Thursday began with a sky the color of steel wool.
The dawn light barely penetrated the smog layers above Fortress City Wiesbaden, casting a dim, gray haze over everything. Marie stood at her apartment sink, rinsing out her one ceramic mug. The water sputtered from the tap before steadying. She filled it, drank, and stood still for a moment longer than necessary.
Tomorrow was the day.
Today was the last day of unawakened life.
School started later than usual. Officially, it was to give students "time for rest and mental preparation." Unofficially, it was because no one was expected to retain anything academic with the System looming one sunrise away.
Marie walked slowly. No need to rush. No reason to.
The city buzzed with quiet anticipation. She passed two vendor stalls unloading extra supplies. Students were already gathering outside the school gate, some chatting in nervous clusters, others checking and rechecking their datapads for updates.
Inside, most classes were reduced to open discussions.
In Magical Theory, Ms. Aoki handed out simple questionnaires titled "Intent and Identity."
The questions were abstract:
What do you value more—certainty or flexibility?
Would you rather endure or adapt?
Does power lie in control or reaction?
What scares you more: failure or obscurity?
Marie stared at the sheet.
She didn't answer right away.
Eventually, she scribbled down:
Flexibility. Adapt. Reaction. Obscurity.
Ms. Aoki collected the papers without comment.
As she passed, she rested her hand lightly on Marie's desk.
"Just show up," she said softly. "That's enough."
Marie nodded once.
Lunchtime felt suspended in amber.
Even the loudest students had gone quiet. A few whispered about gear. Others traded food like offerings—protein sticks for juice packs, meal cubes for real fruit.
Marie took her usual spot at the stairwell. This time, no one disturbed her.
She sipped lukewarm soup and watched the wind shift trash across the courtyard below.
In the afternoon, the third-years gathered in the auditorium for a final briefing.
Principal Riehl stood on the stage in his formal uniform, polished and precise. Behind him hovered a holodisplay showing the Assoziation crest—its concentric rings spinning slowly around the central gate symbol.
"Tomorrow," he said, "is not a test."
Silence.
"It is not a performance. Not a judgment. It is a beginning."
A breath.
"You will not be compared. You will not be ranked. The System sees potential. It does not demand perfection."
Some students visibly relaxed. Others didn't.
Marie sat still.
"You will be escorted to the Assoziation Evaluation Center by secured transport," Riehl continued. "Please be punctual. Bring your ID and datapad. Do not bring weapons or unregistered tech. The Evaluation Center will provide what you need."
The lights dimmed.
A new projection filled the air: a walkthrough of the Center. Entry gates, biometric scans, mana calibration rooms. Practice zones. Awakening chambers. The System interface—represented by a glowing ring of icons—appeared and faded repeatedly.
A voice narrated:
"Once initiated, the System binds to your identity. This process is irreversible."
Marie barely heard the rest.
Her heartbeat had quickened.
She hadn't expected fear.
But there it was.
Not the sharp kind. Not panic.
Just a low, thrumming presence.
Like standing at the edge of a high place, staring down.
After school, she stayed behind.
The campus had emptied quickly. Even the usual club attendees had left. Marie walked the halls alone, her footsteps echoing.
She ended up at the gymnasium, drawn by instinct.
Inside, the lights were half-dimmed. The floor mats had been retracted, and the practice dummies deactivated.
She picked up a wooden staff from the equipment rack and stepped onto the mat.
Her movements were slower today.
More deliberate.
Every strike echoed louder than usual. Every pivot felt heavier.
But she finished the full form set, sweat dampening the back of her collar.
When she turned to leave, she found Tanaka-sensei standing at the doorway.
He didn't say anything.
Just gave her a nod.
She returned it.
At home, Marie forced herself to eat.
She reviewed her bag one last time:
ID chip: ✓Datapad: ✓Printed confirmation: ✓Plain change of clothes: ✓
She looked at herself in the mirror.
Brown hair, slightly tangled. Pale skin. Eyes rimmed with exhaustion.
This girl was about to be rewritten.
Or revealed.
She didn't know which yet.
That night, she couldn't sleep.
She lay on her side, blankets pulled to her chin, watching the faint glow of her datapad charging on the floor.
Her heart was too loud. Her mind too full.
At some point, she gave up.
Wrapped in a coat, she climbed the building's stairwell to the rooftop.
The city lay beneath her like a sleeping colossus.
Filtration towers blinked. Drone lights drifted lazily across the sky. From this height, the outer walls of the southern Evaluation Center were just barely visible—a dark outline against the skyline.
Marie leaned against the railing.
She didn't try to name what she was feeling.
She just let it sit.
Eventually, she whispered:
"Whatever happens... just let me remain me."
The wind didn't answer.
But it didn't push her away, either.
She returned to bed shortly before dawn.
And when her alarm buzzed three hours later, she sat up instantly.
No hesitation.
Today had arrived.
The last of the old days was done.