CHAPTER 371: THERE ARE ALWAYS RECORDS

Meanwhile, the dean’s office—the entire room—felt strangely still, as if it carried a kind of stillness that didn’t exist anywhere else in the academy.

It wasn’t total silence—soundproofing never was—but the outside world felt dulled, like a deep snowfall muffled every noise until even a breath seemed too loud.

The air had that faint density that came from layered shielding, the kind that blocked more than voices.

It kept stray signals from slipping in or out and gave the room a hum so low you felt it more in your bones than in your ears.

The desk between the dean and Ardis Kyrelle was bare except for a single sealed datapad. Its smooth black surface caught the glow of the overhead light at a shallow angle, glinting just enough to make you notice it.

The dean sat back in her chair, her hands resting loosely on the armrests, posture unforced but deliberate.

She didn’t speak immediately. Her gaze lingered on the datapad for a few seconds longer, as if weighing whether opening it would truly change anything—or if the knowledge it contained had already settled into her mind.

When she finally looked up at Ardis, her expression was steady, but not empty. There was calculation there, and perhaps something colder—unease she kept carefully beneath the surface.

"The midterm exam," she began, her voice level but carrying a deliberate weight, "is set for next week.

Officially, it’s as safe as any large-scale virtual simulation we’ve run in the past decade. But you and I both know ’safe’ only lasts as long as people respect the rules, keeping it that way."

Ardis didn’t shift in her seat. Her stillness looked natural, a calm rooted in discipline rather than passivity.

"You think someone will try to breach the link." Her tone made it clear she wasn’t asking.

The dean tapped the side of the datapad—not to open it, but as if the soft, rhythmic motion helped her thoughts keep moving.

"I think the possibility is real. And here, with these students, I can’t afford to only think about what’s likely. I have to consider what’s possible."

Ardis’s eyes held steady. "A god."

"Or something close enough to one that it makes no difference," the dean replied.

"Virtual safety protocols will stop most things—feedback surges, system overloads, shock from sudden disconnection.

But they won’t stop someone with the power and intent to reach through the connection and pull a soul out."

Most people would speak a line like that with a trace of disbelief, as if they needed to soften it into a rumor or a cautionary tale.

The dean didn’t. She said it the way a surgeon might talk about a rare but documented complication—something terrible, yes, but real and recorded.

Ardis didn’t flinch. Her eyes narrowed slightly. "There are records?"

"There are always records," the dean said, voice almost dry.

"Most are buried deep enough that you only hear about them when someone wants to scare first-years into paying attention during safety briefings.

But they exist. Rare, yes. But every case had one thing in common—the link was the opening."

The quiet that followed wasn’t awkward, but it was heavy enough that the next words would carry more weight.

The dean leaned forward, elbows settling on the desk, hands coming together in a steeple.

"I’m not saying this because I’m chasing shadows. I’m saying it because I’ve seen the names on the observer list for this year’s exam."

That earned the smallest reaction from Ardis. Her eyes flicked to the datapad, then back up. "Outside interest."

"More than outside interest," the dean said. "Half of them have no official reason to be here.

The other half are ranked high enough that a midterm exam should mean nothing to them—unless they’re watching for something. Or someone."

Ardis’s jaw tightened a fraction. "You think they’ll target a student."

"I think," the dean said slowly, "that if anyone wanted to test the academy’s limits, this would be the perfect stage.

And if a god—or anything with that kind of reach—is watching, the only way to keep the exam safe is to make sure there’s nothing in it worth taking."

That sat between them for a while. Even the hum of the shielding seemed sharper, as if it knew it had to carry the weight of what wasn’t being said.

Ardis broke the pause. "Postponing would draw attention. Too much of it."

"Exactly," the dean agreed. "And moving forward carries its own risk. The balance is in deciding which is smaller—and whether the larger is something we can prepare for."

Her fingers tapped the desk once, measured, and were slow. "If we delay, we give whoever’s watching more time to set their own terms.

If we proceed, we force them to act now, when we expect it."

Ardis studied her a moment longer. "Then you’ve already decided."

The dean’s lips curved, though not into anything that could be called a smile. "I’ve decided to hear your thoughts before I set it in motion.

You’ve been closer to some of these students than I have. You know which ones are worth building a defense around."

Ardis considered that, gaze lowering briefly before returning. "Three, maybe four, could hold under pressure they’ve never faced before.

The rest... would break if pushed hard enough. And if that push came from a god—"

"Then our goal isn’t to make them win," the dean said, quieter now, "but to make sure they walk away breathing."

The silence that followed wasn’t the same as before. It had an edge to it, a chill that wasn’t from the air.

Finally, the dean reached for the datapad, unlocking it with a silent gesture. The display came alive—rows of names, exam parameters, mapped observation points, and a second list with no connection to the official schedule. She turned the screen toward Ardis.

"These are the ones I’m worried about," she said. "Some dangerous. Others simply... valuable to the wrong people.

During the run, if anything feels off, you have full authority to pull them out. No matter what the official feed says."

Ardis read the list slowly. She didn’t ask for reasons. She didn’t need to. When she looked back up, her answer was simple. "Understood."