Breakfast arrived with the steady predictability of institutional routine, trays sliding across long tables in the dining hall while conversations built and collapsed in rhythmic waves, students clustering by preference or proximity or the invisible social geometries that determined who belonged near whom, and Reynard Bell sat alone near the eastern windows watching patterns form and dissolve with the detached interest of someone who had made observation itself a practiced skill.
He'd been tracking anomalies for eleven days.
Not officially—nothing about his methodology would satisfy academic rigor or administrative oversight—but comprehensively, using paper notebooks that couldn't be remotely edited and handwritten logs that required physical destruction to erase, building a record that existed independent of any system that might later decide certain observations had never occurred.
The Third Council repetition had been the catalyst, though in retrospect smaller irregularities had preceded it, details too minor to warrant attention individually but which accumulated into a pattern once he'd started looking deliberately rather than accepting the ambient wrongness as background noise everyone else seemed content to ignore.
People forgot things.
That much was normal.
Memory was fallible, attention selective, and in an environment as complex as the academy forgetting names or misremembering schedules happened constantly without indicating anything more sinister than cognitive overload.
But forgetting the same person repeatedly, in the same specific way, with the same confused expression when reminded of previous interactions—that suggested something more systematic than individual failure.
Reynard turned a page in his current notebook, reviewing entries from the past week, each one documenting an encounter with students who'd interacted with Uno Nao and subsequently couldn't recall the interaction despite physical evidence proving it had occurred.
Entry forty-seven: Showed Marcus Chen a photograph of Study Group session three days prior. Chen appeared in photo sitting next to white-haired student. Chen's response: "I don't remember him being there. Are you sure this photo is from our session?"
Entry forty-eight: Asked Sarah Vex about the student who'd borrowed her notes during Magical Theory. Vex initially confused, then remembered briefly, then forgot again mid-conversation. Exact quote: "Wait, who were we talking about?"
Entry fifty-one: Professor Naito Yoshito called on "the student in the third row" during lecture. Student answered correctly. When asked the student's name afterward, Naito responded: "I don't recall calling on anyone in that row."
The pattern was consistent.
Interaction occurred, was documented, then decayed from memory over hours or days, leaving behind only the uncomfortable sense that something had been forgotten without clarity about what.
Except for a few exceptions.
Mira Veyl remembered consistently, her recall stable across multiple conversations, and when Reynard had tested her by asking about Uno without using his name she'd identified him immediately, described recent interactions with accurate detail, and expressed frustration that others seemed incapable of maintaining similar awareness.
Kotone Otani remembered, though her memory felt different—not natural retention but forced documentation, like she was manually preserving data against active degradation, her responses precise but strained, suggesting significant effort required to maintain recall.
And Reynard himself remembered, though he'd taken to writing everything down immediately after each observation, unwilling to trust that his own cognitive resilience would prove more reliable than everyone else's.
Movement across the hall drew his attention.
Uno entered through the main archway, his timing neither early nor late, his presence generating the usual subtle redistribution of space as students unconsciously adjusted positions to maintain distance they probably couldn't explain if asked, creating gaps that closed immediately after he passed through them.
Reynard watched him collect a tray, watched him move through the serving line with movements that seemed slightly out of sync with the ambient flow, watched him sit at a table near the center where three other students had been conversing and immediately fell silent, not from conscious decision but from the sudden sense that conversation had lost relevance.
One of the three students—Lane Marrow, philosophy track, known for asking questions that made professors uncomfortable—looked up as Uno sat down, his expression shifting from mild surprise to focused attention, and instead of resuming the previous conversation he simply observed, watching Uno with the kind of careful neutrality that suggested recognition of significance without understanding what that significance meant.
The other two students at the table glanced at Uno, glanced at each other, then stood simultaneously and moved to a different table without discussion, their departure smooth enough to seem natural except for the fact that they left half-finished meals behind and didn't look back.
Lane remained.
Reynard made a note: Lane Marrow—does not forget. Does not retreat. Possible natural immunity to memory degradation effect?
He stood, carrying his notebook and half-empty coffee, and crossed the hall with deliberate casualness, approaching the table where Uno and Lane sat in silence that felt less awkward than observational, both of them apparently content to exist in proximity without requiring interaction to justify it.
"Mind if I join you?" Reynard asked, directing the question at Lane rather than Uno, a social nicety that felt appropriate even though the real reason for asking involved the person he wasn't addressing.
Lane gestured toward an empty chair with lazy permission, his attention remaining on Uno, and Reynard sat down, positioning himself where he could observe both of them without appearing to stare at either.
Silence extended.
Not uncomfortable, but deliberate, like each of them was waiting for someone else to establish the terms of engagement, and when it became clear that Uno had no intention of speaking first and Lane seemed genuinely unbothered by the absence of conversation, Reynard decided directness might serve better than subtlety.
"You don't forget him," Reynard said, looking at Lane but referencing Uno with the kind of indirect clarity that made pronouns function as identification.
Lane's expression didn't change, though something in his eyes suggested appreciation for the observation, and he tilted his head slightly in acknowledgment before responding.
"Forgetting requires misplacing something you once held," Lane said, his voice carrying the measured cadence of someone who'd thought carefully about phrasing before speaking. "I never tried to hold anything, so there's nothing to misplace."
The answer was oblique enough to irritate and clear enough to confirm that Lane understood something about Uno's effect on perception, and Reynard filed that away as significant while considering how to proceed.
Uno continued eating with mechanical efficiency, not ignoring the conversation so much as existing parallel to it, present without participating, and Reynard wondered whether that was intentional strategy or simply how Uno navigated social situations that required acknowledgment without engagement.
"People forget you," Reynard said, shifting his attention directly to Uno, abandoning indirect reference in favor of confrontation that might produce actual information. "Consistently. Measurably. I've documented forty-seven instances in eleven days."
Uno looked up from his tray, meeting Reynard's gaze with eyes that reflected light without warmth, and for a moment Reynard experienced the distinct sensation of being evaluated by something that found evaluation itself mildly irrelevant.
"Yes," Uno said simply, offering confirmation without explanation, the single word delivered with the same neutral precision he applied to everything.
Reynard waited for elaboration that didn't come, frustration building not from Uno's refusal to explain but from the growing certainty that explanation might not be possible, that whatever Uno represented existed outside frameworks where explanation functioned as meaningful communication.
"Does it bother you?" Reynard tried instead, shifting from investigation to something closer to genuine curiosity.
Uno considered the question with visible thought, his expression unchanging but his pause suggesting actual internal processing rather than reflexive response, and when he answered his voice carried the same quiet finality it always did.
"Bothering requires attachment to being remembered," he said. "I'm not attached."
Lane made a soft sound that might have been agreement or appreciation, and when Reynard glanced at him the philosophy student was nodding slowly, like Uno had articulated something Lane had been circling without reaching.
"The question that invalidates all our answers," Lane said, apparently continuing a previous thought Reynard hadn't been present for, his gaze still fixed on Uno with fascination that lacked the usual predatory edge people applied to mysteries they wanted to solve. "You're not here to be understood. You're here to prove understanding is incomplete."
Uno's expression shifted microscopically, something that might have been approval or simple acknowledgment, and he returned his attention to his tray, the conversation apparently concluded from his perspective regardless of whether Reynard or Lane had more to say.
Reynard looked between them, sensing that some exchange had occurred he'd only partially witnessed, and decided that pressing for clarification would produce diminishing returns, so instead he opened his notebook and began writing, documenting the interaction while it remained fresh, preserving details that might later provide context when enough data accumulated to reveal patterns.
Around them the dining hall continued its morning rhythm, conversations overlapping and separating, students coming and going with the steady flow of institutional breakfast, and none of them glanced toward the table where three people sat in silence that refused to end, the space around them somehow separate from the ambient social environment despite occupying the same physical location.
Time passed without announcement.
Reynard filled two pages with observations, noting Lane's comment about invalidation, recording Uno's response about attachment, documenting the way other students unconsciously avoided their table despite it being centrally located with available seating.
Eventually Lane stood, gathering his things with unhurried efficiency, and before leaving he looked down at Uno with an expression that suggested respect without familiarity.
"Thank you for sitting here," Lane said, the statement strange enough that Reynard almost asked for clarification before realizing that Lane was thanking Uno not for conversation or company but simply for existing in proximity, for allowing observation without requiring participation.
Uno nodded once, minimally, and Lane walked away, his departure smooth and unremarkable except for the fact that he navigated through the crowd without anyone stepping aside, suggesting that whatever effect caused people to create space around Uno didn't extend to those who'd spent time near him.
Reynard remained, still writing, still documenting, and when he finally looked up Uno was watching him with that same evaluative neutrality.
"You write things down," Uno observed, stating fact without judgment.
"Yes," Reynard confirmed. "Because otherwise I'll forget, and forgetting you seems like the easy option everyone else takes without realizing they're taking it."
"And you prefer difficulty?"
The question carried no mockery, just genuine inquiry, and Reynard found himself considering it seriously before answering.
"I prefer knowing," he said finally. "Even if what I know doesn't make sense. Especially if it doesn't make sense, because that means something fundamental is wrong and pretending otherwise just delays confronting it."
Uno's expression remained neutral, but something in his posture shifted, the smallest possible acknowledgment that Reynard's answer had been received and processed.
"The system will try to correct you," Uno said quietly, his voice carrying across the table with strange clarity despite the ambient noise of the dining hall. "It doesn't like persistent observation."
The warning was delivered without emotion, simple statement of fact, and Reynard felt a chill that had nothing to do with temperature.
"Has it tried to correct you?" he asked.
"Constantly," Uno replied. "It keeps failing."
The conversation ended there, Uno standing and collecting his tray with the same measured efficiency he'd displayed throughout breakfast, and as he walked away Reynard watched the familiar pattern repeat—students creating space without looking, gaps opening and closing, the crowd treating Uno like an obstacle perceived through something other than sight.
Reynard looked down at his notebook, at the pages filled with observations and questions and documented interactions, and wondered how long he could maintain this record before the system decided that persistent documentation constituted a problem requiring intervention.
Then he turned to a fresh page and continued writing, because if correction was inevitable he intended to leave behind as much evidence as possible before it arrived.
Hours later, Reynard sat in the library's archives section, surrounded by enrollment records he'd requisitioned through official channels and unofficial persistence, searching for any historical precedent that might explain Uno's presence or predict what came next.
The records went back centuries, meticulously maintained ledgers documenting every student who'd passed through the academy, their classifications, their achievements, their eventual fates, all organized with the kind of bureaucratic precision that made comprehensive research possible if tedious.
He'd been searching for three hours and found nothing.
No previous instances of students who couldn't be registered properly, no documentation of memory degradation phenomena, no administrative protocols for handling individuals who existed outside standard classification frameworks.
Which meant either this was genuinely unprecedented, or previous instances had been successfully erased and the current records represented sanitized history rather than complete documentation.
Reynard suspected the latter, though proving it would require access to systems he lacked authority to examine, and attempting to gain that authority would likely trigger exactly the kind of attention he was trying to avoid.
Movement in his peripheral vision made him look up.
Mira Veyl stood near the entrance to the archives section, holding her own notebook, her expression carrying the particular frustration of someone who'd been searching for answers and finding only more questions.
They made eye contact across the rows of shelving, mutual recognition passing between them without need for verbal confirmation, and after a moment's hesitation Mira approached, settling into a chair across from Reynard with the weariness of someone who'd been carrying unshared knowledge for too long.
"You're tracking him too," she said, statement rather than question, her voice low enough to avoid drawing attention from other library occupants.
Reynard nodded, gesturing toward his notebook. "Eleven days of documentation. You?"
"Three weeks," Mira replied. "Since registration day. Since I watched the system fail to process him and everyone pretended it was normal."
They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of shared observation creating immediate alliance despite having barely interacted before this, and when Mira opened her own notebook Reynard saw pages filled with the same kind of meticulous documentation he'd been maintaining, timestamps and observations and questions that refused to resolve into answers.
"The lecture loops," Mira said, referencing the Historical Foundations incident without needing to specify which one. "You noticed those?"
"Documented three separate instances across different classes," Reynard confirmed. "All with Uno present. None when he's absent."
"The clock tower chimes wrong," Mira added. "Counts twelve twice. Started four days ago."
"Building Seven's hallways loop back on themselves," Reynard contributed. "Maintenance filed seventeen work orders trying to fix it. Problem persists."
They traded observations like currency, each piece of information confirming that the other's experiences weren't isolated hallucinations but part of a larger pattern, and with each exchange Reynard felt both relief at having his observations validated and growing concern about what those observations collectively implied.
"He told me time often repeats," Mira said quietly, her expression troubled. "When I asked if he'd noticed the lecture loops. Just said it casually, like it was obvious, like reality stuttering was expected behavior."
"He told me the system keeps trying to correct him," Reynard replied. "Said it keeps failing. Didn't elaborate on what correction means or what happens when it fails."
Mira's hand tightened on her pen, knuckles whitening slightly, and when she spoke her voice carried an edge Reynard hadn't heard before.
"I think we're documenting a collapse," she said. "Not immediate, not catastrophic, but steady degradation. The academy's been here for centuries and now it's forgetting how to function properly, and the only variable that changed is him."
The assessment was stark, uncomfortably direct, and Reynard wanted to argue against it except everything he'd observed supported the same conclusion.
"So what do we do?" he asked, genuinely uncertain. "Report it? To whom? The same administration that can't keep consistent attendance records? The same professors who repeat themselves without noticing?"
"We keep documenting," Mira said firmly. "We maintain the record. Because when this gets worse—and it will get worse—someone needs to have preserved evidence of how it started and what it looked like before everything became too degraded to distinguish cause from effect."
Reynard nodded slowly, appreciating the logic even while recognizing the futility embedded in it, because maintaining records only mattered if someone eventually read them, and if the collapse Mira predicted actually occurred there might not be anyone left capable of reading anything.
But the alternative was accepting defeat before the problem had fully manifested, and Reynard had never been particularly good at accepting anything without fighting it first.
"We should coordinate," he said. "Compare notes regularly. Make sure we're both seeing the same things and not manufacturing correlation from coincidence."
"Agreed," Mira replied, relief visible in her expression at having found someone who shared the burden of observation. "Tomorrow, same time, here?"
Reynard confirmed with a nod, and they spent the next hour comparing their respective documentation, finding overlap in some observations and gaps where each had noticed details the other had missed, creating a more comprehensive picture than either had assembled individually.
When they finally separated, heading toward different exits as evening settled over the academy grounds, Reynard felt marginally better about the situation despite having no actual solutions, just the knowledge that he wasn't alone in noticing reality's malfunction and someone else was taking it seriously enough to maintain independent verification.
Walking back toward his dormitory, Reynard passed through the central courtyard where the fountain ran with its usual steady flow, water cycling through pipes enchanted centuries ago to maintain perpetual motion, and he paused when he noticed something wrong with the fountain's rhythm.
The water was falling upward.
Not dramatically, not in ways that would draw immediate attention, but in small defiance of gravity—droplets rising instead of falling, arcing back toward the fountain's peak rather than cascading down, creating a pattern that contradicted physics while maintaining enough normalcy that casual observation might miss it entirely.
Reynard stood there watching water defy fundamental principles, documenting the phenomenon in his notebook with hands that trembled slightly, and wondered how many other impossible things were occurring throughout the academy that people simply weren't noticing because noticing required accepting that reality no longer followed rules it had maintained for millennia.
Above him, the clock tower began chiming the hour.
He counted.
Twelve.
Pause.
Twelve again.
Pause.
Twelve a third time.
Then silence returned, and the tower's hands pointed toward positions that contradicted what the chimes had announced, and somewhere in the distance Reynard heard glass breaking, though when he looked toward the source nothing appeared damaged.
He added it all to his notebook, filling pages with observations that accumulated faster than analysis could process them, creating a record that would either prove invaluable when someone eventually tried to understand what had happened or would become incomprehensible gibberish if the degradation progressed far enough that shared reference points ceased to exist.
Either way, he was committed now.
Documentation would continue until it became impossible.
And Reynard suspected he'd know when that threshold arrived, because reality would stop bothering to pretend it made sense.