At Arcana Academy, not all lessons were taught in classrooms. Some teachings were never written into schedules, never graded, never examined. They were carved directly into the mind.
At first, Eren did not notice.
The exhaustion he felt after the control lessons seemed ordinary. It was not his body that tired, but his thoughts—as if an unseen hand slipped between them, pressing some down while pulling others forward. Other students discussed their spells loudly, compared sigils, argued over mistakes. There was noise everywhere. Constant, restless noise.
Eren walked in silence.
And within that silence, he was no longer alone.
Stop.
The master's will halted Eren's steps inside his mind. The corridor was empty. Sigils embedded in the stone walls emitted a faint glow, unresponsive to his presence.
Your way of listening is flawed, the master said.
You still place yourself at the center.
Eren's chest tightened. I'm just trying to understand, he thought.
Do not interrupt, the will replied.
Speaking within silence creates noise.
It did not feel like a command. It felt like an unchangeable truth. There was an unsettling similarity between the academy's doctrine of control and the master's guidance. Both organized the will. Both suppressed doubt.
The first stage, the master said,
is not listening. It is suppression.
Eren stopped and closed his eyes.
"What am I supposed to suppress?" he asked.
The desire to choose.
At that moment, Eren became aware of the thoughts rising within him—his anger toward Professor Althar, the fragile hope he sensed in Lyenne's gaze, the uncertainty surrounding his own future. All of it pressed toward the surface.
Silence them, the master said.
Power precedes interpretation.
Eren held his breath and forced his thoughts down. It was difficult—but the moment he succeeded, the mana around him stirred. The sigils did not ignite. No light appeared. But the air itself seemed to pause around him.
Something had occurred that did not obey the academy's rules.
Do you see? the master said.
Obedience is not a chain. It is focus.
Eren's heart raced. "Is this… wrong?" he asked.
There was a long pause.
Wrong, the master finally said,
is what the world taught you.
From that day on, the lessons did not change. The same symbols were drawn on the board. The same rules were repeated. But for Eren, everything was different. He no longer listened to the lessons themselves—he felt the gaps between them. The things deliberately left unsaid.
And with each passing day, the master drew closer.
The second stage, the master said one night,
is emptying.
"What does that mean?" Eren asked.
Stepping back from yourself, the master replied.
Making space.
Eren accepted. Because with every acceptance, the world seemed clearer. Voices grew more meaningless. Spells appeared more primitive. The academy's structure revealed itself as bare and fragile. What he did not realize was this: the clearer the world became, the less it belonged to him.
The master no longer merely guided him.
Sometimes, the master finished Eren's thoughts for him.
Sometimes, Eren believed he was making a decision—only to realize it had already been made.
Sometimes, during lessons, he felt no urge to raise his hand—yet his hand rose.
And the Silent Sigil grew stronger.
During a practical class, as students activated their sigils, Eren did nothing. Yet for a brief moment, the mana in the hall slowed. Professor Althar hesitated. Lyenne looked up. No one understood what had happened.
Only the master spoke.
Good, he said.
They are beginning to notice you.
"Is this you?" Eren asked for the first time. "What I'm doing… is it mine?"
The master did not hesitate.
I am correcting what I failed to do two thousand years ago, he said.
They silenced me then. Now, they listen to you.
Eren felt something diminish within him. But that loss was filled with power—and power suppressed doubt.
The final stage approaches, the master said.
Guidance.
"What does that mean?" Eren asked.
Answering, the master replied,
before you ask.
In that moment, Eren understood—but it was already too late. This was not training. It was not sharing. It was the gradual transfer of will. The master was not shaping a student.
He was shaping a vessel.
And still, Eren did not resist.
Because with every strengthening of the Silent Sigil, the world grew quieter.
And within that silence, Eren did not believe he was losing himself.
He believed he was finally becoming useful.