When Rem heard his parents had invited half his class, his stomach dropped like he’d missed a step. Panic shoved him forward. Shower blistering hot. Sheets yanked straight. Clothes thrown on—anything that didn’t smell like he’d been sleeping through life. By the time the first knocks rattled the door, he looked almost alive again. Almost.
Now the house roared. Voices ricocheted off oak beams; kroketten oil clung thick to the air; bread steamed in soft clouds. He sat on the pale stone hearth, the fire unlit, stone cool beneath his palms, a small island in the storm of noise. Ten-thousand Hands—Oil On Me thumped like a second heartbeat in his ribs.
Hands clasped, shoulders drawn in, he let it all surge over him. He hated to admit it—he’d missed this.
Noah sprawled on the couch, scar pulling his grin into something brave and crooked. “So what if it took you a while? You cleared Level One solo. That’s insane, man.” His elbow kept knocking Lars’s plate, and he laughed each time, half apology, half habit—trying to keep everyone okay at once.
Eva perched on the armrest beside him, posture a blade, eyes pale and cutting. “He’s not the first to clear it solo. I soloed it first.” Her words struck sharp enough to part the room’s noise. Even her smile looked engineered for efficiency.
Lars blinked, lagging a beat behind, caught in his own good nature. He snorted, nearly lost his kroket, caught it mid-drop, and bit in. “Oh. Right—different boards, yeah? Solo and team.” He grinned, grease shining on his fingers. “Both fill your stomach in the end.”
Eva’s disgust was surgical. “You’re hopeless.”
Bram’s laugh rolled over them all. “Solo, team, whatever. I crushed a slime with my bare hand like this—bam!” He smacked the wall, proud as thunder. Dust rained down. His joy was loud and uncomplicated.
Finn flinched, cradling his tablet like a shield. “Actually—statistically speaking—those who solo Level One are more likely to achieve better results in subsequent—”
Bram’s second bam! swallowed him whole. Laughter drowned the rest. Finn’s mouth stayed open a moment longer before he shut it, muttering to his data.
Rem tried to let Noah’s praise land—solo clear, an earned truth—but it sank under the weight of sound. From the balcony, Saskia’s laugh rose above it all, bright, deliberate, controlling the current like a conductor. Lotte leaned close beside her, curls brushing her cheek, moonlight snagging on her green under-armor. She moved like something breathing underwater—soft, uncertain light. Rem looked away a second too late, throat tight. Everywhere he turned, challenge spoils gleamed on wrists and shoulders: proof of progress, proof of how far behind he’d fallen.
“I only soloed it because you were already level two,” he said, voice small, meant for no one.
Mara stood apart, one hand on her glass, posture effortless, gaze dissecting. She didn’t speak; she didn’t need to. The way she watched told him she already knew too much.
Sophie burst from the hall with a tray held high, plates rattling. “I am not late! Least not by my watch.” Her voice cut clean through the chatter, factual, defiant. The mechanical watch on her wrist gleamed like an artifact. Tomas, half-turned in the kitchen doorway, stiffened under her focus; she smiled like someone prying open a puzzle.
Noah leaned forward again, voice low now. “Yeah, about that. My parents saved up cores. Bought me into a team for Challenge Two.” His grin flickered, gone. “I’d ditch them for you, Rem, but…” His hand brushed the scar, the guilt behind it deeper than the cut.
“Is anyone else still on two?” Rem asked.
Silence answered. Then heads shook. That was all.
Dead last.
The choice pressed sharp: risk exposure with strangers—or crawl forward alone. Solo was safer. Hidden was safer.
“Monday!” Lotte’s voice carried down from the balcony, soft but clear. Saskia tugged her back in, laughing—too bright, too deliberate. “Union Academy starts Monday. And not just classes—Trials are on the schedule.”
The laughter thinned.
Eva’s eyes lit like fuses. “Additional challenges?” Every syllable precise, ready for war.
Noah groaned, rubbing his face. “Please, no. One a day’s enough to kill us.”
Finn looked up, tablet glow fading from his glasses. “They aren’t the same. Trials are exclusive to academy students. I checked the database twice.”
Tomas stepped forward, posture exact. “That isn’t right. Everyone else earns their passes. Students shouldn’t get extras for free.” His voice carried the weight of rules memorized and believed.
“I think they’re looking for something,” Lotte murmured, arms folded like she was holding warmth to herself. “That’s what my parents think. The whole system—it’s not about rewards. It’s about who they find.”
Oil On Me ended. The room froze.
Saskia broke the silence, tossing her hair. “They just want the best.” Too fast, too thin, the way people speak when they’re patching holes. “Leaderboards on every transit screen, and now trials—”
Eva stood. “Then I hope they’re solo trials.” Her chin lifted. “That’s the only way to know who’s best.”
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“You were crazy before this,” Noah muttered, slouched low again, “and the arrival made you worse. You’ll burn out, Eva.”
“I’m not the one on two.” Her voice was final as steel.
Rem watched them—Noah folding smaller, Eva sharpening harder—and felt his own path pull taut between them. Alone was simpler. Alone didn’t break.
The stone hearth was cold beneath his hands again. He almost rose to speak, to say anything, but the words turned to static in his throat. The music kicked back in. The moment passed.
He laughed with them, hollow and practiced, the sound swallowed by the rest. Inside, the decision set like poured concrete.
He would move forward alone. Quiet. Hidden.
Rem’s mother leaned against the frame of his door, strong hands folded as though she needed them to keep steady. The hall light crowned her shoulders, softening the few wisps of gray in her hair. That was new, Rem noted. The arrival, his coma—it had been rough on her. A stab of pain struck where no blade could wound.
She let out a breath she must’ve been holding all evening, then shaped it into a careful smile.
“You look good, Rem.” She breathed it out like the air weighed a ton.
He pushed back from his desk, the wood cool against his hip as he rose. He couldn’t remember the last time she’d looked this close to ease. She always looked worried or sad or determined – never at peace.
“I’ve been praying so long,” she laughed. “Praying for a miracle, for my little boy to come back to us, that you’d wake up… find your way in this madness. I bargained. Begged—more than I care to admit, and God answered me.” Her eyes flicked upward, tears bright but stubborn at the corners. “The accident… your father and I… then your pace—I just kept… kept believing. Kept praying it would work out. And it did. Look at you.”
Rem leaned back, the desk edge biting into his palms. He was always her little boy. If he was a hundred she’d probably still call him that. He wanted to ease her, erase the worry lines etched deep by years of worry, but honesty pushed its way through.
“You really believe that, Mom? After everything—the Union, immortality?” He tried to smile, but it tilted crooked. “That doesn’t sound like anything I remember from catechesis.”
She stepped inside, resting her back against the wall. For a moment she only studied him, gaze steady.
“The universe is so much larger than we dreamed,” she said at last, shrugging as though the truth weighed on her shoulders. “More vast, more strange. That only means God is larger too. He has to be, to have held all this together.”
Rem dropped his eyes. Faith. In a world where you could level indefinitely, gain immortality – who’s to say gods weren’t out there somewhere. Maybe God was whoever sat on top of the ultimate leaderboard.
“I don’t know, Mom,” he said, and it was the truest thing he could offer.
“Rembrandt de Vries.” Her voice sharpened on his full name, though her eyes stayed soft. “We’ve made it this far by holding onto faith and traditions. Don’t casually cast them aside.”
She crossed the room and took his hand. Her grip was firm, calloused, the grip of someone used to kneading dough, tugging weeds, holding the world together.
“Who knows where we go from here? Other worlds. Can you imagine?” Her smile turned proud, as if she already could. “But no matter where you end up, promise me you won’t forget who you are, or where you came from.” Her shadow stretched across the plaster wall, tall and insistent, as though her words had grown larger than either of them.
He nodded, trying to mirror her smile.
“You may need some faith before the end,” she said, then let go and stepped back toward the hall.
“Mom.” His throat tightened on the word. “Thank you. And… I do like my build. I know you and Dad have concerns, but I didn’t pick it just because you suggested it. I don’t regret it.”
The door clicked shut, leaving behind the faint smell of soil, flour, and bread. Rem sat cross-legged on the bed, pressing his palms hard against his knees, needing something solid to hold him. Restless.
forget about that. let us experiment.
Rem summoned the cube.
It had doubled in size. Two inches square of pale-blue light hovered steady in the air, sharper, denser, as if the air around it braced itself. The presence pressed against his skin until it prickled.
He tossed a stone upward. At its apex he willed the cube around it, caught it before it fell. Still within reach. That much hadn’t changed.
He let it drop, then snatched it mid-fall. The shift came quicker this time, smoother, as if the cube were eager to obey. He pulled the stone free, pressed it back in—this time with a twist.
The stone obeyed.
Not just contained. Not just held. It spun where he willed it to spin, its orbit tightening under his focus. His breath stuttered. The Merge Domain didn’t just trap—he could orient what was inside. Position it. Move it.
The description said nothing about this.
The cube stayed locked in place. The stone spun. His temples throbbed, jaw ached, but the realization pressed harder than either. A hidden function. Telekinesis, crude but real.
The effort didn’t feel like magic, no draw from within, no drain of essence. It was more like wrestling a math problem in his head—abstract strain, thought pressed into shape.
journal — merge domain: subjects can be repositioned. positional control possible. unlisted side effect. potential for weaponization.
He clenched his jaw, forcing the stone faster, tighter, until it blurred into a pale ring. The cube leaned with him, weight coiling like a predator on the edge of pounce. Every turn pressed harder against him, as if the power wanted to break free.
[System Notification]
[ASSESSMENT LOG — CHALLENGE CLEARANCE]
Challenge Level 1 — Daily Clear Rank: 1.
Reward issued: +2 Challenge Passes.
[ASSESSMENT LOG — RECORD ACKNOWLEDGMENT]
Challenge Level 1 — New Record established.
Completion time logged.
Reward issued: +2 Challenge Passes.
Compliance reference: Challenge Resolution §9.11.
His breath caught. Grip faltered. The cube snapped out of sync and the stone flung wide, slicing past his head with a sound like tearing air. It struck the wall behind him, cracking plaster in a sharp white burst. Dust sifted down.
He stared at the mark, heart pounding. The message burned in his vision. Extra passes for high rank—he’d known that. But for a record? That was new.
A record wasn’t just an achievement. It was leverage. If the system rewarded breaking its own limits, maybe it could be broken wider. His setup for Level One only needed one clear a day, but higher levels—what would they demand?
[LOCALIZED NOTICE — RANKING NAME REQUEST — TRACKING ID: RD-32/ER]
Per Directive §7.4a, all ranking participants must submit a Ranking Name for de-personalized leaderboard indexing. Names must be unique, non-inflammatory, and compliant with Identification Protocol §3.8.
(Select “Anonymous” to receive autogenerated designation.)
Interaction Window: T = 00:00:30.
Failure mode (no response): Default to anonymous response. (Ref: INT-ARC/CRA-23)
Prompt issued: Provide compatible ranking name.
Zelfstyrt
[LOCALIZED NOTICE — RANKING NAME CONFIRMATION]
Ranking Name: Zelfstyrt
Interaction Window: T = 00:00:30.
Failure mode: Default to false. (Ref: INT-ARC/CRA-00)
Confirm submission?
“Why that?” Rem asked, frowning. He knew the poem. He remembered that night.
He sank back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, temples still aching.
you know why.
Rem sighed at that, and after a momentary pause confirmed the name, disregarding the received confirmation notice.
Tomorrow, challenge two – the Night Lily challenge.
Sleep finally pulled him under, dreams tangled with ways to bend the system until it cracked.
