Silence followed the Awakening.
Not the kind filled with anticipation or awe—but a heavy, uncomfortable quiet that spread through the Hall of Registration.
Eren Lloyd stood alone at the center of the stone platform.
Around him, crystalline Codices shimmered with life—pages turning, symbols igniting, records being written. Each response drew quiet nods from instructors and murmurs from observers.
His did nothing.
The Codex in Eren's hands remained closed.
No light.
No resonance.
No response.
A low murmur rippled through the hall.
"That's it?"
"Is it broken?"
"Did the Awakening fail?"
Eren tightened his grip, the worn leather cold beneath his fingers. He could feel its weight—solid, undeniable—but none of the warmth others described when their Codices awakened.
The Registrar stepped closer and placed a hand above the book. A thin wave of mana swept over it.
Nothing changed.
The Registrar withdrew his hand.
"Codex classification?" he asked.
An assistant hesitated before answering. "…Unresponsive."
The word carried finality.
The Registrar nodded once. "Record it."
Ink scratched against parchment.
Eren watched his name take shape, followed by a single line.
Codex Status: Inactive.
No further explanation came.
Candidates whose Codices had responded were already being escorted away—toward instructors, academies, or noble representatives. Their paths diverged naturally, as if the world had already sorted them.
Eren remained where he was.
"Step down," the Registrar said at last.
Eren obeyed.
As he left the platform, the looks he received were not mocking—just curious, detached. He was no longer a rival.
He was an anomaly.
Outside the Hall, the city continued unchanged. Towers etched with runes pierced the sky. Beasts bound by responsive Codices moved through the streets without resistance.
Eren walked among them until he reached a narrow passage between two archives. There, away from the noise, he finally stopped.
So that was it.
No academy summons.
No rank.
No guidance.
He lowered his gaze to the Codex.
It was old—older than most. The leather was cracked, the pages uneven, as if it had been rebound more than once. No crest marked its cover. No sigil claimed it.
A Codex without identity.
"Unresponsive," Eren murmured.
He tried anyway.
"Open."
Nothing.
He placed his palm against the cover and focused—on mana, on intent, on every instruction he had ever been taught.
Still nothing.
Eren exhaled slowly and lowered his hand. If the Codex held no power, forcing it would change nothing.
Then something shifted.
Not in the Codex.
In him.
A faint pressure formed behind his eyes. Eren froze.
The world sharpened.
The stone beneath his feet felt layered—rebuilt, reinforced, altered after something had once broken through. The wall behind him carried the weight of repairs that should not have been necessary.
Eren frowned.
He had not been thinking about any of that.
The pressure deepened, spreading through his chest. It was not pain, but it was not comfort either—more like standing too close to something vast.
Instinctively, he opened the Codex.
The pages did not turn.
Instead, a single line appeared on the first blank page.
This record was sealed.
Eren's breath caught.
A second line followed.
Reason for sealing: Preservation.
Pain flared—brief, sharp, concentrated. Images brushed the edge of his vision: a battlefield seen from above, a city wall collapsing inward, figures standing where they should not have been able to stand.
Eren snapped the Codex shut.
The pressure vanished.
He slid down the wall, heart pounding.
That wasn't power.
It wasn't mana.
And it wasn't something meant to be commanded.
Others used their Codices to act upon the world.
His acted upon him.
If opening it carried a cost, then whatever lay deeper inside was never meant to be accessed freely.
And if those records had been sealed—
There was a reason.
The sensation did not fade immediately.
Even after closing the Codex, Eren could still feel something lingering beneath his skin—an echo rather than a presence. His breathing steadied, yet his thoughts did not return to their usual clarity.
It was as if part of his awareness had been displaced.
Not lost.
Not damaged.
Simply… shifted.
He pressed a hand against his chest, grounding himself. The pressure was gone, but the certainty remained: the Codex had not merely shown him something—it had registered him in return.
That realization unsettled him far more than the pain.
Other Codices responded outwardly. They manifested effects, summoned forces, altered reality in visible ways. What his had done was quieter—and far more invasive.
It had reached inward.
Eren recalled the words again.
Preservation.
Preservation of what?
History?
Truth?
Or the world itself?
A troubling possibility surfaced, uninvited. If the records had been sealed to preserve something, then reopening them carelessly could do the opposite.
And if that were the case…
Then whoever controlled the modern Codex system might not be ignorant of the truth—but actively avoiding it.
The thought settled heavily.
For the first time since the Awakening, Eren felt the weight of attention—not the idle curiosity of onlookers, but the distant sense of being observed. He did not turn. There was no sound to confirm it.
Only instinct.
Eren adjusted his grip on the Codex and exhaled slowly.
If the world truly did not want these records reopened, then surviving would require more than caution.
It would require restraint.
Footsteps echoed nearby.
Eren rose, his expression returning to calm neutrality, and slipped the Codex under his arm. Whatever this was, it was not something to reveal—not yet.
As he stepped back into the city, Eren Lloyd carried no visible power, no awakened authority, no recognition.
But his Codex had answered.
And the world had never intended him to hear it.