Observation Noted

I sat.

I didn't remember sitting. I just knew I was in the chair now—straight-backed, hands clenched over the edge, legs stiff like they didn't know whether to flee or freeze. The room was too quiet. Like sound itself had agreed not to interrupt.

Yullian hadn't said a word when I came in.

He didn't offer a seat, didn't look up, didn't acknowledge me at all. Just sat with one hand—flesh—and one—metal—resting on the desk. Perfect posture. Minimal movement. It was like being across from something several layers beyond human, pretending to be shaped like a man.

The longer I waited, the more I was sure I had done something wrong.

I was sweating. I could feel a drop forming just beneath my collar, sliding down slow like it had nowhere better to be. My breathing stayed shallow. Like deeper breaths might trigger something.

Still, nothing.

Then—his eyes flicked up.

That was it. Just one glance. But it felt like the moment when you realize something's been watching you from behind glass you didn't know was there. There was no warmth in it. Not anger either. Just… calculation.

And then he spoke.

"You think this place is broken?"

The question hit so hard I nearly flinched. Not "How are you?" Not "Why are you here?" Just that.

"I—uh…" My mouth worked faster than my brain. "Sir?"

Yullian blinked once. Slowly. Then leaned back a fraction, metal arm gleaming like it had its own light source. "IGRMA. The school. You've been here two months. You think it's broken."

"I—I don't—"

"Not aloud," he clarified. "But in the way you walk through the courtyard. The way you glance at the safety wards. The way you hesitate before casting even the simplest of flows." His voice was even. Clean. Not accusing. Just… stating.

"I didn't mean—"

He held up a hand. Not a threat. Just a pause.

"I'm not here to punish you," he said. "If I was, you'd already know."

My throat closed halfway. That wasn't comforting. That just meant I'd stepped into something else. Something worse. Because I still had no idea why I was here—and that silence? That unreadable calm in his voice? It said he knew exactly what I was thinking and was letting me dig my own mental grave.

He folded his hands.

"Tell me. What's the first thing you noticed about the campus when you arrived?"

I blinked. "The… the quiet."

He nodded, faintly. "Too quiet?"

I hesitated. "Sometimes."

"And what did you think it meant?"

I stared at the floor. "That everyone was focused. That they took things seriously."

"But you don't walk like someone who believes that."

Silence.

The weight of the room pressed on me like a fourth dimension folding in. Like some invisible wall was just inches away from my chest. I tried to straighten. Failed.

"I was just—adjusting," I said finally.

"To pressure?" he asked.

I didn't answer.

He waited anyway. Then, as if the silence had yielded something useful, he stood. Slow. Controlled. The chair barely creaked.

I instinctively tensed—but he didn't move toward me. He just walked to the window, hand behind his back, the cold metal one hanging slightly lower, reflecting slivers of light.

"You know, I designed that window to reflect mana differently depending on the hour."

I said nothing.

He continued: "At noon, it'll distort the field around the tower just enough to throw off basic flow senses. Most students don't notice. But a few do." He turned slightly, not looking at me. "Do you?"

"I… I think I did."

"Did you log it?"

I shook my head.

"You thought it was a mistake," he said. "Or worse, a flaw."

His voice was calm. Always calm. That was the worst part. There was no emotion to gauge, no anger to anticipate. Just this surgical presence carving reality down to facts I didn't even know I'd leaked.

"You've been watching the school," he said.

"Everyone does," I said weakly.

"Well I would hope that."

He returned to his desk. Sat. No sound. No shift of air. Just presence.

"You walk like someone waiting for judgment," he added. "Not discipline. Not even failure. Just judgment. Why?"

I didn't know how to answer.

Because I didn't feel like I belonged?

Because I kept thinking I'd been let in by mistake?

Because everyone here moved like they'd been chosen and I'd just… arrived?

"I don't know," I said. "I guess I just… I'm still learning the rules."

"The rules," he said, tilting his head. "You believe this place has rules."

I frowned. "Doesn't it?"

He studied me for a long time. Then said, "It has structure. Not rules."

Yulian stood near the window, arms loosely crossed, his voice calm but cutting through the room like winter air.

"Other schools build fences, rituals, little rules stacked high to pretend the world doesn't move. They want students to fit the frame, not challenge it. Neatly aligned. Predictable. Safe." He glanced at Kael without turning fully. "Safe doesn't raise giants. It breeds ghosts.

He took a slow step forward.

"Still water may look calm, but it grows stale in time," he said, his voice dropping slightly. "It's the river that flows, shifts, and shapes the land—that's the one alive. If a thing never changes, never adapts, it's not thriving—it's just waiting to rot."

Then he looked directly at the Kael.

"Trust what evolves."

I didn't know how to respond to that.

He let that statement hang like a hook in the air. Then switched tone—slightly, almost imperceptibly.

"What do you think this school was meant to be?"

"I… I thought it was supposed to train mages. Scholars. Keep people safe."

He looked away again. "And what is it now?"

That one hit deeper.

I took too long.

"Scared," I said quietly.

"Of?"

"Itself. The students. The teachers. The mana."

He looked back at me. Still no shift in expression. Just quiet, intense study.

"Interesting."

I wanted to ask what that meant, but couldn't. My voice had retreated somewhere deep into my chest and barricaded itself in.

"You don't lie," he said finally.

I blinked. "I wasn't trying to—"

"I didn't say it was good," he cut in. "But it is… unusual."

He leaned forward. Elbows on the desk. The prosthetic made the tiniest whirring noise as the fingers flexed, once.

"Are you afraid of me, Kael?"

I froze.

Yes.

"No," I said.

He smiled.

That was somehow worse.

Just silence.

Then—

"Every year," Yulian said, still reading, "this school receives close to three thousand essays. Most are predictable. Crafted with the same careful precision as a lab report."

He closed the folder with one metallic tap of his prosthetic hand.

"I read many. Not all. Some are filtered, flagged, passed along by faculty who believe they've found 'potential.' I indulge them."

Kyle shifted. The silence did not permit a question.

Yulian stood. Slowly. His coat moved like liquid shadow.

"Out of those thousands," he continued, walking past Kyle toward the tall windows, "perhaps a dozen each year are worth finishing. Fewer still earn a second read. And almost none… stay in my mind."

He placed one hand on the windowpane. Not touching it—just hovering a few centimeters from the glass.

"But one… did."

He let the air rest.

"It wasn't dramatic. It didn't pretend to be. No heroic declarations, no sob stories repackaged as self-discovery. It spoke plainly. Sharply. Its subject was… process. Not success. Not failure. Just… the method of learning. The discomfort of not knowing. The quiet brutality of humility."

Kyle's brow furrowed. He tried to recall anything he might have submitted that sounded like that. Nothing surfaced.

"There was a line," Yulian went on. "It said:

The world isn't divided by good or evil — just by who has enough power to make their version of reality last a little longer.'"

He let the quote linger as if tasting the sentence again for the first time.

"The essay was not exceptional in form. Structurally flawed. The transitions were uneven. But the thinking… the thinking was precise. Honest without indulgence. Cold without cruelty. Whoever wrote it wasn't trying to win. They were trying to understand."

He turned from the window.

His gaze met Kyle's like an instrument, not a glance. Measuring.

"It reminded me," he said slowly, "of someone I once knew. Long ago. Someone who never made grand promises. But whose thinking… shifted rooms."

Kyle's throat felt dry. "Who was it?" he asked before he could stop himself.

Yulian didn't answer.

He simply stepped toward the desk, lifted a folder from the bottom of the pile.

Held it out.

Kyle recognized the name printed across the tab: Various, K.

"You wrote it," Yulian said, voice flat, almost bored. "Though I suspect you've forgotten that version of yourself already."

Kyle stared at it. Slowly took it.

Yulian sat.

"That essay is the reason you're here," he said. "Your recommendations were weak. Your academic record inconsistent. Your mana profile… volatile."

He raised an eyebrow, as if inviting contradiction.

"But that line stayed with me. And I wondered what kind of student writes like that—then buries it under average performance."

A pause.

"So I created a file."

Another pause.

"Then I created a slot."

He folded his hands. Metal and flesh.

"Don't make me regret it."

That was all.

No congratulations. No warmth. Just the blunt force of being seen by someone who never looks twice.

Kyle didn't know what to say.

So he said nothing.

And Yulian said nothing more.

Because nothing more was needed.