Sleep is a luxury here, and I am poor.One or two hours—that is all I get now. I used to sleep more when I first came, but now my body doesn't let me. The night feels long and empty, and when I look outside, even the darkness feels tired.
Keeping my growth in mind, I know it won't be long before I stand at the door of Tier 3. Everyone thinks Tier 3 gives freedom—better food, long missions outside, strong cores, clothes, and rewards. They feel happy because they don't think that far. They are tools shaped perfectly; they don't imagine risk because they don't love their lives enough to fear losing them.
I try to look the same. Controlled. Obedient. Useful. Easy to handle.
But I don't feel anything like happiness or excitement. Not even fear. I just feel like something is sitting on my chest and getting heavier every day.
The part inside me that feels human is hard to reach now. I don't know when I started feeling like that.
Maybe it's because Tier 3 is not freedom. It's a chain.A chain with better clothes and bigger knives.
And what scares me is not death…It is the future of killing without purpose.
Just thinking of that makes my heart feel heavy—not pain, not panic—just heavy.
Then something happened. A faint pulse.The pulse I had not felt for more than a month.
He was always there since I was small. Not a name, not a person—just the other one.He questioned things. He whispered when something was wrong. He told me I could be something else, something more than a weapon. He told me to be kind, even when kindness only caused trouble.
But after all the training, punishments, and rules, his voice started shrinking. First whispers, then fading, then a small struggle, and finally almost nothing. I thought he was gone forever.
Tonight, he pulsed once.
For a second, something lifted inside me—something small. Then I remembered what was coming: forced ignition if I didn't awaken. Pain is worse than death. And if I survived without awakening… I knew what happened to people like that.
The pulse died again.And this time, I did not feel bad.
He had been getting weaker ever since the day I started ignoring him.And every time I chose survival over kindness—every time I killed an animal, hurt a child only as much as needed, gave away medicine or food and got punished—I was unknowingly killing him myself.
I didn't know that then. Now I do.
When I was younger, I asked other trainees what their voice said when I helped them. They stared at me like I was not human. They said they didn't hear anything.
The doctor told me it was a weakness—some illness—multiple personality disorder.He said strong people sometimes develop a second personality because of high potential. "A weak, crying thing attached to a strong talent," he said.
He told me kindness was a sin here. A weakness that gets me killed.He said if I wanted to awaken, the weak one had to die.That only strong people have the right to change the world.
He lied.But he mixed truth inside, so I couldn't understand which part was wrong.
He said awakening or higher core stages would kill the voice naturally.So I believed the more silent the voice became, the closer I was to awakening.
But after he stopped speaking, I went to the infirmary again.This time the doctor said the silence was because of my intelligence.He did not know about the pulse.I knew something was different.
Because emptiness is rare.
Varun said emptiness means no mana glow, no warmth, and no core movement. Nothing.He said emptiness is dangerous—people like that either awaken monstrously or never awaken at all.
Mira once called me "an empty vessel."Not as an insult. As a fact.
And Varun said he would wait until I completed Tier 2 training.If I didn't awaken, or even show signs, then forced ignition.
He said I was hiding my nature—my madness.But I don't even know what it is.
Sleep comes even less now.When I close my eyes, I feel nothing.When I open them, I feel even less.
Sometimes I think I am becoming exactly what this place wants.Sometimes I think I already am.