saint of Wisdom," they whispered. "Or what's left of him."
A faint smile formed.
"No brute force."
"No declaration."
"Just refinement."
They turned away from the quarry.
"Very well," they said softly. "If he won't announce himself…"
They looked toward the city.
"…we'll meet him where he's pretending to be ordinary."
⸻
Ironwood Academy — The Next Morning
The hallway was louder than usual.
Not because of sound.
Because of attention.
Every step I took pulled eyes toward me. Whispers followed like an afterimage. My locker was stuffed with letters—some neatly folded, others crumpled as if written in a hurry—and I got asked to "hang out sometime" more times than I could count before first period even started.
If I were free to live the way I intended when I reincarnated, I might have leaned into it.
Unfortunately, circumstances were already dragging me back toward the gravity of my past life.
…Sigh.
By the time I reached the classroom, Lina was already there—waiting, smiling far too brightly.
"Morning, Neo," she said, stepping a little closer than usual.
I paused.
She'd been acting like this ever since our test date. More attentive. More expressive. Less guarded.
I wasn't stupid. I noticed.
"You're in a good mood," I said as I took my seat.
She clasped her hands behind her back, rocking slightly on her heels. "Is that a problem?"
"No," I replied honestly. "Just… unexpected."
She laughed softly, but there was a flicker of something else in her eyes—nervous energy, maybe. This version of Lina, oddly enough, was more exhausting than the one who kept her distance.
Before I could say more, the classroom door slid open.
The proxy walked in.
He moved with an easy confidence that didn't belong in a place like Ironwood Academy, their uniform perfectly arranged, posture relaxed—but his eyes locked onto me the instant he crossed the threshold.
And he smiled.
Not a friendly one.
A knowing one.
He took a seat a few rows away, never breaking eye contact. His grin widened, just a fraction.
Interesting.
Lina leaned closer to me. "Why does it feel like he is staring straight through you?"
"Because he probably is," I answered calmly.
Her jaw tightened. "Do you want me to say something?"
I shook my head. "Not yet."
Even without my bio-mark reacting—no spike in threat assessment, no warning signals—I knew this wasn't harmless.
He finally looked away, resting his chin on his hand like a bored spectator who already knew how the play would end.
Even if there's no immediate danger…
I exhaled slowly.
It's only a matter of time.
⸻
Ironwood Academy — Midday
They called him a transfer student.
That was the fiction everyone agreed to use.
New uniform.
Perfect records.
Background so clean it felt curated.
He sat three rows ahead of me in Advanced Theory, posture relaxed, pen moving just a little too precisely. Not rushed. Not hesitant. As if he already knew how the lecture would end.
The proxy didn't look at me.
He didn't need to.
Instead, he leaned slightly toward the student beside him—a boy named Ren. Average grades. Quiet. Forgettable. The kind of person systems loved to lose track of.
I felt it before I saw it.
A tilt.
Not mental control. That would've been crude.
This was encouragement—artificial conviction injected where doubt used to live.
Ren's breathing changed.
His spine straightened.
His pulse quickened.
Lina frowned beside me. "Neo… do you feel that?"
"Yes."
Ren raised his hand.
The class stilled.
"I think the formula you're using is inefficient," Ren said, voice stronger than it had any right to be. "There's a recursive shortcut you're ignoring."
Murmurs rippled.
The teacher blinked. "And you are…?"
"Ren," he said. "Second-year."
I watched carefully.
Ren wasn't wrong.
But the confidence wasn't his.
The proxy finally turned his head just enough to watch the effect ripple outward—students re-evaluating, attention shifting, hierarchy subtly rearranging.
Justice didn't dominate.
Justice reframed.
I let a fraction of my cognition slip forward.
Not prediction.
Correlation.
If left unchecked, Ren would continue.
He'd escalate.
He'd burn out—or be burned.
I tapped my pen once against the desk.
The sound was insignificant.
The effect wasn't.
The domain wasn't here.
But alignment was.
Ren faltered mid-sentence.
His breath hitched.
The borrowed certainty collapsed inward, leaving only embarrassment and confusion.
"I—sorry," he muttered. "I don't know why I said that."
The class exhaled.
The proxy's smile didn't fade.
It sharpened.
He glanced back at me at last—eyes calm, curious.
So you can intervene without touching, his look said.
Interesting.
Eli leaned over from behind. "That wasn't normal."
"No," I replied. "That was a test."
"Whose?"
"Yes."
The bell rang before anything else could escalate.
As students stood, the proxy rose too—moving past us deliberately slowly.
"Neo Zane Cole," he said softly as he passed. "I'm looking forward to working with you."
He didn't wait for a response.
Lina grabbed my sleeve the moment he was gone. "I don't like him."
"That's appropriate," I said.
Eli's jaw was tight. "You want me to report this?"
"Yes," I said. "But not as a threat."
He frowned. "Then as what?"
"As proof," I replied. "That he's impatient."
⸻
That Evening — Government Secure Line
I didn't go in person this time.
I didn't need to.
The projection flickered to life above my desk at home—Director Hale, Elias Hallow, and two analysts I hadn't met before.
"You felt it," Elias said. Not a question.
"Yes," I replied.
"The proxy made contact?"
"Indirectly," I said. "They're stress-testing social structures. Confidence manipulation. No overt violations."
One analyst exhaled slowly. "So they're mapping response thresholds."
"Correct."
Director Hale folded his hands. "And your assessment?"
I didn't answer immediately.
Instead, I checked something—quietly, internally.
[Probability strain: manageable.
Collateral risk: rising.
Time window: narrowing.]
"I'll take a job," I said.
The room stilled.
Elias raised an eyebrow. "You're volunteering?"
"I'm choosing," I corrected. "There's a difference."
Director Hale nodded. "What kind of assignment?"
"Containment," I said. "An anomaly event that looks unrelated. I want to see how Justice reacts when I move off their board."
One of the analysts hesitated. "That could expose—"
"I won't," I said calmly.
Not arrogance.
Math.
After a moment, Hale spoke. "We have a disturbance in Sector Twelve. High instability. Civilian risk escalating."
I stood.
"I'll handle it," I said. "Alone."
Elias studied me. "You're sure?"
"Yes."
The call ended.
I set my phone down and stared at my reflection in the darkened screen.
The proxy was watching.
Justice was listening.
And Ironwood was no longer just a school.
That was fine.
I'd already adapted.
Lina's suggestion has fully integrated into the suit.
Which meant the next test wouldn't be theoretical.
It would be real.
⸻
Sector Twelve — Night
The anomaly didn't look dramatic.
That was the problem.
No glowing sky.
No warped skyline.
Just a dead stretch of street sealed off by emergency barriers and quiet panic.
Reality was thinning.
I stepped past the perimeter before anyone could stop me.
The suit assembled itself as I walked.
Not summoned.
Not worn.
Constructed.
Alchemy filaments flowed from my wrists, weaving plates of matte-black alloy around my torso, limbs, spine. Each piece locked into place with a soft harmonic click, like a thought snapping into alignment.
The helmet didn't close fully.
I didn't need it to.
The suit wasn't armor.
It was structure.
Internal layers adapted in real time—cognition channels widened, force-distribution matrices synchronizing with my restored predictive depth. The suit knew where my abilities would strain reality and compensated before stress could form.
Ironwood-level tech would've collapsed under this.
This didn't.
"Containment unit standing by," a voice said through my earpiece.
"Stand down," I replied. "You'll only get in the way."
The anomaly pulsed.
Air distorted.
Sound delayed by half a second.
Streetlights bent like reflections in water.
Not gravity.
Not force.
Entropy bleed.
Something was eroding probability itself—turning stable outcomes brittle.
I stepped forward.
Reality resisted me.
It always did now.
I raised my hand and decided where the collapse would stop.
Not commanded.
Decided.
The suit translated that decision into action—alchemy lines flaring gold-white as a stabilizing lattice snapped into existence around the anomaly.
The pressure hit immediately.
Not physical.
Causal.
A future where this failed tried to assert itself.
I rejected it.
The anomaly screamed—no sound, just violent contradiction—and folded inward, compressing into a singularity no larger than a fist before sealing itself shut.
Silence followed.
Streetlights straightened.
Time resumed behaving.
I exhaled slowly.
No pain.
No backlash.
Just clarity.
"…Containment confirmed," someone whispered over comms.
I looked down at my hand.
Steady.
In my past life, this would've taken preparation.
Now?
Execution.
"Extraction team can move in," I said. "I'm done."
I disengaged the suit.
The plates dissolved back into light, then nothing.
No scorch marks.
No evidence.
That was intentional.
Justice didn't need proof yet.