Night at Arcana Academy was silent. But it was not a natural silence—it was one enforced by sigils, restrained by rules. Even the walls of the dormitories were engraved to hold mana, as if darkness itself was not allowed to speak too loudly.
Eren lay on his back in bed. The other students had long since fallen asleep. Their breathing was steady; the magic within them flowed rhythmically through their sigils, creating an invisible order. In Eren, there was nothing. No current. No response. No familiar vibration.
But tonight was different.
The silence had weight.
When he closed his eyes, he did not see darkness. Instead, a depth opened within his mind—limitless, undefined. It felt like a door that had been closed for centuries had finally realized it was being noticed. There was no voice. No words. But there was a will—suppressed, patient, and awake.
You are listening.
The thought echoed inside Eren's mind. It was not his own voice, yet it was not foreign either. His heart began to race. He tried to move, but his body did not respond. In that moment, he understood: this was not a dream. And it was not a spell.
This was a bond.
The void within his mind began to take shape. There was no face, no body—only a presence defined by its absence. Around it hovered sigils, unlike any taught at the academy. They did not glow. They made no sound. Their power existed in their invisibility.
Two thousand years, the will said.
For two thousand years, the world spoke. I remained silent.
Eren swallowed. "Who… are you?" he whispered.
There was a brief pause before the answer came.
Once, I was called a master.
Now, I am only the forgotten.
Images flooded his mind. Armies covered in sigils. Blazing spells. And standing alone before them, a single figure. When that figure raised his hand, magic did not explode. It did not shatter or fade. It simply lost its meaning. Spells fell silent. Magic lost its will.
The Silent Sigil, the master said.
It does not destroy. It does not suppress. It listens… and decides.
Eren felt his knees hit the ground. It was not the weight of the power that shook him, but its clarity. "Why are you showing this to me?" he asked, his voice trembling. "I'm powerless."
The answer came instantly.
No, the will replied.
You were silenced.
Everything the academy taught flashed through his mind—control, obedience, measurement, classification. The belief that power existed only by permission.
This world, the master said,
mistook noise for strength and declared silence to be weakness.
The vision shifted. A small child—Eren. His hands buried in his pockets while others proudly displayed their sigils. Laughter. Whispers. Shoves. Being ignored.
They did not choose you, the master said.
Silence recognized you.
The bond deepened. No mark appeared on Eren's chest. No sigil ignited. Instead, something settled within him—a recognition. Quiet. Absolute. Irreversible.
I will not command you, the master said.
I will not teach you spells.
I will only remind you how to listen.
The darkness slowly dispersed. Eren gasped and sat upright in his bed. The room was the same. The walls, the beds, the enforced silence—unchanged.
But something had shifted.
Eren was no longer alone.
And the Silent Sigil, buried for two thousand years, had begun to listen to the world once more.