The Academy of Penjaga Baru stood like a fortress of precision—symmetrical, sterile, and silent. Its walls were polished stone, its corridors lined with banners bearing the symbol of the Second Light: a stylized gauntlet encircled by flame. There were no windows. No trees. No cracks. Only control.
Rava walked through the main atrium, her civilian badge clipped to her cloak. She had been granted access as a historian, but she knew her presence was tolerated, not welcomed. Eyes followed her. Not with curiosity, but with calculation.
Inside the training hall, cadets moved in perfect synchrony. Their gauntlets—sleek, metallic, and cold—responded to commands with mechanical precision. No hesitation. No resistance. Just execution.
An instructor barked orders. "Strike. Reset. Strike again."
An instructor barked orders. "Strike. Reset. Strike again."
She approached the observation deck, where a panel of officials monitored performance metrics. Screens displayed data—reaction time, impact force, compliance rate. One screen showed a phrase that made her stomach turn:
"Deviation Index: 0.02% — Acceptable."
A voice beside her spoke. "Impressive, isn't it?"
Rava turned. A man in a dark uniform stood beside her. His name tag read: Veyron.
"They're efficient," she replied.
"They're obedient," he corrected. "That's what matters."
Rava studied his face. Calm. Controlled. Empty.
"Obedience without understanding is dangerous," she said.
Veyron smiled. "Understanding slows progress."
She didn't respond. Instead, she turned her gaze back to the cadets. One of them—a girl no older than fifteen—hesitated before striking. Her gauntlet flickered. The instructor shouted. The girl flinched.
Rava leaned forward. "What happens when they refuse?"
Veyron's voice was smooth. "They don't."
That night, Rava wandered the outer halls of the Academy. She found a small archive room, dimly lit and rarely used. Inside, shelves of old documents gathered dust. She scanned the titles: Doctrine of Flame, The Guardian's Legacy, Second Light Manifesto.
She pulled out a folder labeled Prototype Ethics. Inside were notes—early debates about whether synthetic gauntlets should respond to emotion. Most entries were crossed out. One line remained.
"Emotion introduces unpredictability. Remove it."
Rava closed the folder, her hands trembling. This was not evolution. It was erasure.
She returned to her quarters and wrote in her journal:
"They have built a system that fears feeling.
They call it progress.
But it is silence dressed as order."
The next morning, she stood before a class of cadets, invited to speak as a guest historian. She looked into their eyes—young, bright, and unknowing.
"Aldous did not strike because he could," she began. "He chose not to. That choice was not weakness. It was wisdom."
A cadet raised his hand. "But isn't power meant to be used?"
Rava nodded. "Yes. But only when it listens first."
Silence followed. Not resistance. Not applause. Just thought.
And in that moment, Rava knew: the Academy was not impenetrable. It was waiting—for someone to remind it what it had forgotten.