Kenji tracked the descending numerals of the timer displayed in his sight; their decrease was an unvoiced, absolute directive. The brutal finality of the other player's end—the abrupt severing of his System link like a cut cord—acted as a stark, non-verbal impetus for the group's reluctant advance, more compelling than any bellowed command could be. A hesitant, hushed movement rippled through the mass of displaced people; they began to drift, a scattered congregation drawn by the distant azure beacon. The Proctors, their singular optical sensors unwavering, shadowed their reluctant advance, forming a silent, ever-present boundary, their purpose clear without direct menace.
Their reluctant procession guided them from the open expanse of the plaza towards a monumental gateway, an aperture so vast it felt like entering the gullet of some titanic beast. Beyond, the space defied conventional architectural understanding, resolving into a prolonged passage apparently hewn directly from the same self-illuminating, obsidian-like material forming the city's towering edifices. An abrupt drop in temperature marked their entry into this passage, the air within carrying a sterile, almost metallic tang unlike any terrestrial odor. Concurrently, the deep, resonant hum endemic to the city seemed to amplify here, its vibrations thrumming up from the floor panels with a rhythm that felt distinctly alien and disconcerting. No natural light breached these confines, nor did any alternative routes present themselves; only the single, illuminated way forward offered passage. The only light came from intricate geometric patterns etched into the walls, ceiling, and floor, pulsing with a faint, cold luminescence that cast no shadows, only an even, clinical illumination. It was a place designed for function, not comfort; for beings who perceived more than just the visible spectrum.
Kenji stayed near the middle of the throng, Grizz occasionally grunting a terse comment beside him. He committed to memory the almost liquid joins between the massive stone blocks, the Proctors' unnervingly synchronized pacing, and almost imperceptible anomalies in the corridor's structure that suggested more complex functions than mere conveyance. Within this oppressive framework of absolute regularity, his thoughts worked to connect these sensory inputs, watchful for any discordant element or minute aberration that might later offer insight into the system's construction or a potential point of influence.
The journey was perhaps only a few hundred meters, but it felt like an eternity. Finally, the corridor opened into a cavernous chamber, circular and vast, its ceiling lost in oppressive darkness far above. Dozens more Proctors lined the walls, their energy staves held in a passive but ready stance. In the center of the chamber, a series of raised platforms were arranged in concentric circles, each platform occupied by a complex, vaguely unsettling apparatus of gleaming metal arms, crystalline lenses, and pulsating light arrays.
"Induction Sector Gamma-7," Grizz muttered, his voice low and grim. "Doesn't look like a welcome party."
Before anyone could voice further anxieties, a new System communiqué appeared, its tone as devoid of inflection as the Proctors' demeanor.
[Processing Protocol Initiated. Form orderly lines before designated Classification Units. Maintain silence. Await individual instruction.]
[Physical or verbal non-compliance will result in immediate disciplinary action.]
The Proctors gestured with their staves, a series of swift, unambiguous movements that herded the frightened humans into queues before the strange machines. The process was chillingly efficient. One by one, players were guided onto a platform. The metallic arms would whir to life, lenses would scan them from head to toe, and faint beams of variously colored light would play over their bodies. Most endured it with stoic terror. A few whimpered. One man who tried to shout a protest was instantly rendered unconscious by a Proctor's staff, his limp body dragged away with an indifference that was perhaps more terrifying than overt cruelty.
Soon, it was Kenji's turn. A Proctor's cold, taloned hand nudged his shoulder, directing him onto an empty platform. The luminous stone felt cold beneath his feet. As he stepped into place, restraints, smooth and cool, snapped out from the platform, securing his wrists and ankles with gentle but absolute firmness. He tensed, but forced himself to remain still, his gaze fixed on the complex array of machinery before him.
Metallic arms extended, their tips housing an array of instruments that Kenji couldn't begin to identify. A multifaceted crystalline lens descended, stopping inches from his face, its many facets seeming to drink in every detail. He felt a series of faint pulses wash over him – warmth, then cold, then a strange tingling sensation that seemed to resonate deep within his bones.
His System interface flickered, displaying new lines of text:
[Biological Scan: Complete. Species: Homo Sapiens. Provisional Classification: Confirmed.]
[Aetheric Resonance Scan: In Progress… Latent Mana Signature Detected. Potency: Low. Affinity: Undetermined.]
[Cognitive Matrix Analysis: In Progress… Processing Speed: Above Average. Pattern Recognition: High.]
[Physical Conditioning: Sub-Optimal.]
A synthesized voice, genderless and devoid of any emotion, echoed directly in his mind, not through the air. "Subject 734. Designation: Player Kenji Takahashi. Latent Aetheric potential noted. Cognitive faculties within acceptable parameters for initial sorting. Physical deficiencies are correctable or irrelevant based on final classification."
The restraints retracted. The synthesized voice spoke again. "Proceed to Sector Delta. Your classification will be finalized."
Another light beam, this one a sickly green, illuminated a different archway across the chamber. Kenji stepped off the platform, his legs a little unsteady. He glanced at Grizz, who was just being restrained on an adjacent platform, the older man's face a mask of stoic resignation.
Kenji joined a new, smaller stream of players, all of whom looked as shaken and uncertain as he felt. Their initial processing was complete, but what "Sector Delta" held, or what their "final classification" would mean, was a terrifying new unknown. They were no longer just a disorganized mob of arrivals; they were now data points, cataloged anomalies being shunted through the cold, uncaring machinery of an alien empire. The silence of this world was indeed breaking, but it was being replaced by the chilling hum of systematic, indifferent control.