The Academy felt different in the morning.
Not louder. Not quieter.
Tighter.
Mana flowed through the halls in rigid patterns, as if forced into shapes it didn't want to hold. Wards flickered a fraction longer than they should before stabilizing. Students passed each other with uneasy glances, conversations hushed and clipped.
They felt it too.
[Archive resonance: Irregular.]
I moved through the corridors toward the lecture wing, every step measured. After the whispers of the night, my decision had hardened into something unyielding.
I wouldn't wait for disaster.
I would stand where the fault lines were already forming.
The first tremor hit during second bell.
Not physical—conceptual.
A ripple passed through the Academy like a skipped heartbeat. Several students staggered mid-step. A girl dropped her books, staring at her hands in confusion.
"I… forgot where I was going," she whispered.
My jaw tightened.
It's starting.
[Minor localized memory interference detected.]
I acted without thinking.
I stepped closer, placing myself between the students and the invisible disturbance, and activated Memory Anchor at its lowest safe output.
The ache behind my eyes flared briefly.
[Memory erosion: Very Low.]
The ripple dissipated.
The girl blinked, shaking her head. "Sorry. Guess I didn't sleep well."
Laughter followed—nervous, relieved.
No one noticed me.
Except one person.
Professor Halven stood at the far end of the hall, watching.
Not surprised.
Not alarmed.
Confirming.
Our eyes met.
His expression darkened—not with fear, but calculation.
He turned and walked away.
[Warning.]
[Administrative awareness increasing.]
"Good," I murmured. "Then stop pretending."
I followed the pressure downward.
Not physically this time—but along the Academy's internal mana routes, tracing them like veins toward the heart.
The Archive Below.
The deeper I focused, the clearer it became.
The Archive wasn't a single entity.
It was a convergence—layers of failed erasures, partial spells, severed memories, and suppressed consequences, all compressed into a sealed space beneath the Academy.
A landfill of forgotten magic.
And it was full.
[Containment strain detected.]
[Probability of cascade failure: Rising.]
I stopped near a stairwell marked Authorized Personnel Only.
The wards here were heavier. Older.
Built to resist force, not understanding.
I placed my palm against the stone wall.
Not to break it.
To listen.
The Archive answered—not with words, but with pressure. With need. With imbalance.
It wasn't trying to escape.
It was trying to resolve.
"Someone down there is pushing," I whispered. "Or pulling."
A new thought surfaced—unwelcome, but logical.
What if the Academy wasn't just feeding the Archive?
What if it was preparing to use it?
Footsteps echoed behind me.
I didn't turn.
"I was wondering how long you'd avoid this corridor," Arch-Instructor Vaelith said calmly.
Her mana was contained, coiled like a blade kept sheathed out of courtesy.
"Then you know why I'm here," I replied.
"Yes," she said. "And that makes this difficult."
I finally faced her.
"The Archive Below is destabilizing," I said. "You can feel it."
She didn't deny it.
"We are managing it," she replied.
"No," I said quietly. "You're delaying it."
Silence stretched.
"The Academy exists to protect the world," she said at last.
"From consequences?" I asked. "Or from responsibility?"
Her eyes sharpened.
"You speak as if you know better than centuries of scholarship."
"I speak as someone who cleans up what scholarship leaves behind," I replied.
For the first time, something like uncertainty flickered across her face.
[Notice.]
[Critical threshold approaching.]
The floor vibrated faintly.
Just once.
Like a warning knock.
I looked past Vaelith, toward the sealed stairwell.
"It's not going to wait for permission," I said.
She followed my gaze.
"…If you interfere," she said slowly, "you will force our hand."
I met her eyes evenly.
"If you don't," I replied, "the city won't survive long enough to care."
Another tremor passed through the stone—stronger this time.
Students shouted somewhere above.
Wards flared.
The fault lines had opened.
And whether the Academy liked it or not—
The Guardian was already standing on them.