There was a time when Aiko cried.
Almost no one remembered that.
Mohamed felt the shift the moment the convergence pulled him under. This one did not announce itself with symbols or collapsing realities. There was no warning pressure, no architectural distortion.
Just quiet.
He stood inside a small room.
Wooden floor. Paper walls. A single window letting in pale morning light.
A child sat on the floor, knees pulled to her chest.
She was not smiling.
She was shaking.
Selene's voice echoed faintly, distant. "This is dangerous. Once you see this… you can't unsee it."
Mohamed didn't answer.
He already knew whose memory this was.
Aiko was five years old.
Her hair was messy. Her clothes too big. Her hands clutched a small wooden toy—cracked, poorly carved, loved anyway.
Outside the room, voices argued.
"You said she was compatible."
"She is."
"She's unstable."
"She's pure."
The door slid open.
Men in black suits entered.
No symbols yet. No swords. Just eyes trained to evaluate, not empathize.
One knelt in front of her.
"What's your name?" he asked gently.
Aiko whispered it.
"Do you know why you're special?"
She shook her head.
The man smiled. "Because you don't lie to yourself."
The room dissolved.
They were underground now.
A facility older than modern nations. Walls etched with early Eclipse Order symbols—unfinished, experimental.
Children stood in lines.
Some crying.
Some silent.
Some already broken.
Aiko stood among them.
A voice echoed through the chamber.
"Truth hurts," it said. "Lies rot."
A screen activated.
Images flooded the room—war, famine, betrayal, cruelty, hypocrisy. No context. No explanation. Just raw reality.
Children screamed.
Aiko watched.
Her hands trembled.
But she did not look away.
"Why isn't she reacting?" one observer whispered.
Another answered quietly, "She is."
The tests escalated.
They were taught philosophy without mercy.
Nietzsche without poetry.
Machiavelli without restraint.
Kabbalah without balance.
Theology without comfort.
When a child broke, they were removed.
When one resisted, they were erased.
When one adapted—
They were refined.
Aiko adapted.
Not because she was cruel.
But because she understood.
Mohamed felt sick.
"She was conditioned," he whispered.
Selene's voice came closer. "No. She was convinced."
They watched as a man—young Faromet, still human—stood before the children.
"You will learn something most humans never accept," he said calmly.
"That morality is a luxury of ignorance."
Aiko raised her hand.
Everyone froze.
"Yes?" Faromet said.
She looked at him.
"If truth hurts… why do adults lie so much?"
Faromet paused.
Just for a second.
"That," he said slowly, "is why you're here."
The final test.
A room.
Two children.
One choice.
Aiko stood shaking.
"If you do nothing," the voice said, "both will suffer."
"If you choose," it continued, "one will end quickly."
Aiko cried.
She begged.
No one answered.
Minutes passed.
Then—
She made the choice.
The room went silent.
Something inside her closed.
The crying stopped.
Not just in the room.
Inside her.
The memory fractured.
Aiko—older now—stood before Ryoto Nobunga for the first time.
Her smile had returned.
But it no longer reached her eyes.
"You feel lighter now," Ryoto said.
Aiko nodded.
"I don't feel anything," she replied.
Ryoto placed a sword beside her.
"That," he said, "is clarity."
The convergence collapsed.
Mohamed fell to his knees.
He couldn't breathe.
"She didn't become evil," he whispered.
"They murdered her confusion."
Selene knelt beside him.
"Yes," she said. "And replaced it with certainty."
Mohamed clenched his fists.
"For the first time," he said slowly, "I don't want to defeat the Eclipse Order."
Selene looked at him sharply.
"I want to undo them."
Far away—
Aiko laughed at something trivial.
And for just a moment—
Something inside her hurt.