CHAPTER THREE - GERMMY INSTITUTE OF AWAKENERS
The Germmy Institute rose from the horizon like a shard of the future: a ring of silver towers interlaced with pale blue conduits of mana, terraces that spiraled up around a central obelisk, and platforms where training arenas floated like islands of polished steel. Even from the armored windows of the military van, the sight made Emma's chest tighten with a mix of awe and a selfish, small pride.
"This is it," Vorden said beside him, voice low and steady. He had the kind of expression that belonged to someone who already mapped the skyline into lines and tactics. "This is where people either become something or get swallowed. No middle ground."
Emma smirked. "That's comforting. I hate middle ground. Middle ground asks for compromises." He tapped his wristband and watched the van ease through the institute gates. A line of students and soldiers moved in orchestrated efficiency. Drones hovered, cataloging, scanning, classifying.
When they stepped down, the air felt different - thinner, charged, and smelling faintly of ozone and polished metal. The obelisk in the courtyard pulsed with recorded honors: names of alumni who had become Celestials, a plaque that reminded any newcomer how many had fallen and how few had risen.
Soldiers called them into formation with a calm that had teeth. They were processed, photographed, and given the standard issue: gray tunic, ID cuff, a basic mana calibrator for show. The soldier who handed Emma his cuff-an angular woman with a voice that did not invite argument-met his eye for a half-second.
"We treat everyone equally inside the gates," she said, voice flat. "That is a rule, not a suggestion."
He nodded. "Loud and proud."
But equality and the institute's broader economy were not the same thing. Within an hour of arrival, Emma understood the contours of social gravity that still held fast in a place that liked to call itself meritocratic.
The administrative wing segregated arrival procedures by designation. There were Noble lodges-glass pavilions with personal concierge drones, tutors, and climate-controlled terraces. There were common barracks-long rows of room modules stacked compactly, heated, functional. There were also intermediate housing wings for scholarship-awakeners whose abilities already had them on a fast-track; they moved like self-possessed swans among the other newcomers.
Nobles had privileges that were subtle at first and then not: priority access to the dining terraces, mentorship interviews with senior faculty before the general orientation, dedicated laboratories for private training, special insignia that glowed faintly when they entered elite zones. They came with clan aides and soft speech. They were escorted through the Institute by junior attendants who bowed with practiced reverence.
Commoners-those born from government labs, orphan releases, and citizens without the advantage of parent-clans-moved with the blunt, practical energy of people who had packed what they owned into a single bag. They waited in queues. They ate from the general halls. They learned the Institute's rhythms without the cushion of social capital.
Emma watched one group of nobles glide through the hall and felt the old, small resentment flare warm and useless in his chest. He pushed it down with a laugh. "Nice hat," he said to Vorden. "Does that hat come with a family assassination squad?"
Vorden only smiled a fraction. "They'll have their eyes on everything. Keep your head down, work, and don't make enemies that look different than they are."
The official Induction was a spectacle. A senior lecturer-an unbent woman with lines carved by a life of orders-spoke about the Institute's values in a voice that was all steel and low flame. "We breed responsibility," she said. "We do not worship powers. We shape them. The world beyond will ask you for answers. Some of you will be asked to give yours in blood."
It sounded dramatic. To Emma it also sounded like a sales pitch, but he kept that to himself. He had rehearsed both the theatrical and the pragmatic in his head-arrogant banter for private use; a steady, polite face for public performance.
After registration they were led to a huge hall where allocations were announced. A board lit up with names and room numbers; the soldiers called out pairings and groups. When the cluster of new recruits huddled, Emma's own number illuminated and the soldier assigned him to a modest four-berth room in Block Theta-3: Davn Vorden, Varel Emma, Dale Iyke, Sebal Grent.
He blinked, hearing the names as if they were being arranged on a stage. Vorden's name had been predictable. Iyke - he remembered the brief profile at camp, the speedster boy who moved like a blade when he'd practiced sprints. Grent - the nervous one who wanted approval so badly it hurt to watch him perform for it.
The soldiers walked them through corridors that smelled of machine oil and disinfectant. Gray rooms waited with four narrow beds, lockers, a communal wash pod, and a small window that looked out onto the obelisk. They dropped their kit in, changed into the standard training clothes, and for a moment the room felt like the first common territory they would defend or abandon.
Vorden arranged his small stack of things with an efficiency that made Emma linger. It was as if he thought of even the smallest movement as part of a larger geometry.
"You know anyone here?" Vorden asked finally. He said it like a question about the weather.
"Sort of." Emma flicked the light switch. The room glowed. "I know the vending machine lady, if that counts."
Across the room, a small, wiry boy with restless eyes leaned back against a locker and cracked his knuckles. "I'm Iyke," he said in a rapid voice. "Speed. I can do sprinter frames, time-surge drills, micro-jumps. You'll see. Won't stop to show off though."
Emma grinned at him. "Nice to meet you. I prefer the medium because it sounds aristocratic. Emma Varel. Charming, modest, will probably narrate his own obituary."
Grent shuffled forward, smile fast and eager. "Grent. Sector thirty. I-I'm hoping to learn a lot. I've trained with local tutors. I can adapt-"
Emma considered him. There was something earnest about Grent that made him uncomfortable and sympathetic at once. He remembered the way Grent had laughed too loudly in camp, the eagerness that asked for validation like oxygen.
They fell into the odd rhythm of instant roommates: making gestures toward each other's bed, staking a corner, dividing lockers. The soldiers came through to enforce basic order: lights out, strict maintenance of the common area, assigned turns for latrine runs and cleaning duty. "You are four equals here," the soldier reiterated. "Treat that with respect and you will not be tested unnecessarily."
Outside, the campus had filled with students from other sectors and other intake camps. The arrival procession was a river of faces, some lit by noble insignia, others plain and practical. Emma watched as a group of nobled freshmen glided toward their pavilion, their cloaks embroidered with clan sigils and a faint pulsar of mana around them. A cluster of commoners watched and made private, sharp jokes that turned into brief, breathless laughter.
That was when he saw her, Eren.
She was not theatrical. She moved with a kind of composed clarity, like someone who had been taught how to slice a problem into exact pieces. Dark hair cut short, eyes like a measured storm. The first thing he noticed was the way she looked at the obelisk-as if she were reading a sentence no one else had the patience to decode. She carried a small pack, a compact with a knot of patches from a northern camp.
Emma felt a brief, disarming impulse to tidy his hair but he did nothing.
She stepped into the crowd near the orientation stage, speaking quietly to someone, then glancing around in a way that seemed to measure people. Their eyes met for a fraction of a second or so he thought.
Vorden noticed, the corner of his mouth twitching. "That's Eren, right? From the East Sector newer intake?" he asked.
"Probably," Emma said, trying to sound casual and failing. "Yeah. She looks like she knows her own worth without shouting about it. That's rare."
They joined the orientation and the first day blurred into a sequence of introductions: the Institute's rules, the training modules, the schedule for classes, the listing of privileges and limits. A senior student took the microphone and explained, bluntly, how the academy recognized Nobles: special mentoring, access to restricted labs, free counsel with senior wardens-privileges meant to accelerate their talents for the sake of clan agendas and institutional pride. Nobles were, the student admitted, the ones most likely to get private sponsors and elite internships.
Commoners got the core of the curriculum, the public labs, and the ability to challenge for access to the restricted zones through merit. "We are told equality," the student said in a voice that threaded between cynical and earnest. "But hierarchy moves stealthily. Don't assume that silence equals fairness."
The soldiers' briefings echoed the same doctrine: equality of obligation, not equality of outcome. The officers repeated that family names had power in the city, that clans operated as private ecosystems of talent and influence. "You may be treated with respect by a clan's assistant," the officer warned, "but remember that clans broker advantage across the city. You will meet nobles who will expect deference and privileges. Learn to manage those dynamics without giving up yourself."
Emma listened and filed it away. He also listened to the quiet interchange of social negotiation that took place on the periphery: the nobles who expected deferential bows; commoners who practiced humility like armor; the students with fresh awakenings who tried to brandish their nascent power as currency.
Dinner that night was a study in contrast. The dining hall was huge, an amphitheater of long tables, caloric dispensers, and attendants managing the flow. Nobles had a separate wing with curated menus; commoners fed at the main benches. It felt unfair and yet pragmatically efficient. Emma sat with Vorden, Iyke, and Grent, sharing a tray of hot stew.
"Look at them," Grent huffed, pointing subtly toward the noble wing. "They have actual fresh fruit. Fresh fruit."
Emma took a bite and rolled his eyes. "They have fresh fruit and probably someone to polish their medals at night. We have stew and the luxury of sweating before breakfast."
Vorden's voice was calm. "Privilege buys leisure. We can buy skill." He looked at Emma. "Work. That's the important part."
A small group of nobled students passed by their table and a hush fell. One of them - a tall boy whose crest signaled the Vaalion Clan - smirked and tossed a glance toward their table like a paper airplane. He's the kind of boy whose arrogance is trimmed with good breeding.
"Do you know who you're sitting with?" he said loud enough for many to hear, voice poised to manufacture offense. "Are you sure the general public is supposed to be allowed at these tables?"
Emma raised an eyebrow and finished a spoonful deliberately. "Sure. Because we're flavor-"
Vorden's posture shifted slightly. He had that subtle, ready poise of someone who knew when to let things pass and when to step in. The Vaalion boy's smile thinned.
Before anything escalated, Eren appeared like a blade between two notes. She stood and addressed the Vaalion boy without ceremony. "Are you done?" she asked, voice low and efficient. "There are better things you could be doing with your time than policing seat assignments."
He blinked. People shifted, listening to the calm authority in her voice more than to words. The Vaalion boy gave a hollow laugh and moved on. Eren sat down at a nearby table. She looked at Emma briefly, an unreadable glance that felt like a file being opened and closed.
Emma grinned inwardly. "She's the kind who handles knives quietly," he said to Vorden. "I like her."
Vorden nodded. "Be careful. Nobles resent the ones who refuse to look small."
That night, the four of them returned to their small room. The window framed the obelisk as a pale, steady finger pointing up toward uncertain things. They spoke in low bursts about the day, about privileges, and about how quickly a person could become invisible in a place that valued spectacle.
Grent grew quieter in the close dark. Iyke paced for a while, his restlessness a kind of built-in habit. Vorden adjusted straps on his bag with the perfection of a man who organized risk. Emma lay back on his bed, watching the ceiling, and let the day fold into him.
In the murmur of midnight conversation, Vorden's laugh was soft and then sharp. "Tomorrow," he said, "the real tests begin. The senior wards will set the initial challenges. We'll see who the school wants to shape first."
Emma snorted softly. "If they come for me, tell them I have stage presence. I'll die dramatically."
Grent laughed, a small sound that wanted permission. Iyke grinned, all teeth and unspent energy.
Outside, in the institutional quiet, a tiny cluster of noble students gathered near the pavilion and began to trade whispered judgments as if they were currency. Their voices carried in the way privileged voices always did-light, dismissive, and confident.
One of them, the Vaalion boy with the crested scarf, looked toward Block Theta-3 and fished for a target. He would find one tomorrow, when chores or training gave him the chance. The hunger in a noble for amusement was a small animal; It could grow large very quickly.
Emma was asleep before the day became permanently doe-eyed in memory. He dreamed, briefly, of the obelisk calling his name. He woke with a grin and a plan to annoy destiny politely.
In the morning, as the first formal drills unfurled and the academy's clock ticked with the weight of a hundred futures, the seeds of friction that would define his time began to take root.
For now, Germmy Institute had welcomed them all: noble and commoner, gifted and not - and in that welcome lay the first promise and the first threat. Emma had been given a place in the Institute. The Institute had given him, in return, a thousand things to watch - and a few things to fear.