The days that followed passed in an unusual calm.
Sylas returned to his old routine—silent, distant, and unseen—but something inside him had fundamentally changed. While the other children whispered nervously about the dome, monsters, and the fate awaiting them at age ten, Sylas observed quietly, storing every detail like pieces of a grand puzzle.
Fear wasted energy. Preparation did not.
Each morning, he woke before the bell rang. He began moving his frail body as much as it allowed—stretching, slow breathing, forcing his weak limbs to obey. Pitiful by any warrior's standards, but Sylas knew one truth from his previous life: any foundation, however weak, beat none.
A month after the memory fusion, something subtle shifted. Headaches vanished, yet lingering pain persisted. Sylas pondered its cause but found no clues. With a sigh, he shelved it—answers would come with power.
Outside his room, the orphanage remained the same broken place. The Matron barked orders. Food was barely edible. Caretakers ignored him. But Sylas noticed now: the Matron's tension at mentions of turning ten, officials scanning children like livestock, names and ages quietly recorded.
Children weren't raised here. They were prepared—discarded pieces in a larger war.
One afternoon in the courtyard, a younger child approached timidly. "S-Sylas… is it true?" the boy asked, voice shaking. "That we'll disappear?"
Sylas met his wide, fearful eyes and trembling hands clutching a worn shirt.
He could lie. Comfort. Instead: "Yes."
The boy froze.
"But," Sylas continued steadily, "disappearing doesn't mean dying."
"How do you know?"
Sylas gazed skyward, where the dome's faint outline shimmered beyond sight. "Because the world wouldn't need fear if it wanted us dead. It would just kill us."
The boy didn't fully grasp it, but Sylas's calm certainty eased him.
That night, on his mattress, Sylas calculated: time to tenth birthday, physical limits, mission unknowns, information's value over strength. In his past life, he ruled boardrooms with wit and patience. This world was crueler, but rules remained.
"And rules," Sylas murmured, eyes glowing faintly in the dark, "can be exploited."
The summoning was approaching.