Neon Eden did not sleep.
It entered low-activity cycles, slowed nonessential processes, dimmed certain layers of its endless glow—but it never truly rested. The city watched itself constantly, systems observing systems, probabilities folding into new predictions with every passing second.
After the rogue anomaly incident and Aira's quiet rise to Level Eleven, Neon Eden began watching something else.
Her.
Not openly. Not officially.
But in the subtle ways that mattered most.
Aira felt it the moment she stepped outside her quarters the following cycle. It was not a hostile sensation, nor was it oppressive. It was more like walking beneath a sky that had learned your name—attention without malice, curiosity without warmth.
Her system pulsed softly.
> Passive surveillance density increased.
Classification: Non-hostile.
Purpose: Data correlation.
"So I'm a variable now," Aira murmured.
The system did not deny it.
She adjusted the strap securing her sword case across her back and continued down the corridor. Her movements were smooth, controlled, her posture relaxed despite the fatigue still threaded through her muscles from Hall Nine's relentless training. The soreness was deep but honest—the kind that promised growth rather than injury.
Eleven still weighed on her.
Not as a burden, but as a reminder.
She was no longer at the beginning.
And still impossibly far from the end.
The recruitment sector had changed overnight.
Not physically—its architecture remained sharp and utilitarian—but in tone. The large holo-displays that once cycled recruitment slogans now showed structured projections: unit formations, battlefield simulations, rotating lists of available divisions.
Preparation had accelerated.
Eight years remained before the predicted war.
Neon Eden was no longer pretending that was a comfortable amount of time.
Aira joined the flow of recruits moving through the central concourse. Some were newly registered, eyes bright with ambition and fear. Others bore the marks of veterans—subtle scars, hardened expressions, systems that no longer bothered hiding stress warnings.
Whispers followed her again.
"Is that her?"
"They say she fought a rogue construct alone."
"Level Eleven, right?"
"No way. She doesn't look—"
Aira ignored them.
She had learned that attention was a resource. The more she spent reacting to it, the less she had for survival.
At the assignment terminal, a familiar face waited.
The woman from the previous cycle—the registrar—stood behind the console again, her expression carefully neutral. This time, her eyes did not freeze when Aira approached.
They assessed.
"You're being reassigned," the woman said without preamble.
Aira raised an eyebrow. "Already?"
"Yes." She paused, then added, "By request."
"Whose?"
The woman hesitated just long enough to confirm that this was not a routine transfer.
"Strategic Oversight."
That caught Aira's attention.
Strategic Oversight was not a division. It was a layer above divisions—a body that did not train soldiers, but decided where soldiers would be broken most efficiently.
"I didn't request it," Aira said.
"We know."
The woman tapped the console. "This is a temporary evaluation assignment. Observation-heavy. Low direct combat exposure."
Aira frowned slightly. "Then why me?"
The registrar met her gaze evenly.
"Because you don't fit any existing model."
Aira considered that.
Then nodded. "Where?"
"Sector Meridian's outer ring," the woman said. "Urban-adjacent. Mixed population. High probability of low-grade incidents."
So they wanted to see how she behaved without constant pressure.
How she chose.
"I'll go," Aira said.
The assignment uploaded directly to her system. A route unfolded in her vision, threading through layers of the city she rarely visited.
As she turned to leave, the registrar spoke again.
"Be careful," she said quietly.
Aira paused.
"That's not protocol advice," Aira replied.
The woman's lips tightened slightly. "No. It isn't."
Aira inclined her head and walked away.
—
Meridian's outer ring was different from Neon Eden's core.
The towers were shorter. The lighting softer. More space existed between structures—not because of inefficiency, but because the population density didn't demand compression. People here lived slower lives. Or tried to.
Markets lined the lower walkways, vendors selling crafted components, customized system skins, aesthetic modifications. Children—actual children, not just newly instantiated bodies—ran between stalls, laughter cutting through the ambient hum.
Aira slowed her pace unconsciously.
This was what the city looked like when it wasn't bracing for war.
Her system remained quiet, observing.
> Environmental threat level: Low.
Civilian density: Moderate.
Anomaly probability: Minimal.
Minimal.
Not zero.
She took up position on an elevated platform overlooking a public square. From here, she could see most of the sector's movement patterns without drawing attention. She leaned against the railing, silver moon hair catching the light again, shimmering softly.
People noticed.
They always did.
But here, the looks were different.
Curious.
Appreciative.
Unthreatened.
Aira wasn't sure how she felt about that.
Hours passed.
Nothing happened.
She monitored minor disputes, petty system glitches, a malfunctioning delivery drone that caused more embarrassment than danger. Each time, she let local authorities handle it. This was observation, not intervention.
And yet—
The pressure beneath her skin did not fade.
It never did.
As the artificial sun dipped toward its evening cycle, her system pulsed.
> Minor anomaly detected.
Location: Sub-level transit tunnel — East quadrant.
Threat level: Low.
Aira straightened.
Low did not mean irrelevant.
She moved.
The transit tunnel was dimmer than the surrounding sectors, lights spaced farther apart, maintenance access panels lining the walls. Civilian traffic was light at this hour, mostly individuals returning from work cycles.
The anomaly revealed itself subtly.
A distortion in the air.
Not visible, but felt—like heat without warmth.
Aira slowed, senses sharpening.
At the far end of the tunnel, a figure stood unnaturally still.
Too still.
Their system signature flickered erratically, struggling to maintain coherence. Not rogue. Not fully.
Unstable.
Aira approached cautiously.
"Stop," she said softly.
The figure twitched.
Then turned.
Their eyes were wide, unfocused, fear bleeding through the cracks in their composure.
"I didn't mean to," they said quickly. "It just—started changing."
Aira assessed them rapidly.
Low rank. Low level. A civilian augmentation gone wrong. The beginnings of a feedback loop that, if left unchecked, could escalate into something far worse.
Her system updated.
> Intervention recommended.
Combat probability: Low.
Level gain potential: None.
Good.
She didn't want a level from this.
She wanted control.
"Breathe," Aira said calmly, stepping closer. "Don't fight the system."
"I can't stop it," the civilian whispered, panic rising. "It keeps pushing."
Aira reached out—not with her sword, not with magic—but with intent.
She had bent the system before.
Not broken it.
Not overwritten it.
Bent it.
She placed two fingers lightly against the civilian's wrist, feeling the chaotic surge beneath their skin.
"Listen to me," she said quietly. "You're not failing. Your system is misreading stress as threat."
She focused.
Magic flowed—not outward, but inward, threading gently through the feedback loop, smoothing jagged edges, redirecting excess energy back into stable channels.
Her system monitored silently.
> Unauthorized micro-adjustment detected.
Override level: Minimal.
Result: Stabilization in progress.
The civilian gasped, then sagged slightly as the pressure eased.
"I—can breathe," they whispered.
Aira withdrew her hand.
"Report to medical services," she said. "Tell them your system needs recalibration."
The civilian nodded rapidly, gratitude shining through lingering fear.
"Thank you," they said. "I thought—I thought I was going to lose myself."
Aira watched them hurry away.
Her system pulsed again.
> Anomaly resolved.
No level increase awarded.
She didn't mind.
As she turned back toward the main sector, something settled in her chest.
Understanding.
Power wasn't only about leveling.
It was about restraint.
About knowing when not to take what the system offered.
The city lights brightened as evening fully set in. Meridian's outer ring hummed peacefully again, unaware of how close it had come to producing another rogue anomaly.
Aira returned to her observation platform and looked out over the sector.
Neon Eden was watching her.
Not as a threat.
Not yet.
But as a question.
She rested her hands on the railing, silver moon hair flowing freely down her back, glittering softly beneath the artificial stars.
Level Eleven felt heavy.
But for the first time, it also felt… grounded.
She didn't need evolution yet.
She needed time.
Ninety levels remained.
And the city had just learned something important:
Aira didn't only know how to fight anomalies.
She knew how to stop them before they were born.
And that, Neon Eden suspected, might matter far more when the war finally arrived.