Nen An stood in the third row, dressed in the standard white dress. Her gaze was lowered as her fingers gently rubbed the silver Resonance Token on her chest, feeling the faint, barely perceptible vibration that helped suppress her emotions. It was a truth she didn’t want to face: in this city, emotional drift had to remain stable, aligned.
Any self-directed surge of feeling or thought—any deviation—was a crime.
On the podium, Teacher Zhang Muyan lectured on the Continuity Principle of Drift. His slender Flow Pen traced luminous trajectories through the air—silver curves like frozen river veins in the winter night. His voice was soft, flawless in precision, each byte of sound perfectly synchronized to the Standardized Phonetic Alignment monitored by the City.
“Drift must remain unbroken. It must follow unified curvature.”
Zhang tapped a light arc in the air and smiled.
“Any anomalous oscillation, any self-induced drift deviation… will trigger the Purge Protocol.”
Nen An quietly raised her eyes. And in that moment, she felt a strange vibration—not from the Drift Board beneath her feet, not from her Resonance Token—but from Zhang Muyan himself.
For a fraction of a second, his Basin Core exhibited a high-frequency drift, imperceptible to the eye.
The next second, Whiteguard Enforcement burst through the windows. A Suppressive Drift Field in icy blue shimmer engulfed the courtyard instantly.
“Subject P-72-01, Zhang Muyan.”
The voice of the system echoed across the air, cold and mechanical.
“Severe deviation detected. Drift threshold exceeded. Immediate purge execution.”
Zhang Muyan did not wait.
He turned, drew his portable Drift Shield, and dashed toward the edge of the courtyard.
His basin left a streak of searing silver, triggering over a dozen Microdrift Disturbances within five meters.
No one moved. The courtyard was deathly still.
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Nen An held her breath as she watched him run—and turn.
His eyes met hers.
There was no fear in them.
Only a deep, burning sorrow.
The Whiteguard Captain raised the Drift Disruptor.
A Whitewave Slash tore the air—silent and clean—severing Zhang Muyan’s basin trajectory with perfect precision.
His body stiffened. Then, as if his soul had been shredded, he disintegrated into countless drift particles.
A burst of crimson bloomed across the white stone courtyard, like a burning rose—glorious and defiant.
As he fell, Zhang Muyan smiled faintly.
His lips moved without sound.
Nen An thought she heard a faint Drift Echo, like the last whisper of a dying stream:
“Freedom... Nen An, remember—”
The broadcast system cut in, its synthetic female voice colder than a polar wind:
“Warning: Deviation equals crime.
All drift units are to undergo immediate re-alignment protocol.”
Nen An’s Basin Core trembled.
A glimmer of silver surged from her pendant—she forced it back down.
Lowering her head, she bit her lip hard, her fingers clutching the hem of her white dress with silent desperation.
The courtyard remained silent.
The blood crawled toward her feet, blooming like murdered freedom.
Three days had passed.
The image of Zhang Muyan dying in the bloodstained White Courtyard still haunted her.
The silver flash, the rupture of drift, his final words—sharp needles buried in her chest.
On the surface, everything had returned to order.
Purity patrols resumed. The City’s speakers echoed standardized broadcasts of the Purity Drift Law, as if nothing had happened.
As if Zhang Muyan had never existed.
Until, one afternoon, she heard whispers among her classmates:
“Didn’t Zhang get diagnosed with glioblastoma last year?”
“Yeah. The kind that’s fatal in weeks.”
“So how the hell was he teaching again this year, like nothing happened?”
“He looked... exactly the same.”
“Like a... copy.”
The words stabbed into her ears like wires.
While answering questions in her drift theory class, her heartbeat began to falter—out of sync.
If Zhang Muyan had been terminally ill, then why had he returned to teach with flawless phonetic alignment, like a ghost in the system?
Or maybe he wasn’t perfect at all.
Maybe they just couldn’t see it.
Nen An bit her lip.
Questions too hot to contain boiled inside her chest.
That night, she made her decision.
She would find the truth.