Donnie hadn't heard his family's name in weeks.
Not since the tribunal stopped tracking him publicly.
Not since he left behind the student ID with "Reeve, Donnie" printed across the bottom of his Trace Band.
But that morning, when he walked to the field for sunrise drills, someone stood at the edge of the ridge with posture too familiar to ignore.
Short coat.
Wide stance.
One hand behind his back.
And a trace mark that matched Donnie's own—scarred, circular, and once burned into bone.
Donnie slowed his steps.
The figure turned.
His uncle.
Not an agent.
Not an observer.
Just a man who once trained in the same academy and left the system before Donnie ever knew what a builder was.
---
Veera watched the exchange from the courtyard balcony.
She saw Donnie pause.
Then she saw his jaw clench.
The man didn't raise his voice.
Didn't even step forward.
But when they finally sat on the cliff together, neither one moved for over ten minutes.
Not in tension.
In processing.
---
"I figured they'd send someone like you," Donnie said quietly.
"They didn't send me," his uncle replied. "They warned me not to come."
"So why did you?"
"Because silence is no longer safer than involvement."
Donnie exhaled slowly.
"Are my parents okay?"
"They're safe. Confused. Your mother tried to get through to you five times. Every message got bounced by Guild filters."
Donnie looked away.
"I wanted to reach out," he said. "But if they knew where I was…"
"They'd try to silence the wrong people."
---
Meanwhile, the Tribunal was collapsing inward.
Not publicly.
But from beneath.
Certain instructors had stopped submitting full reports.
Others were deleting trace syncs before archiving them.
A few had begun sharing unlicensed technique data with external mentors.
And in the chairman's private chamber, three reports sat untouched—each showing a new builder emerging in a zone previously labeled "sterile."
The data lines were starting to curve.
And when the system curves…
It loses control of the path.
---
Veera stood in the south field with two new arrivals—both younger, barely out of beginner-level training.
But one could anchor motion in place.
The other could redirect movement through sheer momentum.
Neither of them understood what their trace could do.
But they both moved like people who had stopped trying to mimic diagrams.
Veera helped them refine—not by adjusting, but by asking:
"What feels like instinct?"
That became the new rule.
No form was finished unless it felt like something you would do without thinking.
---
Donnie and his uncle stayed on the cliff until the light dimmed.
Neither tried to win the conversation.
Neither needed to.
But before the man left, he said:
"You're not wrong, Donnie. But this will cost you more than just recognition. It's already cost you your record."
Donnie nodded.
"I don't want recognition."
"Then what do you want?"
Donnie turned his palm up.
Showed the trace mark still etched there.
"I want trace to mean something real again."
---
That evening, Kaito passed Donnie a sheet of folded trace-cloth.
Inside were nine names.
None of them students Donnie had met.
All of them tagged "undocumented builders" by unofficial instructors.
"You're becoming a signal," Kaito said.
Donnie stared at the list.
"These aren't kids anymore."
"No. And some of them don't want to follow. They just want to know they're not the only ones."
---
In a surveillance outpost above Sector 5, an agent received an encrypted directive labeled:
> "Do Not Act."
But she acted anyway.
Because she had seen what Donnie's movements had triggered—students reclaiming control over their own flow, instructors forgetting to bark corrections, simulations failing to track outcomes.
She activated a private field scan.
Located the signature near the tower.
And whispered a single word:
> "Now."
---
In the tower, Veera looked up.
Then stood.
Donnie raised his head too.
From behind the southern tree line, a Guild operative stepped out—hood down, trace gear minimal, but movement poised.
They didn't walk with hesitation.
They walked like someone tired of asking permission.
Donnie moved first.
Not to attack.
But to meet them halfway.
The others didn't react.
Didn't draw arms.
They watched.
Because if this was what it felt like—it wasn't an invasion.
It was the beginning of something the system had feared far more than rebellion.
Alignment.
---
End of Chapter 23
© Anthony Osifo 2025 – All rights reserved.