Morning after the broadcast.Citadel wakes uneasy.Half the city celebrates; the other half demands silence.
The Accord wanted unity.It got honesty instead — and honesty never stays quiet for long.
Reports spread through the relay channels.Northern towns declare independence from the Accord's network, claiming "unfiltered truth creates chaos."Southern settlements double down on openness, flooding the channels with debate, art, memory.
It's not war. Not yet.Just disagreement loud enough to shake a fragile world.
Rai calls it the division of peace.He says it like an analyst, not a survivor.
"This was always going to happen," I tell him.
"Maybe," he answers. "But I hoped it would take longer than a day."
He leans over the table, maps scattered, lines drawn in fading ink. "They're not fighting with weapons. They're fighting with words. Narratives. Everyone wants to own the meaning of what you said."
"Then they weren't listening."
He looks up. "People rarely do. They hear what keeps them comfortable."
Later that afternoon, Uraraka visits.Her voice is tired, but her presence still carries warmth like sunlight through clouds.
"They're rewriting your speech already," she says. "Editing it for local broadcasts. Cutting the parts that hurt."
"That's what people do with pain. They polish it."
"They're turning you back into a myth, Kazen. One side says you proved peace needs structure. The other says you proved structure kills peace. No one's hearing you. Not really."
"Maybe that's for the best."
She frowns. "You don't mean that."
"I do. Because truth doesn't survive translation. It mutates, and if that mutation helps them move forward, then let it."
She shakes her head. "You always confuse surrender for wisdom."
"And you confuse belief for progress."
Her eyes flash — anger, then pity, then something quieter."You can't live like this forever," she says. "At some point, the world will move on without you. What will you be then?"
"Unnecessary."
She leaves before I can explain that I meant it as peace.
By evening, the first riots break out — not for control, but for narrative.In one settlement, citizens burn the Accord's banners.In another, they build shrines to them.Somewhere, someone always needs an image to follow.
Citadel holds, but the tension hums beneath every conversation.Freedom has a cost: noise.And people raised on silence don't know what to do with it.
Rai finds me on the observation deck that used to belong to the Directorate.It's cracked now, lined with plants that grow through concrete.
"You still think this is victory?" he asks.
"Victory isn't the point."
"Then what is?"
"Movement. They're arguing because they care again. A world that fights over meaning is still alive."
He stares at me. "You sound like Nezu."
"Then he must've been right about something."
Night.Citadel glows below, divided into districts of light — each section tuned to a different frequency of belief.It's beautiful, in a tragic kind of way.A map of humanity's inability to agree, drawn in neon.
Uraraka's words linger in my head: You can't live like this forever.
Maybe she's right.Maybe peace doesn't need a witness anymore — just time.
I record one last message to Rai.No signature.No title.
"If the Accord survives, don't build statues. Don't name streets. Don't let my voice become law.Freedom only matters when it belongs to those who never heard of me."
I send it.Then I delete every trace of the old channels that could find me again.
Before dawn, I leave Citadel for good.No crowd. No goodbyes.Just footsteps fading into the hills east of the rebuilt city.
The air feels colder, sharper — but it's clean.
As I walk, I hear distant voices carried by the relays.Not speeches. Conversations.Arguments. Laughter.The sound of a world still learning how to live with its own noise.
It's enough.
Maybe peace isn't the end of conflict, I think. Maybe it's learning which conflicts are worth keeping.
I keep walking.The light behind me fades, and ahead, the land opens into something wide and waiting.