Breakfast in the academy mess hall had always been a noisy blur of trays, boots, and half-shouted complaints.
But this morning, everything felt… lighter.
Not easier. Not slower.
Just less hostile.
Cadets moved out of Lyle's way without realizing it.
When he reached the serving line, no one cut him.
When he sat down, the three students already at the table picked up their trays and left—without speaking. No glares. No tension.
Just instinct.
> They don't even know they're avoiding me, he thought. They just… do.
The Codex had said nothing new that morning.
But Lyle could feel something else growing.
The space around him no longer just hid his mana.
Now it bent the expectations of people nearby.
It wasn't mind control.
It was narrative control.
He wasn't important. He wasn't threatening.
He was just… not worth engaging with.
And that made him dangerous in ways even the strongest spells couldn't replicate.
---
Later that morning, during glyph recalibration, Lyle sat beside Juno again.
This time, she didn't joke.
She stared at him twice. Looked away. Then leaned in as the instructor began pacing the front.
"Something's different about you."
"Is that your version of good morning?" Lyle murmured without turning.
"You used to flinch at confrontation."
"I still do."
She narrowed her eyes. "No. You used to flinch. Now you're just pretending to be awkward."
He turned, letting the mask falter for a breath—long enough to meet her eyes with full clarity.
"I never said I wasn't pretending before, either."
The flush on her face came quick. Not embarrassment—challenge.
She leaned back slowly, arms crossed. "Fine. Keep your secrets. But I'm watching you."
> Good, he thought.
Let someone believe they're ahead. It makes you invisible to the ones who matter.
---
In the afternoon, a quiet prompt bloomed across the Codex as he passed a group of arguing students near the northern hallway:
> [Trigger Detected: Influence Opportunity – "Social Disruption"]
[Option Available: Non-Verbal Influence – 12% chance of shift in group dynamic]
He stopped.
Didn't look at them.
Just adjusted his collar. Brushed a hand through his hair. Tilted his foot half a degree toward the argument.
One of the cadets suddenly quieted.
The other followed.
And within ten seconds, the entire debate fizzled—leaving them awkwardly blinking at one another like they'd forgotten why they were mad.
> It's working, he thought.
> I don't just hide in plain sight now. I bend it.
---
That night, his training in Sub-Level 3 was different.
No spells. No scrolls. No combat.
Just Asterion and a long corridor of mirrors.
The man said nothing.
Lyle walked in silence.
Each mirror showed a different version of himself.
One angry. One afraid. One cruel. One noble.
At the end of the hallway, he saw nothing at all.
Just a mirror that reflected absence.
"What is this?" he asked.
Asterion finally answered, voice quiet.
"Your final face. The one that doesn't need to be seen to be felt."