Year 363, Fifth Month, Seventh Day.


    Evargarde, Outer City.


    The world reeked of copper and decay.


    He woke with a violent cough, the taste of dust and something metallic coating his tongue. His body ached as though he''d been wrung dry, and the cold stone floor beneath him pressed like ice against his skin. He squinted into the dim, flickering glow of candlelight. Shadows danced across the walls, revealing grotesque shapes etched in dried blood.


    Above him, something lingered—something not entirely here. A twisted, emaciated figure loomed at the edges of reality, its many-jointed limbs contorting unnaturally as it reached for him. Its form bled in and out of existence, as though it straddled the boundary between two worlds, caught in the dying remnants of a ritual gone wrong. The air around it bent and twisted, a silent scream pressing against the fabric of reality.


    Its fingers—long, skeletal, ending in ink-black claws—hovered inches from his face. The space between them shimmered like a heat mirage, and in that moment, he felt something brush against his mind. A presence. Cold. Alien. Starving.


    Then, the being lurched forward, its form flickering violently as if resisting an unseen force. It clawed at the space between them, its eyeless face stretching, twisting—desperate. The symbols on the ground pulsed, their glow intensifying, forcing the entity back.


    A ragged, inhuman shriek tore through the air, yet no sound met his ears—only a pressure, like something screaming directly into his skull. The creature''s body fractured, breaking apart piece by piece, limbs dissolving into ink-black mist, dragged away by an unseen current. It fought, convulsed, reached—until only its fingers remained, trembling, scraping at the edge of reality.


    Then—with one final, shuddering lurch, it was expelled.


    The silence that followed was almost worse.


    What... was that?


    Silas lay frozen, his breath ragged, heart pounding against his ribs. His eyes darted across the room, half-expecting the thing to return, to reform from the shadows and finish whatever it had started. But the space above him was empty—only dust and the remnants of the ritual remained.


    His mind reeled. That thing—it had tried to reach him. To cling to him. Was it trying to take something from him, or had it wanted to give him something? The thought sent a sickening chill through his bones.


    No. No, this isn’t real. I must be hallucinating.


    But the symbols. The stench of blood. The way reality had bent and twisted around the creature. It had felt too real.


    A new, more terrifying thought crawled up his spine.


    What if it wasn’t trying to reach me?


    What if it was trying to escape?


    A shudder passed through him, but panic allowed him no time to linger.


    He was lying in the center of a ritualistic diagram—intricate symbols drawn with precision, surrounded by the severed limbs of small animals. The air was thick with the stench of death and burning tallow. His breath quickened as panic clawed at his chest.


    Where am I? The thought cracked through the haze of his mind. He pressed a trembling hand to his forehead—and then came the pain.


    A sharp, searing agony exploded behind his eyes. Memories flooded his mind, crashing into him like a collapsing dam. His name: Silas Crowell. Sixteen years old. An orphan. Parents gone, dead for reasons he could never uncover. The struggle of survival in Evergarde''s Outer City. Days spent as a runner for The Cogwheel Gazette, exploited by a boss who saw him as cheap labor. Nights spent nursing a forbidden dream—to become an explorer, one of the mystical wanderers who ventured beyond the walls into the Fallen Lands.


    And then came the most recent memory: crouching in an alley, watching from the shadows as the hooded figures of a cult faced the armored Nightwatch. A clash of whispered incantations and crackling rifles. The ground trembled as something shifted in the fog. And then—


    The page.


    His hand shot to his coat pocket. His fingers found the brittle, crumpled scrap of parchment. He pulled it out, unfolding it beneath the candlelight. Lines of ancient script twisted across the page, along with a sketch of the very diagram he had awoken in. The ink shimmered unnaturally in the dimness.


    What have I done? Panic surged again. The original Silas had taken the page to study it, hoping to unlock powers whispered about in the city''s darkest corners. He never intended to pay for that curiosity with his life.


    A sharp knock shattered the silence.


    He froze. The sound came from the basement door at the top of the stairs.


    The Nightwatch. His heart raced. They must have tracked the ritual. His eyes darted to the blood-streaked floor. I need to erase it.


    He scrambled to the nearest candle and tipped it, spilling wax over the symbols. The blood resisted, the lines refusing to blur as though seared into the stone. The knocking came again—louder this time.


    Silas''s hands trembled. He smeared the diagram with his sleeve, the fabric soaking in crimson streaks. The third knock came with the force of a fist.


    Think. Think! He forced himself to his feet, every muscle protesting. He wiped his bloodied hands on his trousers and staggered toward the door.


    The handle rattled.


    He inhaled, steadied his voice, and opened it.


    A girl stood there, back lit by the dim, grayish glow from the street. Dark curls framed her pale face, cascading down in unruly waves that caught the faint shimmer of lantern light. Her brown eyes, wide and alert, reflected a curiosity laced with caution. A small scar curved along her left eyebrow, a faint mark from a childhood fall. Freckles dotted her nose, softened by the cool, mist-laden air. She wore a faded wool shawl draped tightly around her shoulders, the fabric worn thin from years of use. The faint scent of lavender clung to her—a rare touch of warmth in the otherwise cold, metallic air. Her lips parted slightly as though she were about to speak, but uncertainty held her back.


    "Clara," he whispered, exhaling a breath he hadn''t realized he''d been holding..


    She tilted her head, brows furrowed. "You look like you''ve seen a ghost."


    He forced a laugh that sounded hollow in his own ears. "Just...fell asleep down here. Got spooked."


    Her gaze shifted past him to the dim basement. "It smells weird."


    "Yeah," he said quickly. "Mold. Lots of damp." He shifted his stance to block her view. "What''s that?"


    She held up a chipped ceramic plate covered with a cloth. "My mum sent this. Said you''re always skipping meals."


    The aroma of roasted turnips and stale bread wafted toward him. His stomach growled. "Thanks," he said, taking the plate with one hand and gripping the door frame with the other to hide his unsteady legs. "Tell her I appreciate it."


    Clara hesitated. "You sure you''re okay?"


    "Yeah. Just tired." He forced a smile. "I''ll be fine."


    She studied him, unconvinced. "You never were a good liar, Silas."


    His fingers tightened around the plate, but he kept his face neutral. "And you never knew when to drop something."


    She sighed, adjusting the shawl around her shoulders. "Fine. Keep your secrets. But if you pass out somewhere, don’t expect me to drag you home."


    A ghost of a smirk tugged at his lips. "Wouldn’t dream of it."


    "Good." She turned, but before stepping away, she added, "Just... don’t do anything stupid."


    She gave him one last, uncertain look before turning away, her footsteps fading into the fog. Outside, the night lay shrouded in thick fog, with streetlights reduced to faint, flickering halos struggling to pierce the gloom. Clara lived next door, and Silas stood motionless, listening intently until he heard the soft thud of the adjacent door closing.


    Only then did he shut his own door, pressing his forehead against the cold, weathered wood. His heart drummed against his ribs like a war drum, each beat a reminder of the danger he had narrowly escaped. With a shaky breath, he turned and descended the creaking steps to the basement.


    The ritual site awaited him, unchanged yet oppressive.


    Silas swallowed hard, his breath uneven. A dull throb pulsed at the base of his skull, spreading in slow, nauseating waves. His limbs felt wrong—too light yet sluggish, as if they no longer fully belonged to him. He rubbed his temples, wincing at the way his fingers trembled. He wasn’t just dizzy or disoriented. He felt different. As though he’d been torn from one world and stitched into another, the seams barely holding.


    He exhaled sharply and forced himself to focus. The air in the room was thick, heavy with the lingering scent of blood and burnt tallow. It clawed at his throat, turning each breath into a struggle. His stomach twisted, but he swallowed down the rising nausea. He had no time to be sick.


    He needed to erase every trace.


    Dropping to his knees, he reached for a melted candle, its wax hardened into misshapen lumps over some of the symbols. He peeled away a piece, but the lines beneath remained vivid, as if they had been carved into the stone itself rather than drawn. His heartbeat quickened. That wasn’t normal. That wasn’t right.


    His fingers curled into a fist. He found a rag and pressed it against the symbols, scrubbing harder. The dried blood flaked away in patches, staining his fingertips a sickly rust-red, yet faint impressions still lingered beneath. His breathing grew shallow. The sigils refused to fade completely, no matter how much force he used.


    A shiver ran through him, his skin prickling as if unseen eyes were watching. The back of his neck tightened, the phantom sensation of something cold brushing against his spine. He clenched his jaw and forced his hands to keep moving, though the effort made his muscles ache.


    He had to finish.


    Had to erase it all.


    Had to pretend none of this had ever happened.


    As he worked, fragments of memory floated through his mind—images of Evergarde''s sprawling, fog-choked streets. The city was a fortress against the cursed Fallen Lands, divided by towering walls into two distinct worlds. The Inner City was a realm of marble towers and polished brass, home to nobles and scholars who never knew hunger. The Outer City, where he lived, was a maze of narrow alleys, crowded tenements, and smoke-belching factories. Here, soot clung to skin like a second layer.


    Beyond the towering walls stretched the Fallen Lands—an endless, forsaken wilderness shrouded in eternal mist. The air there was said to be thick with corruption, where twisted, ravenous creatures prowled without rest. Few dared to venture into that cursed expanse, and fewer still lived to tell the tale.


    The original Silas had come across fleeting mentions of other cities hidden somewhere within the fog—distant, shadowy enclaves lost to time. But those were just rumors, faint whispers buried beneath layers of uncertainty and fear. Nothing more.


    The candlelight dimmed as his mind drifted. His old world had been nothing like this. He remembered cities bathed in sunlight, glass towers, and glowing screens. How had he come here? The ritual? The parchment page?


    Why me?


    He knelt beside the diagram, tracing its outer edge with one finger. The symbols meant nothing to him, but the metallic tang of blood stirred unease in his gut. But there were no answers here. Only the cold stone and his trembling hands.


    He slumped against the wall. I''ve been given a second chance. His old life was gone, but his memories remained.


    He exhaled slowly. "I''m alive," he whispered. "That''s enough for now."


    Exhausted, Silas trudged toward his bedroom. The wooden stairs groaned beneath his steps, each creak echoing like a weary sigh through the modest home. As he reached the ground floor, he passed the cramped kitchen—a narrow space with a soot-streaked hearth, where a rusted iron kettle rested on a crooked hook. The wooden counter bore knife marks and stains from years of meager meals. A single cupboard, its door slightly ajar, revealed chipped ceramic plates and mismatched utensils. The faint aroma of stale bread and boiled turnips lingered in the cool air.


    His room was tucked beneath the slanted roof, a drafty, dim retreat from the world outside. The walls were warped with damp, the plaster cracked and discolored from constant moisture. A narrow window, smudged with grime, overlooked the alley where the fog coiled like a living thing. Beside his straw-stuffed mattress stood a rickety desk cluttered with ink-stained papers, a chipped lantern, and a dull penknife. In the corner, an old wooden chest sat partially open, revealing threadbare clothes and a pair of worn boots.


    The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    He collapsed onto the mattress, the coarse fabric itching against his skin. The scent of mildew mingled with the faint, metallic tang still clinging to his clothes—a reminder of the ritual and the mystery now entwined with his life. The distant groan of factory gears hummed through the walls.


    Suddenly, he felt something unusual—a pull within himself. A strange, almost instinctive tug at his very being. His breath hitched, and for a moment, the world around him seemed to blur.


    What is this…?


    Opening his eyes, he focused inward, allowing the sensation to guide him. It was as if something deep within was calling out, demanding his attention. The pull grew stronger, and as he surrendered to it, a vision unfolded before him.


    A vast, endless void stretched in all directions, cold and silent, yet strangely calming. Suspended in this emptiness was a single white ball of light, hovering before him like a quiet beacon. His chest tightened at the sight.


    Is this… a part of me?


    He hesitated, then reached out, fingers trembling slightly. The moment he touched the sphere, a thin strand of energy unraveled from it, stretching toward him.


    Then—


    A voice, “Causality”.


    No words. No sound. And yet, meaning flooded into his mind, raw and undeniable. A truth laid bare before him: "Cause and Effect."


    A shiver ran down his spine. This was the essence of the sphere''s power. Four strands twisted together to form it, yet he could feel them fraying, unraveling at the edges, gradually dissipating into nothingness.


    His heartbeat quickened.


    This power... it''s fading?


    A sense of urgency crept into his thoughts. He knew—without understanding how—that this power had been tied to his transmigration. Something left behind. A remnant. But if he didn''t act now, it would be lost forever.


    A breath. A decision.


    He focused, mind racing. How do I keep it? He tried shaping one strand into a vessel, something to contain the rest. It failed. A cold frustration settled over him.


    Think. If I don''t figure this out, it''ll all be gone.


    He considered his options, teeth clenching. What he needed wasn’t blind experimentation—it was understanding.


    Making his choice, he siphoned off about five percent of one strand, directing it toward comprehension. At once, knowledge surged into him, unraveling the nature of the place he was in.


    The Space within his consciousness.


    His breath caught. So, this is what happened...


    The shattering of the original soul—his soul—had resulted in this space. A unique effect, a consequence of his very existence being rewritten. But more than that, this space held something else.


    His own memories. And the memories of the original Silas Crowell.


    A strange emotion stirred within him—something between unease and curiosity. He could feel them, layered within his mind like echoes of another life.


    Pushing the thought aside, he turned his attention back to the strands. His newfound knowledge revealed something even more startling:


    These strands could bypass the cause entirely—jumping straight to the effect.


    Not creation from nothing, but manifestation from a plausible source. In simpler terms this power can create events from a source without any cause. The implications were staggering.


    His pulse quickened.


    If that’s true… then I can use it.


    A plan formed in his mind. He would take a portion of the strand and reinforce his very soul—strengthen and increase it. If he succeeded, he could use the increased part of his soul, create an armor of sorts, a protective shell around his soul that would do far more than just shield him.


    It would keep him intact.


    Even in death. A Soul armor.


    A chill ran through him at the thought, but he didn''t hesitate. With such an armor, he wouldn''t simply cease to exist if his body perished. He would have a failsafe—a last resort.


    I could… take over another body if I had to.


    The idea sat heavy in his mind, but he pushed aside the unease. He wasn’t planning to use it. Not unless there was no other choice.


    Still, a nagging worry lingered.


    Is this safe?


    Caution won over impulse, and he used a small portion of the strand to test the process, watching carefully for any unexpected dangers. When nothing adverse happened, his confidence solidified.


    This will work.


    Ninety percent of the first strand was required to complete it, but he didn’t hesitate any longer.


    The process began.


    A trance-like state overtook him as the effect unfolded. He could feel it—the slow, deliberate weaving of power into his soul, reinforcing it, forming an armor, binding it together. It was like forging armor, layer by layer, around something fragile.


    When it was done, he slowly became aware of himself again.


    Silas exhaled sharply. He felt different.


    More solid. More… present.


    Instinctively, he focused on the armor, testing its integrity, refining its structure with the last remnants of the first strand. He willed it to respond only to him, ensuring no one else could take advantage of it.


    Satisfied, he turned his attention to the second strand.


    Now, a new problem presented itself: The remaining strands are still unstable.


    If he didn’t act, they would eventually dissipate.


    He needed a solution.


    A middleware. The armor surrounding his soul will be the storage.


    His fingers twitched in thought. If he could create an intermediary mechanism within the armor, it could regulate and store the remaining strands, preventing their loss and allowing him to manipulate them as needed.


    The logic felt right.


    Taking seventy-five percent of the second strand, he molded the idea into reality.


    The moment the process was complete, a strange sense of balance settled over him. The strands no longer felt volatile. He could feel them now—contained, controlled.


    A slow smile crossed his lips.


    It had worked.


    Finally, with everything stabilized, he pulled himself out of the consciousness space.


    The next morning, he woke to the pale, muted light filtering through the fog-smeared window. The chill in the air gnawed at his bones, and the events of the previous night lingered in his mind like a shadow. He rubbed his eyes and sat up, the straw mattress crackling beneath him.


    The basement… the ritual… the cult… The thoughts coiled tighter as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. I need to clean it. No mistakes. No traces.


    He stood, stretching his stiff limbs, and shuffled toward the kitchen. The hearth was cold, and the iron kettle sat untouched. He lit the fire with practiced hands, feeding it slivers of kindling until the flames crackled to life. He poured water into the kettle and set it to boil, then tore a stale loaf of bread in half. Spreading a thin layer of butter—rancid at the edges—on the bread, he chewed slowly, his mind already organizing the day ahead.


    First, meet Grint. He’ll want something sensational. Blood always sells. His jaw tightened. Then the cleaning supplies… can’t risk leaving the symbols visible.


    As the water boiled, he steeped a single tea bag, the bitter aroma mixing with the faint scent of damp plaster. He drank quickly, wincing as the scalding liquid burned his throat.


    He returned to his room and dressed in a gray wool shirt, its elbows patched with mismatched fabric. He laced up his worn boots and pulled on his threadbare overcoat—the lining was frayed, but it concealed the parchment safely tucked into the inner pocket. His fingers lingered there, feeling the brittle texture beneath the fabric.


    This page changed everything. I just need more information.


    Standing before the cracked mirror, he adjusted the collar of his coat and stared at his reflection. His eyes were sunken, his skin pale. He exhaled sharply and ran a hand through his hair.


    You’re Silas Crowell. Runner for the Gazette. Just another face in the crowd. Act normal.


    With a final, steadying breath, he left the house, locking the door behind him. The fog outside was thicker than usual, muffling the clang of distant factory bells. His boots tapped against the cobblestones as he walked, the cold air stinging his cheeks.


    The language was strange, its cadence sharp and unfamiliar. Yet, to Silas, it felt instinctively familiar.


    The memories... he realized. The influx of thoughts and recollections from this new life had brought more than just a name. Embedded within were the words, the phrases, the entire linguistic framework of this world. He understood the signs, the conversations, even the subtle inflections that hinted at deception or urgency.


    At least I won’t be lost in translation, he thought, stepping into the mist with cautious confidence.


    Silas combed through his memories. Today was Year 363, Fifth Month, Eighth Day—363 years since the founding of Evergarde.


    The calendar was simple: ten months, each exactly thirty days. But beyond that, history was a void. Almost nothing was known about the time before Evergarde’s founding. There were no schools in the Outer City to teach it, no records easily accessible to common folk. Whatever the original Silas had learned came from his parents, scattered rumors and half-forgotten tavern tales.


    What unsettled him most, however, wasn’t the missing history. It was the world itself.


    There were no seasons. The temperature barely shifted, neither warm nor truly cold. The air always carried a faint dampness, a stillness that never changed.


    Silas tilted his head, gaze drawn upward. A thick, gray fog blanketed the sky, endless and unbroken. No sun. No stars. At night, the moon sometimes appeared—a dim, half-hidden glow, like the faint edge of something vast and unknowable pressing through the mist.


    A thought wormed into his mind. How did food grow without sunlight? How did anything thrive in a world where the very sky was suffocated?


    His fingers twitched. There was no answer. And even if there was, it wouldn’t help him now.


    With a quiet exhale, he pushed the thoughts aside. Survival first. Questions later.


    He focused on what he needed to do.


    Meet Grint. Get the supplies. Study the parchment. One step at a time.


    His hand brushed against the coins in his pocket. Evergarde''s currency consisted of gilds, stamped brass tokens marked with the crest of a crow for ones, a gear for fives, and a tower for tens. He had three crow-gilds, just enough for cleaning supplies if he haggled well.


    He navigated through the mist-choked streets of the Outer City, every detail sharper than he remembered. The cobblestones were slick with soot, the air thick with the acrid tang of burning coal. Factories loomed on either side, their brass chimneys vomiting plumes of steam into the endless fog. Silas''s footsteps echoed against crumbling brick walls adorned with faded posters warning of the dangers of the Fallen Lands.


    The streets were alive with a slow, grinding desperation, an unspoken tension threading through the masses. Men in patched-up suits, the kind that had seen too many years and too few washings, trudged past with collars pulled high against the cold. Their faces bore the hard edges of a life spent on survival—gaunt cheeks, sunken eyes, lips pressed into thin, weary lines. Women in faded, mended dresses huddled together at street corners, speaking in hushed tones, their hands clutching woven baskets filled with scraps of bread and dried fish. The children ran barefoot, darting between wagons, their small frames lost beneath oversized coats pilfered from older siblings.


    A steam-wagon rattled past, its heavy iron wheels groaning against the uneven road. The massive contraption belched white vapor into the cold air, its brass piping hissing with pressure. Perched atop it, a driver wrapped in an oil-stained coat gripped the controls with a practiced grimace, his mustache bristling with condensation. Behind him, a row of well-dressed men—merchants, factory owners, or perhaps bureaucrats—sat stiffly, their expressions severe beneath polished top hats. Their dark coats were pristine, their gloves unsullied by the grime of the streets they passed through, a stark contrast to the laborers watching them with dull-eyed resignation.


    The faint murmur of voices wove through the fog, fragments of conversation drifting past Silas as he walked.


    "Three shifts in a row—how much more can we take?"


    "Nightwatch patrols’ve doubled. Someone’s been stirring trouble."


    "Reckon the noble houses are behind it."


    A black-clad figure loitered near an alley, his sharp gaze flicking toward Silas before melting into the crowd. A beggar with one arm outstretched, his sleeve pinned where the limb should have been, croaked out a plea for coin. Further ahead, two factory men argued over a broken crate of supplies, their voices tight with the kind of frustration that could turn to violence at any moment.


    The Outer City was a beast of industry, its veins clogged with smog and its heart beating to the rhythm of labor and exhaustion. It stank of oil and iron, of lost dreams and crushed ambitions. Silas had seen places like this before—in movies depicting the slums of the Victorian era. Here, nothing had changed. Only the machines were different.


    A cold wind slithered through the streets, carrying the echoes of distant factory bells. Silas pulled his coat tighter and walked on, blending into the city’s endless cycle of toil and survival.


    In the far distance, beyond the tangled maze of rooftops and smoke-stained spires, rose the colossal walls of the Inner City. They loomed like a fortress of privilege, their smooth, pale stone untouched by soot or grime. The walls stood as silent sentinels, overlooking everything below—a constant reminder of the vast divide between the nobles'' world of security and the relentless struggle of the Outer City. Gas lamps flickered along the parapets, casting faint, golden halos through the haze. From here, the spires of the Silvermoon Cathedral pierced the sky like jagged thorns, ever-present, ever-watchful.


    Turning his gaze the other way, Silas saw another wall in the distance—darker, rougher, more foreboding. The Outer Wall, as it was called, marked the end of the city''s domain and the beginning of the unknown. Built from slabs of reinforced ironstone, it stretched endlessly into the fog, crowned with rotating watch lights that sliced through the gloom in slow, mechanical arcs. Beyond that barrier lay the Fallen Lands, an expanse of corrupted wilderness where monsters prowled and nightmares took shape in the mist.


    The sight of the Outer Wall sent a chill through Silas. It felt less like a barrier for protection and more like a scar—a desperate, man-made boundary separating fragile civilization from the chaos beyond. The air seemed colder here, and the distant hum of the Nightwatch''s patrol engines resonated through the ground like a low growl.


    He tightened his grip on his coat and quickened his pace. The city was vast, yet suffocating. Between the walls of power and the walls of fear, the Outer City felt like a forgotten prison yard where hope struggled to survive.


    One day, he thought, his eyes lingering on the Inner City''s pale walls. One day, I’ll cross those gates—not as a servant, but as someone who matters. That had been the ambition of the original Silas, a dream carved from years of struggle and resentment.


    He crossed Gearlock Bridge, its iron frame slick with condensation, and descended into Smog Hollow—a district notorious for pickpockets and whispering black-market dealers. The Gazette''s office stood at the corner of Brasslane Alley, wedged between a pawnshop and a distillery. The building''s sign hung crookedly: The Cogwheel Gazette—Truth Through Industry.


    Inside, the air was stifling. Stacks of yellowed paper leaned against the walls. The scent of ink and stale sweat clung to the wooden floorboards. Behind a battered oak desk sat Oswald Grint, the editor-in-chief—a man whose waistcoat strained against his bulging stomach. His face was ruddy, his eyes perpetually narrowed, as if suspecting everyone of stealing time or money.


    "You''re late, Crowell," Grint barked, his voice like grinding gears. "Again."


    "Got caught in the fog," Silas said, wiping his palms on his trousers.


    "Fog''s always here," Grint sneered. "Try a better excuse next time. Now, quit wasting air. We''ve got a story—a family''s been butchered in Sable Court. Go sniff around. Find something sensational. Blood sells." He jabbed a finger toward the door. "And don''t come back empty-handed."


    Silas nodded, pulse quickening. Sable Court. The same neighborhood where the original Silas had seen the cult a few nights before. With a curt nod, he turned and left the office, the weight of the assignment settling like ice in his chest.