I bleed in Silence

The Divergent Pathway – A space between conviction and compromise, between soul and system.

A river of beings flows toward the Free Abyss, bathed in the kaleidoscopic glow of Devia's promise—freedom, flexibility, no more struggle. Some march with pride. Some limp with exhaustion. Others just float, weightless in doubt. And amid the noise, there stood stillness...

Noan.

He stood off the path.

A bookbag over his shoulder.

Hair a little messy, not from fashion but from not caring anymore.

Wearing that hybrid uniform—Airious blazer, Earth sneakers, Ashanti wristbands, a Tibetan sash.

A walking, breathing, overthinking contradiction.

Behind him, the rest of the Tutornis Clique emerged.

Jossan, stylish and sarcastic, adjusted her tie.

Darlia, wore half a veil, half a hoodie—mysterious as ever.

Vix, Airien shades and Earth headphones blasting trap beats from the Fog realm.

And Kayle, who just wanted an excuse to rebel against homework and systems.

Jossan (grinning):

> "Hey, Noan... you sure you don't wanna walk through the sparkly gateway of salvation?"

Vix (laughing):

> "C'mon bro, this is your chance to finally be... 'understood.'"

Kayle (mock whisper):

> "Or y'know, less... weird."

Darlia (tilting her head):

> "Maybe they'll give you an affinity for 'chill.' That'd be new."

Their laughter wasn't cruel—it was light. But Noan didn't laugh. He smiled softly… because he had heard it all before.

Noan (quietly):

> "You guys ever notice…

That when someone's loud about pain, they get silence in return…

But when someone's quiet about pain, they get laughter instead?"

The group went quiet.

Noan turned away, looking toward the other end—toward Avia's side of the split. The place most had left behind. A dying beacon… but a real one.

Noan (voice trembling but steady):

> "You think I don't want freedom? You think I haven't dreamed of a place that finally gets me?

I'm tired too… But Devia doesn't ask you to believe—it just offers a shortcut.

And I don't want shortcuts. I want scars that mean something."

He stepped forward—away from the portal.

Noan (more firm):

> "You all call me absurd… paradoxical...unrelatable.

Because I'm the reminder you hate.

I'm the mirror in a world of filters.

But I'm still standing."

His Avia flickered faintly—a swirling paradox of neon white and chaotic fractals. The Affinity of Self-Awareness, his paradox.

One part childlike belief. One part ancient introspection.

He was both storm and stillness. And that's why Avia didn't give up on him.

He took a deep breath, then turned to his mates again.

Noan (looking them dead in the eye):

> "If you think everything needs to be perfect to function…

Then you've forgotten what it means to grow.

I'll struggle.

I'll fall.

I'll doubt.

But I'll cling to Avia.

Because no other system bleeds character development the way it does."

His Avia flared, brighter than it ever had—like truth dressed in flame.

And for the first time…

They looked at him differently.

Not as the weird kid.

Not as the unrelatable mirror.

But as Noan—the paradox who chose the harder path.

Jossan lowered her gaze.

Jossan (softly):

> "Guess... not all heroes glow in neon."

Vix turned off his music. Kayle looked at the portal... and then away. Darlia stared at Noan, as if seeing him for the first time.

Noan simply walked forward—toward the struggle, toward Avia.

And as the portal to Devia pulsed brighter behind them, Noan's silhouette walked toward the fading side of history...

But maybe, just maybe...

He'd rewrite it.

Airien Academy – The Courtyard of Coming Back

The air shimmered like a page being rewritten.

Noan walked the marble path alone, his worn shoes squeaking slightly under the weight of bittersweet resolve. His eyes held the shimmer of pain barely held back—like glass kissed by rain. He was bruised, not in body, but in belief. And still… he walked.

The academy had changed since he last saw it. Banners for the Next Gen Exhibition fluttered in the wind, initiates rushed between sessions, and in the center…

Team Next Gen stood, eyes locked on him.

— Cayso, his Concept Bloom Affinity pulsing like metaphysical flowers blooming into axes and shields.

— Hersa, standing straight with glowing lines radiating like fences from her palms.

— Targor, casually spinning threads of connection between the ground and his wrist.

— Frolo, time-dials and paradox loops orbiting his steps like planetary chains.

— Miria, three of her stood at once, all blinking in perfect sync.

— Zekar, flickering—his voice from the future, his stance from the past.

— Lia, carving future-possibility sculptures mid-air with glowing clay.

— Nova, her mouth closed, but reality around her shifted with each syllable of a silent hum.

— Obi, chillingly silent—his presence caused birdsong to pause.

— Sylra, shifting reality like puzzles pieces clicking into different skies.

— Anima, smiling warmly, ripples of empathy echoing from her every breath.

And all of them… turned toward him.

Noan blinked, uncomfortable.

He expected ridicule, or at least confusion.

But instead…

Cayso (stepping forward):

> "You didn't choose Devia."

Noan (softly, nodding):

> "No."

Hersa (tilting her head):

> "But… you had every reason to. You would've been welcomed. Celebrated even."

Noan (half-smile):

> "I know. That's why it was hard not to."

Targor (threading a line between his heart and Noan's):

> "You walked back into the storm. Voluntarily."

Frolo (checking a time-knot):

> "In all possible outcomes I've modeled… only 2% of people make the decision you did."

Miria (in triplicate):

> "And that makes you… remarkable. A paradox with a pulse."

Noan rubbed his arms, suddenly aware of something glowing on his skin. Pale neon fractals danced along his forearms, spiraling up to his shoulder and into his chest.

Noan (nervously):

> "What… what is this?"

Zekar (smiling knowingly):

> "Your Affinity is syncing. In a way none of us have seen."

Nova (whispering):

> "Fractured...but divine. And when I say that…"

Reality bent around them—trees leaned in, even silence paid attention.

Obi (quietly):

> "You've made oblivion pause, Noan. That's not normal."

Sylra (stepping forward):

> "You're being reassembled… by truth. Your truth."

Anima (placing a gentle hand on his shoulder):

> "You echo. You always have. But now? Now the echo answers back."

Noan swallowed hard.

He looked at them all—perfect in their own rights, glowing with power, affinity, clarity.

He felt like the cracked one in a shelf of diamonds.

Noan (voice cracking):

> "I didn't come back for praise. Or recognition. I came back because… something in me refused to lie to myself anymore."

Cayso (nodding):

> "That's what makes you dangerous. Not your power. Your honesty."

Hersa:

> "Truth sets the boundary. You enforced it."

Targor:

> "You're linked to something primal now."

Frolo:

> "Your choices have chained events we can't yet see."

Miria (all three at once):

> "You multiplied yourself by conviction."

Zekar (grinning):

> "And you've just stitched a brighter future."

Lia (stepping forward, forming a glowing statue):

> "Look."

Noan turned. The sculpture was him—not just physically. It captured the contradiction, the wound, the self-aware paradox, and above all… the choice.

A halo of evolving Avia swirled above it, like a storm trying to become scripture.

Lia (softly):

> "This is the version of you… you just carved into reality."

Noan's throat tightened.

He chuckled bitterly and wiped a tear away.

Noan (smiling):

> "Guess I'm still weird."

Nova (grinning):

> "No. You're... Next Gen."

The team huddled closer, and for once, Noan wasn't on the outside of anything.

He was exactly where he needed to be.

And Avia?

It pulsed in his chest like a truth that never needed applause.

[FLASHBACK SCENE – TUTORNIAN MULTI-CULTURE ACADEMY GROUNDS]

"A place of everything… but not everyone."

Tutornis shimmered like a globe with no borders. Everywhere you looked, someone was mimicking something—Japanese Kimonos beside Ghanaian Kente, a student DJing ancient Sanskrit mantras over drill beats, others aura-farming while wearing neon anime mech suits. Cultures weren't clashing—they were blending into a kaleidoscope of cool.

And then… there was Noan.

Simple shoes.

Faded brown shirt.

Just him.

He walked through a courtyard where a thousand selves were constantly screaming for attention.

But he didn't scream.

He just existed.

And that? That was the problem.

---

Jossan (leaning against a marble column, cocky):

> "Yo Noan... you forget the memo again? No power colors, no matching aura, no... theme?"

Vix (fake sympathetic):

> "He's being deep again, Joss. Let him be the minimalist philosopher of sadness."

Coniz (grabbing Noan's lunchbox):

> "Ooh—what's in here? More of that plain existential bread?"

Noan didn't flinch.

Didn't cry.

Didn't rage.

He just… blinked.

Noan (softly):

> "You can keep it."

Jossan (confused):

> "You ain't gonna say nothin' back?"

Noan looked at them with those eyes. The ones that weren't angry.

The ones that understood too much.

The eyes that made people uncomfortable because they held no filter, no game.

---

[Later, in Class 9B – Social Studies of Multiversal Integration]

He tried.

He really tried.

During the "Adopt a Culture Week," he mimicked the American jock thing—hat backwards, a forced swagger. His accent was off, his confidence broken mid-sentence.

People chuckled.

Not loudly.

But painfully.

---

Jossan (to Vix, whispering):

> "He's doing the accent again… dude sounds like Siri on depression mode."

Vix (snickering):

> "Someone tell him the cringe meter just exploded."

They laughed—but not cruelly.

Noan would've preferred cruel.

Instead, it was polite amusement, filtered teasing.

Vix (later, carefully):

> "Hey, Noan... um, I didn't mean to trigger your anxiety or anything. You good?"

Noan smiled, lips stiff.

He hated that word: trigger.

Hated how people suddenly walked on eggshells, as if his presence made the air heavy.

Noan (quiet):

> "You don't have to perform therapy when you talk to me."

Vix (awkwardly):

> "Oh… I was just trying to be—"

Noan:

> "Tolerant. Yeah. I noticed."

"You think kindness is speaking softer when really it's just speaking differently."

---

At home, his reflection didn't answer him anymore.

He sat in silence, often wondering: "When did the sadness start?"

But it had no timestamp.

No crime scene.

No trigger.

So, if he ever snapped—if he ever lost it—they'd all call him unstable. A psycho.

Because his pain didn't exist loud enough to count.

---

[INTERNAL MONOLOGUE – IN THE QUIET OF HIS ROOM]

> "They don't know how hard it is to be misunderstood…

Not because I'm different.

But because they filter themselves before speaking to me.

That's not acceptance. That's theater.

I smile, but my mouth forgets how.

I try to play along, but the game always moves before I catch up.

And they call me the slow one?"

---

He stared out the window at the laughing crowds of shapeshifting personalities.

And whispered to himself:

Noan (whisper):

> "I'm not broken.

I'm just... real.

In a world that edits itself before every breath."

TUTORNIAN ACADEMY – FACULTY LOUNGE / CLASSROOM / HALLWAYS]

The teachers at Tutornis were some of the finest educators across all the realms—philosophers from the Tibetan peaks, logic instructors from Terra, language architects from Earth, alchemical theorists from Verion…

But Noan?

Noan wasn't part of the lesson plan.

He was the lesson.

And most weren't ready for it.

---

In Class, Mr. Renzak (Philosophy of Multiversal Cultures) paces.

Mr. Renzak (gesturing at the board):

> "Now then—does anyone know the purpose of multi-realm cultural syncretism? Why we borrow aesthetics, beliefs, and gestures from others?"

Noan (raising his hand slowly):

> "Because we're insecure… and think wearing wisdom makes us wise."

The class goes silent.

Mr. Renzak flinches.

Mr. Renzak:

> "...Let's keep it civil, Noan. We don't need provocations."

Noan (nodding quietly):

> "Of course, sir. My apologies."

"But provocation and truth look very similar when everyone's pretending."

---

In the Faculty Lounge:

Ms. Halem (History of Airien Influence):

> "That boy's smart. But sometimes I feel like he's seeing through me."

Professor Kirow:

> "He is. I caught him correcting my chrono-map with subtle eye rolls. Said nothing. Just… knew it was off."

Mr. Renzak (sipping nervously):

> "He waits till we get too confident, then says something surgical. Cuts deeper than intended. And the worst part? He's not being rude. He's just… aware."

---

In the Hallway, a moment with Ms. Halem:

Ms. Halem:

> "Noan, you're a good student. Very thoughtful. But you've got to learn when not to speak, okay?"

Noan:

> "So truth has a curfew now?"

Ms. Halem (forcing a chuckle):

> "Just... be mindful. Teachers can't always process certain truths on the spot."

Noan (softly):

> "I know. That's why I stop before I say it. I've learned how to bite my truth before it bites back."

---

Among Elders & "Mature" Adults:

They'd invite him to "grown-up" conversations, intrigued by his calm demeanor and layered eyes.

But the moment he'd offer a counter-thought—not rebellious, just observant—they'd shuffle, smile nervously, or outright dismiss it.

> "You think too much."

"That's not how the world works."

"You'll understand when you're older."

Noan (inwardly):

> "What they mean is—

'We're scared of what you see, because we've been avoiding mirrors since we became adults.'"

---

[SCENE – AFTER A PARENT-TEACHER CONFERENCE]

Teacher 1:

> "Brilliant boy. If only he were more... palatable."

Teacher 2:

> "He doesn't challenge authority. He reveals it."

Teacher 3 (sipping coffee):

> "Obedient students are easy. But obedient watchers? Terrifying."

---

And so, Noan walked through the corridors of "progress," quiet as a whisper—but louder than most ever dared to be.

He was the type of student teachers admired in theory, but struggled with in reality.

Not because he rebelled.

But because he reflected.

And that reflection made the wisest among them… uncomfortable.

TUTORNIAN ACADEMY COURTYARD – LUNCHTIME, BREEZY, SKY SPLIT BETWEEN DAYLIGHT AND A HINT OF RAIN]

The sound of conversations filled the air—students from every realm clashing colors, philosophies, food, and fashion like a chaotic utopia.

Noan sat at the edge of the courtyard fountain, lunchbox unopened, gaze flickering between the stone path and the sky above.

Jossan, Kayle, and Darlia strutted over—cool kids with an "I care, but only if it benefits me" energy. Behind them walked Vix, the closest thing Noan had to… something sincere. She wasn't cruel, just dangerously casual with her thoughts.

---

JOSSAN (plopping down on the fountain ledge beside Noan):

> "Yo Noan... you good? Still daydreaming about philosophy and paradoxes?"

(chuckles and mockingly ruffles his hair)

"You're like a monk in a group project, bro. Zen but useless."

NOAN (smiles politely):

> "Better to daydream honestly than perform reality."

DARLIA (smirking as she sips synth-juice):

> "Oooh, deep. Say that to your grades next time."

KAYLE:

> "Seriously though, you ever gonna fight back, man? People walk all over you like you're some kind of welcome mat."

NOAN (softly):

> "Because if I push back too hard… I become what I avoid. And that's a worse prison."

JOSSAN (leaning in, eyes cold):

> "Nah. You're just scared. Ain't no nobility in being spineless, bro."

NOAN (fidgeting, voice low but firm):

> "I'm not scared of you. I'm scared of what I'd become if I fought like you."

JOSSAN (mock offense):

> "Whoa-hoh! Big talk for someone named... what was it again?"

(mock squints and sneers)

"Noan? More like No one. Hehe. Fits though."

The group laughs. Vix doesn't. Her smile fades.

NOAN (blinks, stays quiet for a moment. Then...):

> "That's funny, actually. Because even 'no one' can become 'someone' if given silence, not sarcasm."

JOSSAN:

> "Relax, it's a joke."

VIX (finally speaks, but not helpfully):

> "You know words affect you a lot, Noan. Maybe you should grow a bit more spine, yeah? Can't let people get in your head like that."

NOAN (voice trembling a bit):

> "It's not the words that hurt. It's the way people say them… like I'm some emotional experiment they're testing on."

VIX:

> "We're just trying to help in our way, okay? Don't be so sensitive."

NOAN (finally looks up, eyes tired):

> "Do you know what it's like… when even the people who mean well, end up hurting you more? Not because they hate you… but because they don't think deeply about what they say?"

"I'm not weak. I just bleed differently. Quietly. And you don't notice… because my pain doesn't scream."

JOSSAN (rolls eyes):

> "Okay, philosopher. Get over yourself."

NOAN (leans forward, quietly but piercing):

> "You don't like me because I remind you of the truths you run from… and I don't even say them. I just am them."

---

The group quiets. Even the wind hushes.

Vix looks like she wants to say something, but doesn't. Not yet.

Noan stands up, lunch untouched, and walks off—back straight, eyes low, carrying not bitterness… but a burden that no one there could name.

TUTORNIAN ACADEMY, BACK COURTYARD, NEAR THE GARBAGE DISPOSAL UNIT]

Late afternoon. The sun is split between glory and gloom. A breeze swirls dust and paper wrappers through the open square, like spirits dancing to a forgotten rhythm. Noan stands alone—backed against the wall, lunchbox clutched but clearly empty. His face pale, yet his jaw… set.

---

NOAN (inner monologue, voice low, shaking):

> "I can't keep playing this peaceful monk role. I can't keep swallowing truth like poison and pretending I like the taste..."

He looks up. Jossan, Coniz, Tarn, and a few others approach with smirks and lazy swagger. It's not a mob. It's worse—an audience. One that enjoys the show.

---

JOSSAN (mock sympathy):

> "Hey Noan... what's for lunch? Still got that sage sandwich? Bit of logic with extra cringe?"

CONIZ (grabbing the lunchbox):

> "You know the rules. Food for the normal ones. Existential crises gotta starve."

NOAN (clutches the box tighter):

> "Don't touch it." (his voice, not loud—but something in it trembles like lightning about to strike)

TARN:

> "Ooooooh. Big words from Mister Passive-aggressive Enlightenment."

"What're you gonna do? Hit us with a quote from Confucius?"

The moment stretches thin. Noan breathes heavily. His fingers twitch, his eyes shimmer—not with tears, but with memory.

The pain of a thousand moments that seemed invisible to others.

The lunch tables where no one sat near him.

The group projects where he did all the work but got none of the credit.

The jokes that weren't "jokes."

The filtered compassion that felt faker than hatred.

NOAN (whispers):

> "I said… don't touch it."

CONIZ (scoffs and tears open the box, throwing it to the ground):

> "Oops."

Silence. Then…

Noan lunges.

He doesn't think.

He doesn't strategize.

He just... snaps.

He pushes Coniz back, hard, catching him off guard. He punches Tarn in the shoulder. He yells—something primal, incoherent, and desperate. He is not a fighter, but at that moment, he is not prey either.

It's clumsy, painful, and short-lived.

The others retaliate. A knee to his stomach. A shove that sends him spinning. He hits the ground. His glasses—if he had any—would've cracked.

They don't keep beating him. They don't need to. They just laugh. Loudly. Cruelly. Because humiliation does more damage than bruises.

They drag him toward the trash bin.

And as he's tossed into it like debris from a failed experiment, he doesn't scream. He doesn't cry.

He watches.

And in that dark, sour-smelling space, reality hits—not just metaphorically, but like a mental slap.

---

NOAN (inner monologue, whispering to himself):

> "This... this is who I am to them. A joke. A malfunction in the matrix of normalcy."

"Even when I fight back, I'm still the villain in their version of my story."

He curls inward. Not from pain—but from the sheer absurdity of it all.

> "They're not afraid of me. They're afraid of what I remind them: That someone can be real, and quiet, and still not be wrong."

Suddenly, his mind floods with scenes that never happened—

Conversations where people apologize.

Moments where he's hugged.

Classmates finally listening when he speaks.

It hurts more than the beatdown.

Because those aren't memories.

They're hallucinated hope.

---

NOAN (out loud to no one):

> "I keep making scenes that don't exist... just to survive the ones that do."

"What kind of broken is that?"

And yet... in that darkness... Avia glows faintly.

Not brightly. Not triumphantly. Just enough to say:

> "You're still here."

INSIDE THE DUMPSTER—OR RATHER, WHAT IT'S BECOME]

Because when you're touched by something divine, even a trash bin can feel like a temple. The air shimmers faintly. Something ancient, something timeless, something impossibly kind enters the scene…

The Creation Stone.

Floating… glowing softly with hues no eye should comprehend—part sapphire starlight, part memory of a hug never received. The kind of glow that feels like being told you're enough, without needing a reason.

Noan is crouched, hugging himself—his chest rising and falling erratically. But then…

he senses it.

---

NOAN (barely audible, trembling):

> "I know you… from the archives… from the stories of the Ascended…"

"You're... from Airious…"

"I always wanted to go there… I just... didn't want to pretend anymore."

---

THE CREATION STONE (a voice like velvet, yet ancient thunder):

> "You didn't have to call. I was already coming."

Noan looks up, eyes wide—wet but alive.

---

NOAN:

> "Take my pain away… if there's anything left of me to take."

The stone laughs—not mocking, but bittersweet. The kind of laugh that knows sorrow deeply.

---

THE CREATION STONE:

> "It's funny to them, isn't it? They think pain only comes in loud screams and cracked bones."

"They don't see yours. Because you bleed in thoughts. You cry in restraint."

"To them, you're privileged. So your suffering must be performance. Melodrama. A glitch."

"But I see you, Noan." (It glows brighter.)

"I know the weight of invisible wounds. I know how heavy it is to carry yourself."

"You're not weak. You're just… unheard."

---

Noan's breath catches. His throat closes up. For the first time in maybe forever…

He doesn't feel crazy.

NOAN (barely whispering):

> "You really see me…"

THE CREATION STONE (softer):

> "And I always will. You don't need to be louder to be understood.

You just need something that listens deeper."

> "Your pain—unmeasurable, misunderstood—is sacred. And now… it's power."

Suddenly, the air around Noan bends.

The trash peels away. Reality softens like clay.

---

THE CREATION STONE:

> "You've been a paradox your whole life. Self-aware yet unseen. Mature and playful. Silent but loud within."

"Now, that paradox has a name… and it's your Avia."

---

The light shoots into Noan's chest. He gasps—not in pain, but in overwhelming clarity.

AVIA ACCEPTED: Self-Awareness Affinity — Paradox Style.

The winds whisper truths, and the ground around him scribbles sentences in light.

Noan feels his body shift… Not transform, but align.

---

NOAN (standing, straighter than before):

> "So… I'm not broken."

"I'm just complex."

THE CREATION STONE (smiling):

> "Exactly."

"You were never meant to be palatable.

You were meant to be real."

Fade out with light softly wrapping around him.

AIRIEN ACADEMY — PRESENT DAY]

A crisp breeze dances through the marble corridors of the Academy. Birds chirp with extra syllables, like they know something divine just happened. The Avian trees sway like they're applauding quietly. And there, on the rooftop of the East Tower, sits Noan…

He meditates.

Cross-legged, palms resting on his knees, eyes closed—but not shut. Because even in the darkness behind his lids, he can see clearly now.

Not the world.

Himself.

---

NOAN (inner monologue, calm and weighty):

> "They said I was too quiet.

Too strange. Too thoughtful.

Too much of nothing and not enough of everything."

> "But in the face of Devia…

I didn't bend. I chose."

The wind tickles his cheek like a proud mentor. His Avia pulses around him in a quiet glow—light made from layered truth.

---

NOAN (continues, whispering aloud):

> "Team Next Gen… they didn't have to say much.

Their presence alone was louder than the noise I've lived through."

"When they nodded at me… it wasn't just respect.

It was recognition."

---

AVIA (through resonance, not words but feeling):

> "Well done."

Noan smiles.

---

NOAN (chuckling):

> "I tanked Devia without lifting a finger...

Guess I'm kinda built for this paradox stuff, huh?"

He slowly opens his eyes—the horizon stretches wide in front of him like an open scroll.

> "The others are gone…

but I'll remember the moment we stood at the edge.

They walked away.

I stood still.

And somehow… that moved me forward."

---

A gust of wind. His Avia responds, flaring briefly like a celestial paradox flame. He's no warrior, no champion by legacy. But something about him—raw, real, resolved—makes even the birds pause to listen.

---

NOAN (smirking softly):

> "Let's keep going, partner…"

"You and me, Avia.

The paradox… marches on."

FADE OUT with the symbol of his Self-Awareness Avia glowing behind him—a mirrored sigil that never looks the same way twice.