April 3, 2103 — 2:25 pm Imperial Standard Time
Falconry Institute — Inner Campus Grounds
The afternoon sun fractured against the crystal lattice overhead, scattering controlled bands of light across the white stone pathways of the Falcon Institute.
Everything inside the campus was engineered.
Even sunlight.
The newly accepted applicants were funneled through the central gates in organized waves, forced into narrow channels bordered by black alloy railings and scanning pillars that hummed with soft mechanical life. Overhead, massive holographic banners rotated slowly through the air.
WELCOME TO THE IMPERIAL FALCONRY INSTITUTE.
ALL BEGIN UNEQUAL.
ALL ARE JUDGED EQUALLY.
The slogan lingered above the crowd like a threat.
Rows of upperclassmen waited beyond the gates.
Student Council.
Their uniforms were immaculate—dark coats untouched by wrinkles, silver insignias polished to a mirror sheen. Most of them stood with the same rigid posture as Imperial officers, their ocular implants glowing faintly beneath their eyes as they processed the incoming freshmen.
One by one, students were stopped.
Scanned.
Sorted.
"Next," a senior proctor called.
Ichiro, Akira, and Mitsui stepped forward together.
The proctor barely looked up.
His eyes flashed blue once.
Then again.
Thin scanning lines swept across their faces.
"Verification complete," he said mechanically. "Synchronizing Falcon Point Index and lineage allocation."
Behind him, several automated fabrication units activated with sharp hydraulic hisses.
The machines began printing uniforms.
"Mitsui Arakawa," the proctor read.
There was a subtle shift in his tone.
Not respect.
Conditioning.
"Tier One Crest."
An assistant immediately stepped forward carrying a premium black garment case.
Mitsui accepted it with an easy smile.
"Wow," he said lightly. "They even tailor the favoritism into the uniform itself. Falcon really doesn't waste time."
The assistant looked deeply uncomfortable.
Akira covered the corner of her mouth slightly, hiding what might have been the beginning of a smile.
The next uniform emerged.
"Akira Hayashi. Tier One Crest."
Another premium case.
Another double-breasted coat.
The Falcon crest stitched into the breast shimmered faintly beneath the plaza lights.
Unlike Mitsui's, the uniform inside carried subtle feminine tailoring beneath the severe Falcon aesthetic—a fitted double-breasted academy coat layered over a structured black skirt, reinforced leggings, and ceremonial silver lining woven discreetly along the inner seams.
Akira accepted it quietly.
Her fingers tightened slightly around the handle.
Then, after a brief pause, she looked toward the proctor.
"Am I permitted to request modifications?"
The proctor glanced up.
"Specify."
"I would prefer to continue wearing my kimono," Akira said calmly. "It is part of my family's formal identity."
A few nearby students immediately looked over.
The proctor's eyes flickered blue again as he accessed another policy layer.
"Tier One Crest students are permitted to submit personalized uniform requests for evaluation," he replied mechanically. "Traditional integration is allowed under institutional review provided combat functionality and academy symbolism remain compliant."
A short pause.
"Your kimono may be incorporated into the academy uniform if approved by the administrative board."
Akira gave a small nod.
"Understood. Thank you."
Then the proctor looked toward Ichiro.
The pause lasted less than a second.
But it existed.
The blue scan hovering over Ichiro's face flickered once before stabilizing.
"Ichiro Yoshima," the proctor said.
His voice lost whatever professionalism it previously carried.
"Tier Four Lineage."
The fabrication unit released a different garment.
No premium casing.
No gold trim.
A standard black three-piece academy suit descended from the machine in sterile plastic wrapping.
Still expensive.
Still perfectly tailored.
But noticeably inferior.
And stitched into the shoulder was a clean white insignia.
FEATHER IV.
The label stood out violently against the dark fabric.
The surrounding students noticed immediately.
Whispers spread.
"Feather class?"
"No way."
"Then why was he in the special interviews?"
The proctor held the garment toward Ichiro without warmth.
"Your insignia is mandatory while on academy grounds," he said. "Removal or concealment will result in disciplinary action."
"Changing rooms are located through the adjacent corridor," another administrator added. "All incoming students are required to wear their assigned uniforms before proceeding into the academy proper."
Ichiro took the uniform.
No reaction.
No irritation.
Like being marked was something he had already expected.
Mitsui glanced sideways toward the white insignia.
"Subtle," he muttered.
Ichiro ignored him.
—
By the time they entered the Obsidian Plaza, the segregation had already begun.
All of the new students filled the massive courtyard beneath the suspended holographic towers.
The Crest students naturally gathered together.
Their coats stood out immediately—double-breasted silhouettes, embroidered collars, gold-thread insignias.
Everyone else orbited around them.
The Falcon Institute claimed merit ruled above all else.
The first thing it did was separate students by blood.
Recruitment booths lined both sides of the plaza.
Combat Houses.
Political factions.
Specialized tactical clubs.
Corporate-backed syndicates.
Upperclassmen aggressively intercepted freshmen before they could even orient themselves.
"Blue Track! Looking for Blue Track applicants!"
"Logistics division accepting analyst candidates!"
"Red Track over here! Priority combat recommendations available!"
A second-year girl suddenly stepped into Ichiro's path.
She walked backward smoothly, completely confident in herself.
"Hey, freshman," she said quickly. "You Agent Track?"
Ichiro stopped.
The girl barely noticed the warning signs immediately radiating from him.
Her three-piece uniform carried silver shoulder accents marking her as part of a mid-level combat House.
A holographic clipboard floated beside her, rapidly displaying student metrics.
"You should seriously think about affiliation before the weekend ends," she continued. "The first-years who stay independent usually get eaten alive."
No response.
She kept going anyway.
"Every House here specializes in something different. Urban suppression. Counter-intelligence. Black operations. Heavy assault. Political engineering. Doesn't matter how talented you are—if you don't have backing, the upper years will strip you for points the second Point Piracy activates."
Still nothing.
Ichiro simply stared at her.
Calm.
Unreadable.
The girl finally laughed awkwardly.
"Right. Quiet type. Got it."
She blinked once, activating her ocular link.
"Let's at least see your profile."
A blue scan flickered across Ichiro.
Then the color changed.
Amber.
The girl's expression froze.
Her holographic clipboard nearly slipped from her hand.
FPI: 1,420
For a moment she simply stared.
Then her eyes widened.
"...What?"
The words escaped before she could stop them.
Her gaze snapped back toward Ichiro.
Then downward again.
LINEAGE ASSESSMENT: TIER FOUR // COUNTER-SYSTEMIC BACKGROUND
The contradiction visibly broke her composure.
A Tier Four with an FPI that high shouldn't exist.
The girl looked around instinctively, suddenly aware of how dangerous this conversation had become.
When she spoke again, her voice had lowered.
"You're one of the top scorers..."
Ichiro said nothing.
"No," she corrected herself quietly, eyes fixed on the number.
"You're the top scorer."
Nearby students began noticing.
A few upperclassmen turned.
The atmosphere shifted almost immediately.
Interest.
Calculation.
Predatory curiosity.
The recruiter girl stepped closer.
"Listen carefully," she said. "Your badge says Feather class, which means the system officially treats you like a low-born provisional cadet. Lower housing district. Standard privileges. Standard protections."
Her eyes flicked upward toward the hidden halo data.
"But your FPI overrides half the restrictions automatically."
That finally earned a response.
"Meaning?" Ichiro asked.
His voice was low.
Controlled.
The girl straightened slightly.
"Meaning the system doesn't know what to do with you."
She pointed toward the upper sectors of the plaza.
"Your merit score grants you Crest-level permissions despite your lineage tier. You can access restricted training zones. Advanced requisitions. High-level combat archives. Even upper campus sectors."
Mitsui raised a brow.
"So Falcon accidentally created a loophole."
"Not accidentally," Akira said quietly.
The recruiter looked toward her.
Akira's eyes remained on Ichiro.
"It's intentional," she said. "The Institute wants conflict."
Silence followed.
Because everyone there immediately understood she was right.
The Falcon Institute wasn't correcting inequality.
It was weaponizing it.
The recruiter exhaled slowly.
"By Monday morning," she said, "everyone on campus is going to know your score."
Her eyes drifted toward the white FEATHER IV insignia.
"The elites will hate you for embarrassing them. The lower classes will target you because stealing your points could change their lives overnight."
Another pause.
"You're basically carrying a bounty on your back."
Ichiro adjusted the collar of his coat.
No fear.
No frustration.
Just quiet acceptance.
Then he spoke.
"If they want it," he said calmly,
"they can come take it themselves."