Lucia didn't immediately understand what had happened.
She simply stopped.
And only a moment later did she realize that she no longer heard the rain.
Didn't feel the wind.
Didn't see the lightning.
The mountains were gone.
They hadn't dissolved into mist, hadn't been hidden by anything—they had simply ceased to exist, as if they had never been there at all.
And in front of her stood three people.
They kept their distance—close enough to be seen clearly, but not close enough for her to feel anything else: warmth, breath, presence.
And it was from that moment that her new reality began to take shape.
They didn't rush toward her. For a few seconds, the three stood opposite her, watching carefully, as if trying to understand what state she was in. There was no fear in their eyes, but there was caution—not because of danger, but because of uncertainty. They had clearly expected to see confusion or exhaustion, perhaps the aftermath of the trial—but not this strange, almost empty calm.
Finally, one of them stepped forward.
"Can you hear me?" he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.
Lucia looked at him, and the words didn't reach her immediately. It was as if they lagged, arriving with a delay, yet still remaining understandable.
She blinked, and after a moment quietly replied:
"…Yes."
The three exchanged glances, and the tension in their posture eased slightly.
"Good," the same boy said with a nod. "Then everything's fine."
He paused for a second, then asked what seemed to him the simplest and most obvious question:
"What's your name?"
Lucia froze.
The question was clear. Completely.
But inside, nothing appeared.
No word. No sound. Not even a hint.
She tried to answer, but her voice wouldn't form. There was nothing for the thought to latch onto. A name—the most basic, the most stable thing—was absent.
"I…" she began, and immediately fell silent.
She frowned, as if trying to grasp something that kept slipping away.
The second boy leaned forward slightly.
"Wait… you don't remember?" he asked, and for the first time there was surprise in his voice.
Lucia shifted her gaze to him and slowly shook her head.
The silence that followed was different now.
They looked at each other again—this time not just with curiosity, but with clear confusion.
"What do you mean you don't remember?" the third asked. "After the trial, people usually… well, at most they're a bit confused. But not like this."
"Yeah," the first confirmed, frowning. "People come back exhausted, sometimes disoriented, but their memory is intact. That's basic."
He looked at her again, more carefully now, almost studying her.
"You really don't remember anything? Not your name, where you're from, or… anything at all?"
Lucia shook her head again.
"Nothing," she said quietly.
And this time, it sounded final.
Not like an assumption.
Like a fact.
The third exhaled softly, taking half a step back.
"This is… not normal."
"This is impossible," the second corrected. "That's not how the trial works."
The first didn't respond immediately. He continued looking at Lucia, and in his gaze there slowly appeared understanding, mixed with something like caution.
"Or it is," he finally said slowly. "We just don't know about it."
For a moment, they all fell silent.
Then he spoke again, calmer now:
"Alright. Let's try something else. Don't try to remember everything at once."
He made a small gesture with his hand, as if telling her not to strain herself.
"Sometimes something basic remains. Try to focus on the simplest thing. Any word that feels familiar."
Lucia looked at him for a few seconds, then closed her eyes.
She didn't know what exactly she was searching for.
But inside that emptiness, there really was something else.
Not memories.
A trace.
Very faint.
She focused.
And felt it.
Like a quiet sound somewhere far away.
She reached for it, trying not to lose it.
"L…" she exhaled.
The three in front of her froze.
"Lu…" the sound became more certain.
She frowned, as if she herself didn't fully understand where it was coming from.
"Lucia…"
The name came out softly, but clearly.
Lucia opened her eyes and looked at them, as if checking whether it had really happened.
"Lucia…" she repeated.
The word didn't disappear.
It remained.
The first nodded slowly.
"Good," he said. "So—Lucia."
The second shook his head, still not fully accepting what was happening.
"To lose everything… because of the trial…" he muttered. "That's something new."
"Or rare," the first replied. "But definitely not normal."
He paused for a second, then added:
"Alright. We'll figure it out later. For now, the important thing is—you're in the Academy, you're alive, and at least you have a name."
Lucia listened in silence.
The words sounded logical.
But they didn't resonate inside her.
Only one word remained clear.
Her name.
And now, walking down the corridor, Lucia gave a faint smirk, recalling that moment.
"So the trial really did a number on me…" she murmured quietly. "A bit too much, even."
She paused for a second, then added more calmly:
"Good thing I didn't forget my name… although, if you think about it, I only remembered it at the last moment."
She gave a slight shrug, as if that gesture alone finalized her acceptance of the lack of answers, and continued down the corridor without slowing her pace. The even light fell across the walls and floor unchanged, the doors remained identical, and in that repeating order there was something soothing—as if the space itself demanded nothing from her.
The Academy hadn't been built here by accident—this she knew with the same strange certainty with which she knew her own name. This knowledge came without memory, without image or voice, yet felt like an undeniable fact. After the first trial, most people ended up in these mountains or somewhere nearby, as if the place itself drew them in or was part of the process. The rest were found—handled by separate groups—and brought here, leaving no one outside the system.
Everything was carefully arranged.
Too carefully to be random.
The Academy didn't just exist—it functioned.
Like a mechanism in which every part knew its place and performed its role without failure.
Lucia walked on, undistracted, her thoughts flowing evenly, without sharp jumps, as if aligning themselves with the rhythm of this place.
Over the past week, she had tried to reconstruct herself. Not in terms of emotions or sensations—those were easier, they came on their own, even if not always at the right time. She had tried to recover her memories, to piece together at least some kind of coherent picture from fragments.
Sometimes it felt like she was close.
That just a little more—and something would become clear.
But each time, that feeling fell apart.
In the end, she had managed to gather only a small portion.
Five percent.
Maybe ten—if she counted the rare fragments that were hard to call full memories, but still weren't empty.
The rest hadn't disappeared entirely.
It had simply changed form.
Moved into her body.
Into movements she performed correctly without thinking.
Into reactions that arose before thought could take shape.
Into sensations that couldn't be explained with words, yet guided her more precisely than any instruction.
She didn't remember how to hold a sword.
Couldn't name a single stance.
Didn't know any techniques.
But if given a weapon—her hands would find the right position on their own.
Her body moved as if it had done it thousands of times before.
And there was no doubt in it.
Lucia slowed her step for a moment, listening to herself.
The feeling was strange.
On one hand—emptiness.
On the other—a clear, almost flawless certainty in action.
"So you do remember something after all…" she murmured quietly, looking ahead, though speaking more to herself.
Her lips twitched slightly into a faint smile.
"You just don't want to share."
No answer came, of course.
But this time, the silence didn't feel so foreign.
The cafeteria turned out to be large.
So large that at first, the space didn't feel like a place for eating, but more like a hall designed for a flow of people that wasn't there now. Rows of tables stretched far ahead, neatly arranged with equal spacing between them, as if everything here had been calculated for order and movement. The ceiling rose slightly higher than in the corridors, and the light remained just as even, calmly filling the room without shadows or harsh transitions.
And yet—almost empty.
At the moment, no more than a dozen teenagers were in the cafeteria. They sat scattered, each in their own corner, as if the space between them was more than just distance. Some ate silently without looking up, some lazily picked at their food, some simply sat staring at a single point.
The silence wasn't complete, but it couldn't be called noise either. The faint clink of dishes, muffled footsteps, rare quiet voices—all of it was swallowed by the volume of the hall.
Lucia paused briefly at the entrance, scanning the room, then headed toward the serving line.
She didn't think about her choice.
Her hands picked up a tray, placed a plate of food on it—meat, a side dish, something else that didn't require attention. Everything looked neat, even, just like everything in the Academy.
She chose an empty table and sat down, placing the tray in front of her.
For a while, she simply looked at the food.
Not out of doubt.
More because of a strange lack of interest.
Then she picked up the utensils and began to eat.
Her movements were calm, habitual, without haste. She cut a piece of meat, brought it to her mouth, chewed.
And froze.
Nothing.
No taste.
No оттенков—no nuances.
Not even a hint that it was food at all.
The texture was there—she felt the meat break apart, the side dish change density, the food pass down her throat. Her body reacted correctly, without issue.
But taste… was completely absent.
Lucia slowly lowered her fork, not taking her eyes off the plate.
She tried again.
This time more carefully, as if she might have missed something.
But the result was the same.
Empty.
She frowned slightly.
This wasn't like with her memories.
There, at least, sensations remained.
Here—nothing.
She knew food was supposed to have taste.
Knew it should differ.
That meat wasn't the same as the side dish.
That there should be something—salty, sweet, bitter… anything.
But there wasn't.
"…Great," she muttered quietly, with a faint smirk. "Memory gone, taste gone… what's next?"
There was no real irritation in her voice.
More dry, calm irony, as if she had already accepted the rules of this new reality and was simply noting its features.
She picked up the fork again and continued eating, no longer trying to find flavor, simply performing the necessary action.
Her body needed it.
Even if the pleasure was gone.
But somewhere deeper remained the feeling that it hadn't always been like this.
That food could be something more than just… function.
That it could bring pleasure.
Warmth.
A sense of comfort.
And that was what she lacked now.
Not the taste itself—she couldn't even remember it.
But what had stood behind it.
Lucia slowed for a moment, then shook her head slightly, pushing the thought away.
"Alright," she said quietly to herself. "We'll figure it out later."
And continued eating, not lifting her gaze from the plate, as if this simple, almost mechanical act held her in the present, preventing her thoughts from slipping back into that smooth, bottomless emptiness she was already beginning to get used to.
She chewed slowly, feeling the structure of the food more than perceiving it as food, when at some point her gaze drifted downward on its own.
To the floor.
To her own shadow.
For a few seconds, she simply looked at it, as if noticing it for the first time. The shadow lay where it should, mirroring her silhouette, slightly stretched by the angle of the light, no different from any other.
But the feeling was different.
Lucia tilted her head slightly, narrowing her eyes, as if trying to see not the shape, but something beyond it.
"Hey…" she said quietly, almost without thinking where the question had come from. "Do you need food?"
The words sounded calm, without doubt, as if she were addressing someone entirely real.
And the next moment—the shadow… reacted.
It didn't change form completely, didn't detach from the floor, didn't become something independent, but there was a subtle movement in its silhouette—enough to make it clear: this was no coincidence.
The shadow looked at her.
And shrugged.
Lucia blinked.
Once.
Then again.
She didn't recoil, didn't jump, didn't drop her utensils—her reaction was surprisingly calm, as if what was happening didn't exceed the bounds of the acceptable.
"…Alright," she said quietly, exhaling slightly. "So this isn't a hallucination."
There was no fear in her voice.
More a statement of fact.
She paused for a moment, shifting her gaze from the shadow back to the plate, then down again. Something like curiosity flickered in her eyes.
"Then let's test it," she murmured softly.
Lucia took a small piece of meat, as if about to eat it, but instead, without drawing attention, nudged it slightly off the edge of the plate.
The piece fell.
Straight onto the shadow.
And didn't stop.
It began to sink into it slowly, as if into thick, dark liquid, making no sound, leaving no trace. Its outline blurred, dissolved—and within a moment, it was completely gone.
"Oh," Lucia exhaled quietly, leaning a little closer.
There was no fear in her gaze.
Only interest.
For a while, she watched the spot where the piece of meat had just disappeared, as if expecting it to return or at least leave a mark.
But nothing happened.
The shadow looked normal again.
Calm.
Still.
Lucia raised an eyebrow slightly and asked softly:
"…Well? Tasty?"
The shadow shook its head.
The movement was just as subtle as before, but clear enough to leave no doubt.
"Not tasty?" Lucia glanced at her plate, studying the food thoughtfully. "Looks fine…"
She paused for a second, then tilted her head slightly.
"Although…" she added more quietly. "I can't taste anything either."
The shadow continued to look at her.
Calmly.
Unchanged.
Lucia held the pause, then the corners of her lips lifted slightly.
"Just kidding," she said softly.
And in that short phrase, there was more life than in everything she had said before.
She picked up her fork again and continued eating, though now from time to time her gaze dropped downward, as if checking whether her strange companion was still there.
"So meat doesn't work…" she muttered under her breath. "Or you're just picky."
The shadow, as expected, didn't respond.
But somehow, that no longer felt strange.