“Maya’s Exceed back there wasn’t Fate Strike. Director Beatrice said it was probably—something that branched off.”

  Victoria buttered rye bread, dipped it into tomato-based solyanka, and took a bite. The rich flavor of mushrooms, meat, and olives went down satisfyingly.

  (That spar wasn’t just a “measurement.” Something has started to move.)

  So first—eat. Victoria had decided that.

  They were in Gray Archives, in Luna Nordics’ assigned living quarters. Victoria, Maya, Emma, and Clara sat around the table.

  “Branched off?”

  Maya swallowed her second blood sausage and looked Victoria in the eye.

  “But you were crackling with electricity, right?” Emma asked, sharing potato salad with Clara.

  “Exactly. That’s why it’s even more troublesome,” Victoria said.

  “Fate Strike’s activation conditions are: causality with the enemy and Maya’s anger.”

  “But in your fight with Liine, there was no causality between you two. And you were afraid. You didn’t meet the conditions.”

  Victoria reached for a second piece of bread.

  “So that means what happened wasn’t Fate Strike—more like an Exceed you pulled out yourself. Maya, what do you think?”

  “To be honest… I don’t remember much,” Maya admitted. “I was in pain, I couldn’t do anything, and I started remembering the past… then my body started sparking, and after that—nothing.”

  Maya took a sip of solyanka and sighed.

  Her fingertips trembled slightly. Not wanting to worry anyone, Maya forced strength into her hand and hid it.

  “It might be an Exceed meant to protect you—something for fighting opponents who won’t trigger Fate Strike,” Victoria said.

  “Figure out the activation conditions while you train, and make it your own. …That’s Director Beatrice’s order.”

  Victoria gave a wry smile, imagining the trouble that would bring.

  “And Clara, you were told to investigate your Exceed too.”

  Victoria’s tone softened.

  “Me too…?” Clara answered, surprised.

  (I’m probably… “voice.” Something tied to speaking. But is it okay to test that here?)

  “Understood. I’ll… do what I can,” Clara said, nodding seriously.

  A knock came at the door. Emma went to answer.

  Madis was standing there.

  “Morning,” he said, handing Emma a sheet of paper.

  “This is the placement chart decided based on the spar results.”

  “You need to be at your post by nine a.m. Don’t be late.”

  Maybe from nerves, Madis spoke quickly.

  “You’re so kind~. Thanks,” Emma said, accepting it—seemingly not noticing his stiff behavior.

  After he left, Emma unfolded the paper.

  Emma Valenti — Medical Team

  Clara Whitman — Medical Team

  Victoria Sinclair — Defense Team

  Maya Graves — Defense Team

  (So I’m still not combat power yet…)

  Clara felt a sting of disappointment—but she switched gears immediately.

  (Even on the medical team, I can save people. That’s my way of fighting right now.)

  That night—

  Ethan belonged to Gray Archives, but he didn’t live underground. His home was the Crawford family apartment aboveground.

  His father had died in an accident when Ethan was ten. His sister Natalia—Victoria, before becoming a Returner—had died of illness at fifteen. Ethan lived with his mother, Diana.

  Today was Ethan’s turn to cook. When he finished, the two of them sat at the table as usual.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Gray Archives preserved old recipes and cooking methods.

  Meanwhile, typical meals aboveground were—nutrition-first sticks, or soup made by dissolving those sticks.

  Even so, Ethan used extra precious synthetic meat tonight and made a curry-flavored dish with soup poured over it.

  “This curry is delicious. Thank you,” Diana said.

  Despite her words, Ethan noticed her complexion wasn’t good.

  “...Do you have a fever, Mom?”

  “No, it’s not that. Things just… happened at work,” Diana said, her spoon pausing.

  “I see.”

  Ethan didn’t press. He simply looked at her in silence.

  “It seems one of the women at the company was taken away by fake police officers… and she’s missing,” Diana sighed.

  “Fake police?” Ethan asked—though he already knew.

  “There was no record of officers being dispatched at that time. They found the patrol car, but no one was there… I should’ve been more on top of things.”

  Diana set her spoon down. A dry sound rang as it touched the plate.

  Ethan said nothing.

  But the spoon in his hand twisted—just slightly.

  “They said the police will patrol around the office now. But my staff said they saw suspicious people too,” Diana continued.

  “I just… don’t want anything bad to happen…”

  It was a grave expression Diana rarely showed.

  “I can’t control your workplace, but if anything happens, call me right away. I’m a lawyer’s assistant, after all,” Ethan said, forcing a smile as he turned on the TV.

  Normally they didn’t watch TV during dinner. But he hoped it might lighten Diana’s mood, even a little.

  “Equality for everyone! Freedom for all! Regardless of origin, race—citizen or immigrant—everyone has the right to use their talents and pursue happiness!”

  On the screen, a woman around forty—wine-red suit, blonde hair pinned up, amber eyes—smiled as she delivered her speech.

  “So that we women can shine! So that we can put our superior intellect and charm to use! This country has begun moving toward true equality!”

  The audience’s applause filled the broadcast.

  Ethan noticed.

  Their eyes were dry—like glass marbles.

  Their smiles lined up in identical shapes, like dolls.

  (Mind-control type Exceed? So this is Avalonia’s presidential candidate… you’ve got to be kidding.)

  “It’s nice that she’s thinking about women,” Diana said with a smile.

  “If her promises, her words, and her effects actually match,” Ethan muttered flatly, without looking at Diana.

  (If they take power, those extreme, twisted unisex facilities will spread across the entire country.)

  The TV switched to the incumbent conservative president’s speech.

  “Citizens.”

  Sixty years old. Romance-gray hair, gray eyes, a deep red luxury suit over a solid build. Bodyguards lined the stage.

  His voice was low—heavy.

  “Our nation is heading toward decline. Rising crime, rising unemployment, worsening security, worsening birthrates. We are in crisis.”

  “I will state plainly: it is the duty of patriots—including myself—to resolve this crisis.”

  “We will halt irresponsible immigration policy and restore order.”

  “The fall in birthrate is caused by the blurring of male and female roles.”

  “The sacred act of bearing children is something only women can do.”

  “I pledge to designate women who bear three or more children as honorary citizens, exempt from all taxes.”

  “Only a select few women need higher education. Only truly exceptional women should attend university.”

  “All other women will contribute as mothers—honorary citizens—toward national prosperity.”

  “What suits the Republic of Nordica is peace, order, and maternal love. For great women, for great mothers!”

  “Let us swear to devote ourselves to that realization!!”

  The applause was thunderous.

  …But too synchronized.

  The first clap landed together. The second, the third—no delay.

  As if no one had signaled at all, and yet the entire crowd was breathing the same breath.

  (It’s different from the earlier frenzy. Different technique. But the root is the same—turning people back into a “pack.”)

  Something cold slid along Ethan’s spine.

  Diana frowned.

  Not just anger—her face paled for an instant.

  “...What is this? My chest feels… a little…”

  Without understanding why, Diana pressed a hand to her throat, as if words were getting stuck there.

  Ethan instinctively lowered the TV volume by one notch.

  (…It’s rare for Mom to react like this.)

  It wasn’t mere disgust—more primitive. A danger signal.

  (But whichever one you choose… what waits is hell. There’s no real choice.)

  Ethan’s gray eyes turned even colder.

  A corner of Eldrant’s residential district.

  Many Returners—like Victoria—lived blended into human society.

  To do that, they needed forged IDs bought from “identity brokers,” and surgical alteration by “appearance brokers” who could artificially age a face that shouldn’t age past twenty.

  Hugo used that system. As an ordinary citizen, he lived as nothing more than an IT technician—with his Returner wife and their adopted five-year-old daughter.

  After watching his daughter’s sleeping breaths, kissing his wife good night and sending her to bed, Hugo sat down to write the novel he’d been working on.

  It was a hobby, but he aimed to make writing a side career.

  His story was about a knight living a double life—deceived by a king who wore the face of justice, killed, resurrected, and driven to revenge.

  Suddenly, the intercom rang.

  The clock read 23:00.

  (A robber? A criminal…?)

  He checked the monitor intercom. Three police officers were displayed—two men and one woman.

  When Hugo stayed silent, the female officer spoke politely through the monitor.

  “Sorry to disturb you so late. Police. We received information that a criminal is in this area, and we’re checking homes one by one. Could we ask for your cooperation?”

  (At this insane hour?)

  (But if I refuse, I’ll look suspicious. And I might wake my wife and daughter.)

  “Understood. Please wait a moment.”

  Hugo opened the door.

  Eneri pressed an electric baton to Hugo’s jaw and set the voltage to maximum.

  Hugo’s body convulsed, and he collapsed in the entryway.

  Eneri stared down at him, expressionless.

  “There are still two more. Retrieve them.”

  The two members of Guardians of Humanity—disguised as officers—entered the house.

  Hugo’s family was loaded into a disguised patrol car and vanished.

  From the entrance of the now-empty home, a ladybug flew out.

  In the hallway, a teddy bear plush—left without its owner—lay on the floor.

  The half-written novel on the computer screen—remained frozen, unmoving.

  And—

  Hugo’s family, including their ID data, became people who did not exist in this country.