The registry hall smelled like ink, wax, and old paper.
Alex stood in line with a dozen others—travelers, refugees, drifters like himself—each holding scraps of parchment or nothing at all. No banners hung from the walls. No noble crests. Just stone, desks, and tired clerks doing their jobs.
It was… ordinary.
That alone made him uneasy.
He shifted his weight slightly, cloak pulled low, feeling the system's suppression hold firm. His mana sat quiet, docile, dull.
Rank 9.
F — Mid.
Pathetic.
Perfect.
When it was his turn, the clerk didn't look up right away. She dipped her pen, scratched something onto the page, then finally lifted her eyes.
"Name?" she asked.
Alex paused.
For just a moment, the question felt heavier than it should have.
A name meant history. Records. Threads that could be followed backward.
He chose carefully.
"Arlen," he said. "Arlen Vale."
The clerk nodded without comment.
{Identity string recorded.}
Alex's jaw tightened.
He ignored it.
"Origin?" the clerk asked.
"Empire-born," Alex replied after a heartbeat. "Passing through."
That earned him a glance—brief, curious, but not hostile.
"Reason for entry?"
"Work," he said. "Or trade. Haven't decided."
She hummed, clearly unconcerned. "Any family with you?"
"No."
The pen moved again.
"Rank?"
Alex didn't hesitate. "F."
"Awakened?"
"Yes."
She finally looked up properly then, eyes flicking over him with mild interest—not fear.
"Low or mid?"
"Mid."
"Good enough." She stamped the parchment. "You'll be registered as a drifter. Temporary residency—six months. Renew if you stay longer. Housing district is marked here."
She slid the paper across the desk.
That was it.
No questions about bloodlines.
No magical scrutiny.
No priests, chains, or glowing relics pressed against his skin.
Just bureaucracy.
Alex took the parchment slowly.
"Done?" he asked.
The clerk blinked. "Unless you're hiding a bounty or plague, yes."
He almost laughed.
Outside, the city continued as if nothing had happened.
No horns sounded.
No soldiers converged.
The world did not end because he existed under a different name.
Alex walked several streets before stopping, leaning against a low stone wall near a public fountain. He watched people pass—merchants arguing over prices, guards chatting lazily, a pair of children racing each other with wooden swords.
Two boys.
Identical.
Twins.
They laughed, one tripping the other, both scrambling back to their feet with scraped knees and bright grins.
No one stared.
No one whispered.
No one crossed themselves or stepped away.
Alex's chest tightened.
"System," he asked quietly, "how common are twins here?"
{Statistical frequency: Slightly above imperial average.}
"Slightly?"
{Cultural significance: Negligible.}
Alex frowned. "Negligible how?"
{Twins are not associated with omen-based doctrine in this region.}
He looked again at the children.
Their mother scolded them lightly, fussing over the scrapes. No fear in her voice. No hesitation in her touch.
"They don't care," Alex murmured.
{Correct.}
The realization settled slowly, uncomfortably.
"It wasn't universal," he said. "The empire's fear."
{Correct.}
Alex closed his eyes.
All those years. The whispers. The isolation. The chains. The exile.
Not because twins were inherently cursed.
But because the empire had decided they were.
"Political," he said softly.
{Clarification requested.}
"The doctrine," Alex continued. "It wasn't about fate. It was about control. Succession. Stability."
He opened his eyes, gaze sharpening.
"Twins complicate inheritance. Complicate prophecy. Complicate power."
{Inference accuracy: High.}
Chaos stirred, a low rumble of approval.
(You see it now,) the dragon said. (Fear wears many masks. The empire chose superstition because it was convenient.)
Alex watched a pair of guards walk past—one older, one younger, identical in face but different in build.
Brothers.
Twins.
They joked casually, armor clinking.
No one flinched.
No one called them cursed.
"So I wasn't born wrong," Alex said.
(You were born inconvenient,) Chaos replied.
The words hit harder than cruelty ever had.
Alex pushed himself upright.
"Then my exile," he said slowly, "wasn't mercy. It was risk management."
{Correct.}
"They couldn't kill me outright," Alex continued. "Too visible. Too many eyes. But letting me stay…"
He exhaled.
"…meant uncertainty."
{Conclusion accepted.}
Alex folded the registration parchment carefully and tucked it into his cloak.
"Arlen Vale," he repeated under his breath.
A name without history.
Without expectations.
Without fear attached to it.
For now.
He started walking again, blending into the flow of the city.
Every step felt lighter.
Not because his past had changed.
But because he finally understood it.
The empire hadn't been afraid of monsters.
They'd been afraid of variables.
And Alex—brilliant, anomalous, unbound—had been one they couldn't control.
Chaos's presence curled comfortably in his chest.
(A name is a tool,) the dragon said. (Use it until it breaks.)
Alex's lips twitched.
"And when it does?"
Chaos smiled in a way only Alex could feel.
(Then you choose another.)
Alex lifted his gaze toward the distant road leading deeper into the kingdom.
This place didn't care who he had been.
Only who he chose to be now.
And for the first time since awakening—
That choice was entirely his.