Eren did not notice the man at first.
That, in itself, was unusual.
He had left the archive passage and merged back into the city's flow, moving with the same quiet awareness he had always possessed. Streets curved around stone towers, banners fluttered overhead, and the hum of daily life resumed its steady rhythm.
Yet the feeling remained.
Not the pressure from the Codex.
Not the lingering ache.
Something else.
Eren slowed his steps.
The sense of being observed sharpened—not from behind, but from the side. Measured. Patient. As if someone had already decided he was worth following.
He did not turn.
Instead, he crossed the street at an unplanned angle, weaving between a pair of merchants arguing over delivery fees. His pace never changed. His expression remained neutral.
The presence adjusted.
So it wasn't coincidence.
Eren took a breath and continued walking until the street opened into a narrow plaza dominated by a registration annex—one of several satellite offices connected to the Hall. A simple stone structure. Fewer guards. Fewer eyes.
Perfect.
He stepped inside.
The interior was quieter than the main Hall, lit by pale mana lamps and lined with shelves of thin record volumes. A single desk stood near the center, occupied by a clerk whose posture suggested boredom refined by routine.
Eren approached.
"I'd like to confirm my registration," he said calmly.
The clerk barely looked up. "Name."
"Eren Lloyd."
A stylus tapped against a crystal slate. The clerk's expression didn't change—until it did.
His eyes flicked up, then back down.
Then up again.
"…Your Codex status?"
"Inactive," Eren replied.
The clerk frowned. "Unresponsive Codices are not assigned registration tiers."
"I'm aware."
A pause.
The clerk leaned back slightly. "Then what exactly are you confirming?"
Eren met his gaze. "That I was recorded."
Another pause—longer this time.
The clerk's fingers moved again, slower now. "Your name appears," he admitted. "But there's no classification attached. No lineage marker. No archive designation."
He hesitated.
"That's… irregular."
Eren nodded once. "Then I'd like to request clarification."
The clerk hesitated, then stood. "Wait here."
He disappeared behind a side door.
Eren remained still.
The sense of observation intensified.
He did not need to look to know the man had entered the annex. The air felt subtly displaced, as if someone had stepped into a space that was already occupied.
"You're calm," a voice said behind him.
Eren turned.
The man was unremarkable in appearance—mid-thirties, plain attire, no visible insignia. His Codex rested openly at his side, bound in clean leather, its edges neatly trimmed.
Registered. Maintained. Modern.
"Should I not be?" Eren asked.
The man smiled faintly. "Most unregistered candidates are not."
"I'm not unregistered," Eren replied. "I'm unclassified."
The man's smile deepened—not in amusement, but interest.
"That's one way to put it."
They regarded each other in silence.
The man spoke first. "You left the Hall without escort. No academy summons. No provisional assignment."
"Is that unusual?"
"For someone who drew attention?" the man said lightly. "Yes."
Eren tilted his head. "Attention from whom?"
The man did not answer directly. "Your Codex did not respond."
"That is public knowledge."
"And yet," the man continued, "you opened it."
Eren's gaze sharpened.
"I didn't say you activated it," the man added smoothly. "Only that you opened it."
The annex felt smaller.
Eren kept his voice even. "That assumption is unfounded."
"Is it?" the man asked. "Unresponsive Codices do not usually provoke… aftereffects."
Eren said nothing.
The clerk returned, visibly unsettled. "Senior Examiner," he said, nodding quickly to the man. "I didn't realize—"
"That's fine," the Examiner replied. "I'll handle this."
The clerk withdrew without another word.
The Examiner turned back to Eren. "Eren Lloyd. You are currently listed as possessing an unclassified Codex with no operational record."
"That is correct."
"And yet," the Examiner said softly, "your record was flagged."
Eren felt the Codex beneath his arm grow heavier—not physically, but perceptibly.
"Flagged for what?" he asked.
The Examiner studied him for a moment. "Inconsistency."
Eren exhaled slowly. "That's vague."
"Intentionally," the Examiner replied. "There are departments that respond poorly to specifics."
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Tell me, Eren Lloyd. When you opened your Codex… did it attempt to give you power?"
"No."
"Did it attempt to command something?"
"No."
The Examiner's eyes narrowed. "Then what did it do?"
Eren held his gaze.
"It showed me something," he said at last. "Briefly."
Silence.
The Examiner straightened. "That is… unfortunate."
"Why?"
"Because Codices are not designed to show," the Examiner replied. "They are designed to act."
Eren considered that. "Then perhaps mine wasn't designed for this era."
The Examiner laughed softly. "Careful. That line of thought has consequences."
"So does ignorance," Eren said.
Another pause.
The Examiner's demeanor shifted—subtly, but decisively. Whatever he had been assessing, he had reached a conclusion.
"Your registration will remain provisional," he said. "No academy placement. No field access. No Codex authorization."
"And if I refuse?"
The Examiner's gaze hardened. "Then you become a liability."
Eren nodded. "I understand."
The Examiner turned to leave, then stopped. "One last thing."
"Yes?"
"Do not open your Codex again," the Examiner said. "Not without supervision."
Eren met his eyes. "Is that advice?"
"No," the Examiner replied. "That is restraint."
He left.
The annex felt suddenly empty.
Eren stood alone, the clerk refusing to meet his gaze.
Unclassified.
Unregistered in practice.
Observed.
As he stepped back into the street, the city felt different—not hostile, but alert. As if something had shifted the moment his Codex had written that first line.
Eren adjusted his grip.
If restraint was required to survive…
Then he would learn exactly how much restraint the world demanded.
And how long he could afford to give it.