The city did not stop for Eren.
It never had.
People moved through the streets with practiced familiarity—vendors calling out prices, couriers weaving through traffic, guards patrolling in pairs. Nothing in their expressions suggested awareness of the invisible line Eren had just stepped over.
But he felt it.
Not from the Codex.
From the world itself.
Eren adjusted his pace, letting the crowd absorb him. The Senior Examiner's words lingered in his mind—not as a warning, but as a calculation.
Do not open your Codex again.
Restraint.
The Codex rested against his side, silent. Too silent.
Eren turned down a side street, narrower and less traveled. Stone buildings rose close on either side, their upper floors linked by wooden walkways and faded sigils meant to deter petty thieves.
He stopped beneath one of them.
Slowly, deliberately, Eren loosened the strap and brought the Codex into his hands.
He did not open it.
He only placed his palm against the cover.
Nothing happened.
No pressure. No response. No surge of knowledge.
Good.
That meant the Codex still obeyed rules—some rules.
Eren exhaled and continued walking.
He didn't notice the mark until he reached the edge of the district.
A faint symbol glimmered briefly on the inside of his wrist—angular, incomplete, vanishing the moment he focused on it.
Eren stopped.
That hadn't been there before.
He pulled his sleeve higher.
Nothing.
No lingering mark. No pain.
But the Codex felt… heavier again.
Not stronger.
Observed.
"So it's not just the Codex," Eren murmured. "It's me."
The city gates loomed ahead—arched stone reinforced with mana conduits and manned by a rotating shift of registry guards. Beyond them lay the outer districts and, further still, the testing grounds where unassigned individuals were permitted limited access.
Eren stepped forward.
"Identification," a guard said, holding out a crystal reader.
Eren complied.
The crystal flared briefly—then dimmed.
The guard frowned. "Again."
Eren repeated the motion.
The crystal flickered.
This time, it emitted a soft chime—neutral, but uncertain.
The guard's brow furrowed. "You're… unclassified?"
"Yes."
The guard hesitated. "That's above my clearance."
"I'm not requesting entry to restricted zones," Eren said calmly. "Only passage."
The guard glanced at his partner, then back at the reader. "You're flagged."
Eren met his eyes. "For what?"
The guard shook his head. "It doesn't say. Just that authorization requires review."
A pause stretched between them.
People began to gather behind Eren, murmurs rippling through the line.
The guard lowered his voice. "Look, I don't know what you did. But flagged records don't clear themselves."
Eren nodded. "Then who clears them?"
The guard hesitated. "Academy officials. Or… external sponsors."
Eren thanked him and stepped aside.
The gate did not open.
So this was the first consequence.
Not arrest.
Not force.
Restriction.
Eren turned away from the gate and headed back into the city, mind already working.
If direct access was denied, then indirect routes remained.
He entered a lesser-known quarter near the old workshops—places where Codex repairs, data transcription, and legacy artifact appraisal were conducted. Not official. Not illegal.
Gray.
Inside one such shop, the air smelled of dust and treated leather. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with damaged Codices and fractured record slates.
An elderly man looked up from his workbench. "We're closed."
"I'm not here to buy," Eren said.
The man's eyes flicked to the Codex at Eren's side.
"Then you're in the wrong place."
"I'm looking for information," Eren replied. "About unclassified Codices."
The man laughed softly. "Those don't exist."
"They do," Eren said. "They're just inconvenient."
The man studied him for a long moment, then gestured toward the back. "You have five minutes."
Eren followed.
The back room was warded—not strongly, but carefully. Enough to prevent casual surveillance.
The man leaned against the table. "If your Codex is unclassified, you won't find answers in official records."
"I know."
"Then why look?"
"Because something was recorded," Eren said. "And then sealed."
The man stiffened.
"That kind of knowledge attracts attention," he said quietly.
"So does ignorance," Eren replied.
Silence.
Finally, the man sighed. "There are old registries. Pre-system. Before Codices were standardized."
"Where?"
The man shook his head. "Access isn't the problem. Survival is."
Eren's gaze hardened. "Then tell me who survived."
The man hesitated, then scribbled a symbol on a scrap of paper—unfinished, angular.
The same shape Eren had seen on his wrist.
"Find the people who were never meant to be recorded," the man said. "And don't open your Codex unless you're ready to cross a line that can't be erased."
Eren folded the paper.
He left the shop without another word.
Outside, the city felt quieter.
Not because it had changed.
But because Eren had.
If the world responded with restraint…
Then his next move would not be power.
It would be precision.