I walked the quiet streets of the Republic of Ana, having just left the library. Ever since I heard the faint whir of a surveillance lens shifting behind me, my awareness had sharpened—always scanning for unseen eyes. And yet, the city appeared peaceful. Its people calm. That very calmness was proof of how thoroughly the Federation’s control had taken root.

  On my way back to the hotel, I stepped into a small local café. With a fresh cup of black coffee before me, I reread the notes saved on my device:

  

  “Narrative construction = violation. The system censors narrative technique.”

  That was the Federation’s clear rejection—issued the moment I tried to confront it head-on.

  So how does one slip past such airtight censorship? A direct approach would only lead to swift detection—and the end of my inquiry.

  I returned to the “strange fragment” I had found back in Nomos. Among the scattered records, one passage had caught my attention: A mention of a group known as the Free Poets—a collective that existed in the early days of the Republic. They weren’t historians. They were storytellers. They wove tales that resonated with the people, reawakening forgotten memories and reconfiguring collective consciousness. After the New Federal Charter was enacted, they were all exiled.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  And now I understood why the Federation’s first Chairman had once said:

  

  “Narrative is the enemy of governance.”

  The Free Poets hadn’t meant to design a trigger. But they had. They had created the very thing the system feared most: A mechanism for institutional reboot.

  I realized that following their traces might be the only way to gain the wisdom I now needed. They may have been exiled, but perhaps the fragments they left behind—their stories, their meeting places, the memories of those who once knew them—had slipped through the cracks of the Federation’s censorship net.

  I thought back to the soft warmth of my cat’s fur beneath my hand in Nomos. That quiet comfort had given me peace. Now, it gave me strength.

  

  I can do this. I’m not just searching for records. I’m searching for the techniques of storytelling— The wisdom of those who once dared to speak.

  According to the fragment, the Free Poets had once gathered in a district known as the “Green Border,” far from the noise of the capital. That district, now a provincial city, still existed somewhere within Ana’s borders.

  I stood from my seat and reset my destination. To trace the echoes of the Free Poets— Those whom the Federation tried so thoroughly to erase— Would be my first step toward breaching the great faultline of history.