Chapter 4 — Part 1
Echoes and Practice
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Aurum Heights had settled into its late-afternoon quiet.
Most students had already filed out of the law wings, leaving only the lingering echo of doors clicking shut and the faint hum of air cycling through pristine vents. Kian stepped out of Lecture Hall B-14 with his satchel tucked tightly under one arm, his mind still looping Marcus Hale's strange remark from earlier that day.
"The Nugano division… curious anomalies among their trainees."
Not unusual. Not technically notable.
Anomalies.
Marcus Hale didn't use words imprecisely. Ever.
Kian replayed the line again as he crossed the courtyard—past the trimmed sycamores, past the fountain, past the benches where first-years crammed last-minute case facts. The remark kept snagging against his thoughts with a quiet insistence that refused to be ignored.
By the time he reached the residence wing for faculty and judicial staff, he had already conceded to himself:
He needed clarity.
Kian hesitated only once before knocking on the door of Hale's campus quarters.
A single word answered, clipped but not unwelcoming:
"Enter."
He stepped inside.
Marcus was seated at his desk, gloves off, reading glasses perched low as he reviewed an evaluation packet. He didn't look surprised to see Kian—almost as if he had expected this visit.
"You're troubled," Marcus said without looking up.
Kian bowed slightly. "Sir. About earlier… when you mentioned Nugano."
A pause.
Then Marcus closed the folder and rested his hands atop it, giving Kian his full attention.
"Nugano has produced an… unusual case this cycle," Marcus said. "A trainee whose file is incomplete by every metric except performance."
Kian's brow furrowed. "Incomplete?"
"No academic trail. No early-phase markers. No psychological progression records." Marcus folded his arms. "Yet every assessment shows exponential compliance and adaptability. A statistical impossibility."
Kian absorbed that quietly, pulse tightening with interest he couldn't fully explain.
Marcus watched him for a long moment.
Then—calmly, deliberately—he said:
"You show a similar aptitude. Controlled. Disciplined. Underutilized here."
A measured breath.
"If you wish to understand the Nugano reference, then you should understand what it means to serve in the Hall itself."
Kian lifted his gaze.
Marcus continued:
"The Hale-exam concluded this morning for the second evaluation track. I assume you've heard the chatter."
Kian had. Whispers between students about a brutal judicial logic gauntlet run by Hale himself. He had dismissed it as rumor until now.
Marcus stood.
"Your curriculum here will not challenge you at the rate required," he said simply. "Report to the Judicial Hall at seven tomorrow. I'll begin your evaluation personally."
Kian's breath caught—controlled, but unmistakably affected.
"Sir… does this imply—?"
"It implies nothing yet," Marcus said. "You will prove whether you warrant the role."
That night, Kian barely slept.
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Judicial Hall — East Wing
The Following Morning
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He arrived at precisely 06:57.
Marcus was already inside a private study room, a stack of casebooks, statute manuals, and comparative legal analyses arranged in rigid vertical lines across the table. Everything was ordered, measured—Hale's influence in absolute form.
"Sit," Marcus instructed.
What followed was not a single exam.
It was a battery.
Case dissection drills.
Legal logic transposition.
Multi-precedent threading.
Ethics hypotheticals with shifting variables.
Assessment of judicial tone, composure, and precision.
Hours passed in absolute silence broken only by the soft sound of pages turning and the occasional correction from Marcus:
"Too narrow. Broaden the statute's interpretation."
"Sound logic, but cite the counterweight precedent."
"Maintain cadence, Kian. A judge does not rush."
By the afternoon, Kian's handwriting had moved from neat to rigid, his mind taut but sharp. A controlled strain—one he found almost grounding.
Marcus closed the final memorandum.
"You retain under pressure," he said, voice unreadable. "And you adapt."
Kian straightened instinctively.
Marcus added, "Continue this trajectory, and the Hall may have a place for you."
Not a promise.
Not praise.
A possibility.
But for Marcus Hale, that was monumental.
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Late Afternoon — East Wing Lobby
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The training concluded with an assignment packet placed into Kian's hands—three case analyses due tomorrow, two statute reconciliations, and a short-form judicial rationale exercise.
He stepped into the lobby with his mind still humming with structured noise. The polished marble, the clean lines, the quiet authority of the Hall—it all carried a different weight now.
He had passed something.
Nothing official.
But something.
As he sorted his papers, the glass doors at the far end of the lobby slid open.
Kian glanced up without thinking—
—and stopped.
A cluster of people entered all at once: organized, brisk, clearly not students. Their steps carried the sharp tempo of corporate rhythm. Badges flashed. Bags shifted. A woman in a crisp blazer led the group confidently.
Nugano.
Kian recognized the branding on their lanyards immediately.
His attention sharpened.
Then one of them—someone near the middle, a young man fiddling with a gray tablet emitting nervous energy that didn't fit the sterile Cortalis aesthetic—caught his eye for a fraction of a second.
And something in Kian stilled.
He didn't know why.
But he knew—
that must be the anomaly.
Chapter 4 — Part 2
"Echoes and Practice"
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The steam hissed softly from the faculty dorm's radiator, filling the narrow room with a dry, metallic warmth. Kian stood just inside the doorway, the stack of analysis packets held neatly against his arm—unfinished work Marcus had assigned the night before.
Marcus Hale stood near the desk, gloves off, sleeves sharp, posture perfectly composed. The kind of stillness that never felt like rest—only calculation.
"You'll be escortin' an external contingent tomorrow," Marcus said without looking up from his ledger. "Maintain impeccable formality."
Kian nodded once, quietly attentive. His mind, however, was already parsing the implication—external contingent meant Nugano. Nugano meant whatever Marcus had hinted at before… the unusual trainee.
"One of their analysts requires particular observation," Marcus continued. "You'll keep your tone neutral. Keep your posture exact. Cortalis must project precision."
Kian bowed. "Understood."
Marcus finally looked at him then—just a fraction too long. A measured look. One that pressed against the back of Kian's mind in a way he could not quite ignore.
Kian did not show it.
But he felt it.
That faint pull of unease. Something beneath Marcus's calm—something that made the air feel weighted, familiar, and wrong.
Elias Thorne's memories stirred faintly in the dark corners of his mind—nothing sharp, nothing clear. Only the instinctive wariness of prey remembering the silhouette of its predator.
Not certainty.
Just suspicion.
Quiet. Controlled. Hidden.
"Dismissed," Marcus said.
Kian bowed again, turned, and left with the analysis packets still in hand—work to finish later, after preparing himself for whatever was coming.
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Present Time — Cortalis Judicial Hall, East Wing Lobby
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The Judicial Hall's morning stillness hummed with cold clarity—polished marble, pristine acoustics, the faintest echo of distant footfall. Kian stood behind the reception counter, the analysis packets tucked under one arm, the desk still empty, the memo sheets untouched.
He reviewed nothing.
He wrote nothing.
He merely waited—expression neutral, posture exact, breath measured as Marcus had instructed.
Then—
Footsteps.
A group entered through the main doors, seven people moving as a coordinated unit behind their director. Kian's eyes lifted instinctively.
And the sensation hit him.
The anomaly.
Not understood.
Not named.
Just… known.
Something about one of them—the young analyst near the back of the formation—struck him at once. A presence that did not align with the normal contours of the world around him. Kian's heartbeat shifted by one controlled, but perceptible, beat.
He said nothing.
He set the analysis packets down on the desk—quietly, precisely.
He pulled the memo sheet toward him.
He sat.
He adopted a fully composed seriousness, gaze lowered as though absorbed in the work.
The group approached.
Kian lifted his head at the exact right moment—
And the scene aligned perfectly.
Jonathan's entourage formed a tidy line behind Lena as she stepped forward.
Lena spoke first, her lightly professional Kansai carrying clearly through the pristine lobby:
"Kian. Nugano division's arrived for the summit briefin'."
Kian closed the memo folder he had only pretended to review—smooth, controlled, silent—and stood with a bow at the exact correct angle.
"Director Lena. Judge Hale asked me to escort y'all. Conference Room Three is prepared."
His tone remained measured.
Then he turned to the anomaly.
The young man who looked simultaneously composed and seconds from dissolving under pressure.
Kian examined him for one heartbeat longer than courtesy required—assessing, observing, marking the inconsistency that had drawn his attention the moment they crossed the threshold.
"You must be Jonathan Raines."
Up close, the anomaly sharpened.
Jonathan nearly short-circuited.
"Y—yes. Analyst Jonathan Raines, Nugano branch. Pleasure t'meet ya… formally."
Kian gave the subtle nod Jonathan would later describe as "life-ending."
Not unkind—only precise.
"Judge Hale's expectin' you specifically. Please follow me. And keep the team together—this wing loops if you take the wrong turn."
The interns froze in palpable terror.
Elliott mouthed a sincere thank you.
Jonathan attempted confidence and failed adorably:
"Appreciate the guidance—really—this place looks like it grades ya for steppin' too loud."
Kian did not smile.
But something flickered—subtle, quick, almost a reflex.
Lena murmured:
"Relax, Raines. We ain't assignin' posture scores."
Kian added, perfectly dry:
"Unless ya fall."
Jonathan did not fall.
But he almost did.
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Escort to Conference Room Three
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Kian led the group through the precise, echoing corridors—footsteps crisp, posture exact. He didn't look back often, but he noted the subtle chaos in Nugano's formation and Jonathan's increasingly terrified micro-expressions.
At the conference room door, Kian opened it with controlled silence.
Marcus Hale waited at the far end.
Kian stepped aside smoothly as the group entered, observing every detail with careful neutrality.
Marcus turned.
His gaze landed on Jonathan first.
"Jonathan Raines. Welcome to Cortalis."
Jonathan nearly combusted.
Kian took his position at the side table, briefing packets prepared.
Marcus's voice carried through the room:
"Kian. Begin the orientation."
"Yes, Judge Hale."
Kian stepped forward, opening the first packet with calm precision.
And with that—
Kian's chapter aligned seamlessly with Jonathan's.