Chapter Six: Registration

The heavy doors of the Testing Hall swung shut behind them, sealing away the murmurs of other students still waiting for their turn at the obelisk. Zarou's hands stayed hidden beneath his sleeves, fingers curled loosely to hide the tremor that hadn't quite left him since the fight.

For once, it wasn't exhaustion. It was certainty. Even with the clumsy, jagged shape of the lance, even with his mana flickering wild and untrained—he could feel it. The first real sense of himself since waking up in this new world.

Don led the way down a narrow hallway, his broad frame clearing a path that Artis and Seraliph followed without needing to glance around. They knew the way by heart—this wasn't their first time in the administrative wing. Zarou trailed slightly behind, unfamiliar with the building but unwilling to ask for directions.

"So," Don said, tossing a look over his shoulder, "you gonna tell us where you're from, or are you keeping up the whole 'mysterious loner' thing?"

Zarou exhaled softly through his nose. "Nowhere that matters," he answered, voice neutral. "Not anymore."

"That's vague as hell," Artis muttered. His wolf ears flicked in irritation before his grin returned. "Don't worry. I'll find out eventually."

Seraliph, walking beside him, sighed. "Don't pry."

"It's not prying if he wants to tell us," Artis argued. "Right, Zarou? You wanna spill your tragic backstory?"

Zarou's lips twitched into something that might've been a smile—too tired to be amused, too dry to be friendly. "I'd rather talk about something that still matters."

Don chuckled, slowing his pace slightly so Zarou could catch up. "Alright, fair. Let's talk about something useful then."

Zarou adjusted the robe over his shoulders again, the faint metallic clink of his hidden chains barely audible beneath the cloth. "Like what?"

"Like what you're really in for," Don said, stopping just outside the Registration Office door. "You do know what registration means, right?"

Zarou shook his head, honest. "I was told I had to do it, not what it actually is."

Seraliph's silver eyes narrowed slightly, her brow furrowing. "Who brought you here if they didn't even explain that much?"

Zarou hesitated, then shrugged. "Just someone I ran into."

Artis' ears perked up. "A girl?"

"No," Zarou said flatly. "Not like that."

Don pushed open the door, letting them all step into a cramped, overly warm office space lined with shelves of paper records and flickering mana lamps. The clerk sitting behind the desk barely looked up, her quill scratching furiously across a form.

She was older, mid-40s at least, with hair pinned back so tightly it might've been part of her skull. Her robes were spotless, a muted beige with a silver badge pinned to the breast, denoting her rank in the Bureau. The set of her mouth said everything—no nonsense, no delays, and absolutely no patience for teenagers.

"Next," she barked, without lifting her head.

Don nudged Zarou forward, and he stepped up to the desk.

"Name?" the clerk snapped.

"Zarou," he answered.

"House?" she asked automatically.

"None."

Her quill hesitated for half a second before resuming its sharp scratching. "Age?"

"Fifteen."

"Awakened Stage?"

Zarou's jaw tensed slightly. "Unclear."

The clerk finally glanced up, her brows drawing together in suspicion. "What do you mean unclear?"

"The obelisk couldn't decide," Don offered from behind him. "It flickered between Dormant and Honed."

The clerk's lips pressed into a thin line, her fingers tightening around the quill. "That's irregular."

"Tell me about it," Zarou muttered under his breath.

She ignored him, continuing down her checklist. "Elements?"

"Lux and Ignis."

Her frown deepened. "Dual-element at that age? Rare."

"I'm full of surprises," Zarou said, voice dry.

She didn't respond to the sarcasm, just moved on. "Current residence?"

Zarou hesitated. "Nowhere."

"You're lodging somewhere, aren't you?" Her pen hovered. "Alachi doesn't accept unregistered wanderers."

"I'll find somewhere," he said quickly. "I just got here."

The clerk gave him a long, unreadable stare, then scribbled something down. "Temporary dorm assignment, Tower-controlled. After that, you'll have to make arrangements."

Zarou nodded, the conversation already making his head pound. "Fine."

She flipped the parchment, pulled out a different form, and gestured for him to press his thumb into a small circle near the bottom. "Mana imprint—standard practice for all new registrants."

Zarou frowned but obeyed. The circle flared faintly as his mana flowed into it, locking his personal signature to the document.

The clerk examined the glow, eyes narrowing slightly at the ichor-coloured flicker—red and gold weaving together in uneven pulses. "Strange signature," she muttered, but didn't comment further.

"Alright," she said briskly, stamping the top of the form with an official seal. "You're formally registered as a low-tier Awakened, pending evaluation. You'll report to the Tower's training wing tomorrow morning for orientation."

Zarou raised an eyebrow. "That's it?"

"That's it," she repeated. "Unless you're here to challenge my paperwork."

He held up both hands in surrender. "I wouldn't dare."

She snorted, already turning her attention to the next student. "Next."

Zarou stepped back, exhaling slowly as the weight of formality settled over him. He was in now—officially part of the system, bound to its rules. But the chains beneath his robe reminded him that some bonds couldn't be seen on paper.

Don clapped him on the shoulder. "See? Easy."

"Yeah," Zarou muttered. "Real smooth."

They stepped back into the hallway, the air outside the office blessedly cooler. Artis was already talking again.

"So, what's your deal with magic? That was Lux, right? The light thing you pulled?"

Zarou nodded. "Sort of."

"Sort of?" Seraliph echoed, arching a brow.

"It's… complicated," Zarou admitted.

"You don't have to spill it all now," Don said, his voice softer than before. "But if you're stuck with us—and you are—it'll be easier if we know what you can do."

Zarou looked between them again, that strange, unfamiliar warmth tugging at the edges of his chest. "I'll figure out how to explain it," he said eventually. "Just… give me a bit."

"Fair," Don said.

"Also," Artis added with a grin, "now that you're official, you owe us a meal. It's tradition."

"What tradition?" Seraliph asked, exasperated.

"The one I just made up."

Zarou shook his head, lips quirking slightly. "I'm broke."

"Even better," Artis said. "Means we get to pick."

They moved together toward the exit, the afternoon sun slanting through the open door. Zarou's fingers brushed the edge of his sleeve, feeling the chains beneath. For the first time since waking up in this world, his next step didn't feel entirely alone.

Maybe, just maybe, he could fit here long enough to figure out why this world was so eager to bury his past.

The hallway seemed endless, stretching as far as Zarou's sight would take it.

Far longer than it should have.

Zarou walked, but his steps felt too slow — like his feet were moving through water while the world around him rushed ahead. The sounds of students chatting, boots tapping on polished floors, the low hum of mana lamps lining the walls — it all folded in on itself, too loud and too distant at the same time.

His breath hitched, a sharp, involuntary gasp as nausea curled low in his stomach. Too much light. Too much air. Too much everything.

He hadn't eaten properly since waking up in this world, hadn't slept without his body screaming for mana, hadn't stood still long enough to actually feel how exhausted he was. And now, his body was making sure he noticed. His pulse thudded in his ears, out of sync with his footsteps, and his hands — hidden beneath the robe's oversized sleeves — were trembling faintly.

Each face they passed seemed sharper than it needed to be. Too bright eyes. Too confident strides. Too polished hands reaching for spellbooks they knew how to use. Their mana hummed around them like armor — controlled, practiced, complete.

His was a fractured pulse, stuttering just under his skin like a broken heartbeat.

Don was talking. Artis was laughing. Seraliph's gaze swept the hall like she was already planning their next move. Zarou couldn't focus. The conversation washed over him like rain over stone — all sound, no meaning.

He felt small.

No — he felt hollow.

The polished floor seemed to tilt under his feet. His vision blurred for half a breath, the edges of the hallway stretching too wide. The mana in the air — the thick, constant presence that filled Alachi's streets — pressed down on him, sharp and smothering all at once.

Zarou gritted his teeth, dragging in a sharp breath that tasted like metal. Look at them. Clean robes. Mana that obeys without question. Names that mean something. His fingers curled beneath the robe, nails digging into his palms. And then there's me. Some half-starved relic wrapped in stolen clothes, hoping no one looks close enough to see how pathetic I actually am.

What was he supposed to be? A weapon? A soldier? A survivor?

He couldn't even tell anymore.

He'd fought demons, hadn't he? Stood against things that could swallow these bright-eyed students whole. And yet, right now, he felt weaker than any of them. They had purpose. Training. Systems built to hold them up.

All he had was raw instinct and rusted memory.

A faint static flickered behind his eyes—like mana surging in the wrong direction. A disembodied whisper curled at the corners of his mind:

"Comply.""Stay low.""You are not authorized."

He froze, heartbeat lurching, unsure if he'd imagined the words or if someone had actually spoken. No, it came from inside, the same place where self-doubt lived—but sharper, more precise, like the click of machinery in the back of his skull. He swallowed, sweat collecting at his temple.

Comply? With what?

The trembling in his hands grew worse for a moment. His breath stuttered, each inhale tasting like hot metal. Then, in a blink, the sensation vanished, leaving only a dull ache at the base of his neck—an echo of being pulled on a leash he couldn't see.

Zarou shook his head, trying to dismiss it. Maybe he was just dizzy, maybe he was too hungry, maybe—Maybe you're just broken, a cold voice in him supplied.

A hand clamped his shoulder—solid and real, dragging him back from the spiral.

"Hey," Don's voice cut through the haze, low and blunt. "You're breathing weird."

Zarou flinched, barely catching himself. He hadn't even realized how shallow his breaths had gotten, like his lungs had forgotten how to work.

"I'm fine," Zarou muttered, the lie coming out too fast.

Don didn't remove his hand. "Doesn't look that way."

Zarou's jaw tightened, but something in Don's expression wasn't mocking or accusatory—just concern, the kind that didn't ask permission to help.

He took a breath. Then another. Steady, idiot. You're not dead yet.

And that click in the back of his mind—like a latch re-locking—faded again.

"…Better?" Don asked, letting go.

Zarou nodded stiffly. "Yeah."

"Alright. Let's keep going," Don said, his tone softer now, ignoring the stares of passing students. "We're almost out of here."

Zarou walked forward on legs that still felt too heavy, the nausea still coiled low in his gut—quieter, but not gone. The chain inside him, or whatever it was, stayed silent as well, content to let him move freely for the moment.

He wasn't like them.

He didn't belong here.

But for now, he walked with them anyway.