Webnovel's Extra: Reincarnated With a Copy Ability-Chapter 120: Limited Transparency

The first thing Dreyden noticed wasn’t the notice.

It was the silence that came after.

Normally, the Triangle’s morning was noise disguised as order—shoes on tile, doors hissing open, the soft chime of interface pings stacking like rain. Even when everyone pretended nothing was happening, the campus always sounded alive.

Today it sounded... careful.

People still walked.

People still talked.

But every conversation stopped half a second too early. Every laugh died like someone remembered the room had ears.

Dreyden stood at the end of the corridor outside the dining hall and watched a pair of Class B students approach a staff checkpoint. They weren’t doing anything wrong. They weren’t carrying contraband. They weren’t grouping up.

They just... hesitated.

Not because they feared the guard.

Because they feared being seen hesitating.

He felt that in his teeth.

Pressure wasn’t always a weight on your shoulders. Sometimes it was an invisible hand on the back of your neck, guiding where your eyes were allowed to land.

His interface chimed.

Not urgent. Not red. Not blaring.

Administrative clean.

INTEGRITY STABILIZATION PATHWAY — PILOT SESSION

PARTICIPANT: DREYDEN STELLA

TRANSPARENCY LEVEL: LIMITED

He stared at the last line longer than the rest.

Limited.

One word that did a lot of work.

It said: We heard you.

And then: No.

A group of students passed behind him, pretending not to look. They still looked. Dreyden could feel it the same way you could feel someone staring at your back.

He exhaled once, slow, and closed the notice.

Then opened it again.

Same phrasing. Same formatting. No edits. No second message clarifying what "limited" meant.

Which meant Oversight had decided.

And Oversight, when it decided, did not like to be argued with in public.

The dining hall smelled like cheap coffee, fried eggs, and the faint metallic sting of mana residue from a hundred awakened bodies starting their day. It should’ve been comforting. It wasn’t.

Dreyden grabbed a tray, moved through the line, and kept his eyes low. Not submissive. Just uninterested.

It was easier to be underestimated when you looked bored.

He sat alone for three breaths.

Then Lucas slid into the seat across from him without asking.

It wasn’t dramatic. No audience. No posture.

Just a tray placed down, a fork set beside it, and Lucas’ eyes—too steady, too awake.

"You saw it," Lucas said.

Dreyden didn’t pretend. "Limited transparency."

Lucas’ mouth tightened. "That’s them spitting in your face."

"Not quite," Dreyden said, stabbing a piece of egg. "It’s them spitting on the ground and hoping I’m close enough to feel insulted."

Lucas leaned in slightly. "You are insulted."

Dreyden chewed slowly. "Sure."

"That’s not an answer."

"That’s the answer," Dreyden replied, voice even. "The difference is whether I act like they want."

Lucas’ gaze flicked to Dreyden’s uniform tag, then to the ceiling lens above the far wall. He didn’t stare long—Lucas had learned, lately, that staring was an admission.

Zagan’s presence hovered behind Lucas’ eyes like a shadow behind glass. Dreyden didn’t need Eyes of Truth to feel it. He just needed pattern recognition.

Lucas spoke again, quieter.

"Are you going to do the pilot?"

Dreyden didn’t answer immediately.

He watched two Class C students at a table near the wall. One of them laughed too loud, then caught himself. The other one gave him a look that said stop without words. The laugh died. They both looked away from each other like strangers.

The system didn’t have to punish when it could teach you to punish yourself.

"Yes," Dreyden said at last.

Lucas’ shoulders tensed. "On your terms?"

"On their stage," Dreyden corrected.

Lucas’ brows drew together. "That doesn’t make me feel better."

"You keep saying that," Dreyden replied, tone dry. "And you keep showing up anyway."

That got a small, sharp exhale out of Lucas—half laugh, half frustration.

"I’m trying to decide if you’re brave," Lucas muttered, "or stupid."

Dreyden shrugged with one shoulder. "Those are the same thing from far away."

Lucas stared at him, then lowered his voice even more. "What do you want me to do?"

Dreyden looked up.

This was the part Lucas hated most—asking for direction. Not because he couldn’t lead. But because leadership, in the Triangle, always came with a collar.

Dreyden didn’t give him a command.

He gave him a choice.

"Be visible," he said. "Not loyal. Not rebellious. Just... present. Where you would normally be."

Lucas swallowed. "That’s it?"

"That’s enough," Dreyden said.

Lucas sat back slowly, eyes narrowing. "You think they’ll hesitate if I’m there."

"I think," Dreyden replied, "they’ll write a different script if the protagonist is in frame."

Lucas’ jaw clenched at the word.

He hated it when Dreyden said things like that. Not because it was wrong.

Because it made Lucas feel like a character.

And Lucas was already starting to suspect he was.

He stood. "What time is the pilot?"

Dreyden didn’t check. He already knew.

"After second bell," he said. "Low Output Hall. You’ll get a notification."

Lucas paused with his tray in hand. "And if I don’t?"

Dreyden finally met his eyes directly.

"Then they’ll isolate me easier," he said. "And you’ll spend the next month wondering if you could’ve changed it."

Lucas’ throat bobbed once. He didn’t like being manipulated.

But he disliked helplessness more.

He nodded once and walked away.

Dreyden watched him go, then forced himself to finish eating. He didn’t have an appetite.

He ate anyway.

Because if he started skipping basics, his body would be the first thing to betray him.

The Low Output Hall was built like a lie.

From the outside, it looked like a normal training space—polished flooring, reinforced panels, neat racks for equipment. Inside, it was different. The walls were layered with suppression mesh that dulled spikes. The floor had thin luminous gridlines meant to measure movement and energy output.

Everything about it said: we are watching you politely.

Two enforcement personnel stood near the entrance today.

Not staff instructors.

Not professors.

Containment.

Their uniforms weren’t blue. They were black with thin silver piping, like someone had designed them specifically to look unapproachable without looking violent.

Dreyden stepped in and didn’t slow.

One of them spoke, voice flat.

"Dreyden Stella. Confirm identity."

Dreyden held up his student card without comment.

A scanner flickered.

"Pilot participant status confirmed."

He kept walking.

The second unit stepped slightly to the side, not blocking him, just... narrowing the lane.

"Transparency parameters have been set," the unit said. "You will remain within authorized engagement zones."

Dreyden looked at the floor.

A rectangle of pale blue light had been projected near the center of the hall—an "authorized" space, like a child’s playpen.

He glanced back up. "And outside that?"

The unit’s visor reflected his face without showing its own.

"Temporary relocation," it said.

Dreyden nodded like he accepted it.

Then he walked to the center of the rectangle and stood still.

For five seconds, nothing happened.

A tablet chimed.

Somewhere above, a lens rotated.

Dreyden didn’t move.

The first instructor entered then—Professor Leon, the one who had always smiled too easily, like friendliness was a tool.

Behind him came two administrative faculty members Dreyden didn’t recognize personally, but recognized in type: clean uniforms, clean haircuts, eyes that didn’t drift.

They weren’t here to teach.

They were here to record.

Leon clapped his hands lightly, like he was about to announce a fun exercise.

"Alright," he said. "Today’s pilot session is about alignment under stress. We’ll be testing reaction time, cooperation protocols, and adherence to safety boundaries."

Dreyden kept his expression neutral.

Leon’s eyes flicked to him. "Dreyden, you understand the purpose here, yes?"

Dreyden didn’t give him the satisfaction of sarcasm.

"I understand what you’ll call the purpose," he said.

Leon’s smile held—barely. "Good. That’s... good."

One of the admin faculty stepped forward. A woman this time, early thirties, sharp nose, calm hands.

"Transparency level is limited," she said, as if reading a weather report. "For participant protection and system integrity."

Dreyden tilted his head. "Protection from what?"

The woman blinked once. Not because she was shocked.

Because she didn’t like being asked questions that forced her to speak like a person instead of a policy.

"From misinterpretation," she said.

Dreyden’s mouth twitched. Not a smile. More like a reflex.

"Misinterpretation by who?" he asked.

The woman’s gaze moved briefly—toward Leon, toward the containment personnel, toward the wall lenses.

Then back to him.

"By the student body," she said, voice tightening slightly. "By outside stakeholders."

Dreyden nodded slowly, like he was considering it seriously.

Then he said, "So you’re limiting transparency to prevent people from seeing what’s happening."

Leon opened his mouth, but the woman spoke first, faster now.

"We are limiting access to raw metrics. There will be summaries."

"Summaries written by you," Dreyden replied.

The woman didn’t deny it.

Silence sat in the hall like dust.

Then a voice came from the entrance.

"Hey."

Lucas.

He walked in wearing a casual training uniform instead of his usual polished look, like he’d made a deliberate effort to appear ordinary.

It didn’t work.

The room responded to him the way metal responds to magnetism—subtle shift, tiny reorientation.

Leon’s smile returned fully. "Lucas Væresberg. You’re not scheduled for this pilot."

Lucas stopped beside the entrance line and looked around as if he was just curious.

"I’m here to observe," he said.

The admin woman frowned. "Observation access is restricted."

Lucas’s eyes narrowed. "I’m ranked."

The phrase landed like a coin dropped into a quiet cup.

Ranked.

Not as a threat.

As a lever.

Leon’s gaze flicked to the containment personnel. One of them tapped their wrist interface once—silent request.

Lucas didn’t move. He didn’t posture. He just waited, hands loose at his sides.

Dreyden watched all of it and felt something unpleasantly satisfied inside his chest.

Not because Lucas was useful.

Because Oversight was now being forced to decide in front of multiple audiences.

The admin woman took a breath. "Observation will be permitted from the boundary line only. No recording."

Lucas lifted his hands slightly. "Fine."

He took one step to the side and leaned against the wall like he was bored.

Dreyden glanced at him once.

Lucas met his eyes and gave the smallest nod.

Present.

As requested. 𝑓𝓇𝘦ℯ𝘸𝘦𝑏𝓃𝑜𝘷ℯ𝑙.𝑐𝑜𝓂

Leon cleared his throat, visibly relieved to regain the "lesson" shape of the room.

"Alright," he said briskly. "We begin with a simple stress simulation. Dreyden will face a set of holographic opponents. Non-lethal output. No skills above level six."

Dreyden raised an eyebrow. "And who enforces that? You?"

Leon hesitated just long enough to be noticed.

"...The system," he said.

Dreyden nodded and stepped forward.

The floor grid brightened. A projector hummed.

Three human-shaped figures flickered into existence—grey silhouettes with simplified weapons.

Dreyden didn’t summon his brass knuckles.

He didn’t want "weapon advantage" as an excuse in the report.

He rolled his shoulders once, loosened his fingers, and let his breathing settle.

The first silhouette lunged with a short blade.

Dreyden moved.

Not flashy. Not heroic.

Efficient.

He slipped sideways, caught the wrist, rotated the arm and pinned the figure’s elbow—then drove a palm strike into its throat.

The figure shattered into light.

Second silhouette came in with a baton swing.

Dreyden ducked, stepped inside the arc, and slammed an elbow into the ribs. The silhouette glitched.

He grabbed its head and shoved it into the floor.

It dispersed.

Third silhouette kept distance, raised a pistol-like construct.

Dreyden’s body tensed.

This was where most people panicked—the moment ranged pressure entered, because range made you feel hunted.

He didn’t panic.

He stepped diagonally, using the gridline intersections as timing cues, then sprinted hard for two steps, then stopped.

The shot fired where he would’ve been.

Then he surged forward again, closing in the half-beat after the shot.

He struck the gun arm once, snapped it aside, and drove a knee into the silhouette’s center.

It vanished.

The hall went quiet.

Not amazed quiet.

Evaluating quiet.

Leon clapped once. Too quick. Too performative.

"Good," he said. "Now we test cooperative alignment. We’ll introduce two partners."

Dreyden felt a faint chill.

Partners meant variables.

Variables meant narrative risk.

Two students walked in from the side door, escorted.

Class B.

One of them looked like he wanted to throw up. The other looked like he’d already decided he hated Dreyden.

Dreyden recognized them. Not by name.

By type.

The first was the kind Oversight could punish and claim it was "consequence." The second was the kind Oversight could recruit and claim it was "leadership."

Leon gestured. "You’ll execute a coordinated objective. Simple. Retrieve the marker from the far end of the hall and return. If you cross boundaries, the system will log it."

Dreyden looked down at the glowing rectangle again.

"Limited transparency," he murmured to himself.

Then he spoke louder. "What are their names?"

Leon blinked, thrown off. "That’s not necessary."

"It is if you want alignment," Dreyden said. "People coordinate better when they’re not treated like props."

A beat.

Leon gave in, slightly stiff. "Kellan. Sora."

Kellan was the anxious one.

Sora was the angry one.

Dreyden turned toward them. "I’m Dreyden."

Kellan swallowed. "I... I know."

Sora didn’t respond.

Dreyden nodded anyway. He didn’t demand respect. Demanding respect was how you created a fight when you needed a plan.

Leon raised his hand. "Begin."

A timer appeared on the wall.

The far end of the hall lit up with a small red marker on a pedestal.

And the "authorized engagement zone" rectangle shrank—subtly, almost invisibly, but Dreyden noticed because he was watching the floor like it was a battlefield.

Oversight was tightening the leash mid-test.

Limited.

He stepped forward carefully, then stopped and held up a hand.

"Wait," he said.

Leon frowned. "Why are you stopping?"

Dreyden pointed down. "Your boundary shifted."

The admin woman’s eyes darted to her tablet.

Leon’s smile thinned. "It’s within acceptable calibration."

"It moved," Dreyden repeated.

Kellan looked down like he’d been slapped. "Is that... normal?"

Sora snorted. "Of course it is. This place—"

Dreyden cut him off, calm. "We do it anyway."

Sora blinked. "Do what?"

Dreyden looked at both of them. "We retrieve the marker. We return. We don’t argue the rules mid-run."

Kellan hesitated. "But—"

"We’ll argue afterward," Dreyden said, voice quiet but firm. "Right now, we move."

He started walking.

Not running first.

Walking.

Because walking made the system impatient.

Running made you look like you were trying to prove something.

Kellan followed a half-second later.

Sora followed last, shoulders tight.

They approached the boundary line.

Dreyden stepped over it.

A soft chime.

Not alarm. Not warning.

Just a log.

Kellan flinched like he’d heard a gunshot.

Sora’s eyes widened. "You just—"

Dreyden didn’t stop. "They logged it. Good."

"Good?" Kellan whispered, panicked.

"Good," Dreyden repeated, because the word mattered. "Now we have a timestamp."

He reached the pedestal, grabbed the marker, and turned back.

Two new holographic opponents flickered into existence—not three this time.

One between them and the exit.

One behind them.

Containment.

The system was trying to funnel their movement.

Dreyden didn’t fight immediately.

He tossed the marker to Kellan without looking.

Kellan almost dropped it, fumbling like a kid with a hot dish.

"Hold it," Dreyden said. "Run when I tell you."

Sora stared. "You’re ordering us now?"

Dreyden glanced at him. "You want to be the leader?"

Sora’s mouth opened... then shut.

No.

He didn’t. Not really.

He wanted to refuse someone else’s authority. He didn’t want the responsibility of having his own.

Dreyden faced the silhouette between them and the exit.

It lunged.

Dreyden let it come.

He took the first hit on his forearm on purpose—just a tap from the baton—enough for the system to register contact.

Then he stepped in and ripped the silhouette’s weapon arm down and across, using the momentum to throw it into the floor.

It shattered.

He turned to the second silhouette behind them and raised a hand.

"Now," he said.

Kellan sprinted.

Sora hesitated for exactly one heartbeat—then ran too.

Dreyden moved last, not chasing, not rushing.

He timed his pace to the floor grid and the silhouette’s reach.

When it lunged, he pivoted, let it overextend, and struck once—hard, clean—into its center.

The figure dispersed.

They reached the boundary line.

Kellan crossed first.

Chime.

Sora crossed second.

Chime.

Dreyden crossed last.

Chime.

Three logs.

Three timestamps.

Three "minor violations."

And then they returned the marker to Leon.

The timer stopped.

Leon stared at the tablet the admin woman was holding, then looked up with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

"Excellent," he said. "You completed the objective under stress."

Kellan was breathing hard, face pale.

Sora looked furious—mostly at himself.

Dreyden wiped his hands on his pants like he’d just done a normal drill.

Leon turned toward the wall lens, like he was speaking to an invisible audience.

"This is exactly what stability looks like—"

Dreyden spoke over him.

"No."

Leon blinked. "Excuse me?"

Dreyden pointed at the floor boundary. "You moved the zone mid-test."

The admin woman’s jaw tightened.

Leon forced a laugh. "Dynamic boundaries simulate real combat environments."

"Then call it that," Dreyden said.

Leon’s smile faltered. "We did."

"No," Dreyden repeated. "You called it alignment. You called it voluntary. You called it stabilization."

His voice stayed calm, but the room felt colder.

"You changed the rules and recorded compliance as character."

Leon’s eyes flicked—toward Lucas at the wall.

Lucas didn’t move.

He just watched.

Present.

Dreyden looked at Kellan and Sora.

Then back to Leon.

"You want stability?" Dreyden said. "Then don’t train people to fear the floor more than the enemy."

The hall went silent again.

Leon’s face reddened slightly. "This session is not a debate."

Dreyden nodded once. "That’s the problem."

He turned to Kellan and Sora. "You did fine."

Kellan blinked, like he didn’t believe praise was allowed.

Sora scoffed, but the anger in his eyes dulled by a fraction.

Dreyden stepped back into the "authorized" rectangle and waited.

He didn’t leave early.

He didn’t storm out.

Because leaving would let them write the ending.

He stood still and forced the system to end the scene on its own.

After a long beat, the admin woman spoke, voice clipped.

"Pilot session concluded."

Dreyden nodded once.

Lucas pushed off the wall, walking toward him.

As they passed each other, Lucas leaned in just enough that no one else would hear.

"They logged you three times," Lucas murmured.

Dreyden’s mouth barely moved.

"Good," he replied.

Lucas frowned. "How is that good?"

Dreyden looked back at the floor boundary one last time.

"Because ’limited transparency’," he said softly, "doesn’t mean nothing happened. It means they get to choose what people see."

Lucas swallowed.

"And you’re going to change that."

Dreyden’s eyes stayed calm.

"No," he replied.

"I’m going to make them explain it."

He walked out of the Low Output Hall like it was just another class.

But inside his chest, something had shifted.

Not fear.

Not excitement.

A decision hardening.

Because now Oversight had done what it always did when threatened:

It tried to turn him into an example.

And in the process—

It left fingerprints.