The transition was instantaneous.
Souta stood within the heart of his constructed field: rows of trees swaying in an artificial breeze, luminous sap flowing gently through leaf-veins, the air humming with quiet purpose.
In the center stood the original demonstrator sapling—grown now into a sturdy young tree, its root system tangled with data conduits that pulsed softly with information. Further back, the Cognitive Sapling shimmered faintly, its silver leaves stirring in response to his presence.
But it was the new quadrant—the one he had reserved for experimental cultivation—that drew his attention.
Here, he had planted three clusters: one for each follower.
In Yamada's quadrant, the saplings grew in orderly rows, their growth rings uniform, leaves trimmed by micro-drones to simulate structured learning. In Kana's, the layout was more natural—trees scattered slightly, intertwining, forming a lattice of shared growth. In Takeshi's, it was pure entropy—strange hybrid specimens, oddly blooming, their roots overlapping in unexpected spirals.
The system interface pulsed gently.
[Follower Growth Reflection: Active]
Yamada → Resonance Strength: 3.2
Kana → Resonance Strength: 2.9
Takeshi → Resonance Strength: 2.4
Passive Sync Pattern: Triangular Alignment Detected
Souta's eyes narrowed.
A triangular sync pattern?
That meant not just individual echoes—but feedback loops between the three of them. Growth was no longer radial. It was recursive.
Just as he suspected.
He took a few steps forward, placed a hand on the Cognitive Sapling, and whispered quietly:
"Let them grow into each other's light."
The leaves shimmered in response.
He didn't stay long. The Matrix would tend to itself for now.
Back in the real world, Souta closed the portal and returned the lab to its mundane order. He left no trace behind—only the faint scent of green life clinging to his jacket.
As he walked down the hallway toward the faculty wing, the PA system chimed softly: a reminder about exam week schedules. He barely heard it.
His thoughts were already elsewhere.
[Tier Shift Prerequisite Progress: 23%]
Not bad.
But he could feel it coming—not just an upgrade.
A horizon.
The final bell had long since rung.
Most students had filtered out, their chatter trailing into the evening corridors of Hoshinaka Senior High. Souta remained seated at his desk in the now-quiet classroom, the last orange traces of sunset stretching across the floorboards like sleepy fingers.
He wasn't grading papers. Not today.
He was watching. Thinking.
Two desks stood out. One in the far back corner—neatly organized, a page of notes left behind. The other near the window, a stack of physics flashcards partially concealed beneath a folded school timetable.
Sanae Okabe.
Daichi Nomura.
Neither had spoken more than a handful of times in class. Both were average on paper. Unremarkable in test scores. Quiet. Forgettable, even.
But Souta had been watching closely.
Sanae's lab notes were starting to reference real-world applications unprompted. Cross-disciplinary ideas. Diagrams that hinted at a systems-thinking mind. He'd once seen her linger by the faculty science bookshelf, fingers grazing over research volumes she hadn't yet checked out.
Daichi, by contrast, showed flickers of synthesis. A doodler, yes—but his margins were filled with circuits, flow diagrams, energy matrices. The kind of sketches that weren't just distractions—they were model-building. He stayed late after physics class, asking quiet questions about power scaling, resonance, and failure thresholds.
Not flashy. But each was thinking in patterns.
No system alerts. No passive signals. Just the kind of growth Souta recognized because he once thought the same way.
He stood from his desk and walked slowly to the back of the classroom. Collected the paper from Sanae's desk. Then another from Daichi's—covered in ink and graphite, ideas looping over ideas.
He held both sheets for a long time.
"Subsystems don't build themselves," he thought.
"But some students carry blueprints even they don't realize."
A breeze stirred the curtain beside the window. He tucked both papers into his coat pocket and looked over the empty room one last time.
Two seeds. Quiet. Rooted in curiosity.
He would speak to them soon.