The Architect sandbox [The Archiverse series]

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Chapter – "The Stars and the Sand"

Third Person – Oliver Woods

A year had passed.

Oliver Woods was now seven years old.

He stood at the front gate of the school once more, his familiar orange jacket a little tighter than it used to be. The same school buildings stretched ahead, vast and magical, surrounded by glimmering lights, shaped stones, and otherworldly flora. Beastkin students were already pouring in, laughing, howling, bounding through the gates with tails and wings and all.

The air was filled with that same chaotic energy he remembered — and yet, it felt… calmer this time. Familiar. Less like stepping into a dream and more like stepping back into something that, strangely, belonged to him now.

Oliver adjusted his backpack strap and walked forward, heading toward the same general wing of the school. The beastkin section.

Just like last year, he was the only human in his class.

But this time, he noticed something different.

Across the courtyard, down one of the elevated paths lined with sleek tiles and floating lights, a small group of human children walked in formation. They were younger than the teens he had seen the year before — some his age, maybe a little older — their posture straight, their eyes focused.

Their uniforms shimmered softly under the morning light: white fabric with thin black trims, polished silver edges, and a subtle gradient of blue that moved as they walked. Clean. Refined. Practically untouched by the dusty playgrounds and uneven stone paths that the beastkin kids swarmed around.

Oliver slowed his steps as he watched them.

There was something otherworldly about them — even more so than the monsters he'd grown used to.

They talked quietly among themselves, but not about games or food or recess. He heard fragments of their conversation float through the breeze.

"...binary stars in that quadrant…"

"...but gravitational variance might destabilize it…"

"...it would take six months at light-speed to even reach the edge…"

Astronomy. Space. Numbers. Scientific language.

They didn't laugh or shove each other. They didn't snort or pounce or dip their food in lakes. They walked like they were carrying invisible scrolls of data and long-forgotten star maps.

They're human, Oliver thought. But… not like me.

Not like the beastkin either.

Almost like their own species.

He stood there watching until the group turned a corner, vanishing behind the silver-glass walls of their separate academic wing.

And then, as always, he turned and walked toward his own class — toward the rougher stone halls, the warm chaos of beastkin noise, the smell of wild fruit and roasted meat drifting from the courtyard.

Beastkin students ran past him. A rabbit boy waved. A monkey girl tossed a shiny nut his way. A tiger cub nearly crashed into him chasing a bird.

Oliver ducked and kept walking.

He was still the odd one out.

But he wasn't the only human anymore. And that made this new year feel… different.

A little more mysterious.

A little more distant.

And a lot more interesting.

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Chapter – "Animal Instincts"

First Person – Oliver Woods

I don't think anyone else in class realized just how much I was watching them.

They were busy coloring, tossing paper balls, whispering things behind their paws or wings or ears — the usual. But me? I wasn't just another kid doing kid things.

I was studying them.

All of them.

Call it a habit. Or maybe just instinct. Ever since I ended up in this world, I've been trying to make sense of it — not just with magic or Vita or weird floating screens, but through something more grounded: behavior.

Animal behavior.

Take the rabbit boy in the front row. He twitches constantly — ears, nose, even his leg when he's nervous. He eats quickly, stuffing his cheeks before anyone even finishes unwrapping their lunch. It's not just personality. It's rabbit instinct. Alert, fast-moving, food-storing.

The tiger cub across from me? Sleeps with one eye half-open during nap time. Always curls his tail over his notebook. Protective. Territorial. He doesn't let anyone sit too close unless he invites them.

Then there's the monkeykin — chaos incarnate. Today, one of them left a fake fruit under the teacher's chair. Yesterday it was a buzzing box that exploded into glitter. Pranks, noise, movement — they're always doing something, even if it's just messing with people for fun. Classic primate mischief.

Even the quiet ones say something in how they act.

The leopard girl still keeps to herself, always in the corner with her notepad, tail flicking slowly like a metronome. She doesn't speak unless spoken to, and even then it's in short, cautious replies. Solitary predator. Cats like her don't run in packs. They don't need to.

The bear twins? They stick together — literally. I've never seen them more than two feet apart. Thick fur, slow movement, but surprisingly strong. They don't talk much, but when they do, it's blunt and heavy. Straightforward. Bears don't play games.

And the wolves...

I've learned not to casually approach wolfkin. They're pack-minded, yeah, but only with their pack. Outsiders? You need permission. I got too close to one last week and got a warning growl — not loud, but enough to tell me I'd crossed a line.

I started taking mental notes on all of it.

Observation Log – Entry 31:

Never touch an alligator girl's tail.

Even in humanoid form, that tail is sacred territory. One fox kid learned that the hard way. He didn't get bitten, but she made a sound that shut down the entire hallway.

Entry 42:

Hyena groups are matriarchal. Girls lead, no question.

Tried to tag along with a group at recess. They let me play, but made sure I knew who was in charge. I wasn't offended. Just impressed.

Entry 44:

Raccoon girl dips her lunch in the lake every day.

Bread, meat, fruit — doesn't matter. She doesn't eat anything dry. I don't even think she realizes she does it. It's just… part of her.

While the other kids were drawing shapes and singing along to Ms. Leafon's language chants, I was scribbling patterns in the margins of my notebook. Notes. Behaviors. Reactions.

They weren't just beastkin.

They were animals — with instincts, habits, and subtle rules they followed without thinking.

And me?

I was still the weird one.

Not a beastkin. Not like those white-uniform human kids who talk about stars and gravity. Just a human boy pretending to be something in-between.

But I'm learning their rules.

One tail flick, one ear twitch, one growl at a time.

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Chapter 74 – "The Shadow in the Corner"

Third Person – Oliver Woods

As the class buzzed with movement — pencils scratching, crayons breaking, a few beastkin kids giggling too loudly — Oliver sat at his desk, silent.

Not out of shyness.

Just... habit.

He wasn't exactly part of the noise. Not the center of anything. He was more like a steady still point in the room — always watching, always thinking.

His eyes drifted toward the sunlight trickling through the high, vine-draped windows of the classroom. The way it cast shadows on the desk reminded him of something. A time not too long ago, yet it felt like a different lifetime.

Back on Earth.

Back in Deerfield Beach Elementary.

He was nine then — stuck in fourth grade with a classroom full of kids who seemed to exist in a different rhythm. Friends laughing over snacks. Inside jokes he never got. Games played at recess that he wasn't invited to. Birthday parties he only heard about after they happened.

And Oliver?

He was the kid in the back.

Always in the corner.

Always drawing.

Sketching in the margins of his notebooks, eyes low while the world spun on without him. He wasn't bullied. He wasn't mocked. Just… forgotten. Like a shadow left behind in the clutter of the school day.

He didn't even hate it. It was just the way things were.

And now, in a different world filled with beastkin and magic and floating lakes, Oliver found himself doing the same thing. Observing. Sketching. Memorizing.

Just like before.

The classroom was louder here. Wilder. Less structured. But his role hadn't changed much. The only human in a room of monsters — sitting off to the side, taking mental notes instead of joining the noise.

And strangely… it didn't hurt like it used to.

Because here, he was learning more than math or shapes or magic. He was learning them. Their instincts. Their rules. Their quirks. He was studying the whole world with a quiet focus no one else seemed to have.

Back in Deerfield Beach, he was the invisible kid in the corner.

Here?

Maybe he was still in the corner… but he was watching the world from the inside now. And piece by piece, it was starting to notice him too.

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Chapter – "Olive"

Third Person – Oliver Woods

Unlike Deerfield Beach Elementary in Florida, where Oliver had been little more than a ghost at the edge of the room, this world — strange, magical, loud — refused to let him stay invisible.

At first, he thought it would be the same. He kept to himself. He drew. Observed. Blended. The beastkin kids had their own energy, their own games, their own inside culture. He expected to drift along the edges like always.

But monsters didn't ignore what was different. Not here.

And Oliver — the quiet human boy in the beastkin class — was very different.

They stared at him at first. Sniffed, nudged, whispered. But curiosity grew faster than silence. Before long, they started involving him. Monkeykin tossed him shiny objects mid-lesson. A hawk girl once dive-bombed his desk just to say hi. A tiger cub challenged him to a race — though he had no chance of winning.

But it wasn't until the otter twins tried to write his name on a paper during art class that the nickname began.

"Oliver?"

"Olly-ver?"

"No no, it's like… Olive?"

"Yeah! Like the little fruit!"

From that day on, they called him Olive. Not all of them meant it as a joke — most of them just couldn't quite pronounce "Oliver" correctly with their fangs, beaks, snouts, or strange accents. And once it stuck… it stuck.

At first, he wanted to correct them. He really did.

But something about it made him pause.

They remembered him.

In Deerfield Beach Elementary, he'd been invisible. Quietly drifting through class after class, drawing dragons and wolves in his notebook while the rest of the world moved on. No one called him anything. He was just there.

Here? He had a nickname. A weird one. A silly one. But it belonged to him.

"Olive!" a hyena girl barked at recess, waving him over. "You're on our side today!"

"Olive! You dropped your pencil!" a deerkin boy shouted, galloping after him.

Even Ms. Leafon, their sleepy goat teacher, once called him "Olive" by mistake during roll call — then chuckled and gently corrected herself with a soft, apologetic glance.

He didn't correct her either.

Because maybe… just maybe… "Olive" wasn't so bad.

It meant he wasn't invisible anymore.

It meant they saw him.

And for the first time in his young life, Oliver — Olive — was no longer just a shadow in the corner. He was a part of something, even if it was a little weird. A little chaotic. A little… monster.

And maybe that's exactly what he needed.

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Chapter– "The Name That Stuck"

Third Person – Oliver Woods

By now, it was official.

Or at least… involuntarily official.

Oliver Woods had a new name — not by choice, not by paperwork, not even by accident.

Just by repetition.

And now, everyone at school called him "Olive."

It started small. A mispronunciation. A slip of a toothy tongue. Then it turned into a classroom thing. Then a hallway thing. Then a playground-wide nickname that even teachers started picking up on. At some point, Oliver lost track of when exactly it stopped being a mistake and started being… just his name.

Even Principal Mr. Swan, a tall, poised swan beastkin with shiny shoes and a long shimmering necktie, used it during the first assembly of the year.

"And next up," Mr. Swan announced from the shimmering stage platform, his beak clicking softly as he scanned his clipboard, "a recognition for effort and cooperation in cross-species integration — Olive Woods, please come forward."

Oliver blinked in the crowd of seated students.

Did he just say… Olive?

A few kids around him turned and nudged him. One even gave a playful whistle.

"Go, Olive!" the porcupine boy called from the back row — his short quills sticking up in messy patterns, voice cracking slightly with excitement. "Get your leaf badge or whatever it is!"

Oliver stood up without saying a word, cheeks flushed just slightly, and walked toward the stage.

He didn't correct Mr. Swan.

He didn't say a thing.

What would be the point?

By now, trying to reverse it would feel like changing the weather. The name had stuck like sap on fur.

Besides… it wasn't all bad.

People knew who he was. He got high-fives in the hallway. Occasionally a monster girl would offer him half of her fruit bar. The teachers always asked how he was doing. He even got invited to group activities without needing to sneak his way in.

Back in his old school, his name barely existed. Here, it was shouted from across courtyards.

Still, there were moments.

Like today — after the assembly, when Oliver was heading down the hall and that one bigger hyena girl spotted him near the stairwell.

She was taller, broader, probably a year older, and always had that sly, toothy smirk like she knew something you didn't. She leaned against the stone wall, arms crossed, yellow eyes gleaming with mischief.

"Well well," she said, tail swishing behind her. "If it isn't Little Olive himself. Gonna sprout branches next?"

Oliver slowed down but didn't stop. "It's Oliver."

She chuckled. "Could've fooled the principal. Maybe next time he'll call you Salad."

A few snickers came from a couple of wolf boys nearby.

Oliver didn't flinch. He just sighed through his nose, then kept walking. "Better than being a hyena girl named Sara," he muttered just loud enough for her to hear.

The hallway broke out in scattered "ooohs," followed by laughter.

The hyena girl barked a surprised laugh, then slapped her hand against the wall. "Alright, Olive! Got a little bite, huh? Not bad!"

He smirked to himself.

Teased? Sure.

Mocked? Not really.

Embarrassed? A little.

But ignored?

Never again.

The name wasn't his, not really.

But in this world, it meant something.

"Olive" wasn't just a mistake anymore.

It was a nickname.

It was a presence.

It was him.

And for once in his life, Oliver Woods didn't mind being called the wrong name — as long as it meant being remembered.

---

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Chapter – "Between Who I Was and Who I Am"

Third Person – Oliver Woods, Age 12

Oliver Woods stood at the school gates once again — same place, same stone archway, same sky-swept breeze through enchanted trees that hummed softly with the morning sun.

But he was different now.

Twelve years old. Four-foot-seven. Thinner than most of the beastkin boys, but taller than some of the younger girls. His once-messy brown hair had grown longer and was now tied neatly into a short ponytail behind his head — not out of style, but just to keep it out of his eyes. A practical habit.

Wrapped around his shoulders was a thick, weather-worn brown cloak — a little too big, the edges frayed, the seams hand-stitched. It had once belonged to his father, Liam, and Oliver wore it like a quiet shield. Not because it was fashionable… but because it was his.

The school was louder than ever. Beastkin students of all kinds ran through the courtyard — foxkin, bearkin, rabbitkin, scaled dragonkin, even the occasional feathered avian-child soaring low overhead. The second semester of the secondary term had just begun, and the school was back in full motion.

Oliver stepped forward.

He didn't wave at anyone.

No one waved at him.

Not out of coldness — not exactly.

He was known still. Recognized. Just… not relevant.

Once, back when he was younger — when his nickname "Olive" echoed across recess fields and he was the novelty human among monsters — he was surrounded by attention. Called on. Talked to. Included.

Now?

Things had changed.

The porcupine boy who once called him "Ollie" had grown into a spiky-haired teenager who now hung out with the jaguar twins. The cheetah girl from class preferred running track with other fast-footed beastkin. The hyena group? They were older now — louder, more aggressive, more closed off than before.

Everyone had someone.

And Oliver… was just Oliver.

Not "Olive." Not "the human kid." Not even "the weird one who draws."

He wasn't sad about it. Not exactly. Just… distant.

He nodded at a few familiar faces as he passed the front plaza. A deer girl gave him a polite smile. A bat boy blinked upside-down from the rafters and muttered a lazy, "'Sup." A crocodile girl from two grades below shuffled by, careful not to let her tail swing into him.

They remembered him.

But they had their own orbits now.

And Oliver?

He walked quietly through the crowd, boots crunching the gravel, his cloak trailing behind him like a piece of an old story no one quite told anymore.

He didn't say much.

Didn't need to.

He had his routine. His studies. His sketchbook. His notes.

Maybe this was just part of growing up — when the loud noise of childhood dimmed, and all that was left was the quieter, more complicated space between who you were and who you were becoming.

And Oliver Woods — now twelve, wearing his father's cloak and walking among beasts — was quietly figuring that out for himself.

---

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Chapter – "Sebastian of the Watch"

Third Person – Sebastian, the Leopard Boy

The training room wasn't loud — it was quiet in that tight kind of way. Like the air had rules. The students inside were already seated in rows, their uniforms crisp, their postures stiff. Green-gray fabrics pressed neat, with polished boots and silver pins gleaming under the dim magical lights lining the upper walls.

This was no ordinary classroom. This was Pre-Field Civic Discipline, the school's elite hall monitoring and junior authority program. Not quite soldiers, not quite scouts — but trained to be something in between.

And now entering that room, ears slightly twitching, coat unusually neat, was Sebastian.

A young leopard boy, not much taller than Oliver, but lean and tense in his movement. His uniform didn't quite sit perfectly on him — the collar a little too snug, the sleeves a bit long at the paws. But he wore it all the same, clearly trying his best.

He stood at the threshold for a moment, frozen.

Tiger girl in the second row glanced at him. Wolf boy at the far back didn't even look up — his ears perked slightly but stayed locked forward. A hyena girl chewed her gum loud until she spotted the instructor's glare, then swallowed fast.

Sebastian inhaled, short and nervous, then quickly walked toward the empty seat near the edge. His boots thumped softer than most — practiced steps, careful not to draw attention.

He sat down, back straight.

Tail curled tight around one leg.

Didn't say a word.

No one greeted him.

No one mocked him either.

He was new to the group — or at least new to this level of training. He had signed up months ago, not because he wanted glory or leadership, but because he thought it would help. Help him figure out rules. Structure. How to stand still in a world that always seemed too loud.

Sebastian had always been awkward. His voice was too soft, his ears moved when he didn't mean them to, and he never quite knew when he was supposed to talk or stay quiet.

But here?

There were rules.

Dress codes.

Chores.

Rotations.

Orders.

He could work with that.

The instructor — a broad-shouldered ram beastkin with medals along his horn bands — stepped to the front and began speaking. "Discipline is earned through restraint. You represent structure where others bring chaos. You are the claws of calm — the eyes of order."

Sebastian scribbled it down immediately.

He didn't fully understand what it meant yet. But he would.

As the other pre-teens listened with varying degrees of interest, Sebastian stayed focused. Watching. Listening. His tail twitched only once the entire lesson. He didn't talk. Didn't break formation. He just sat there, a quiet spotted shadow in a uniform a little too big, trying to become part of something bigger than himself.

And for the first time in a while…

Sebastian didn't feel completely out of place.

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:

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Chapter 93 (continued) – "Sebastian of the Watch"

Third Person – Discipline Civics Begins

The large wooden doors creaked open with a slow groan.

Every student in the room, including Sebastian, instinctively straightened in their seats.

Two figures entered the training room — distinct, commanding, and unmistakable in their presence.

The first was a grizzly bear, huge and lumbering, dressed in the official dark green cloak of the Guardian Generals. His posture was slightly slouched, arms crossed lazily over his barrel chest, his expression half-bored but oddly wise beneath heavy eyelids. A steaming mug of something — probably honeyroot tea — was clutched in his massive paw, which he sipped from occasionally with a low, thoughtful hum.

The second was a lioness — tall, firm, and sharply composed. Her uniform was pristine, medals gleaming across her shoulder strap, her golden mane braided into a tight, elegant tail that swung with each step like a blade. Her gaze was razor-focused, sweeping across the classroom like a silent challenge.

The grizzly grunted and yawned.

The lioness stepped forward with purpose.

"Stand," she ordered.

Chairs scraped. Boots clicked. Every student stood up — Sebastian included — shoulders high, eyes forward, tails still.

The lioness gave a single nod.

"At ease."

They sat.

"I am General Sera, head of Strategic Discipline. This is General Umber," she said, gesturing to the grizzly, who raised his mug in a casual wave, not bothering to speak. "Today marks the beginning of your civic assessments — training not only your body, but your purpose."

She stepped forward.

"In this program, you are more than students. You are potential leaders. Guardians. Mediators. Organizers. Your strength does not come from claws or teeth alone — it comes from what you offer to your community."

Sebastian shifted slightly in his seat, eyes fixed on her.

"This is the foundation of Discipline Civics. Learning how to contribute — not just how to fight or enforce rules, but how to keep society functioning, growing, and safe."

The grizzly, Umber, let out a low chuckle. "In short: find out how not to be a menace."

A few students snickered.

"Today's lesson," General Sera continued, unmoved, "is simple: What do you offer to society? Not someday. Not when you're grown. Now."

She pointed to a board where five roles lit up in shimmering magical letters:

1. Organizer

2. Mediator

3. Defender

4. Surveyor

5. Courier

"You will be grouped, assigned temporary roles, and tested. This is not combat training. It is contribution evaluation."

Sebastian blinked at the glowing list.

His heart beat a little faster.

Surveyor, he thought. That sounds like something he could do. Watching. Reporting. Staying unnoticed, yet vital.

Students began shuffling into formation as Sera called names and roles. The tiger girl was assigned "Defender," the wolf boy "Courier," a badger kid got "Mediator."

And then—

"Sebastian," General Sera called.

He stood quickly, back straight.

"Surveyor."

A quiet breath of relief escaped him.

She nodded at him with a flicker of approval.

"You'll be placed on perimeter duty. Observe, log, report. No engagement. Just awareness."

Perfect.

He stepped to his assigned line — no one said anything. But no one looked down on him either.

As the first simulation began, and beastkin students began moving through the courtyard to carry out mock civic scenarios, Sebastian stood at the edge — eyes sharp, body still.

The awkward leopard boy in a stiff uniform…

was finally in a place where watching was exactly what he was meant to do.

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Chapter 94 – "Training Grounds"

Third Person – Sebastian in Field Training

The heavy double doors of the training hall swung open as the ram instructor blew his silver horn, its deep tone echoing through the corridors like a call to battle.

"All trainees! Field protocol! Form up outside!"

Boots hit the ground in synchronized rhythm as pre-teen beastkin students — clad in dark green and gray training uniforms — marched out onto the school's wide, open training field. The courtyard behind them faded as they entered a vast open ground filled with obstacle poles, sprinting lanes, stone climbing towers, and hovering magical drones used for simulations.

The sky above was cloudy, the sun diffused behind thin golden clouds. The earth was dry but firm, a perfect day for drills.

Sebastian followed near the back of the group, tail flicking nervously as he kept his pace steady. His heart beat faster now — he wasn't great at physical stuff. He was a watcher, not a runner. A shadow, not a sprinter.

But orders were orders.

General Umber — the lazy-eyed grizzly bear — leaned against a rock pillar near the edge of the field, sipping from his never-ending mug of honeyroot tea. "Right then," he muttered with a grin, "Time for the fun part."

General Sera strode to the center of the field, her voice sharp and commanding.

"Discipline is not only mental. It's physical. You can't serve your people with sluggish legs or soft lungs. Form up into rows. Spacing—two tail lengths apart. Knees up. Shoulders square."

The students formed into rows, grumbling lightly — except the tiger girl, who looked way too excited, and a rhino boy already doing pushups for no reason.

Sebastian took his place near the third row — right beside a small, hyper lizardkin boy with yellow scales and twitchy fingers, and two students taller than him: a quiet gazelle girl and the same stone-faced wolf boy from earlier.

"Laps first," General Sera barked. "Three around the perimeter. Full effort."

Three? Sebastian gulped.

A fox blew the starting whistle.

The group surged forward.

Beastkin bolted with inhuman speed — tiger girl out front, hyena boys pushing each other, wolf kids bounding in long, fluid strides. Meanwhile, Sebastian ran at his own pace — steady, but clearly lagging behind the front runners.

His breath grew sharp after the first turn. His chest started to ache halfway through lap two. Claws dug into the dirt as he pushed forward, tail low and shoulders burning.

The lizardkin beside him whizzed past like a blur.

Sebastian gritted his teeth and kept going.

Don't stop. Don't fall behind. Just keep going.

On the final stretch, he could hear General Umber chuckle from the sidelines, mumbling something like, "Now they're sweating like real cadets."

By the time Sebastian crossed the finish line of lap three, he was panting, his legs sore, his vision dotted with light. But he didn't collapse.

He stood tall.

The rest of the trainees gathered near the obstacle course setup, some stretching, others already smirking at what came next — rope walls, balance logs, and spell sensor zones that zapped if you stepped out of bounds.

Sebastian wiped sweat from his brow and narrowed his eyes.

He wasn't fast.

He wasn't strong.

But he had something else. Focus.

Discipline wasn't just about speed.

And if today was meant to prove how you could contribute to society…

Sebastian would show that quiet effort mattered too.

---

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Chapter 95 – "Sphere of Water"

Third Person – Sebastian*

The door to the changing quarters creaked open, and Sebastian stepped inside, his limbs aching from the drills. The field trip had been exhausting — three obstacle courses, a trail survey, and an endurance sprint he barely survived.

His jacket clung to him with sweat, and his boots had collected enough dirt to start a garden.

He peeled off the outer layers of his uniform with a sigh and hung the pieces neatly in his locker. Unlike most other students who tossed theirs on the floor or crumpled them in their bags, Sebastian folded his with military precision. Order helped him breathe.

By the time he wandered back outside toward the open-air cafeteria, the midday sun had shifted slightly westward, casting long light beams across the tables and walkways. The air smelled like hot leaf bread, grilled root vegetables, and spicy meat grown from the school's living harvest gardens.

But Sebastian didn't go straight for the food.

He stopped.

His sharp leopard eyes caught movement — soft, fluid, unnatural.

There, past the columns near the shallow courtyard fountain, stood Oliver Woods.

The human boy.

Not in uniform. Not laughing with others. Alone — as usual.

But this time… he wasn't drawing or sitting or watching.

He was holding water.

A floating, pulsing sphere of water, hovering just above the center of his palm. Its surface shimmered with refracted sunlight, rippling like a tiny glass moon. It spun slowly, responding to minute gestures of his fingers.

Oliver didn't look strained. He looked… focused. Calm.

He didn't notice Sebastian at all.

The leopard boy took an instinctive step back, keeping to the shade of a column. Not out of fear — just habit. Observe first. Always observe.

He squinted.

That was Vita, wasn't it?

It had to be.

This semester, the school had finally opened basic Vita exposure classes for the older students — energy studies, essence channeling, elemental response training. Not every student could manipulate Vita yet. Some barely understood it.

But Oliver?

The human?

He was already forming it like a second nature.

Sebastian's ears tilted back slightly.

He remembered Oliver — or Olive, as most used to call him. The quiet kid. The nickname joke. The boy who used to get invited to every game, then slowly faded into his own corner again.

But this?

This was something new.

He's changed, Sebastian thought. A lot.

Oliver closed his fingers, and the water sphere collapsed into itself with a soft splash — falling into his palm and dripping silently down his wrist. Then, without looking back, he turned and walked away, the hem of his cloak trailing lightly behind him in the wind.

Sebastian didn't follow.

He stayed in the shadows, watching until the boy was gone.

And for a long moment, Sebastian forgot how tired he was…

because something about that scene had stuck in his chest.

Oliver Woods was learning Vita.

And somehow, the quiet boy in the brown cloak didn't seem so ordinary anymore.

---

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Chapter 96 – "Instincts and Exiles"

Third Person – Sebastian*

Sebastian didn't say much as he walked through the threshold of his small, sloped-roof home on the northern ridge of town. The wind rustled behind him before the door clicked shut.

The lights were dim, soft, and quiet. The kind of quiet he was used to.

He slid off his boots, set them exactly against the wall, then dropped his backpack in its usual corner with a soft thud. His mother was home — he could smell the stewed rice bark and simmering herbs from the kitchen — but there was no greeting. Not because she was rude, but because leopardkin didn't do greetings.

They were asocial by nature. Independent. Reserved.

His father was absent again — no surprise there. Most leopardkin males left early and returned late, hunting, working, roaming. It wasn't abandonment, just... instinct.

Sebastian didn't mind. He preferred silence.

Usually.

But today, the silence sat heavier than usual.

He walked to the window of his room and sat down, staring at the cloudy skyline, jaw resting in one paw.

And thought.

Not about training. Not about the hyena who outpaced him on the obstacle wall. Not about how he almost got zapped during the sensory course.

He thought about Oliver.

Or Olive, as they used to say.

The boy with the floating water sphere.

The image hadn't left his mind. That calmness. That solitary expression. The way he moved — like he knew something the others didn't. Like he was walking a different path no one else could see.

And that cloak. The one that wasn't part of any uniform. It looked worn. Carried. Like a memory.

Sebastian's ear flicked.

Something about it all scratched at the back of his thoughts — the kind of uncomfortable feeling that didn't go away.

"Why," Sebastian muttered aloud to himself, "does he look like someone who'll be exiled one day?"

The word sat there, heavier than expected.

Exiled. Cast out. Alone — not because of something he did wrong, but because the world didn't know what to do with him.

Oliver looked like someone who didn't belong to any group anymore. Not the beastkin. Not the humans. Not the old friends. Not the new ones.

He had that same quiet aura Sebastian saw in some of the older scouts — the ones who left early and never came back. The ones people only spoke of in fragments.

The way Oliver handled Vita — not with flash or pride, but with loneliness — unsettled him.

Sebastian didn't know why it bothered him so much. Maybe it was because he was used to being invisible. But Oliver… he was the kind of person who was seen, and then slowly forgotten, until only a whisper of his presence remained.

The kind of person who might just disappear one day.

Sebastian leaned back and exhaled.

Maybe it was nothing.

Or maybe his leopard instincts — the part of him that saw before others did — were sensing something the rest hadn't noticed yet.

That Oliver Woods, quiet human boy turned Vita-wielder,

wasn't just strange.

He was drifting.

And Sebastian couldn't tell if he was drifting away,

or drifting into something none of them were ready for.

----

Certainly. Here's the next third-person scene as Sebastian, unsettled by his instincts, takes matters into his own hands and starts researching the concept of exile on his mother's laptop — discovering more than he expected:

---

Chapter 97 – "Traveler Status"

Third Person – Sebastian*

Later that night, long after dinner and quiet had settled over the small leopardkin home, Sebastian sat at the kitchen table in front of his mother's weathered laptop. The screen flickered dimly under the overhead lantern light.

His mom was in the other room, lying on a woven mat, reading an old book in silence. She didn't question him. Leopardkin didn't really pry unless they smelled danger.

Sebastian had plugged in the charger, cracked his knuckles, and opened the search bar with a single word echoing in his head:

Exiled.

He wasn't sure what he was looking for.

Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was his nerves.

But when he saw Oliver today — quiet, distant, curling water into a perfect sphere like it was part of his breathing — something deep in Sebastian's instinct twitched.

That boy looked like someone who might leave the world behind. Or be pushed out of it.

He began to read.

> "Exiled Persons & Traveler Law Archives (Revision 7)"

One link led to another. Government laws. Public forums. Ancient codes adjusted for modern society. Some of the terms made him blink.

---

> "Exiled persons" are those deemed incompatible with social structure — by behavior, energy instability, or failure to assimilate.

> If rejected from two or more institutions (educational, civic, employment), the individual is marked 'At Risk for Disconnection'.

> Without family guardianship or registered social value, the individual may be denied public housing, employment, or resource access.

> In such cases, one of the only sanctioned options is to adopt Traveler Status — leaving regulated society entirely.

---

Sebastian scrolled slowly, frowning.

There were thousands of cases — quiet removals, unofficial exile, social drifting. People who couldn't hold a job, or never clicked into place. People with unique magical traits. People who didn't "fit" anywhere.

They didn't always get arrested or punished. Society didn't work that way anymore.

Instead… it forgot them.

Gently. Systematically.

Until they were nothing but faded records.

And then?

They became Travelers.

Wanderers.

Drifters.

Some by choice. Most by necessity.

---

Sebastian's claws lightly tapped the keys as he leaned closer.

His eyes burned, not from tiredness — from how close to familiar this all sounded.

Not about himself. Not exactly.

But about someone he knew.

Someone who walked alone.

Someone who, despite being surrounded by beastkin and students and magic… always looked like he was already leaving.

Oliver.

No.

Olive.

That was the name the system would remember.

That silly, affectionate nickname etched on every file, every school record.

If something happened — if Oliver ever failed out, lost his place, dropped out of society entirely — the archives would remember him as Olive Woods.

And if he vanished, no one might even notice the real name behind it.

Sebastian shut the laptop slowly, mind racing, instincts restless.

He didn't know why this bothered him.

But it did.

Because Oliver — Olive — didn't seem dangerous.

He seemed like someone slipping.

And Sebastian had seen what happened to people who slipped.

---

That night, as the wind pushed softly against the windows and the stars blinked above the jungle canopy, Sebastian lay in bed with his tail curled tightly to his side.

He hadn't said anything to anyone.

But he knew now.

He knew what Oliver looked like.

Not a threat.

Not a hero.

He looked like someone society was already preparing to forget.

Unless someone… did something first.