In this world, no one grew up without a Codex.
On the day of Awakening, every individual received one—a manifestation of inherited knowledge and potential. Some Codices were thin and unassuming, others thick and elaborately bound. Some revealed elemental paths, others martial disciplines, scholarly routes, or obscure specialties known only to historians.
But regardless of form, all Codices shared one defining trait.
They responded.
Within the Awakening Hall, light shimmered without pause. Pages turned on their own. Runes drifted into the air, forming sigils of fire, wind, steel, and beasts. Each reaction drew admiration from the onlookers and quiet approval from the examiners stationed along the hall.
A Codex was proof of worth.
A Codex defined one's future.
Eren Lloyd stood among the candidates, his posture calm, his breathing steady. He had already watched more than a dozen awakenings unfold—each louder, brighter, and more decisive than the last. Some candidates were surrounded by family members and sponsors, others by instructors quietly discussing potential placements.
Every successful response narrowed the path for those who came after.
A young man stepped onto the platform. The instant his Codex opened, streams of green light burst forth, swirling around him like sharpened currents of air.
"Wind Affinity," an examiner announced. "Combat-oriented."
Applause filled the hall. A few instructors exchanged glances, already noting the name.
Another candidate followed. Her Codex released lines of flame that wove themselves into precise geometric patterns.
"Advanced Fire Structure. Rare compatibility."
The murmurs grew louder, tinged with envy.
Eren lowered his gaze to the Codex he carried.
It was heavier than most.
Its cover was dark, worn smooth by time, lacking emblem or inscription. No visible energy radiated from it, no subtle response answered his presence. It had been passed down through his family for generations, accompanied only by vague explanations and lowered expectations.
A useless inheritance, many had called it—sometimes kindly, more often not.
"Next."
Eren stepped forward.
The hum of conversation did not fully stop, but it thinned. A few curious eyes lingered on his Codex, drawn by its age and lack of ornamentation.
"State your name," the examiner said.
"Eren Lloyd."
The examiner's gaze flicked briefly to a ledger beside him before returning to the Codex. "Open your Codex."
Eren complied.
Nothing happened.
No glow. No shifting pages. No emerging symbols.
A slight crease formed between the examiner's brows. "Again."
Eren focused, steadying his thoughts. He channeled his intent the way he had been taught, searching inward for the connection others described—the moment when a Codex acknowledged its bearer.
There was nothing.
Not resistance. Not rejection.
Just silence.
The tension became unmistakable.
"Is it dormant?"
"Did it fail to awaken?"
"That Codex looks ancient…"
"Is it even registered?"
The whispers carried a familiar weight. Eren had heard them before, in quieter rooms and less honest conversations. He let them pass, keeping his attention on the open page.
The examiner hesitated before reaching out. The moment his fingers brushed the cover, he flinched and withdrew his hand sharply.
His expression hardened.
"What kind of Codex is this?" he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
Eren looked down.
For the first time, faint text surfaced on the open page. The letters were thin, almost colorless, written in a script he had never studied—yet understood instinctively, as if the meaning bypassed language altogether.
Only a single line revealed itself.
This Codex does not respond to those who seek power.
The words vanished.
A hush settled over the Awakening Hall, heavier than applause had ever been.
The examiner stared at the blank page for a long moment before closing the Codex and handing it back.
"This Codex is unregistered," he said at last. "It does not correspond to any known classification recognized by the Academy."
A quiet laugh rippled through part of the crowd, quickly stifled.
"Then what does it do?" someone asked.
The examiner shook his head. "Nothing of recognized value."
He made a brief notation, the sound of the pen sharp in the silence. "Proceed. Next candidate."
Just like that, it was over.
Eren stepped aside without ceremony. No applause followed him. No examiner lingered on his name. His future was recorded with the same indifference reserved for outcomes deemed unworthy of review.
A Codex that did not respond was considered useless.
That was the world's conclusion.
Eren left the Awakening Hall as celebration resumed behind him. Newly awakened talents gathered in animated groups, discussing techniques, paths, and academy placements shaped by responsive Codices. A few glanced his way—curious at first, then dismissive.
He returned to his room alone.
The city beyond his window glowed with lantern light, alive with optimism and promise. Somewhere in the distance, laughter echoed—a sound of certainty Eren no longer shared.
He placed his Codex on the table and studied it in silence before opening it once more.
The pages did not move.
No light emerged.
Then, slowly, text appeared—line by line, deliberate and measured, as if written by something that had waited far longer than he had.
Before Mystical Beasts were hunted, they were guardians.
Before Legendary Warriors were exalted, they were witnesses.
Eren's breath tightened.
More lines followed.
Power shapes history.
Victory edits memory.
This Codex records what was erased.
His fingers pressed against the edge of the table.
The words carried no threat. No command. No promise of strength.
Only truth.
Outside, the city slept peacefully, built upon legends no longer questioned. Heroes were celebrated. Beasts were feared. The past was treated as settled and complete.
Yet the Codex before him told a different story.
Not loudly.
Not forcefully.
But clearly.
This knowledge was not meant to empower.
It was meant to remember.
Eren closed the Codex with care.
If the world labeled this inheritance as forbidden, then perhaps the fault did not lie within the Codex itself.
Perhaps the world had simply forgotten what it once owed to truth.
And if that was the case—
Then someone would have to remind it.