Morning arrived like any other.
The school bell rang sharply, followed by the sound of hurried footsteps echoing through the corridors. Laughter, chatter, and scattered shouts overlapped one another. The world moved as it always had—too normally, in fact.
Rinne walked through the crowd of students with her bag slung over her shoulder. Some friends greeted each other casually, others complained about unfinished assignments, while a few grumbled about overly talkative teachers.
"Hey, Rinne!" Iych waved.
"You finished the math assignment? Let me copy it later."
Rinne nodded with a small smile.
"Yeah."
At the school gate, soldiers were stationed.
They stood in neat formation, weapons hanging at their shoulders, expressions blank. Strangely, there was no panic. Students kept entering while chatting, some even joking right in front of them.
"Wow, our school's moving up in the world—getting guarded by soldiers now," someone joked, drawing laughter.
Bag checks were quick. Purely ceremonial.
When it was Rinne's turn, she felt one soldier's gaze linger on her face a second longer than necessary before he finally looked away.
"You may proceed."
She stepped forward, carried along by the uninterrupted flow of laughter.
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The classroom was packed with noise.
Chairs scraped against the floor, books slammed onto desks, and several students were already being loud even before the teacher arrived. Iych sat idly, flicking her pen into the air and catching it.
"If there's a surprise test today, I'm running," she said casually.
"Relax," someone replied. "There are soldiers here. Teachers will behave."
Laughter filled the room.
The teacher entered, tapped the desk, and the lesson began. The board was quickly covered in writing. Everything felt normal—almost convincing.
Almost.
Rinne glanced toward the empty seats in the front row.
One.
Two.
No one occupied them.
No one asked about them.
No one mentioned them.
As if those desks had always been empty.
A breeze slipped through the window. The iron fence outside vibrated faintly. Its sound was swallowed by laughter and whispers—but Rinne heard it clearly.
The iron… was making noise.
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During break time, the noise only grew louder.
Groups of students gathered in corners of the classroom, gossiping about the soldiers. Some thought it was excessive, others found it exciting.
"They say it's a potential evaluation," someone whispered.
"Eh, probably just a talent test," Iych yawned. "No big deal. We're not weird or anything."
The loudspeaker crackled to life.
"Several students will be called for potential evaluation. Please follow the officers in an orderly manner."
The first name was called.
A student stood up, shrugged, and laughed.
"Wish me luck," he said, waving as his friends cheered softly.
The second name.
The third.
One by one, empty chairs increased.
The noise never stopped.
The laughter never stopped.
Only Rinne felt the classroom growing smaller.
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After school, the house felt warm and quiet.
Her mother greeted her as usual. Her father read silently. When Rinne mentioned the soldiers and the evaluations, there was no surprise.
"It's for security," her mother said briefly.
Her father simply nodded.
No further questions were asked.
That night, a letter was slipped under the door.
A plain envelope.
No name.
No mark.
Inside was a single sentence.
"How far have you gone?"
Rinne clenched the paper tightly.
That question didn't come from the school.
Not from the soldiers.
And certainly not from someone who knew nothing.
Outside, the sound of patrol footsteps echoed faintly. Tomorrow, the school bell would ring again. The classroom would be loud once more. Iych and the others would laugh as usual.
And the world would continue pretending that nothing was wrong.
But Rinne knew—
This wasn't peace.
It was filtration.