CHAPTER 297: THE LAW BETWEEN THE LINES

The silence after Alexis’s question stretched—not awkward, not heavy. Just... deep.

Like standing on the edge of something massive.

"What do you think are the origins of the System?" she had asked.

And I didn’t know how to answer.

So I didn’t.

She didn’t seem to mind. Alexis leaned back in her chair, fingers steepled beneath her chin, glasses still fogged, though she didn’t seem to notice anymore. The light from her monitors framed her like a surgeon prepping for an operation—cold, precise, focused.

"There are historians," she said quietly, "who have dedicated their entire lives trying to answer that question. To understand where the System came from, how it began. The earliest written records we have link it to Mesopotamia. Back then, jobs weren’t digital or assigned through evaluation centers—they were roles. Hunter. Farmer. Priest. Midwife. That sort of thing."

I nodded. That much I knew. Everyone who went through school learned the basics. But the way Alexis spoke—it wasn’t recitation. It was personal.

She tapped a hologram beside her, bringing up a timeline etched with red flags. "Around that time, something started being recorded in drawings and symbols. Personal strength being tied to roles. Sudden bursts of ability. There are scrolls that describe individuals being able to dig better, run without getting tired, think clearer—depending on what ’role’ they embodied."

"Sounds like the earliest traces of System integration," I said.

"Exactly," she replied. "Which is why I doubt this thing is digital or artificial in origin. Mesopotamians didn’t have code, Rey. They had reeds and clay."

I raised a brow. "And yet here we are."

"Right. And that’s where it gets strange." Her tone sharpened, voice gaining momentum. "There’s a second theory. One that started surfacing during the last century, mostly from biologists and neurologists. That genetics play a role."

I tilted my head. "In how the System assigns jobs?"

"Yes, but also in how it’s accessed. There’s enough data to suggest a trend. High-level individuals tend to give birth to high-level children. Not always, but often enough to raise questions."

"Sounds... logical," I said. "But also not conclusive."

"Exactly," she snapped her fingers. "Because there are just as many cases where it doesn’t hold. A child born to a pair of B-Rank Specialists ends up with a low-tier cashier job. Meanwhile, a factory line worker’s daughter becomes an A-Rank Strategist overnight. So the genetic argument falls apart under large-scale analysis."

I rubbed the back of my neck. "So we have one group saying it’s ancient. One saying it’s biological. Both wrong and right in different ways."

"And that’s why I’m not convinced it’s AI. It behaves like one sometimes—responds to queries, follows protocols, adapts—but the deeper you dig, the more organic it feels. And that delay you told me about?" She turned toward her notebook, flipping to a page filled with dense glyphs and chemical symbols. "That’s not just code catching up. That’s a behavior. A decision."

I hesitated, then asked, "What about that vial you made for me? The one that stopped the overheating. It’s ingredients probably have something to do with the System since it prevented it from killing me."

Alexis smiled faintly. "Did I ever tell you what it was made of?"

"Nope. You just have me a black and sticky liquid to drink."

"Bitumen."

I blinked. "Bitumen? Like... the asphalt stuff?"

She nodded. "A naturally occurring hydrocarbon. Thick, sticky, black. Found in ancient Mesopotamian construction. Used to waterproof structures, seal boats, even embalm the dead."

I stared. "You made me drink oil."

"There were other components," she said, rolling her eyes. "It wasn’t just straight-up tar. But the bitumen was key. It acted as a stabilizing base. Something ancient enough to resonate with the System’s roots, but malleable enough to bond with your unique cell structure."

"That doesn’t make it better."

She smirked. "But it worked."

I sighed. "So what—you’re saying the System responds to historical materials?"

"I’m saying," she said carefully, "that the System seems to have responded to Bitumen, a material that was present around the time of it’s discovery."

That made me pause.

Was the System some cold machine handing out jobs and skills based on stats alone? But it was responding to more than just numbers.

"Think about it," she continued, now standing again, pacing with a growing fire in her voice. "The System links to our minds. It grants skills based on roles. Usually, people cannot be physically enhanced by it only mentally. Unless they have a job title from what I’ve seen."

"Because there is a separate ’role’ that allows physical enhancements I.E job titles."

"Yes!" Her fist tapped the table. "And then you add in anomalies—like people awakening jobs out of nowhere, or certain talents triggering rare skillsets—and it becomes clear the System doesn’t just assign based on need. It responds to intention."

I crossed my arms. "That’s what the government was trying to force, wasn’t it? Back in the lab. When we were strapped to those machines."

Her eyes darkened. "Yeah. The helmet they used—it triggered specific zones of the brain. Mixed with chemical injections. Sensory deprivation. All of it was designed to simulate purpose. To make the System respond."

"And it did."

"To some of us." She met my eyes. "The rest... didn’t survive."

Silence fell again.

This time it wasn’t deep.

It was heavy.

I let it sit. Let it pass.

Then: "So what does it all lead to, Alexis? Where are you going with this?"

She took a breath, eyes distant, then walked back toward her desk and sat down.

"This is a personal theory, but I think," she said slowly, "that the System has always existed. Not as an invention. Not as a tool. But as a law."

"A law?"

"Like gravity. Or thermodynamics. Something fundamental to the universe. An invisible framework that only became visible once humans evolved enough to perceive it. Once we created structure. Purpose. Jobs."

She tapped her temple.

"And the only way to perceive it... is through our brain."

I stared at her, pulse quiet.

"So when we see the System," I murmured, "we’re seeing it in the only way we can process it."

She nodded. "Some see windows. Some receive notification that are sentences. Some feel pressure. Some don’t even get updates when their skill or job level up. It adapts to your perception—but it’s the same law underneath."

"And now... it’s being bent?"

"Exactly." She leaned forward. "Just like gravity warps near a black hole. I think we’re reaching a point where the System is being warped by the outliers. The Job Titles. The anomalies. It’s being stretched—maybe even learning from us."

I looked down at my hands.

Potentially unlimited jobs. Copy. Full Sync. Title. Rewards.

Yeah. I was definitely an outlier.

"And you think it’s conscious?" I asked.

She hesitated.

Then: "To a degree. But not like a mind. More like... a response function. A reflex. It acts like a neural net with a will. But only within the bounds of its structure."

I stood in silence.

Took it all in.

Every word.

Every possibility.

None of it felt provable.

It simply felt right to some degree.

The room fell quiet again, and Alexis finally exhaled.

"But," she added lightly, "that’s just my theory. Don’t take it as objective truth."

I barked a soft laugh. "Could’ve started with that."

She gave me a tired smile, brushing fog from her glasses. "You needed the full context."

"Yeah," I said, stepping back toward the door. "I guess I did."

"Let me know if the System starts talking to you."

I raised a brow. "Like... with a mouth?"

She shrugged. "You never know."

I opened the door. "Thanks, Alexis."

She didn’t reply.

Just turned back to her desk, already scribbling.

The hallway was quiet again.

Still warm. Still bright.

And yet my thoughts felt cold. Heavy.

What if she was right?

What if the System wasn’t a program or invention—but a rule? A fundamental force?

And what if I was one of the exceptions that were slowly pushing this law to the brink?

I walked for a bit, thoughts spiraling—before stopping.

In front of Camille’s door.

I blinked.

When had I gotten here?

Didn’t matter.

I raised my knuckles.

Knocked once.

"What is it?" came Camille’s voice, muffled and annoyed.

I took a breath.

Then smiled faintly.

"Just checking in."