《Requiem of Secrets [Dark Mystery LitRPG]》 Chapter 1: The Beginning 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¡ªsomething 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¡ªlong, skeletal, ending in ink-black claws¡ªhovered 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¡ªdesperate. 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¡ªonly 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¡ªuntil only its fingers remained, trembling, scraping at the edge of reality. Then¡ªwith 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¡ªonly dust and the remnants of the ritual remained. His mind reeled. That thing¡ªit 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¡ªintricate 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¡ªand 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¡ªto 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¡ª 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¡ªlouder 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¡ªa 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¡ªtoo 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¡ªimages 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¡ªan 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¡ªdistant, 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¡ªa 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¡ªa 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¡ªa 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 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¡ªwithout understanding how¡ªthat 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¡ªit 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¡ªhis soul¡ªhad 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¡ªsomething 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¡ªjumping 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¡ªstrengthen 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¡ªa 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¡ªthe 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¡ªcontained, 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¡ªrancid at the edges¡ªon 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¡ªthe 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¡ª363 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¡ªa 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¡ªgaunt 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¡ªmerchants, factory owners, or perhaps bureaucrats¡ªsat 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¡ªhow 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¡ªin 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¡ªa 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¡ªdarker, 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¡ªa 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¡ªnot 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¡ªa 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¡ªTruth 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¡ªa 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¡ªa 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. Chapter 1.1 Runner 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¡ªwithout understanding how¡ªthat 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¡ªit 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¡ªhis soul¡ªhad 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¡ªsomething 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¡ªjumping 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¡ªstrengthen 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¡ªa 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¡ªthe 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¡ªcontained, 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. You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story. 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¡ªrancid at the edges¡ªon 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¡ªthe 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¡ª363 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¡ªa 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¡ªgaunt 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¡ªmerchants, factory owners, or perhaps bureaucrats¡ªsat 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¡ªhow 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¡ªin 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¡ªa 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¡ªdarker, 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¡ªa 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¡ªnot 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¡ªa 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¡ªTruth 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¡ªa 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¡ªa 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. Chapter 2: Encounter Silas arrived at the crime scene in Sable Court, the cobblestones slick beneath his feet as he blended into the gathering crowd. The air was thick with the ever-present coal smoke. Nightwatch enforcers stood in rigid formation, their brass-buttoned coats gleaming faintly in the mist. Steam rifles were gripped tight in their hands, eyes scanning the street with wary tension. A commanding figure caught Silas''s attention¡ªa tall officer who seemed to draw the very mist toward him. His posture was rigid, his steps measured with an authority that made the surrounding enforcers instinctively stand straighter. A jagged scar slashed across his jaw, stark against his pale skin, and at his hip hung a long, curved sword¡ªan anomaly amidst the standard-issue bayonets carried by the others. The weapon''s hilt gleamed with intricate etchings, and on the man''s dark coat, embroidered in silver thread, was an insignia: a sword wrapped in thorned vines. That crest¡­ Silas''s breath caught in his throat. A noble. The realization sent a jolt through his chest. Nobles rarely ventured into the Outer City, and when they did, they came cloaked in guarded carriages, untouched by the grime and desperation of the streets. Yet here stood one, commanding the Nightwatch in the aftermath of a brutal murder. The air around him seemed heavier, colder, as though the mist itself recoiled from his presence. The officer''s eyes scanned the crowd with predatory precision. They were sharp, unforgiving¡ªlike twin shards of ice cutting through the fog. Silas ducked behind a rusted lamppost, pressing his back against the cold metal. His heart hammered in his chest. Don¡¯t look. Don¡¯t breathe. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, forcing himself to calm the rising panic. The surrounding silence was broken only by the distant hiss of steam and the occasional murmur from the crowd. The stench of gunpowder and blood clung to the air, mingling with the ever-present metallic tang of the city''s breath. Who is he? Silas dared a glance around the post. The officer stood still now, his gaze fixed on the house where the murders had occurred. His expression was unreadable, but there was a tension in his stance¡ªa predator poised to strike. Suddenly, from within the blood-smeared house, a sound erupted¡ªa shriek of pure, mind-breaking terror. Silas''s vision swam; the scream wasn''t just sound but a force that rattled through his bones. He staggered, clutching his ears. The house''s facade exploded outward with a deafening crack. The impact sent a shockwave through the street, rattling loose shingles from rooftops and shattering nearby windows. Bricks and jagged wood tore through the air like shrapnel, forcing onlookers to shriek and shield their faces. Silas barely had time to react before something enormous burst forth from the wreckage. A grotesque amalgamation of spider and hound, its hulking form twisted in ways that defied logic. Eight chitinous legs skittered across the pavement, their barbed tips gouging deep trenches into the stone. Its furred torso twitched, muscles coiling unnaturally beneath its mottled hide, as if it were not entirely real¡ªsomething caught between worlds. Its maw gaped open, jagged fangs dripping with a viscous, black ichor that sizzled upon contact with the ground. Then came the eyes. Milky. Empty. Watching. The beast snapped its head toward the crowd, lips peeling back in a grotesque mimicry of a snarl. Then it moved. A blur of motion, too fast for something that size. It surged forward, its massive limbs striking the ground in rapid succession, stone cracking beneath its weight. People screamed as they scrambled to flee¡ªsome tripping over one another in blind panic, others too slow to escape the beast''s advancing shadow. Silas stood frozen. His body refused to obey, locked in place as the monster¡¯s presence pressed down on him like a vice. His breath hitched. The night air turned suffocating. His instincts screamed at him to move, to run, but the terror coiled too deep, holding him like an iron grip around his ribs. Then¡ªa shadow tore through the fog. It moved inhumanly fast. A streak of steel and precision, cutting through the haze like a phantom. Metal hissed through the air. The beast¡¯s screech ripped through the night as three of its limbs were severed mid-stride. The appendages hit the ground with sickening thuds, black blood splattering like ink spilled from a nightmare. The creature staggered, its balance thrown, but it didn¡¯t stop¡ªit lurched forward, driven by some unholy will. Silas dove for cover, tumbling behind a broken wagon just as the monstrous thing lunged again. The impact sent tremors through the street, rattling his bones. He pressed himself flat against the damp wood, his breath ragged, heart hammering against his ribs like it might burst free. He risked a glance¡ª The commanding officer. The noble stood firm, blade gleaming even through the fog. His movements were ruthless, methodical¡ªeach precise strike carving deep, deadly wounds into the beast¡¯s writhing form. He stepped into the creature¡¯s blind spots with unnatural grace, dodging a frenzied swipe before bringing his blade down with a sickening CRUNCH. A limb fell away. Then another. The beast howled, its voice a warped, gurgling shriek that sent shivers down Silas¡¯s spine. It lashed out in desperation, but the officer sidestepped, slipping through the mist like a shadow himself. Then¡ªthe final blow. A flash of steel. A blur of motion. The officer''s sword pierced deep into the creature¡¯s skull, burying itself to the hilt with a wet, sickening crunch. The beast convulsed, its remaining legs twitching violently before it collapsed, twitching, spasming¡ªthen still. Silence. Silas remained crouched, hands gripping his coat so tightly his knuckles ached. His pulse thundered in his ears, drowning out everything but the raw, aching realization settling in his gut. Five enforcers lay lifeless in the street. Their uniforms were soaked in crimson, bodies torn apart with horrific efficiency. The metallic tang of blood clung thick to the air, mixing with the acrid stench of whatever unnatural fluid leaked from the fallen beast. The crowd had fled¡ªthose who had survived. Silas inhaled sharply, forcing down the nausea crawling up his throat. He was weak. If that thing had come for him, he would¡¯ve died right there. No fight. No second chances. Just gone. His fingers clenched around the coarse fabric of his coat as a single, blazing thought seared into his mind. I need strength. Not tomorrow. Not someday. This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source. Now. Before the next nightmare came for him. Silas resolved to report his findings to his boss the next morning . Before heading home, he purchased cleaning agents¡ªlye soap, vinegar, and a stiff-bristled brush¡ªfrom a grim-faced vendor at the market square. The man barely spoke, eyes shadowed by the brim of his cap. With supplies in hand, Silas trudged back through the mist-laden streets toward home. As he neared his house, he noticed a figure standing in front of the adjacent building. It was Mr. Aldric Hawthorne¡ªClara''s father. The man was broad-shouldered, with graying hair and a perpetual frown etched into his weathered face. He wore a soot-streaked work coat and leaned heavily on his cane. "Morning, Mr. Hawthorne," Silas greeted, voice cautious. "Silas," the man acknowledged, his gaze sharp. "Heard strange noises from your place last night. And Clara said you looked...off. Everything alright?" Silas''s pulse quickened. He forced a casual shrug. "Just had a nightmare. Must''ve made some noise in my sleep." Hawthorne studied him for an uncomfortably long moment, then gave a slow nod. "Hmm. The world''s full of bad dreams these days. You best be careful, boy." "I will, sir. Thanks." As the man turned and limped away, Silas exhaled shakily and hurried inside. In the basement, he got to work. The blood had darkened to rust, crusted along the stone floor. He scrubbed until his arms ached, the smell of vinegar burning his nostrils. Yet, faint traces of the symbols remained, stubborn and unyielding¡ªa haunting reminder of the night his world shifted forever. In the dim solitude of his bedroom, Silas sat on the edge of his creaking bed, fingers intertwined as he stared at the cracked plaster walls. The faint glow of the lantern cast restless shadows across the wooden floor, mirroring the unease swirling in his mind. Survival in this unfamiliar, unforgiving world demanded more than luck¡ªit required power, knowledge, and a plan. I can¡¯t rely on chance. Not here. Not with what I¡¯ve seen. His gaze shifted to the faint outline of the parchment tucked into his coat, thinking about the glowing strands in his consciousness. If the cult could wield such power, why couldn''t he? His breath quickened at the thought. In my old world, systems were the foundation of every LitRPG novel I devoured¡ªcheats, skills, stats. He clenched his fists. They were tools for survival. A flicker of excitement cut through the tension in his chest. Yes. A system¡ªhis own guiding force in this world. Not a blind, luck-driven gamble, but a framework for survival, growth, and power. If he could shape it correctly, it might become his anchor in the chaos of Evergarde. The candlelight had long since burned low, wax pooling like melted resolve across the wooden desk. Silas sat hunched over, eyes heavy with exhaustion yet sharp with determination. Hours of meticulous planning had finally given shape to the idea forming in his mind¡ªa system, built from the Causal strands still coiled deep within his consciousness. He leaned back, rubbing his temples as his thoughts circled the same uncertain path. The second strand¡­ if I use the rest of it to test feasibility¡­ He exhaled through clenched teeth. It was a gamble, but without testing the core structure, everything else would be guesswork. Moments later, the result came through. Feasible. The word hovered in his mind like a distant bell. He slumped forward, relief washing over him in a wave. It can work. It will work. But success came with a steep cost. The analysis showed the full price: the entire third strand and ninety-eight percent of the fourth strand would be consumed during the creation process. Almost everything he had left. His jaw tightened. Four strands were my foundation¡­ now I''ll be left with fragments. The thought gnawed at him. He had considered using the strands directly to enhance himself¡ªinfusing his body or mind with raw potential. The theory was simple: strengthen his physical abilities or sharpen his cognitive functions. The strands held the potential to elevate him beyond the limits of an ordinary human. But the analysis revealed more than promise; it revealed risk. Direct enhancement... Silas drummed his fingers on the desk. Would I become an anomaly? What if the Nightwatch¡ªor worse, the cult¡ªcould sense the change? His eyes shifted toward the window, where the fog pressed against the glass like a living thing. The strands were finite; reckless experimentation could render them useless¡ªor worse, shatter his fragile grasp on the power he barely understood. Long-term sustainability is the issue. He chewed the inside of his cheek.Caution must come first. With a sigh, Silas straightened. The plan to enhance himself directly was shelved, locked away for a future when he''d gained more knowledge. For now, the system took precedence. Information first. Power later. He reached inward, commanding the strands to shift. The consciousness space stirred in response, like the surface of a still pond disturbed by an unseen ripple. Slowly, carefully, he guided the strands toward the foundation of the system. A blueprint of possibility unfolded before him. This is the first step. Silas closed his eyes and exhaled. The first step toward understanding this world¡­ and surviving it. Once he began, the armor now contained an information module capable of collecting and analyzing data related to Causal strands, cause and effect, and other requirements as he needed. The module could communicate directly with his soul and consciousness without risk of detection. He also added a "cause and effect collection module" to gather and store Causal generated by his actions or those affecting him. Given the lack of strands, this module would only collect a small portion of Causality caused by him, with restrictions on the distance, time, and percentage that could be collected from each instance. Finally, he integrated a common interface to control these modules, completing his cheat system. This system would only be visited and accessed in his consciousness space. [Status Report:] Causal Points (p) : 2130 (1 strand = 100,000 point units; 2% of a strand remaining converted to points) One single strand amounted to 100,000 units, and the strands allowed for the modification of concepts. Using this, Silas created the information and collection modules, which acted upon the concept of knowledge and cause-effect. But he could not condense the strands from 100,000 p units as he was not ¡®Strong¡¯ enough according to information he gathered using points. The Causal points were a lower grade version of Causal strands in terms of power over cause and effect. These points will serve as fuel for amplifying the system functions. The system will act as an interface and allow him to use these points for other purposes. With his system complete, Silas calmed his anxious heart. Now he had to test his system. Silas retrieved the ritual page from his coat, unfolding it with careful, almost reverent hands. The parchment felt dry and brittle beneath his fingertips, the faded symbols etched in crimson like scars on flesh. The system responded immediately. [Analysis ¨C 150 p. Proceed?] He gave a mental confirmation, and the page seemed to grow heavier in his grasp. A cold, tingling sensation crept through his mind as the system began its work. Moments later, fragmented whispers drifted through his consciousness¡ªdisjointed words in a language unfamiliar yet instinctively ominous. Faint images followed: shadowed figures cloaked in darkness, hands arranging limbs of animals in grotesque patterns, lips moving soundlessly in unison. The scene felt wrong, invasive, as though the parchment itself carried the memory of its past use. Finally, the system condensed the extracted information into clear, concise text: Stalker ¨C First Order Chronicle (Incomplete) Ritual Requirements: "In silence, I walk; unseen, I prevail. The shadows are my refuge, the hunt my purpose. [#missing] I track without falter, I strike without mercy." Potential Sublimations (2): Silas''s eyes narrowed as he reread the passage. The system had flagged the second line as missing from the parchment. The original Silas had clearly overlooked a crucial part of the oath. Yet, the system had pieced it together, filling the gap like a master locksmith crafting a missing key. It really works, Silas thought, equal parts astonished and unnerved. The system wasn''t just gathering data¡ªit was reconstructing lost information, uncovering truths that had remained hidden until now. The missing line, once absent from the parchment, now glared back at him like an exposed nerve. The shadows are my refuge, the hunt my purpose. He traced the words with his fingertip. The oath wasn''t just a chant; it was a declaration, a submission to the path of the Stalker. Silent movement. Ambush tactics. The foundation of a predator. Chapter 2.1: System The system had proven its worth beyond his expectations. It had bridged gaps, reconstructed ancient knowledge, and revealed the full ritual instructions. A single thought echoed through his mind: According to the system''s analysis, individuals who possess mystical abilities are collectively known as Wielders. The Stalker is a Chronicle of the First Order¡ªa designation that functions similarly to a class or profession, much like those in the games from Silas''s previous life. Each Chronicle grants specific skills through the process of sublimation, achieved by adhering to its unique oath. The First Order represents the initial stage of wielding mystical power. When a person acquires a Chronicle at this level, they are recognized as a First Order Wielder, marking their first step toward becoming extraordinary. Sublimation not only unlocks new abilities but also enhances certain attributes aligned with the Chronicle''s oath. The oath serves as a guiding path, a conceptual framework unique to each Chronicle that directs the Wielder toward sublimation. Skills are not simply acquired¡ªthey are forged through the bond with the Chronicle and the commitment to its oath. At the First Order, a Wielder can undergo sublimation twice, each instance drawing them closer to the Chronicle''s maturity. Advancing beyond the First Order requires fulfilling specific, often obscure conditions. Only then can a Wielder ascend to the Second Order, where the Chronicle evolves to the next stage, abilities become more profound, and the challenges more formidable. The source of these Chronicles lies beyond the physical world, originating from a higher-dimensional plane known as the Astral World. This mysterious realm coexists with reality, structured into layers that correspond to different Orders of Wielders, each layer resonating with the distinct power and complexity of its associated Chronicles. The deeper one ventures into the Astral layers, the rarer and more potent the Chronicles become¡ªgranting abilities that blur the lines between reality and the unknown. But why was this knowledge not made public? Silas pondered this unsettling question, searching the page for more answers. The system provided a partial explanation: each sublimation carried inherent risks. What kind of risks? The document held no further clues. Despite the lingering mystery, Silas felt deeply satisfied with his newfound system. It was a foundation, a tool to unlock the extraordinary. His next goal became clear: gather more information, expand his understanding, and ultimately ascend to become an extraordinary himself. However, a new dilemma surfaced¡ªwhere could he find such information? The parchment mentioned no sources, and the streets of Evergarde were shrouded in secrecy. Then, a new idea sparked in his mind. The system could analyze objects, extracting hidden details from mundane surfaces. What if it could do the same with people? The analysis revealed a potential application: if the system could access the thoughts and experiences of individuals, it might uncover significant insights from their memories and accumulated knowledge. The process required proximity¡ªwithin five meters¡ªto initiate the data extraction. Silas''s heart quickened. If this worked, he wouldn''t need ancient texts or dangerous rituals. He could walk through a crowd and uncover secrets whispered beneath breath and concealed behind masks. Power, knowledge, and survival¡ªall within reach if he dared to test his theory. But the thrill of this discovery was quickly overshadowed by dread. What if the Wielders discover me? he thought, clenching his fists. What if they have abilities that can sense me? His breath grew shallow, and his mind raced with possibilities. The system provided no assurances about the limitations of other Chronicles. I need to be careful, he resolved, forcing his heartbeat to slow. The exhilaration of newfound potential had blinded him momentarily. If the system''s analysis could extract information from others, what stopped someone more experienced from doing the same to him? Play it safe, Silas. Don''t get reckless, he whispered to himself. Survival came first. Knowledge and power could follow. The idea struck Silas like a spark in the darkness. What if I use the system more discreetly? If he could extract only the bare minimum of information¡ªjust enough to identify potential threats¡ªwithout alerting the target, it might give him an edge in this dangerous, unfamiliar world. His mind raced with the possibilities. The system¡¯s capabilities had already surpassed his expectations; perhaps it could operate with subtlety as well. He initiated a feasibility analysis, sacrificing a few more points to test the concept. The response came swiftly, precise as always. [Analysis Complete ¨C Feasible with 0.2 p expenditure per scan.] Silas''s breath caught in his throat. For a negligible cost, the system could detect whether a person within a five-meter radius was a Wielder or a Mortal. The mechanism behind the scan was even more ingenious than he¡¯d imagined: the signal would be dispersed from multiple directions, creating the illusion of randomness. They won¡¯t even realize they¡¯ve been scanned. His fingers tightened around the edge of the desk. The implications were staggering. He could walk through a crowd, stand beside someone in line, or pass by a stranger on the street and know, with near certainty, if they wielded mystical power. No rituals, no risky inquiries¡ªjust silent observation. This world is filled with dangers I don¡¯t understand. If I can¡¯t fight them, I¡¯ll at least see them coming. For now, caution was his only ally. He would use the scan sparingly¡ªjust enough to stay safe. The system had given him the tools. How he wielded them would decide whether he thrived in this world or became just another nameless victim swallowed by the mist. Night had fallen by the time Silas finally allowed himself to drift into sleep. The day''s revelations¡ªhis newfound system, the horrifying creature at Sable Court, and the realization that he was entangled in something far larger than himself¡ªstill echoed in his mind. But beneath the tension, a flicker of confidence stirred. He had a plan now. A system. A path forward. The next morning, pale, watery light seeped through the misty windowpane. Silas groaned, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The chill in the air bit through the thin blanket, urging him to move. He dressed quickly and shuffled into the kitchen, where he tore off a chunk of hardened bread and washed it down with lukewarm tea. As he rinsed the cup, his gaze fell on the chipped ceramic plate sitting on the counter. Clara¡¯s plate. He ran a hand through his hair. I forgot to return it. The thought stirred an awkward guilt. I¡¯ll give it back this evening, tucking it into a corner of the shelf. Time pressed on. He needed to get to the Gazette before Oswald Grint exploded with one of his infamous tirades. Grabbing his satchel, Silas hurriedly scribbled a rough report of the events from the previous night¡ªjust enough to satisfy his boss without revealing anything dangerous. The streets of Evergarde were already bustling with life by the time he stepped outside. The air smelled of wet stone, coal smoke, and frying onions from a nearby street vendor. Steam hissed from overhead pipes, and distant factory horns blared their morning summons. Silas limped slightly, exaggerating the movement as he walked. The sprained-leg excuse would need to be convincing. I need some coin out of that tightfisted bastard. The Cogwheel Gazette stood exactly as he''d left it: a squat, crooked building squeezed between a pawnshop and a bakery. The sign overhead creaked on rusted hinges. Silas inhaled deeply, squared his shoulders, and stepped inside. The familiar scent of ink and damp paper filled his nostrils. Across the cluttered room, Edric Grint sat hunched over his desk like a vulture guarding a carcass. His waistcoat strained against his girth, and his thin hair lay plastered to his scalp. The moment Silas crossed the threshold, Grint''s bloodshot eyes snapped up. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it. "You''re late," Grint barked. His voice was gravelly, like gears grinding over sand. "Again." Silas winced, deepened his limp, and shuffled closer. "Sorry, sir. I... I almost died yesterday." Grint snorted. "Died? You? You were probably napping in some alley while that beast tore through Sable Court." "I was there, sir! The thing nearly got me." Silas clutched his leg with one hand, leaning heavily on the desk with the other. "Sprained my leg when I dove out of the way. Look." He gestured to his boots, scuffing the floor dramatically. "Hurts like hell." Grint leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing. "Hmph. Sprained your leg, did you?" "Yes, sir. Barely made it home." Silas lowered his voice, infusing it with just the right amount of desperation. "I¡­ I need some money to see the apothecary." Grint''s laugh came out as a phlegmy wheeze. "Money? From me?" He jabbed a finger toward a ledger on the desk. "You think this paper runs on charity, boy? Ink¡¯s expensive. Paper¡¯s expensive. And runners like you? Cheap as dirt." Silas bit the inside of his cheek. "Sir, I was doing your work. Reporting on the murder. I could¡¯ve been torn apart like those poor bastards in that house." Grint''s eyes glinted with amusement. "That¡¯s what makes it a good story, doesn''t it? ''Runner Survives Encounter with Fogborn Beast.'' Readers love a touch of near-death drama." Silas''s fists clenched at his sides. He won¡¯t even part with a handful of coins. The man pinched every penny until it squealed. "I just need a few gilds," Silas persisted, voice tight with false humility. "Just enough for some ointment. My leg won¡¯t heal on its own." Grint rubbed his stubbled chin, eyes calculating. "Fine. Two crow-gilds. No more. And you better have a report worth printing." Silas forced a grateful smile. "Thank you, sir. You''ll have the report today." Grint grunted and slid two dull brass coins across the desk. Silas pocketed them and turned away, biting back the urge to throw one at his boss¡¯s face. Two crow-gilds. Enough for medicine. He limped toward the door, pulse still thrumming with frustration. But it''ll do. Behind him, Grint''s voice rasped, "Make it good, Crowell. Blood sells, remember that." Silas stepped into the street and exhaled slowly. Yeah, blood sells. Let''s hope it isn''t mine. After finishing the report, Silas read it over one last time, ensuring it struck the right balance: vivid enough to satisfy Grint¡¯s thirst for sensationalism, vague enough to keep the details to himself. With a sigh, he folded the pages and carried them back into the main office, where the smell of ink and damp wood lingered like a stubborn ghost. Grint sat behind his desk, scratching figures into the ledger with a blunt-tipped pen. The brass buttons on his waistcoat strained dangerously with each shallow breath. His eyes flicked up as Silas approached. "About time," Grint muttered. "Hope you didn''t fill it with that literary crap you like to sneak in. People want blood, Crowell, not poetry." "It''s straightforward," Silas said, forcing a smile. "Lots of blood. Screaming. And the spider-dog thing." He placed the papers on the desk. Grint grunted and snatched the report, squinting as he scanned the lines. Silas watched for a moment, then let his system trigger a discreet scan. The effort cost a mere 0.2 points, unnoticed amid the room¡¯s ambient noise. [Subject: Oswald Grint ¨C Mortal. No Chronicle detected.] Silas resisted a smirk. Of course. A Wielder wouldn¡¯t pinch copper the way he does. "Monster came from inside the house," Grint said, tapping the page with a stained finger. "Family slaughtered beforehand. Cult symbols. Sounds like the Umbral Veil''s work." "You know about them?" Silas asked, feigning ignorance. "Been around longer than you, kid." Grint tossed the papers aside and leaned back, chair creaking in protest. "Those fanatics love rituals and carving up poor sods. You see their handiwork, you write about it. That''s it. We don''t dig deeper than that. Nightwatch doesn''t like curiosity." Silas swallowed. The memory of the officer with the thorned sword flickered through his mind. "Understood, sir." "Good. Now, I need you to head to the Explorer''s Union. Word is, a team just returned from the Fallen Lands. Go sniff out something worth printing. Monsters. Relics. Maybe some half-mad survivor who''ll talk." Silas paled. "The Union? They''re¡­ not fond of reporters." Grint grinned. "Then don''t act like one. Act like a curious kid. You''re good at that." Silas clenched his jaw but nodded. "I''ll get it done." "And keep limping," Grint said with a chuckle. "Might earn you some sympathy." Silas turned away before his temper flared. The bell over the door jingled as he stepped outside, the thick fog wrapping around him like cold gauze. He adjusted his coat and limped toward Gearlock Square. Silas turned into Brasslane Alley, the fog pressing against his skin like damp cotton. The two crow-gilds sat cold in his pocket¡ªa hard-won prize from Grint. But the weight of those coins did little to ease the simmering tension in his chest. The city felt restless tonight. The mist swirled thicker than usual, muffling sounds and distorting shadows. He walked faster. A faint shuffle echoed behind him. Silas froze mid-step. His breath caught in his throat as he strained to listen. Another shuffle. Footsteps. Someone was following him. His instincts screamed at him to stay calm. Act normal. He forced his shoulders to relax and turned the next corner, slipping into the narrow passage between a brick warehouse and a boarded-up tailor shop. The passage was short¡ªa dead end with a rusted steam pipe hissing near the far wall. He pressed himself into the shadows beside the pipe and waited. The footsteps followed. Two figures emerged from the fog. The taller one held a wooden club, tapping it lightly against his palm. The shorter one clutched a curved knife. Their clothes were worn and dirty, faces hidden beneath threadbare scarves. "Nice coat," the taller one said, voice low and raspy. "Hand it over." Silas''s heart raced. "I... I don¡¯t want trouble," he said, raising his hands. The man with the knife grinned beneath his scarf. "Nobody does." He gestured with the blade. "Coat. Coins. Now." Silas¡¯s mind raced. He couldn''t fight them¡ªhe had no training and nothing more than a penknife. But the steam pipe¡­ The valve was cracked, hissing faintly. If he could open it fully¡ª He took a slow step back, pretending to reach for his coat buttons. His fingers found the valve handle. The taller thug sneered. "Hurry it up, kid, or we''ll take a finger as interest." Silas turned the valve sharply. The pipe groaned. A jet of scalding steam hissed outward, hitting the taller man''s arm. The thug screamed and staggered back, dropping his club. The second man lunged at Silas, slashing wildly. The blade grazed Silas¡¯s forearm, burning with sharp pain. Silas kicked at the man''s knee and bolted past them, heart pounding. He tore through the maze of alleys, the fog blurring his vision. He didn''t stop running until he reached the main street near the Explorer¡¯s Union. His lungs burned as he leaned against a lamppost, clutching his bleeding arm. The coins were still in his pocket. He staggered into a narrow side alley, his breath sharp and uneven. The wound on his arm pulsed with each heartbeat, warmth trickling beneath his sleeve. He pressed his back against a cold brick wall and forced himself to focus. The Explorer''s Union. Can''t show blood. Can''t invite questions. His eyes fluttered shut as he summoned the familiar mental shift into his consciousness space. The world dimmed, the alley''s sounds muffled as the system interface manifested in his mind''s eye. [Wound detected: Shallow laceration, left forearm. Bleeding rate: moderate. Infection risk: 14%.] [Recommended action: Apply external pressure and seek medical assistance.] Silas clenched his jaw. That''s not good enough. "System," he whispered, voice shaky. "Can...can I use Causal Points to fix it?" The interface flickered, as though uncertain. [Experimental protocol: Localized tissue regeneration. Cost: 500 p .] Silas hesitated. Five hundred points¡ªa substantial sum, especially for something so mundane. But exposing the wound to the Union posed a greater risk. "Do it," he said through gritted teeth. The air around him seemed to thrum, though the alley remained still. His arm tingled, the sensation crawling from the wound inward, like threads weaving through flesh. Pain spiked, sharp and electric, as the Causal points bent reality to accelerate the body''s natural regeneration. The system displayed a fragmented diagram of his arm: shimmering, translucent lines overlaying his muscles and veins. The strands moved like invisible puppeteers, bypassing the usual biological timeline to manifest the end result¡ªsealed skin. The pain peaked, and then, abruptly, ceased. [Tissue regeneration complete. 500 p consumed.] Silas exhaled shakily and peeled back his sleeve. The cut was gone, replaced by raw, pink skin. It felt tender but intact. He flexed his fingers. A faint tug accompanied the motion, but no blood seeped through. His heart raced¡ªnot from fear, but from the profound, eerie sensation of having rewritten reality. He wiped his hand on his trousers, adjusted his coat, and stepped back into the fog-shrouded street. Power. The thought surfaced, unbidden. This is the edge I''ve needed. But beneath the thrill, a colder, more practical thought followed: No one can know about the system. With renewed caution, he made his way toward the Explorer''s Union, arm healed but mind unsettled by the fragile, invisible threads of cause and effect he had just manipulated for the first time. Chapter 3: Prying The Explorer''s Union stood at the heart of Ironclad District, a squat, fortress-like building of dark stone and iron braces. Its windows were reinforced with brass latticework, and above the entrance hung a sign depicting a crossed compass and sword. The cobblestones here were uneven, scarred from the constant movement of heavy wagons that hauled supplies for expeditions beyond the walls. As Silas approached, he passed vendors hawking gear: rusted goggles, reinforced gloves, and leather maps that promised "Guaranteed Accurate Fallen Lands Routes!" A group of children in patched coats huddled near a steam grate for warmth, while across the street, a Nightwatch patrol questioned a man near a boarded-up apothecary. The Union''s heavy oak doors creaked as Silas pushed them open. Inside, the air smelled of damp leather, metal polish, and faint traces of gunpowder. The stone floor was worn smooth by countless boots. To the left, a wide bulletin board displayed maps and mission postings. One map caught his eye: a faded diagram of the city walls with black ink marking territories beyond labeled Dead Hollow, Fogmire Ridge, and The Weeping Grove. At the counter stood a woman in a brown leather coat, hair pulled into a tight braid. Her sleeves were rolled up, revealing muscular forearms streaked with old scars. She glanced at Silas with sharp, assessing eyes. "Need something, boy?" she asked, voice low and gravelly. "Uh, yeah. I¡¯m with The Cogwheel Gazette." Silas forced his best nervous smile. "Heard some explorers just got back. My boss sent me to, you know, ask a few questions." "Reporters." She shook her head and jabbed a thumb toward a side door. "Try your luck in the mess hall. They''re drowning stories in cheap whiskey." "Thanks." Silas turned toward the door but hesitated. "Sorry, what''s your name?" "Lieutenant Darya Quinn," she said, already turning back to her paperwork. "Nightwatch liaison. Don''t bother lying to me again." Silas''s pulse spiked. She knew? He hadn''t even tried to hide his purpose, yet she''d read him like a book. He swallowed hard and pushed through the side door, the distant murmur of voices drawing him toward the explorers'' tales. His instincts whispered that something was off about the woman behind the counter. She hadn''t just dismissed him with the usual disdain for reporters¡ªshe''d seen through his nervous act in seconds. Lieutenant Darya Quinn... he repeated the name in his mind, the weight of her stare lingering on his skin. Keeping his expression neutral, he triggered a discrete system scan. [Analysis Activated ¨C Cost: 0.2 p] The response came almost instantly: [Subject: Darya Quinn ¨C Wielder detected. Chronicle: Inspector, First Order.] Silas''s stomach twisted into a knot. A Wielder. Right here. And a Nightwatch liaison at that. His pulse quickened as cold dread coiled around his chest. What is a Nightwatch liaison doing here in the Explorer''s Union? This made his mind race. The Nightwatch rarely mingled with the Union, at least not openly. Their job was to guard the city, not inquire about expeditions beyond the walls. He didn''t dare linger. With practiced ease, he adjusted his expression to one of casual indifference, gave a polite nod toward the counter, and pushed through the door. His footsteps slowed only once he was out of her line of sight. The door creaked shut behind him, sealing him within the dimly lit confines of the Union''s mess hall. The air was thick with the pungent mix of unwashed bodies, stale beer, and woodsmoke. The room was large but oppressive, with low ceilings supported by thick, iron-bolted beams. Brass lanterns swayed overhead, casting erratic shadows across the stone walls. A dozen tables filled the space, most of them occupied by grim-faced explorers nursing their drinks or muttering among themselves. Their clothes were worn and stained with mud and ash. Silas instinctively cataloged the details: torn coats, patched gear, eyes that stared into nothing. These are people who''ve seen the Fallen Lands up close. Near the back, three men sat huddled over a bottle of amber liquid, their voices loud with the kind of forced cheer that came only after surviving something harrowing. One of them had a bandage wrapped around his head; another''s arm was splinted with rough strips of wood. Silas made his way toward them, weaving between chairs while maintaining his limp. As he approached, he caught snippets of their conversation. "...damn fog thicker than a death shroud, I tell ya. One minute, we were seeing the ridge clear as day; next, the ground was gone beneath us." "It wasn''t the fog that took Isaac," the bandaged man said, voice hoarse. "Something moved in it. Big. Fast. Didn''t even scream." The third man¡ªolder, with a silver streak in his beard¡ªnoticed Silas and straightened. "Oi, kid. You lost?" Silas forced a sheepish smile and raised his hands in mock surrender. "Not lost. Just curious. I''m with The Cogwheel Gazette. My boss said you just came back from an expedition?" "Bloody reporters," the bandaged man muttered, turning back to his drink. "Hey, I''m not here to bother you," Silas said quickly. "Just looking for a few good stories. Maybe help make sure the city knows what kind of dangers are out there." He pulled a small notebook from his coat and held it up. "Anything interesting happen on your trip?" The older man''s gaze hardened. "Define ''interesting''." "Strange sightings. Unusual sounds." Silas hesitated before adding, "The kind of things the citizens might care about." The older man rubbed his temple, "Aye," he said after a long pause. "We saw something. Out near Fogmire Ridge." "Fogmire?" Silas''s pulse quickened. That was one of the locations he''d seen on the map earlier. "What exactly?" The man leaned closer, his breath sour with whiskey. "A light. Deep in the mist. Green, faint, but it moved. We followed it for maybe half a klick, but it stayed just ahead. Then... the ground shook. Trees bent without snapping. And Isaac was gone." "Gone how?" Silas asked, voice low. "Just¡­ gone." The man¡¯s hands trembled. "No sound. No trace. One second he was beside me, the next, empty air." The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. Silas scribbled down the details, his mind racing. A green light¡­ movement in the mist¡­ and something powerful enough to bend trees. The pieces didn''t fit. But the Nightwatch liaison¡¯s presence suddenly made more sense. "Thanks," Silas said, tucking the notebook away. He turned to leave, but the older man grabbed his wrist. "Kid," he whispered, eyes bloodshot and wide. "Don''t go near the Ridge. Whatever¡¯s out there¡ªit sees you before you see it." Silas swallowed hard and nodded. Outside, the fog pressed against the windows like pale, watching faces. Silas lingered a moment longer, watching the tension etched into the older explorer¡¯s face. The man¡¯s grip, though rough and unsteady from drink, held a weight born from genuine fear. Fogmire Ridge, Silas thought, the name now carrying a sinister edge. He gave a small nod, murmured a quick thanks, and gently pried his wrist free. As he turned away, his mind stirred with curiosity. These men had ventured beyond the safety of Evergarde''s walls, into the corrupted wilderness where few dared to tread. They''d seen what lurked in the mist¡ªthings the average citizen only heard about in hushed rumors. Time for a little insight. He slowed his steps, pretending to adjust his coat, and activated the scan. [Analysis Activated ¨C Cost: 0.6 p ¨C Multiple Targets Detected] The system responded almost immediately. Faint static crackled through his mind, followed by fragmented impressions: the crack of gunfire, the metallic taste of fear, and the oppressive stillness of thick mist. Then, the results materialized: Silas¡¯s heart skipped a beat. A Second Order Chronicle. Arden Cross, the older one with the silver-streaked beard, was more than a seasoned explorer. And from the system''s summary, their abilities complemented each other, forming a well-rounded team perfectly suited for survival in the Fallen Lands. No wonder they came back alive. He stole a final glance at the trio. Cross was whispering something to Garrick, whose bandaged head lolled slightly as he nodded. Elric leaned back in his chair, eyes closed, lips moving as though reciting a prayer. These weren¡¯t ordinary adventurers¡ªthey were professionals. Survivors of a nightmare landscape. The Explorer¡¯s Union wasn¡¯t just a gathering place for daredevils; it was a brotherhood of those who had braved the mist and returned to tell the tale. Their job was to chart fallen cities, map corrupted lands, and maintain what fragile connections still existed with distant, fog-shrouded enclaves. They ventured into places where death came quickly and painlessly¡ªif one was lucky. Silas remembered the stories whispered in Evergarde¡¯s streets: The explorers lived on the edge of the abyss. Monsters, curses, and ancient traps were daily threats. Death is a mercy out there, the older folk often said. To be an explorer is to gamble with your soul. Yet, paradoxically, they were some of the most respected figures in the city. Even the Nightwatch afforded them courtesy, and officials ensured they received the best rations, equipment, and medical care available. Few dared to join their ranks, despite the allure of glory. It was said that once you crossed into the Fallen Lands, you left part of yourself behind. "Kid." Silas froze. The voice came from behind him. Slowly, he turned. Arden Cross stood there, swaying slightly but still emanating the kind of alertness that came from years of survival. His eyes, sharp beneath the haze of drink, fixed on Silas with unsettling intensity. "You been listening too long," Cross said, voice gravelly. "Or maybe you''re just too curious for your own good." "I¡­ I was just leaving," Silas stammered, forcing a nervous chuckle. "Didn¡¯t want to interrupt." Cross''s gaze flicked toward the door, then back to Silas. "Yeah? You got what you came for?" Silas hesitated. "Mostly. My boss just wanted a survivor''s account. Fogmire Ridge sounds like a nightmare." "Nightmare." Cross huffed a bitter laugh. "That what you''re gonna write? Call it a nightmare so folks can read about it over breakfast?" "I don¡¯t write the headlines," Silas said, voice low. Cross leaned closer, the scent of whiskey and gunpowder thick on his breath. "The Fallen Lands ain''t a bedtime story, boy. And the thing we saw at the Ridge? It wasn''t just a nightmare. It was watching us. Learning." He jabbed a finger at Silas''s chest. "Remember that when you write your piece." Silas forced himself to nod. "I will." Cross held his stare for a moment longer, then turned away, muttering to his companions. Silas exhaled shakily and headed for the door. His heart pounded as he stepped back into the street, the cool mist like a damp shroud against his skin. The Nightwatch liaison. The explorers. The green light at Fogmire Ridge. Silas trudged through the fog-laden streets, his mind still reeling from the day¡¯s revelations. The green light at Fogmire Ridge. The explorers with complementary Chronicles. The Nightwatch liaison with an Inspector Chronicle¡ªwhy was she stationed at the Union? And why would the Nightwatch, whose duty was to guard Evergarde¡¯s walls, be so interested in explorers who ventured outside those very walls? He rubbed his temples as he walked, the chill mist clinging to his skin. Too many threads. Too many unanswered questions. Instinct told him it all connected somehow, but the pattern remained just beyond his reach. The distant clang of a steam engine bell brought him back to the present. He found himself in Rustwick Lane, a narrow street lined with crooked, brick-fronted shops. The apothecary was just ahead¡ªa squat building with soot-streaked windows and a faded sign painted in neat, looping letters: Grayson¡¯s Apothecary ¨C Remedies for Body and Mind A lantern hung outside the door, its brass frame dulled by time. Silas stepped inside, a bell above the door chiming softly. The air changed the moment he crossed the threshold. The metallic tang of coal smoke vanished, replaced by the sharp scents of dried herbs, alcohol, and medicinal tinctures. Shelves lined the walls, cluttered with glass jars, parchment-labeled vials, and small potted plants with curling leaves. Behind the counter stood a young man who looked barely older than Silas. His blond hair was slicked back, though a stubborn lock fell across his forehead. He wore a dark vest over a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves and held a small brass scoop as he measured a fine green powder into a paper pouch. "Evening," the young man greeted without looking up. His voice was smooth, but there was an alertness beneath the casual tone. "Headache? Cough? Or something stronger?" "Evening," Silas said, stepping closer. "Just need some basic supplies. Antiseptic, gauze. Maybe something for pain." The apothecary met his gaze then, his pale blue eyes sharp. "Planning a wilderness expedition?" Silas gave a tight smile. "Nothing that exciting. Just a precaution. Got banged up last night during that mess at Sable Court." The apothecary''s eyebrows lifted slightly. "The cult thing?" "Yeah," Silas said, leaning against the counter. "Saw it up close. A monster broke through the wall. Nearly killed me." The young man whistled softly. "You¡¯re lucky. Most don¡¯t walk away from something like that." He turned and grabbed a small glass jar from the shelf. "Here¡ªwillowbark tonic. Good for pain. And some antiseptic salve. Five crow-gilds." Silas''s lips twitched at the price. Five? For common supplies? He reached for the coins, then paused. Let¡¯s see who I¡¯m dealing with first. He triggered a discrete system scan. [Analysis Activated ¨C Cost: 0.2 p] The result appeared with surprising speed: [Subject: Elias Grayson ¨C Wielder Detected. Chronicle: Pharmacist, First Order.] Silas''s breath caught, though he kept his expression neutral. Another Wielder. The outer city was beginning to feel far more crowded with the wielders than he¡¯d ever imagined. "Everything alright?" Elias asked, eyeing him curiously. "Yeah," Silas said quickly. "Just¡­ remembering the monster. Makes me jumpy." The apothecary gave a sympathetic nod. "Fogborn beasts do that. Seen a few during supply runs near the wall. Don¡¯t trust the fog, friend. It sees what you don¡¯t." Silas forced a laugh. "Yeah, I¡¯m learning that." He paid the five crow-gilds, tucked the supplies into his satchel, and left with a polite nod. Outside, the mist had thickened, muffling the sounds of factory bells and distant footsteps. Silas walked briskly to the corner bakery, bought a loaf of coarse bread and a wedge of pale cheese, and headed home. Chapter 3.1: Chronicle Creation The door creaked as he stepped into the familiar confines of his tiny house. He bolted the lock and lit the kitchen lamp, the flame flickering against the damp walls. The plate Clara had brought him still sat on the counter. He sliced a portion of the bread and cheese, set it on the plate, and wrapped a cloth over it. The walk to Clara¡¯s house took only seconds; their homes were separated by a narrow alley where the fog swirled like coiling snakes. He knocked softly on the door and shifted the plate in his hands. A moment later, the door opened, revealing Clara¡¯s curious eyes peeking out. "Silas?" she said, blinking in surprise. "Evening, Clara." He held up the plate. "Figured I should return this. And brought a little something to go with it." She opened the door wider, the lamplight behind her casting a halo around her curls. She wore a knitted shawl over her shoulders and smelled faintly of lavender and flour. "Thanks," she said, taking the plate. "Want to come in for tea? Mum baked some seed cakes." Silas¡¯s chest tightened. The warmth of the invitation tempted him, but he couldn¡¯t shake the day¡¯s events from his mind. "Wish I could," he said with an apologetic smile. "Got a report to finish for the Gazette." Clara tilted her head. "You always have work." "Yeah," he said, forcing a chuckle. "Boss thinks sleep is for the lazy." She laughed softly. "Sounds like him. Well, thanks for this. Mum will be happy." "Tell her I said hello," Silas replied, stepping back. "Goodnight, Clara." "Goodnight, Silas." As he walked away, he felt her gaze linger until the door clicked shut. Back home, Silas lit the lantern in his room and sank onto his bed. The muffled hum of Evergarde¡¯s night still reached him: the low groan of distant factory engines, the occasional hiss of steam from a nearby pipe. He stretched out on the mattress, staring at the water-stained ceiling. Silas sat up in bed, the remnants of restless dreams still clinging to his mind like cobwebs. The night had passed in a haze of fractured images¡ªgreen lights in the mist, hollow-eyed explorers, and the cold, piercing stare of Lieutenant Quinn. He rubbed his eyes and exhaled slowly. The system hummed faintly in his consciousness, an ever-present whisper beneath his thoughts. Time to check my reserves. He focused inward, summoning the system interface. The familiar sensation washed over him, like dipping his mind into a cold, still pond. [Causal Points: 2154 p] Silas blinked. Wait¡­ 2154? He remembered the last time he''d checked. It had been just over 2000 points, and he hadn''t actively used the system much since then¡ªonly a few scans here and there. That left only one explanation. The system''s been passively collecting points. Relief coursed through him. The system wasn¡¯t just a static tool; it was adaptive, constantly gathering fragments of ''effect'' from his interactions with the world - the wonder of the collection module. His pulse quickened. He was the butterfly in the butterfly effect. Cause and effect. Every interaction leaves a mark. He stood and paced the room, the wooden floorboards groaning beneath his feet. The phrase inherent risk drifted back into his mind, echoing from the system''s initial analysis. He had dismissed it then, but now¡­ now it felt like a loose thread dangling from a tightly woven mystery. The system warned about inherent risk during sublimation. But what kind of risk? He sank into the rickety chair at his desk, fingers drumming the surface. Sublimation was how Wielders advanced¡ªtransforming themselves by tapping into their Chronicle¡¯s core power. The process granted skills, altered attributes, and shaped abilities. But what if that transformation wasn''t guaranteed to go smoothly? What if the risk isn¡¯t just failure¡­ but corruption? The thought made his stomach twist. He remembered the nightmarish creature from Sable Court, its spiderlike limbs and empty, mindless rage. The cultists had performed a ritual. The monster hadn''t come from the outside¡ªit had emerged from the victim. A failed sublimation? Is that why the Nightwatch was watching the Explorer¡¯s Union? The realization struck like a hammer. Explorers pushed themselves to the limits, often undergoing sublimations to survive the horrors of the Fallen Lands. If something went wrong¡­ if the process turned them feral¡­ That¡¯s why the Nightwatch calls them cults. They''re not always cultists. They''re failed Wielders¡ªpeople who took the risk and lost. His breathing quickened. The ''inherent risk'' wasn''t just a footnote in the system¡¯s analysis; it was the missing link in the puzzle. Sublimation didn¡¯t merely unlock power¡ªit flirted with something dangerous, something that could unravel the mind and twist the soul. What did the system say? The oath acts as a guide. He remembered the Stalker oath: "In silence, I walk; unseen, I prevail¡­" The oath wasn''t just ceremonial; it was a tether to the Chronicle¡¯s core identity. Without it, the Wielder risked losing themselves. Silas closed his eyes and whispered, "System, verify hypothesis: Inherent risk during sublimation linked to mental or physical corruption." The system hesitated longer than usual after consuming a few points. The void of his mind grew colder, more vast, until the response finally materialized. [Verification Complete ¨C Hypothesis Confirmed.] Risk Factors: Mitigation: Silas inhaled sharply. So that¡¯s why most Wielders outside the Explorer¡¯s Union and Nightwatch hide. They weren''t harboring dark secrets or forbidden knowledge¡ªthey were protecting themselves from the very power they wielded. And when they fail... His mind painted the image of the monster from Sable Court: limbs grotesquely elongated, eyes devoid of reason, driven by instinct and violence. That''s why the Nightwatch hunts them. Failed Wielders aren¡¯t just dangerous¡ªthey''re contagious anomalies. The weight of the revelation pressed down on him. He leaned forward, head in his hands. Evergarde wasn¡¯t just a city surrounded by mist and monsters¡ªit was a fragile balance teetering atop forces no one fully understood. He stood, pacing again. The Nightwatch had their systems, the Explorer¡¯s Union had their strategies. But Silas had the system. The subtle, quiet, invisible eye that could peel back layers of reality without anyone knowing. I need to learn more. About the Fallen Lands. About sublimation. About this risk. A shiver ran through him as he imagined the path ahead. Every step deeper into this mystery carried danger. Yet turning away wasn¡¯t an option. The fog outside whispered against the glass. Silas placed his hand on the cold window, watching the faint glow of lanterns struggle against the mist. Somewhere out there, the Nightwatch was patrolling. Somewhere beyond the walls, explorers were returning¡ªsome whole, some broken. I won''t end up like them, Silas vowed. I¡¯ll walk the line. Stay sharp. Stay hidden. He turned away from the window, his mind already crafting a plan. The system had given him the first thread. Now, it was time to follow it into the shadows. The question surfaced in Silas''s mind like a stone breaking the surface of still water: Chronicles¡­ how did they come into existence? He had already encountered several¡ªStalker, Pathfinder, Fogcaller, Inspector. Each one distinct, each bound to an oath that seemed almost ritualistic. But where did they truly originate? He paced the room, gnawing the inside of his cheek. The system had revealed that these abilities were connected to the Astral World, a higher dimension that coexisted with reality. But something didn¡¯t sit right. The Astral World is a higher realm, not a creator. These Chronicles feel¡­ crafted. The idea lodged itself firmly in his mind. He hesitated for only a moment before giving the command. "System, analyze Chronicle origins." This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it [Analysis Requested ¨C Cost: 520 p. Proceed?] Silas sucked in a sharp breath. 520 points? He had over 2100, but that was still a considerable investment. Why so high? The system rarely demanded that much for historical or conceptual information. He tapped his fingers on the desk, weighing the risk. Information was power. And this¡ªthis could be the foundation of everything. "Proceed." The familiar cold sensation gripped his mind. The world around him dimmed as the system''s tendrils of analysis reached beyond the material plane. His thoughts fractured into impressions: diagrams sketched on parchment, flickering candles around ritual circles, voices chanting ancient words in countless dialects. He felt, rather than saw, the vast, pulsing expanse of the Astral World¡ªa realm of shifting forces and unyielding, impersonal will. Then the answer crystallized in his consciousness: [Chronicle Origins Analysis Complete] Chronicles are human-designed constructs, created through meticulous research into mystical phenomena. However, their existence is contingent upon Astral Resonance. Silas¡¯s brow furrowed. Human-designed? He leaned forward, absorbing the next lines as they unfurled like a scroll in his mind. The Astral World does not create Chronicles; it merely recognizes and resonates with the constructs when aligned with its fundamental principles. The oath serves as the link¡ªa linguistic, conceptual, and symbolic key that aligns the Chronicle with the corresponding Astral forces. He exhaled slowly, the implications sinking in. So humans invented these abilities. Through research. Trial. Error. He tried to picture it: scholars in candlelit rooms, experimenting with diagrams and oaths until the Astral World responded. The thought was both exhilarating and terrifying. The system continued: The resonance process is inherently dangerous. While anyone can theoretically craft a new Chronicle, the Astral World''s recognition is unforgiving. Misalignment during the oath or structural flaws in the Chronicle design or the ritual result in rejection. Rejection triggers a catastrophic event: the subject is flooded with unfiltered, high-dimensional power. Survival is very rare¡ªdeath is often instantaneous. However, in those few who endure, the power warps both mind and body, resulting in grotesque mutations and feral, instinct-driven behavior. The survivors are left unhinged, their sanity fractured beyond repair. Silas¡¯s stomach churned. The cult creature at Sable Court¡­ was that the result of a failed Chronicle? The next lines confirmed his suspicion: The oath and the ritual serve as more than a just ceremony¡ªit is the Chronicle¡¯s identity, path, and authentication key. An incomplete or incorrect oath and ritual severs the link with the Astral World, invoking its rejection. The memory of the original Silas flashed before him¡ªnot as a face, but as a concept. A boy who had dared to follow the cult, steal a ritual page, and conduct an incomplete summoning. His oath had been flawed, missing a crucial line. The Astral World rejected him¡­ and killed him. That explained the dried blood, the animal parts, the mangled remains of the ritual site. It hadn¡¯t been a cult sacrifice¡ªit had been a failed Chronicle initiation. The original Silas hadn''t just stumbled into danger. He had unknowingly triggered the punishment. Silas ran a hand through his hair, heartbeat thundering in his ears. "The oath and the ritual, the guide, the path, the password," he murmured. The wrong oath or ritual brings rejection. The pieces slid into place with sickening clarity. The Nightwatch wasn¡¯t just patrolling the city¡ªthey were monitoring potential Wielders who might attempt unauthorized Chronicle creation. Failed Wielders became feral monsters. The cults they hunted weren¡¯t merely fanatics; they were often victims of their own ambition. The Explorer''s Union must know this. They must deal with oaths and mystical phenomenon regularly. The Nightwatch respects and monitors them for a reason. He stood and paced, the lantern light casting sharp shadows on the walls. The fog beyond the window thickened, swirling like a living thing. The realization struck Silas with a jolt: If a Chronicle is successfully created, anyone with the correct oath can access it. The implications made his thoughts race. So, what if that¡¯s why the nobles are so powerful? The nobles of Evergarde held immense influence, far beyond their wealth or political clout. Many were known to possess mystical abilities. What if they weren¡¯t individually more talented or gifted but simply had access to established Chronicles¡ªpassed down, preserved, and shared exclusively within their bloodlines and inner circles? They¡¯ve built a network of power by monopolizing Chronicles, Silas thought. Family secrets. Hidden rituals. The same oaths whispered across generations. His mind conjured images of noble houses seated around grand mahogany tables, reciting ancient phrases, each member inheriting the same Chronicle. That''s how they maintain their dominance. Not by strength alone, but through shared power. But if that were true, why hadn¡¯t the nobles created vast armies of Wielders to crush any opposition? With their resources, they could have fielded battalions of Stalkers, Pathfinders, and Inspectors. Yet, the Nightwatch and the Explorer''s Union remained relatively small, and independent Wielders still existed in hiding. There must be a reason. He sat at the desk and focused inward. "System, verify hypothesis: Increasing the number of Wielders sharing the same Chronicle raises sublimation risk." The system processed the request. The seconds dragged on, tension coiling tighter in Silas''s chest. Finally, the response appeared: [Verification Complete ¨C Hypothesis Confirmed.] As the number of individuals bonded to a single Chronicle increases, the sublimation risk for all linked Wielders proportionally rises. The Astral Realm, recognizing the broader resonance, intensifies the challenge to maintain the Chronicle¡¯s integrity. Excessive proliferation results in reduced sublimation success rates, cognitive instability, and increased mutation probability. Silas exhaled slowly, the truth sinking in. So that¡¯s the limitation. The more Wielders connected to a Chronicle, the more dangerous the advancement process becomes. Sublimation wasn¡¯t just a linear path to power; it was a delicate, treacherous process dependent on the Astral World''s recognition. When too many tapped into the same Chronicle, the system became unstable. The Astral World demanded exclusivity¡ªor perhaps authenticity¡ªand punished those who tried to mass-produce power. That''s why the nobles don¡¯t build armies of Wielders. They know it would destabilize the Chronicles and weaken their potential for advancement. His mind circled back to the hidden Wielders scattered throughout Evergarde. They weren¡¯t just staying underground to avoid the Nightwatch; they were guarding their chances of sublimation. Sharing a Chronicle might grant temporary strength, but it dooms all who bear it to stagnation¡ªor worse. Silas leaned back in his chair, the weight of revelation pressing down on him. The nobles guarded their secrets not out of altruism, but to maintain control and ensure their own safe progression. Those who refused to share their Chronicles weren''t selfish¡ªthey were survivors, protecting their path to higher Orders. The Nightwatch knows this. The Explorer''s Union knows this. And now... I do too. He traced the grain of the wooden desk with his fingertip, mind alight with the dangerous knowledge he''d just unearthed. Power isn¡¯t just about obtaining a Chronicle. It''s about protecting the path of sublimation. The nobles had been playing this game for generations. Silas was just beginning. The question had been gnawing at Silas for hours, growing louder with each revelation. He had learned how Chronicles were crafted, how the Astral World resonated with human research, and how the oath served as both key and anchor. He knew that sharing a Chronicle diluted its power, that sublimation was fraught with peril, and that the nobles guarded their secrets like dragons hoarding gold. But one question remained¡ªthe most crucial of all. Can the system create a new Chronicle? His heart raced as the thought solidified. If the system could analyze fragments of forgotten rituals, reconstruct missing oaths, and decipher complex Causal strands, perhaps it could go further. Much further. He took a deep breath and gave the command. "System, analyze feasibility: Chronicle creation." [Analysis Requested ¨C Cost: 250 p. Proceed?] Silas blinked. Only 250 points? He had expected a far steeper price. The knowledge of Chronicle origins alone had cost more than double that. Yet here was a potentially groundbreaking query¡ªa discovery that could rewrite everything he knew about wielding mystical power¡ªoffered for a comparatively minor sum. The low cost unsettled him. Why is it so¡­ accessible? His pulse quickened. He hovered on the edge of uncertainty, then clenched his fists. "Proceed." The system responded with eerie swiftness. A cold, tingling sensation slid across his skull like icy fingers running through his thoughts. The faint hum that often accompanied minor scans deepened into a low, resonant vibration. The air around him seemed to grow heavier. Then, the response unfolded within his mind: [Chronicle Creation Feasibility: Confirmed.] Silas¡¯s breath caught in his throat. The system, utilizing the Information Module, can deduce and design a new Chronicle by analyzing existing Causal patterns in relation with the Astral Realm and utilizing accumulated Causal Points. Chronicle formation requires resonance with the Astral World, guided through a meticulously constructed oath and ritual. He gripped the edge of the desk, heart slamming against his ribs. The system can create a Chronicle¡­ from scratch. The next lines appeared with stark clarity: By consuming Causal Points, the system can exert limited influence over cause-and-effect structures within the first few layers of the Astral World. This manipulation, while constrained, can facilitate Chronicle resonance, initiate sublimation, and induce Wielder status directly. The required points, however, will be substantial. Silas exhaled a shaky breath, his mind struggling to grasp the enormity of what he had just learned. The system can control cause and effect? In the Astral World? It seems the Causal strands that were used to create the system, is a higher power that can influence the first few layers of the astral realm. The Astral World, that intangible higher dimension that scholars only theorized about, wasn¡¯t merely observable through the system¡ªit was, in part, manipulable. Not in grand, reality-altering ways, but enough to forge a Chronicle, induce sublimation, and, if necessary, bypass some of its natural restrictions. He pressed a hand to his chest, feeling the frantic drumbeat of his heart. I don¡¯t even need an existing Chronicle. The realization struck with terrifying clarity. I can become a Wielder without joining a cult, without stealing an oath, without pledging myself to a noble house. His legs wobbled beneath him. He collapsed into the chair, eyes fixed on the cracked plaster ceiling. The lantern''s glow flickered unevenly, shadows stretching across the walls like grasping tendrils. Causal Points¡­ they¡¯re more than currency for analysis. They¡¯re my key to altering the framework of reality. Every interaction, the causality centered around him, contributed to this growing reservoir of points. 1254 points¡­ and climbing. With enough time and knowledge, I could reshape the very forces that govern the Astral World. He ran his hands through his hair, breathing unsteady. The weight of it made his skin prickle. Power of this magnitude didn''t come without a price. He had to guard this secretly as the whole world might hunt him down if it is discovered. The system had handed him the tools to become extraordinary. But even extraordinary individuals died when they miscalculated the Astral World¡¯s rules. He exhaled shakily and sat upright, forcing his thoughts into order. Causal Points are the key. The more I accumulate, the better. His mind raced back to the cult ritual that had triggered the system''s awakening. The blood. The symbols. The oath spoken into the void. He hadn''t been the intended recipient. The original Silas had tried¡ªand failed¡ªto claim that power. The fog beyond the window thickened, pressing against the glass like a living thing. Silas stared into the swirling gray, heart pounding with a mix of fear and exhilaration. I have the power to create my own Chronicle. To become a Wielder. Chapter 4: Wielder Silas settled into a careful, calculated routine over the next few days, continuing his work as a runner for The Cogwheel Gazette. Outwardly, nothing seemed to change¡ªhe delivered messages, gathered news, and scurried through the mist-choked streets of Evergarde like any other overworked errand boy. But beneath the surface, every step, every word, every seemingly mundane task served a greater purpose. The limp remained. His boss, Oswald Grint, still barked orders and hurled insults whenever Silas walked into the office late or returned with a report that wasn¡¯t dripping in blood and tragedy. But Silas knew better than to give Grint the satisfaction of honest effort. Play the role. Stay invisible. Year 363, Fifth Month, 14th Day. He moved through the Gazette''s ink-stained halls with the demeanor of a wide-eyed teenager overwhelmed by his surroundings. He feigned confusion when Grint yelled about missed deadlines. He nodded along dumbly when reporters scoffed about the ¡°stupid kid who survived the Sable Court incident.¡± And when he handed in his reports¡ªthin sheets filled with regurgitated gossip, half-truths picked up from tavern conversations¡ªhe made sure to deliver them with an awkward smile and a self-effacing shrug. Grint bought it every time. The old miser never bothered checking facts unless the Nightwatch came knocking. And Silas knew his own value: reliable, disposable labor with just enough cunning to sniff out a story but not enough spine to ask for better wages. Or so they believed. He won¡¯t fire me. I¡¯m too useful and too easy to exploit. Grint had tried replacing Silas once, months ago, with a factory worker¡¯s kid who claimed to know the streets. The boy lasted three days. The Gazette needed someone who could weave gossip into sensational headlines while navigating Evergarde''s labyrinthine alleys without stumbling into trouble. Silas, with his seemingly harmless demeanor and a head full of fabricated tales, fit the role perfectly. He was fine with that. For now. His real focus lay elsewhere. Each errand, each conversation, each casual observation helped him gather more Causal Points. The system thrived on interactions¡ªsmall ripples of cause and effect that accumulated with every piece of information exchanged. The more he talked, listened, and blended into the city''s rhythm, the more points he gained. The process was subtle. The system never attracted attention, never left behind traces like the overt rituals performed by cultists or rogue Wielders. It harvested silently, sifting through the ambient currents of reality like a spider tugging on the threads of its web. Low presence, high gain. It was the perfect method for someone in his position. But staying unnoticed required caution. The Nightwatch was ever-present in the Outer City, patrolling streets and shadowing individuals who exhibited unusual behavior. Silas had seen them more often lately¡ªgrim-faced officers with Chronical-linked abilities scanning crowds beneath the flickering glow of gas lamps. He made sure to avoid places where the risk of anomaly detection was higher: no more spontaneous investigations of gruesome murders, no lingering near strange rituals or known cult sites. Instead, he focused on harmless interactions¡ªvendors arguing about prices, factory workers grumbling about broken machinery, street children telling tales of shadowy figures in the mist. Mundane gossip kept Grint satisfied and the system fed. The points trickled in steadily. [Causal Points: 2,512 p] The numbers grew with each passing day. The simplicity of it both thrilled and unnerved him. Talking to a baker about flour shortages shouldn¡¯t grant me insight into the Astral World¡­ but it does. The system harvested connections invisible to the human eye¡ªpatterns of cause and effect that wove through the city''s collective awareness. As he walked the streets, Silas began to see the patterns more clearly. The fog wasn¡¯t just fog¡ªit moved in subtle currents, thickening around certain alleyways or clinging to old stone walls etched with forgotten symbols. Conversations at market stalls often spiraled into the same rumors about the growing frequency of Nightwatch patrols near the western gate. And every time he passed the Explorer''s Union, the tension in the air thickened like a coiled spring awaiting release. I need connections. He couldn''t walk this path alone forever. Wielders operated in shadows or behind high walls; the ones who survived longest were either protected by noble houses or bolstered by strong alliances. If he wanted to ascend beyond the First Order safely, he''d need allies¡ªpeople with knowledge of the Astral World''s intricacies. The Explorer''s Union was an obvious starting point. They were pragmatic, driven by survival rather than ideology. Their Wielders understood the realities of sublimation and the dangers of resonance firsthand. The Nightwatch, on the other hand, viewed independent Wielders as potential anomalies. Trusting them was out of the question. First, I need to become a proper Wielder. Then I''ll find others like me. He set the goal in his mind like a stone laid into place. Step one: Gather enough points for Chronicle creation. Step two: Select a Chronicle that maximized his advantages. Step three: Forge connections, not alliances. Allies could become liabilities. He needed individuals with overlapping interests, not shared trust. The days blended together in a blur of minor assignments and fabricated news stories. Grint, predictably, remained oblivious. "You''re getting the knack of it, Crowell," Grint said one afternoon, tossing Silas a tarnished coin for his "hard work." "People love the bit about the sewer fog beast. Keep up the crap, and maybe I''ll give you two coins next time." Silas caught the coin and forced a grin. "Thanks, Mr. Grint. I''ll find more¡­ sewer monsters to write about." The man laughed, belly jiggling beneath his strained waistcoat. "Good lad. And remember¡ªpeople don''t want the truth. They want the story." That¡¯s what I¡¯m counting on. Silas pocketed the coin and limped toward the door. The system hummed faintly, a comforting, invisible presence at the edge of his thoughts. His future stretched before him like the mist-veiled streets of Evergarde: unpredictable, treacherous, and filled with secrets waiting to be unraveled. Silas returned home as dusk settled over Evergarde, the mist thickening into swirling tendrils that wrapped around the dim glow of the street lamps. The cold air clung to his clothes as he unlocked the door and stepped into the familiar confines of his modest home. The door creaked shut behind him with a dull thud, sealing him away from the city''s restless hum. He moved through the house with mechanical precision, completing his evening chores without thought. The floorboards groaned beneath his steps as he swept away the thin layer of soot carried in by the ever-present fog. He scrubbed the kitchen counter clean, stacked the remaining bread and cheese neatly on the shelf, and checked the locks on the windows twice. Finally, with everything in place, Silas lit the lantern on his desk and sat down. His heart quickened. The moment he''d been preparing for had arrived. Chronicle creation. The parchment from the cult¡¯s ritual lay folded in his satchel, a grim reminder of the price the original Silas had paid for his curiosity. But this time, Silas wasn''t working from fragmented knowledge or guesswork. He had the system. He had Causal Points. And he had a plan. Still, the enormity of what he was about to do pressed down on him. Once I create a Chronicle, there¡¯s no going back. He exhaled slowly and leaned back in the chair, eyes unfocused. Over the past few days, he''d used the system to explore the nuances of Chronicle acquisition. What he¡¯d discovered had left him both intrigued and cautious. "System, summarize the rules for possessing multiple Chronicles." The response materialized with its usual crisp clarity: [Multiple Chronicle Possession: Feasible. However, compatibility between oaths is critical. Oaths that conflict in nature or purpose create dissonance, which can destabilize sublimation and risk mental fragmentation.] Silas tapped his fingers against the desk. The logic made sense. Each Chronicle was more than just a skillset; it was an identity¡ªa blueprint of intent imprinted into the Wielder''s being. If two oaths pulled the mind in opposite directions, the resulting internal tug-of-war would fracture it. So, theoretically, I could collect more than one Chronicle... as long as their core principles align. That knowledge opened possibilities. If he selected Chronicles that complemented one another, he could build a versatile, adaptable foundation. But the system had also warned of the weight of oaths. "System, clarify the relationship between oath adherence and advancement." The answer came after a brief pause: [The oath functions as both a guide and a stabilizing anchor during sublimation. Full adherence is mandatory until the abilities granted by the Chronicle have fully manifested and stabilized. Once the oath has been consistently upheld for a sufficient period, the Wielder will experience a gradual loosening of its influence¡ªa phenomenon signaling the Chronicle''s maturation. This loosening indicates readiness for advancement to the next Order.] Silas¡¯s eyes narrowed. The oath wasn¡¯t permanent. It was a temporary tether, necessary to channel the Astral resonance during a Chronicle¡¯s formative stages. So the oath is like training wheels, he mused. Once the system''s abilities are fully integrated, the mind can hold them without constant reinforcement. But there was a catch: the timeline for this loosening depended on strict adherence. The system hadn¡¯t specified how long it would take. No shortcuts. Break the oath early, and everything might unravel. The thought of unraveling brought back the image of the mutated creature from Sable Court¡ªlimbs bent unnaturally, eyes empty, mind consumed by the failed Chronicle. Silas rubbed his palms together, grounding himself. The stakes were high, but the potential rewards were unparalleled. He now understood why Wielders who valued their survival either hid their abilities or sought positions of influence as nobles. The oath demanded more than words¡ªit required alignment with its principles in thought and action. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply. The path ahead was dangerous, but clarity came with the risk. I need to choose my Chronicle wisely. The lamp''s flame flickered, shadows dancing across the damp walls. Outside, the fog whispered against the windowpanes like an audience awaiting his decision. Silas sat motionless at his desk, the lantern¡¯s flame casting elongated shadows across the walls. His mind raced through the threads of his plan, weaving them into something more solid, more deliberate. The goal was clear: create a Chronicle that synergized with the system¡¯s information module¡ªone centered on learning, understanding, and eventually wielding the knowledge of mystical forces. Power through understanding, he thought. I don¡¯t need brute strength or combat abilities right now. I need a Chronicle that will help me uncover secrets, piece by piece, until I know enough to stand against whatever this world throws at me. He inhaled deeply, steadying his resolve. "System, generate new Chronicle options optimized for knowledge acquisition, analysis, and replication of mystical powers." Silas hadn¡¯t chosen the criteria for his Chronicle on a whim. The decision had been methodical, rooted in both his past life''s understanding of strategic growth and his newfound grasp of Evergarde¡¯s mystical landscape. From the moment he realized the system¡¯s potential to analyze and decode causality, he knew he needed more than a straightforward power set. He wanted flexibility¡ªsomething that would evolve alongside his knowledge, not stagnate after a few sublimations. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. Why settle for predefined skills when the world is filled with mysteries to uncover? In his previous life, the most versatile characters in games and stories had always intrigued him¡ªmages, wizards, and researchers who gained strength not through brute force but through the mastery of knowledge. They studied patterns, unlocked secrets, and wielded power through understanding rather than instinct. That was the foundation of his vision: not simply to become a Wielder, but to become one capable of adapting to any situation by studying and replicating the abilities of others. Chronicle abilities are finite, Silas reasoned. Each Chronicle offered only a handful of sublimations, all tied to the nature of its core oath. Wielders were, in essence, bound to the path dictated by their Chronicle''s identity. A Stalker might master stealth and ambush tactics, but never wield elemental forces. A Pathfinder could map terrain effortlessly but would struggle in a direct confrontation. That rigidity left Wielders predictable, vulnerable to anyone who understood their Chronicle''s limitations. Silas didn¡¯t want that. He didn¡¯t want to be boxed in by a single framework. He sought the ability to adapt, to evolve beyond the constraints of his Chronicle¡¯s core sublimations. Mimicry. That was the key. If his system¡¯s information module could analyze mystical causality and extract patterns from objects and environments, perhaps it could do the same for abilities wielded by others. With the right Chronicle¡ªa knowledge-centric one designed to study and replicate foreign abilities¡ªhe could learn from others, dissect the mechanics of their power, and imitate their techniques. But there was more to his decision than curiosity or tactical flexibility. In a world where the Nightwatch hunted independent Wielders and the nobles hoarded their secret rituals and oaths, knowledge was power in its purest form. By understanding how different Chronicles operated, Silas could better avoid detection, predict enemy behavior, and eventually carve out his own space of influence. Analysis Initiated ¨C Cost: 350 p. Proceed? Silas¡¯s jaw tightened. Another deduction. The points were vanishing faster than he liked, but this was an investment. "Proceed." The familiar chill swept through his mind. Images and impressions coalesced¡ªold tomes, ink-stained diagrams, and shadowy figures whispering incantations into the mist. After several seconds, the results appeared. [Possible Chronicles for Knowledge Acquisition] Seeker (Existing Chronicle) Archivist (Existing Chronicle) Thaumaturge (Existing Chronicle) Occultist (New Chronicle ¨C Potential Creation) Mirrormage (New Chronicle ¨C Potential Creation) Silas''s eyes locked on the entries. Occultist and Mirrormage. The words resonated within him. The description aligned perfectly with his vision: a Chronicle designed to uncover secrets, study patterns, and eventually replicate the phenomenon it observed. It¡¯s slow to sublimate, he noted, brow furrowing. But slow doesn''t mean weak. If the system can help accelerate knowledge acquisition, the Chronicle''s imitation abilities could be invaluable. After careful consideration, Silas made his decision: the Occultist Chronicle. While the Mirrormage offered the alluring ability to mimic powers, it was a path of specialization¡ªfocused, narrow, and inherently limiting. It locked him into the pursuit of imitation, making his growth dependent on observing others'' abilities. Occultist, on the other hand, provided a broader foundation. Its core was the study of mysteries, the decoding of esoteric principles, and the understanding of mystical phenomena at their roots. Knowledge first. Power second. The Occultist Chronicle promised versatility. Mystical knowledge spanned countless disciplines¡ªrituals, artifacts, curses, and astral patterns. With a solid grasp of these underlying truths, Silas could eventually branch out into more specialized areas, possibly even crafting his own unique paths of power. The Mirrormage was a finished puzzle; the Occultist was the toolkit to build new ones. "The more I know, the more paths open up." He straightened in his chair, inhaling deeply. The fog beyond the window thickened as if responding to his resolve. He rubbed his palms together, nervous energy crackling through him. "System, display oath requirements for the Chronicle: Occultist." The system''s presence deepened, and lines of text unfurled in his mind: [Chronicle: Occultist ¨C Oath Requirements] "In mystery, I seek; in knowledge, I endure. The veiled shall be unveiled; the unknown shall be understood. To witness, to comprehend, to adapt¡ªI walk the path of the unseen scholar." Core Principles: Sublimation Potential: Projected Sublimation Timeframe: Extended. Requires continuous intellectual engagement with new phenomena to prevent stagnation. Silas read the oath twice, letting the words imprint themselves in his memory. The Chronicle wasn''t flashy or straightforward. It demanded patience, curiosity, and discipline. But the potential¡­ Mimicry of mystical abilities. His pulse quickened. If he played his cards right, he wouldn''t need brute force to defend himself. He could study the abilities of other Wielders¡ªfrom the Nightwatch to rogue cultists¡ªand replicate their techniques when necessary. Knowledge would become his weapon. He ran his fingers along the desk¡¯s rough surface, mind racing. The Chronicle was slow to mature, but its long-term potential was staggering. With the system¡¯s information module accelerating his learning, he might bypass years of traditional study. Most Wielders rely on trial and error. I have a system that can decode mysteries in seconds. Silas sat motionless at his desk, the faint glow of the lantern casting elongated shadows across the room. His decision was final: he would walk the path of the Occultist. The Chronicle¡¯s core promise resonated with him deeply¡ªnot just power, but understanding. The mysteries of the Astral World were vast, and he intended to uncover their secrets piece by piece. Power fades without knowledge. But with knowledge¡­ He smirked. Power can be rebuilt, reshaped, and refined. The system stirred in response to his intent, its presence growing sharper, more defined. [Chronicle Creation: Occultist Initiated.] The familiar chill returned, creeping through his veins like frost-laced ink spreading beneath his skin. The lantern''s flame flickered violently, casting shadows that twisted into unfamiliar shapes. [Ritual Requirements Detected.] The system presented the instructions in his mind like a page unfolding within his thoughts: Ritual for Chronicle: Occultist
  1. Circle of Insight: Draw a ritual circle composed of ash and iron shavings, forming interconnected runes that symbolize perception and comprehension.
  2. Offerings of Memory: Place three tokens of intellectual effort within the circle¡ªparchments of recorded knowledge, symbols of discovery.
  3. Catalyst of Awareness: Burn incense mixed with powdered nocturn grass, known for its resonance with higher-dimensional perception.
  4. Oath Recitation: Speak the oath aloud while focusing on the intent to unravel mysteries and walk the path of knowledge.
Failure to adhere to the ritual sequence may result in Astral rejection. Silas''s pulse quickened as he absorbed the instructions. The ritual sounded intricate but manageable¡ªuntil the last line. Astral rejection. The consequences were already seared into his memory: the mutilated remains of the original Silas, a grim reminder of what happened when one tampered with cosmic forces unprepared. He stood and paced the room, his mind calculating the risks. Finding nocturn grass would be difficult. Drawing the circle would take time and place. And with the Nightwatch¡¯s recent increase in patrols, burning incense with mystical properties might draw unwanted attention. The system detected his hesitation and responded with a new prompt: [Alternative Method Available: Causal Point Consumption.] He stopped mid-step. An alternative? [By spending 1,500 Causal Points, the system can bypass the traditional ritual. Direct Astral resonance can be achieved through controlled cause-and-effect manipulation, ensuring safe Chronicle integration without external materials or exposure.] Silas inhaled sharply. Direct manipulation of the First layer of Astral World. The cost was steep¡ªmore than half of his accumulated points¡ªbut the benefits were undeniable. No physical ritual, no risky materials, and no chance of the Nightwatch sniffing around his basement. "System, are there any additional risks?" [Minor cognitive strain expected. No risk of rejection under controlled system conditions.] The decision was easy. "Proceed with Chronicle integration via Causal Points." The room darkened as though the lantern''s flame had been swallowed by the shadows. The temperature plummeted. Silas sat down, gripping the arms of his chair as the pressure mounted. The fog beyond the window thickened until it obscured the glass entirely, swirling like smoke trapped in a bottle. The system''s voice resonated through the silence, deeper and more resonant than before: [Prepare to recite the oath. Chronicle integration will commence upon completion.] Silas licked his dry lips and straightened his back. The oppressive stillness pressed against his chest, each breath sharp and cold. His pulse roared in his ears. The words came to him in with unshakable clarity : "In mystery, I seek; in knowledge, I endure. The veiled shall be unveiled; the unknown shall be understood. To witness, to comprehend, to adapt¡ªI walk the path of the unseen scholar." The moment the last syllable left his lips, the room convulsed. The lantern shattered with a sharp crack. The wooden floor groaned as though under immense weight. Invisible forces coiled around Silas¡¯s body like serpents tightening their grip. His mind expanded outward, drawn into a vast, cold void where stars pulsed like distant heartbeats. The Astral World opened before him¡ªa realm of endless layers, each vibrating with patterns of energy and threads of cause and effect. He saw streams of knowledge etched into the cosmic fabric: forgotten equations, half-formed rituals, and shadowy figures inscribing symbols in blood and ash. The system guided the process, tethering him to the fragment of the Astral World of 1st Layer, aligned with the Occultist Chronicle. He felt the oath take root within his mind, not as a rigid command but as a guiding principle. His thoughts rearranged themselves to accommodate its presence, like gears aligning within a finely tuned mechanism. The sensation lasted an eternity¡ªor a heartbeat. Then, with a final surge of cold energy, the connection solidified. The oppressive force vanished. The air warmed. The fog outside the window dissipated into thin wisps. Silas collapsed forward, gasping for breath. His vision blurred, his head pounding from the mental strain. But beneath the exhaustion lay something new¡ªan unfamiliar hum resonating within his consciousness. A presence distinct from the system itself. The Chronicle. The system¡¯s voice returned, softer now, almost satisfied: [Chronicle Integration Complete.] [New Chronicle Acquired: Occultist (First Order)] Core Oath Principles: Silas sagged against the desk, skin clammy and breath uneven. His body ached as though he''d run for miles without rest. But beneath the exhaustion, a thrill stirred. He closed his eyes and focused inward. The system remained unchanged in its precision, but now it shared space with something more abstract. A quiet undercurrent of awareness¡ªthe Chronicle''s essence. He could feel the subtle shift in perception, like stepping into a dark room and suddenly realizing the walls were covered in faint, glowing patterns. He rubbed his temples and sat up, the weight of the oath settling over him. Mysteries, knowledge, adaptation. These weren''t abstract concepts anymore; they were the foundation of his new path. The veiled shall be unveiled¡­ He smiled faintly. Evergarde was a city of secrets. And now, with the Occultist Chronicle, he had the key to unlock them. Chapter 5: Sublimation Silas awoke the next morning feeling a sense of clarity unlike anything he had experienced since arriving in this world. The usual fog of sleep dissipated quickly, replaced by a sharp, almost electric awareness humming at the edges of his mind. The Occultist Chronicle was now part of him¡ªa quiet presence nestled alongside the system in his consciousness space. Stretching with a satisfied groan, he sat up and rubbed the lingering ache from his temples. His body felt unchanged, but the subtle shift in his perception was undeniable. The patterns of the world around him felt more...structured. He could almost sense the faint impressions of interactions¡ªlike echoes left behind by past events. The oath whispered gently in the background: Observe. Learn. Unveil. With renewed focus, Silas turned his attention to the system interface. "System, display status." The familiar text unfolded across his vision, crisp and efficient: [Status Report] Silas''s eyes locked on the Spirit attribute. 11.3. He exhaled slowly, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. He¡¯d done it. Surpassing the threshold of 10 signified the transition from ordinary mortal to Wielder. The number wasn¡¯t just a metric; it was proof that his connection to the Astral World had solidified. The strands that once hovered beyond reach were now faintly perceptible¡ªa distant, pulsing web of cause and effect that he could one day learn to influence. His gaze shifted to the Chronicle progress: 1/10. The new representation was his own custom adjustment, implemented through the system''s flexible interface. He had decided on a simple structure to track his growth: ten levels, each representing a milestone in his mastery of the Occultist Chronicle. According to the system¡¯s calculations, sublimation abilities would unlock at specific intervals: Level 10 would mark the Chronicle''s full maturity¡ªthe point where the oath would loosen its grip, signaling his readiness to advance to the next Order. The oath isn''t forever, Silas mused. It''s just the framework. Once the foundation''s stable, I can move forward. The thought sparked a thrill of anticipation. Advancement wasn¡¯t just about power¡ªit was about stepping deeper into the Astral World''s mysteries. But first, knowledge. Step by step. He dismissed the interface with a thought, stood, and moved toward the window. The fog remained, thick and impenetrable as always. Yet now, it felt less like an obstacle and more like a veil awaiting discovery. Time to get to work. The days that followed were a blur of calculated routine and subtle preparation. Silas maintained his facade of naivety at The Cogwheel Gazette, limping into the office each morning with his usual half-apologetic, half-harried expression. Grint remained oblivious, too absorbed in circulation numbers and sensational headlines to notice the quiet intensity with which Silas now observed the world around him. The Occultist Chronicle was already altering his perception. Patterns that once seemed random¡ªlike the distribution of soot on the cobblestones or the faint etchings on brass pipes¡ªnow hinted at deeper structures. But Silas didn¡¯t draw attention to his growing awareness. He delivered his fabricated reports, listened to gossip, and accepted Grint¡¯s dismissive remarks with a disarming grin. All the while, his mind remained fixated on his true work. After work each evening, Silas navigated the labyrinthine alleys of the Outer City, searching for pieces of a new identity. He couldn''t afford recognition if he needed to investigate anomalies more closely. He started with a mask. In Brasswick Market, a sprawling district of steam-hissing carts and tarp-covered stalls, he found a vendor hawking masquerade masks left over from old Inner City festivals. Most were painted with gaudy colors, the kind nobles wore during galas. But at the bottom of the pile, he found one carved from dark, matte wood: simple, angular, and featureless except for narrow eye slits. "That one¡¯s cursed, lad," the vendor said with a half-smile. "Made from a tree what grew too close to the fog. People say it whispers at night." Silas met the man¡¯s gaze and smiled faintly. "Sounds perfect." The vendor gave a crooked laugh and accepted the coin without further argument. Silas tucked the mask into his satchel and melted into the crowd. Over the next two nights, he acquired the rest of his disguise: a plain charcoal cloak with a high collar, leather gloves, and a simple utility belt with pouches for chalk, scraps of parchment, and a small, brass-tipped dagger. Nothing flashy. Nothing expensive. Just practical, unassuming gear that could help him slip into shadow when necessary. On the third night, Silas sat down at his desk and summoned the status interface. [Status Report] Causal Points: 1310 p His heart skipped a beat. 3/10? Already? And also 1000+ Causal points? He leaned forward, rubbing his temples. The Occultist Chronicle was supposed to be slow. The oath mandated prolonged study and patient accumulation of mystical knowledge. Yet here he was, only a few days into his journey, and already approaching his first sublimation. "System, analyze cause of accelerated progression and increased points" The system responded after a brief pause: [Progression Analysis Complete] Cause Identified: Conclusion: Chronicle progression has been bolstered by pre-existing knowledge resonance. Current sublimation readiness projected within 24-48 hours. Increased points due to creation of a new chronicle and becoming a Wielder - your existence carries more ¡®weight¡¯. If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. Silas exhaled slowly, understanding the reason for increased points. So he focused on the progression. My past investigations sped up the process. As the system was part of him, the chronicle recognized the system¡¯s information analysis as his own abidance of the oath. The hours spent prying into the secrets of Chronicle origins, the Astral World''s structure, and the mechanics of sublimation had laid an invisible foundation. The Occultist Chronicle, attuned to knowledge and intellectual engagement, had latched onto that groundwork. The realization brought equal parts relief and dread. He was ahead of schedule¡ªbut that meant the first sublimation was closer than he''d expected. "System, clarify risks associated with first sublimation." [First Sublimation Risks:] Recommended Preparation: Silas ran a hand through his hair. His pulse quickened at the thought of disorientation while locked in the Astral World. If something went wrong and the Nightwatch detected it¡­ No. He shook the thought away. The system had guided him safely through the Chronicle creation; it would do the same for the sublimation. He just needed to prepare. Insight Tap¡ªthe first sublimation¡ªwould allow him to extend the system''s range and depth when analyzing mystical phenomena. It was a utility skill, not combat-related, but knowledge was often a deadlier weapon than steel. He sat back and stared at the ceiling. The fog outside thickened, swirling against the window like restless smoke. His body was exhausted from the day¡¯s work, but his mind raced with possibilities. The first real step toward mastery. He closed his eyes and let his breathing slow, centering himself. The morning arrived with the low groan of steam whistles echoing from the Ironclad District. Silas dressed, made himself a sparse breakfast, and tucked the dark wooden mask into the false bottom of his satchel. As he stepped onto the street, the fog curled around his ankles like a living thing. He didn¡¯t mind it as much anymore. The mist wasn¡¯t just a blanket of confusion; it was a canvas hiding threads of unseen forces. His path was set: continue his mundane routine, gather more points, and when the moment was right¡ªinitiate his first sublimation. Night draped Evergarde in its familiar shroud of thick, pale fog. The usual sounds of the Outer City¡ªdistant steam whistles, the occasional clatter of hooves on cobblestones¡ªfaded into the background as Silas sat cross-legged on the wooden floor of his cramped bedroom. The lantern on his desk was extinguished, leaving only the faint, cold glow of the moon struggling through the mist-smeared window. The air was still, heavy with anticipation. His pulse quickened as he gave the command. "System, initiate first sublimation: Insight Tap." [Initiating Sublimation ¨C Cost: 1,000 p. Proceed?] The confirmation rattled through his mind like a lock turning. His heart stuttered. A thousand points. Almost everything he had left. The first irreversible step into the unknown. He exhaled slowly, steeling himself. "Proceed." The temperature in the room plummeted instantly. The wooden floor beneath him groaned like a living thing. The thin walls, warped from years of moisture, seemed to pulse inward as though the house itself was holding its breath. The system''s voice, colder and more distant than usual, whispered: [Recite the oath to anchor the sublimation.] Silas¡¯s mouth went dry. The pressure pressed down on his chest, turning each breath into a shallow gasp. He clenched his fists and focused on the words etched into his mind. "In mystery, I seek; in knowledge, I endure. The veiled shall be unveiled; the unknown shall be understood. To witness, to comprehend, to adapt¡ªI walk the path of the unseen scholar." The moment the last word left his lips, the air cracked like ice splitting across a frozen lake. An invisible force surged through his body, igniting his veins with searing cold. His vision blurred. The walls stretched and twisted, the ceiling spiraling upward into endless black. The floor beneath him vanished. He fell¡ªbut didn¡¯t move. The sensation was impossible to describe: disorienting yet stationary, like standing at the epicenter of a silent, collapsing storm. The familiar system interface shattered into fragments of glowing symbols that swirled around him, rearranging themselves into patterns he didn¡¯t understand. The cold intensified, stabbing into his skull. Images flooded his mind: ancient, weathered runes carved into stone tablets; veins of shimmering, silver mist threading through shadowy streets; flickering outlines of creatures that defied description. Then, abruptly, the pressure ceased. The world snapped back into place with a jarring clarity. His bedroom returned¡ªrough wooden floor beneath him, damp walls, the faint scent of mildew in the air. His breath came in ragged gulps, his skin slick with sweat. [Sublimation Complete.] [Ability Unlocked: Insight Tap ¨C Extend analytical reach to reveal hidden mystical structures. Usage limited by cognitive strain.] Silas slumped against the wall, heart racing. The hum of the Chronicle was stronger now, more present. He could feel it beneath his thoughts like a faint vibration¡ªa tuning fork resonating with unseen forces. Insight Tap. The ability was his. The first tangible manifestation of his Chronicle. He wiped his forehead with a trembling hand and sat upright. His curiosity stirred despite his exhaustion. The system had warned that the ability revealed mystical structures otherwise hidden to the eye. Evergarde was a city steeped in mystery. The possibilities were endless. Test it. Silas shifted to his knees and moved to the window. Outside, the fog swirled lazily in the dim moonlight, soft and impenetrable as always. He placed a hand against the cold glass and activated the ability. Activate Insight Tap. The shift was instantaneous. The fog changed. What had been a uniform, featureless blanket transformed into a layered tapestry of currents and eddies. Thin strands of silvery energy wove through the mist, forming faint, swirling patterns like invisible rivers in the air. Silas''s breath caught. So this is what the world really looks like. Curiosity overtook caution. He tilted his head back and directed his gaze upward, toward the sky where the mist was thickest. The fog peeled away under his enhanced sight, revealing what lay beyond. And his blood turned to ice. High above Evergarde, concealed by the ever-present mist, vast shapes moved. They swam through the sky like deep-sea leviathans gliding through black water. Their bodies were massive and twisted, formed of shadow and something more¡ªa presence that strained the edges of his perception. Long, jagged limbs extended from bulbous torsos, some trailing tendrils of black mist that dissipated into the surrounding air. Their eyes¡ªor what passed for eyes¡ªglimmered faintly, shifting as though scanning the ground below. One of them turned its head. The creature didn''t move physically; it just¡­ shifted. Its form reoriented without any discernible motion, and suddenly it faced his direction. Silas¡¯s heart stopped. The thing had no discernible features, but its awareness was palpable. A crushing, predatory intelligence radiated from it, locking onto his gaze. The air seemed to thicken. The fog outside the window pressed against the glass as if recoiling¡ªor perhaps being drawn in. A whisper resonated through his mind, cold and distant: "See you¡­" Terror seized him. He tore his gaze away with a strangled gasp, collapsing to the floor. His chest heaved as he scrambled backward until his back slammed against the opposite wall. The room swam around him. His limbs trembled uncontrollably. The system crackled in his mind, distorted and faint: [Cognitive overload detected.] Silas squeezed his eyes shut, gripping his knees. The whisper still echoed through his skull, hollow and persistent. The oppressive sensation of being watched lingered long after the connection had been severed. They see you before you see them. The words he''d heard from the explorer at the Union came rushing back. The creatures in the sky weren¡¯t just distant curiosities. They were aware¡ªintelligent enough to notice when something peered into their domain. The realization made his stomach lurch. The fog wasn''t merely atmospheric or a byproduct of Evergarde¡¯s location. It was a veil, a barrier between the mundane and something far more dangerous. And tonight, for the briefest moment, he had torn that veil aside. He forced himself to breathe evenly, wiping the cold sweat from his brow. The instinct to run, to flee into the streets and hide beneath the stone arches of the city, pulsed through him. But he fought it down. Running wouldn''t help. Never look at the sky with Insight Tap again. He etched the rule into his mind. The risk wasn¡¯t worth it. If those creatures could perceive him, they might find him. Chapter 6: Abilities The days following his first sublimation passed in a haze of heightened awareness. Silas¡¯s perception had sharpened significantly, thanks to Insight Tap. Patterns that once seemed like random distortions in the fog now revealed subtle currents of astral energy. The city of Evergarde, once a maze of stone and steam, unfolded itself as a living, breathing construct of Causal patterns and cause-and-effect threads. But the creatures in the sky haunted him. He avoided looking upward now, even without activating his ability. The whisper that had pierced his mind that night echoed like a distant, dissonant note: "See you¡­" Shaking off the memory, Silas refocused. He had more immediate concerns. His status had shifted after the sublimation, and the system''s revelations had set a new course for his training. He summoned the interface again. [Status Report] The limit increase still struck him as strange. A human''s normal threshold was ten, yet now his body and spirit could each reach twenty. The spirit attribute had already surged ahead, powered by the Occultist''s knowledge-centric nature. His body lagged behind, a weakness he intended to fix. Power without a foundation crumbles at the first shock. He shifted his gaze to the abilities the system had extracted from the Astral World''s first layer. The permanent connection established during sublimation allowed it to access imprints of existing Chronicles in the astral world. What intrigued him most was the system''s revelation: by spending Causal Points, he could extend its reach into the first layer then decipher and study these abilities until they became comprehensible. The system consumed 700 p for the extraction. The options materialized in his thoughts: [Extracted Abilities ¨C First Order Layer Analysis] Gravemark Resilience (Stonekeeper Chronicle) Silent Steps (Stalker Chronicle ¨C Partially Extracted) Ironthread Vitality (Brassguard Chronicle) Silas tapped his finger against the edge of the desk. Each ability offered something crucial. It wasn¡¯t just one or two of these abilities that intrigued him¡ªit was all of them. Why specialize when I can have versatility? His system had no inherent restrictions on the number of abilities he could learn. The only barrier was the cost. "System, can I study all three abilities simultaneously?" [Confirmed. Multiple ability studies can proceed concurrently. Each requires separate Causal Point expenditure for full comprehension.] The cost would be steep¡ª850 points in total. He barely had a fraction of that right now. But points accumulated naturally through interactions, and Silas still had access to The Cogwheel Gazette, a position that granted constant exposure to information-rich environments. Time isn''t my enemy. Stagnation is. The decision settled into place with a satisfying click. He would study all three abilities, balancing his physical development alongside his growing arcane insight. The Occultist was a path of knowledge, but survival required more than wisdom. "System, commence simultaneous study of Gravemark Resilience, Silent Steps, and Ironthread Vitality. Allocate all available points and activate passive observation and comprehension. Deliver and integrate progress updates each night during sleep." [Acknowledged. Allocating 90 p to study initiation. Passive data collection ongoing.] The interface dimmed. The hum of the system''s activity settled into the back of his consciousness. Silas leaned back in his chair, exhaustion pulling at his muscles. His gaze drifted toward the window, where the fog coiled against the glass like pale serpents. The sky beyond remained a dark, unknowable void. His connection to the Astral World was permanent now, a thread tethering his mind to that hidden dimension. "System, explain the nature of this connection." [The Chronicle''s initial sublimation established a persistent link with the first Astral layer. This layer contains echoes of mystical activities and Chronicle imprints of first order. The system can extend its reach through this connection to analyze patterns, identify the imprints, and extract usable data with consumption of Causal points.] Silas¡¯s eyes narrowed. The Astral World wasn''t just some abstract metaphysical plane; it was a living record of mystical forces. The fog thickened, pressing against the windowpane. Silas stood and approached it, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground rather than the sky. His reflection stared back at him¡ªpale skin, dark hair, and the faint flicker of determination in his eyes. The wooden mask lay on the windowsill beside him. He picked it up, ran his fingers along its smooth surface, and lifted it to his face. The eye slits framed the street below: empty, quiet, and deceptively ordinary. The veil is thinning. He set the mask down and turned away. The Occultist Chronicle promised understanding, but that knowledge came with risk. The creatures above had reminded him of that. The whisper resurfaced: "See you¡­" He shuddered and made a silent vow: No more looking at the sky. For now, his focus would remain grounded¡ªin the streets, the city, and the knowledge etched into the Astral World''s first layer. The sky, with its watching things, could wait. His path was set. Knowledge. Body. Survival. The work of an unseen scholar had just begun. Year 363, Sixth Month, 11th Day. The morning broke with a sickly, pale light filtering through Evergarde¡¯s ever-present fog. The air carried a metallic tang, sharp and unsettling, as if the mist itself were steeped in blood. Silas was halfway through scribbling a fabricated eyewitness account of a ¡°shadowy figure seen near the Steamspire Bridge¡± when Grint¡¯s voice shattered the relative calm. ¡°Crowell!¡± The office door slammed open, banging against the wall. Edric Grint''s bulk filled the doorway, his jowls trembling with agitation beneath his patchy beard. His stained waistcoat strained against his gut as he waved a crumpled slip of paper in one meaty hand. ¡°Get your scrawny ass moving. Bloodbath on Mournshade Street. Whole damned place locked down. Enforcers everywhere. Go. Now.¡± Silas¡¯s heartbeat quickened. He dropped his pen and stood. ¡°Bloodbath? You mean a murder scene?¡± Grint¡¯s eyes bulged. ¡°Did I stutter, boy? Street''s painted red! Cult activity, probably. Or some feral fogborn gone wrong.¡± He threw the paper onto Silas¡¯s desk. The ink smudged from sweat stains. ¡°I need that report before noon. No half-assed guesses this time. If the Gazette doesn¡¯t get the scoop, that damned Industrial Herald will.¡± Silas swallowed the questions bubbling up in his throat and grabbed his satchel. Mournshade Street. The name sounded familiar. A residential sector near the old canal, mostly workers from the brass foundries and machinist guilds. Quiet. Unremarkable. Until now. Silas stepped into the street, pulling his coat tight against the damp chill. The fog clung low, swirling around his ankles like grasping hands. He pushed through the early-morning bustle of the Outer City: factory workers heading to shifts, street vendors setting up carts, children with soot-streaked faces darting through alleys. The faint hum of steam engines and the sharp clang of distant machinery created Evergarde¡¯s familiar mechanical symphony. But something was off today. People moved faster than usual, heads down, eyes wary. Conversations died as he passed. He caught snippets of hushed voices: ¡°¡­a whole street, they said¡­blood everywhere¡­¡± ¡°¡­Nightwatch is out in force. Even brought those weird ones with the silver pins¡­¡± This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. ¡°¡­heard they didn¡¯t find the thing that did it¡­¡± The tension thickened as he neared Mournshade Street. The fog grew denser, laced with an acrid, coppery scent that made his stomach clench. Blood, the system whispered in the back of his mind. Fresh. Uncontained. A barricade came into view ahead. Two enforcers in heavy leather coats stood beside it, rifles held tight. Their eyes scanned the crowd like cornered dogs expecting a fight. Beyond them, silhouettes moved through the mist¡ªfigures clad in dark, angular coats with glinting insignias on their shoulders. Nightwatch Wielders. Silas slowed his pace, breathing deeply to calm the adrenaline spike. He needed to get closer without drawing attention. He approached the barricade casually, adopting the slouched posture of a bored errand boy. The closest enforcer¡ªa wiry man with sunken eyes¡ªlifted a hand. ¡°Street¡¯s closed. Turn around.¡± Silas raised his notebook and gave his most harmless smile. ¡°Cogwheel Gazette. Boss sent me to cover the scene.¡± He thumbed toward his press badge, a battered copper token stamped with the paper¡¯s cogwheel insignia. ¡°Just here to observe from a distance, sir.¡± The enforcer squinted. ¡°Press already? Damn vultures. Go stand with the others.¡± He jerked a thumb toward the left, where a cluster of reporters gathered behind another barricade. Silas forced a grateful nod. ¡°Thank you, sir.¡± He shuffled toward the indicated spot but slowed as he passed the barrier. His pulse quickened when Insight Tap stirred at the edge of his awareness. The fog wasn¡¯t natural here. Thin, silvery threads coiled through the air¡ªresidual astral patterns from mystical activity. He made a mental note: astral patterns lingering after mass violence. The reporters crowded the secondary barricade, whispering among themselves. A thin woman with raven-black hair and sharp eyes caught his glance. He recognized her immediately¡ªEliza Vale from the Industrial Herald, notorious for her relentless questions and sharper tongue. She stood apart from the other reporters, her sharp eyes dissecting the scene with the detached precision of a surgeon. She was tall and slender, with raven-black hair pulled into a tight braid that coiled over one shoulder. Stray strands framed her angular face, giving her a perpetually wind-swept look despite the stillness of the air. Her eyes¡ªan icy, calculating gray¡ªmissed nothing. They flitted across the blood-soaked cobblestones, the twisted remains being carried past the barricades, and the Nightwatch officers stalking through the mist with rifles drawn. When she looked at you, it felt less like a conversation and more like an interrogation. She wore a charcoal-gray coat tailored to fit her lean frame, its brass buttons polished to a subtle sheen. The fabric, though simple, bore faint ink stains at the cuffs¡ªsilent evidence of countless hours spent scribbling notes under dim gaslight. A leather satchel rested against her hip, bulging with notebooks and folded copies of the Industrial Herald. Her lips rarely smiled, but when they did, the expression carried a hint of sardonic amusement¡ªas if she were perpetually in on a secret others had yet to grasp. Her voice was smooth, measured, with a trace of dry humor that sharpened when discussing anything related to the Nightwatch or Evergarde¡¯s nobility. Eliza wasn''t just a reporter; she was a predator. She asked the questions others feared to voice and followed leads into places even enforcers hesitated to tread. The rumor around the Gazette was that she¡¯d once confronted a known cultist in a crowded market, cornering him with questions until the Nightwatch arrived to drag him away. As Silas stood beside her now, he couldn''t shake the feeling that she was studying him, cataloging every twitch and glance. And from the faint, knowing smile on her lips, she had already decided he was hiding something. ¡°Crowell, huh?¡± she said with a crooked smile. ¡°Grint send you to write more stories about sewer ghosts?¡± Silas shrugged. ¡°Just here to watch the professionals work.¡± Her eyes flicked toward the mist-shrouded street behind the barricade. ¡°Yeah. Professional butchers. Ever seen a whole street turned into an abattoir?¡± His stomach knotted. ¡°What happened here, exactly?¡± She arched an eyebrow. ¡°Didn¡¯t you hear? They haven¡¯t figured it out yet. No monster tracks. No ritual circles. Just¡­ blood. Pools of it. And bodies chopped like meat. Enforcers found pieces of people hanging from lamp posts.¡± Silas swallowed hard. ¡°Cult activity?¡± ¡°That¡¯s the official guess. But¡­¡± Eliza¡¯s gaze drifted toward the fog. ¡°Nightwatch brought their specialists. The ones with the silver-vine pins. Means it¡¯s bigger than some back-alley cult.¡± Silas filed the details away. The Nightwatch had specialists¡ªWielders trained to identify and neutralize anomalous phenomena. The silver-vine insignia marked officers from the Nightwatch Division, a unit tasked with investigating incidents tied to Astral resonance. Their presence here meant something far worse than a mundane massacre. A commotion at the barricade drew their attention. Two enforcers hauled a blood-soaked stretcher from the mist. The canvas covering sagged unnaturally. A severed arm flopped free, the skin pale and slick, fingers twisted into a clawed grasp. Eliza paled. ¡°Third one they¡¯ve brought out like that.¡± Silas¡¯s breath quickened. His Chronicle stirred, urging him to see beneath the surface. He activated Insight Tap. The world shifted. The fog thinned, revealing faint impressions of what had happened. Blood-patterns painted the cobblestones in unnatural spirals. The strands of astral signatures twisted toward a central point¡ªa void where the air itself seemed scarred. The distortion crackled faintly with residual traces of intent. The sensation turned his stomach. The killer didn¡¯t just strike bodies. It fractured the Astral resonance here. He followed the threads upward with his gaze and froze. Strips of flesh dangled from the overhead wires. Blood dripped onto the cobblestones below, pooling unnaturally without soaking into the cracks. More disturbing, however, was the aura clinging to the remains: jagged and incomplete, like a fractured signature. The chronicle hummed softly and the insight tap shared the results. [Pattern recognized: Forced Sublimation Failure. Origin: Unknown Chronicle signature.] Forced sublimation failure? His mind raced. Sublimation required strict adherence to an oath. Forcing it on someone without their knowledge or consent should have been impossible. Yet the bodies here suggested otherwise. He heard footsteps. A figure emerged from the fog, accompanied by two Nightwatch officers. The man wore a long coat adorned with a silver-vine pin on the lapel. His hair was white, his eyes sharp and cold. Silas recognized him immediately: Lieutenant Quinn. The officer who had nearly spotted him weeks ago. Quinn paused, scanning the crowd. His gaze lingered on Silas for an uncomfortably long moment. Silas¡¯s pulse spiked. He deactivated Insight Tap and dropped his gaze to his notebook, scribbling nonsense to appear occupied. The system¡¯s warning echoed in his mind. Forced sublimation. Someone¡ªor something¡ªwas breaking the natural order of Chronicle progression. And whatever had caused this bloodbath had left no footprints. Suddenly he felt an intense gaze upon him, turned to look, and saw Elize staring at him. Silas shifted uncomfortably under Eliza¡¯s gaze. Her eyes, sharp and unyielding, flicked to his notebook, then back to his face. The faint smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth wasn¡¯t one of amusement¡ªit was the look of a cat toying with a mouse, waiting for it to move. ¡°You¡¯ve got that look, Crowell,¡± she said, voice smooth and low. ¡°Seen it before. Someone trying to pretend they don¡¯t see what¡¯s right in front of them.¡± Silas forced a chuckle. ¡°Just trying to figure out how to turn this mess into a headline. ¡®Bloodbath on Mournshade Street¡ªCity Gripped by Fear.¡¯ Grint loves the dramatic stuff.¡± Eliza tilted her head, braid swaying across her shoulder. ¡°Sure. Let me guess¡ªyou¡¯ve already got a theory?¡± He gave a half-shrug, careful not to meet her eyes too long. ¡°Cult work, probably. Blood magic. Classic story.¡± Her smile widened, but it didn¡¯t reach her eyes. ¡°Maybe. If you ignore the lack of ritual circles. Or the way the blood pooled unnaturally.¡± She tapped the corner of her notebook with a gloved finger. ¡°You noticed it too.¡± His stomach clenched. She saw me noticing. ¡°I¡­ guess it¡¯s weird,¡± he said, feigning nonchalance. ¡°Fog playing tricks on us, maybe.¡± ¡°No. The fog¡¯s been heavier lately, but that blood¡¯s not natural.¡± Her voice dropped a notch. ¡°It¡¯s still warm. After hours.¡± Silas frowned. Blood didn¡¯t behave like that. Not without external influence. He cast a quick glance toward the slick cobblestones beyond the barricade. The crimson puddles glimmered faintly through the mist, untouched by time or temperature. Residual astral activity. The strands I saw with Insight Tap. Eliza leaned closer, her breath faint against the cold air. ¡°See? You know what I mean.¡± He stepped back instinctively. ¡°I just run errands for Grint. He doesn¡¯t pay me enough to solve mysteries.¡± ¡°Then why are your hands shaking?¡± Silas froze. He looked down. His fingers trembled faintly where they gripped the notebook. He clenched them into a fist and stuffed his hand into his coat pocket. ¡°Long night,¡± he muttered. Eliza didn¡¯t respond. Her gaze lingered on him for an uncomfortably long time before she turned away. ¡°Watch yourself, Crowell. Places like this¡­ they don¡¯t just stain the streets.¡± She moved off toward another group of reporters, braid swinging with each step. Silas exhaled slowly, pulse still racing. He hated how easily she¡¯d read him. The system thrummed faintly in the back of his mind, its passive scan feeding him stray impressions from the scene. The blood shimmered faintly with astral residue, but the pattern eluded him. Focus. He activated Insight Tap again, this time keeping his gaze low to avoid any potential skyward horrors. The world shifted into its enhanced clarity: the blood on the street wasn¡¯t just pooled haphazardly. It flowed along faint, branching lines etched into the cobblestones. Not carved¡ªimprinted. The stone itself had warped beneath the pressure of some invisible force. The pattern resembled veins spreading from a central point near the mouth of an alley. He tracked the lines, heart pounding. "System, analyze astral patterns." The response came almost immediately. [Analysis Complete ¨C Pattern Type: Forced Sublimation Residue.] He swallowed. The same term that his ability had identified earlier. Sublimation was supposed to be a personal, internal process¡ªa bond between Chronicle, Wielder, and the Astral World. It couldn''t be imposed from outside¡­ could it? He inched closer to the alley¡¯s edge. The enforcers were distracted by another stretcher being hauled from a nearby building. Silas crouched beside the cobblestones, pretending to scribble notes while extending his awareness. The system¡¯s analysis sharpened. New lines of energy shimmered into view, connecting the blood to the stone and then rising like invisible tendrils into the fog. Something tried to sublimate these people. The realization struck like a slap. He scanned the remains being carried past. Limbs torn from sockets. Torsos sheared open. And yet, the blood had been drawn toward the center of the street, as though the process had tried to extract something beyond mere life. The air grew colder. The system hummed with faint static. A voice, low and rasping, broke the silence behind him. ¡°You shouldn¡¯t be here.¡± Silas''s breath caught. He turned slowly. A man stood at the alley entrance. Tall, lean, and wrapped in a dark coat with the silver-vine pin glinting on his collar. His face was pale, skin stretched tight over high cheekbones. His eyes¡ªdark, sunken pools¡ªlocked onto Silas¡¯s with unblinking intensity. Nightwatch Division. Silas forced a nervous smile. ¡°Press,¡± he said, tapping his badge. ¡°Cogwheel Gazette. Just doing my job.¡± The man''s eyes didn¡¯t waver. ¡°Step away from the alley. Now.¡± Silas hesitated, then stood. His knees wobbled slightly, but he forced himself to move at a casual pace. Silas didn¡¯t remember leaving Mournshade Street. He only realized he¡¯d walked halfway across the Outer City when the fog thinned enough to reveal the crooked silhouette of his building. He climbed the steps to his room, locked the door, and collapsed into the chair. The system interface pulsed into view without prompting. [Warning: Extended Insight Tap usage may have left traceable resonance signature. Recommend caution.] He shivered. The system¡¯s abilities left faint imprints¡ªpatterns that others, with the right skills, could track. He ran a hand over his face. Forced sublimation. Someone had tried to forcibly awaken Wielders by flooding an entire street with raw, astral energy. And it had gone horribly wrong. Chapter 7: The Blood-Stained Puzzle The next day fog was heavier than usual by the time Silas reached his building. The narrow alley leading to his door was cloaked in pale mist, curling in ghostly tendrils around the lampposts and seeping into the cracks between cobblestones. His footsteps, dampened by the fog and the soft hum of distant machinery, felt disconnected from his body. His mind raced with the vivid, nightmarish images from Mournshade Street: the spirals of blood etched into the stone, the shattered bodies, and the whispers that seemed to linger in the air long after he left. He closed the door behind him with a soft click, pressing his back against the wood and exhaling deeply. The familiar scent of damp wood and faint candle smoke grounded him. Yet the silence of the small, cramped room felt oppressive tonight. "Insight Tap," he muttered. The world shifted. The ordinary textures of the walls and floor gave way to faint, glowing threads of astral strands lingering in the corners of the room. His mind instinctively began to categorize them: traces left by his previous sublimation, patterns from the ritual diagram still faintly etched into the basement stones. But there was something else¡ªsomething unfamiliar. Near the window, a faint strand of dark, jagged energy hovered in the air. He crossed the room and extended his hand toward it. The strand vibrated slightly, giving off a cold, metallic sensation. "System, analyze the signature." The response came after a brief pause: [Analysis Complete: Astral Signature Detected - Chronicle Fragment Identified: The Hollow Choir] Silas froze. He repeated the words in his head. The Hollow Choir. He''d heard the name whispered by an old archivist once while delivering a report at the Gazette¡ªa ghost story about a cult that tried to "sing to the fog" and vanished without a trace. He hadn¡¯t thought much of it then, dismissing it as one of the many urban legends that swirled through Evergarde''s mist-laden streets. But now the name was etched in front of him, backed by his system''s analytical precision. "System, cross-reference The Hollow Choir with known Chronicle imprints." The system hummed to life with reduction in Causal points. [Searching available records¡­ No complete profile found. Partial Entry: The Hollow Choir ¨C Associated with astral manipulation and resonance-based rituals. Believed extinct. No registered contemporary wielders. Patterns match the recent Mournshade Street anomaly.] Silas clenched his jaw. The massacre hadn¡¯t been random. Someone had tried to forcibly trigger sublimation among the residents by saturating the street with astral resonance. But why? For what purpose? He turned away from the window, forcing himself to think logically. If the Hollow Choir was involved, then their activities had gone unnoticed for years. The Nightwatch would surely be aware of such an event¡ªyet they hadn¡¯t disclosed it publicly. The fog hides more than just monsters, he thought. He sat at the rickety desk and opened his notebook. The dim glow of the lantern flickered as he wrote: He stared at the final line. The spirals hadn''t been random. The blood had followed specific patterns designed to direct mystical power towards a focal point. But the system had detected resonance failure. The ritual had collapsed mid-process. What were they trying to achieve? He closed the notebook and rubbed his eyes. Exhaustion gnawed at him, but sleep seemed impossible with his mind tangled in questions. The Chronicle of the Occultist stirred faintly within him, the oath''s principles whispering through his consciousness: "In mystery, I seek; in knowledge, I endure. The veiled shall be unveiled; the unknown shall be understood." He exhaled slowly, feeling the resolve settle in his chest. "System," he said softly, "prioritize information gathering related to The Hollow Choir. Passive data collection only." [Acknowledged. Monitoring for matching astral signatures.] He stood and moved to the window, careful not to activate his ability again. The fog pressed against the glass like a living thing. Somewhere out there, the Hollow Choir was moving unseen, manipulating astral forces for purposes he couldn''t yet grasp. He would need more points. More abilities. More caution. Knowledge is power. He was already involved in this mess when he went to that street. And survival depended on learning faster than the cult could act. The next morning, Silas made his way to the Gazette office, slipping into the archives room. Dust motes drifted through the pale light filtering in from the high, narrow windows. Rows of metal filing cabinets lined the walls, their surfaces cold to the touch. He ran his fingers along the labeled drawers until he found what he sought: Unsolved Incidents ¨C Decade Archive. He opened the drawer and flipped through brittle pages until he reached the year corresponding to the Fogfall Incident. A soft cough behind him made him tense. Silas blinked, mind racing. Why is she here? She works for the Industrial Herald. As if reading his thoughts, Eliza shifted her weight and gave a dry chuckle. "I¡¯m here off the clock, actually. The Herald''s editor doesn¡¯t care about these cases." She tapped her notebook. "But I do." She stepped into the room and glanced at the papers he held. "Mournshade massacre got you curious too?" "Seems unusual enough," he replied, watching her carefully. "It is," she said softly. "And it¡¯s not the first." Silas raised an eyebrow. "There were others?" Eliza reached into her coat and pulled out a small notebook, flipping it open. "Five other incidents in the last ten years. All in fog-heavy districts. Blood spirals. No survivors. Always chalked up to random Wielder incidents." She hesitated. "The Nightwatch covers it up. I tried digging deeper. Hit walls every time." The air seemed colder. "Why tell me?" "Because," she said, voice lowering, "you''re not just chasing a story. And... because I saw you use a perception ability." Silas stiffened. "Relax," she said, holding up a hand. "I¡¯m not Nightwatch. I¡¯m a Wielder too. Seeker Chronicle. My ability is called Runic Trace. I can sense when astral abilities are used nearby." Silas''s mind raced. Another Wielder. One who could track his abilities. A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. "The Hollow Choir," she continued, tapping the notebook. "They''re trying to breach the Second Astral Layer. If they succeed, the fog won''t protect the city anymore." "What happens then?" Silas asked. Eliza met his eyes. "Then the things beyond the mist come through.¡± The revelation of Eliza¡¯s Wielder status lingered in Silas¡¯s mind long after she left the archives. A Seeker Chronicle. It made sense¡ªshe was too good at finding connections others missed. But it also made her dangerous. She could sense when Insight Tap was used, which meant he needed to be careful. Still, the information she had shared was invaluable. Five other massacres. All hidden. All dismissed. The pattern was undeniable. That night, as he sat in his cramped room, the system pulsed with a notification. [Passive Data Collection Complete: Hollow Choir - Partial Chronicle Data Recovered.] "System, display results." Text appeared before him, lines of fragmented analysis: [The Hollow Choir] - (Fragmented Chronicle Data) Status: Thought Extinct Core Practice: Forced Sublimation through Astral Resonance Objective: Unknown. Theorized goal¡ªCreation of an ¡®Astral Choir¡¯ capable of harmonizing with deeper Astral Layers. Ritual Patterns: Silas exhaled slowly. Astral Displacement. That explained the missing bodies. The cult wasn¡¯t just killing people¡ªthey were pushing them beyond the veil. But where? And what did they hope to achieve? "System, search for recorded instances of Astral Choirs." [No records found. Searching Chronicle imprints¡­] Silas waited, fingers drumming against the desk. A few seconds later, another response flickered into place. [Partial Reference Found: The Choir at the Threshold.] A chill ran down his spine. The title sounded eerily similar to something he had come across once¡ªan old explorer¡¯s journal mentioning songs that bled into the mist. But he had dismissed it at the time as mere folklore. That would need to change. The next day, Silas made his way to The Rusted Compass, an old tavern near the docks where retired explorers often gathered. It wasn¡¯t an establishment that welcomed outsiders, but Silas had done enough odd jobs delivering reports here that he wasn¡¯t entirely unfamiliar. Inside, the air was thick with pipe smoke and the scent of old leather. Maps, some stained and torn, were pinned haphazardly along the wooden walls. The place was dimly lit, the gas lamps flickering against the heavy fog seeping in through cracks in the windows. Silas spotted his target near the back¡ªa grizzled man with an iron prosthetic for a left hand, hunched over a half-empty bottle. Arlen Strake. A former explorer, now a relic of a past few dared to remember. Silas slid into the seat across from him, careful to keep his movements casual. ¡°You once mentioned The Choir at the Threshold in one of your journals.¡± Arlen¡¯s one good eye flicked up, sharp despite his obvious inebriation. ¡°And who the hell are you to be bringing that up?¡± ¡°A researcher.¡± Silas placed a few coins on the table. ¡°And I think you know exactly why I¡¯m interested.¡± Arlen eyed the coins, then sighed, rubbing his face. ¡°If you¡¯ve got any sense, you¡¯ll let that damn name fade into the fog where it belongs.¡± ¡°Can¡¯t do that.¡± The old man exhaled, shaking his head. ¡°Fool¡¯s errand,¡± he muttered. ¡°Fine. You want to know about the Choir? Here¡¯s what I¡¯ll tell you: they weren¡¯t just a cult. They were singers¡ªreal singers. And not just with their voices.¡± Silas leaned in. ¡°Explain.¡± Arlen glanced around, lowering his voice. ¡°You ever heard of resonance theory?¡± Silas nodded. ¡°The Choir took it further. They believed the Astral World wasn¡¯t just layers stacked on top of reality¡ªit was a symphony. A vast, shifting harmony of frequencies beyond human perception. And they wanted to join it. Not just listen. Sing back.¡± The words sent a shiver down Silas¡¯s spine. ¡°And forced sublimation?¡± Arlen¡¯s gaze darkened. ¡°Their way of making a ¡®choir.¡¯ Drown a district in astral power, see who survives the resonance, and those who do¡ªwell, they become part of the song.¡± He downed the rest of his drink in one swig. ¡°The rest? They either vanish or¡­ change.¡± Silas¡¯s grip tightened on the edge of the table. ¡°They think they can control it,¡± Arlen continued. ¡°That they can match their voices to something far older than us. But they don¡¯t realize¡ªthey¡¯re not the composers in this symphony. They¡¯re just notes. And notes don¡¯t get to choose how the song ends.¡± Silas didn¡¯t breathe for a long moment. ¡°And the last known sighting?¡± he asked finally. Arlen gave him a tired smile. ¡°Son, you already know. Mournshade Street.¡± Silas left The Rusted Compass with his thoughts churning. The Hollow Choir wasn¡¯t just playing with sublimation. They were trying to reshape Evergarde itself into something unnatural. And the fog? It wasn¡¯t a shield¡ªit was a conductor. He needed to be stronger. Now. Back in his room, he activated the system. "System, display ability progress." [Abilities Studied:] He clenched his fists. Just a little more. Until finally, one night, the system pulsed with a notification. [All Abilities Comprehended] With his chronicle level also increased Occultist - 7/10 Silas barely had time to react before another alert followed. [Second Sublimation Approaching ¨C Conditions Met.] A thrill ran through him. His next step toward power was here. But the words of Arlen Strake haunted him: "Notes don¡¯t get to choose how the song ends." He could only hope he wasn¡¯t already part of the Choir¡¯s composition. The familiar chill of sublimation returned the moment Silas uttered the oath. He knelt on the wooden floor of his bedroom, the candlelight flickering in response to the shift in the air. The thin, sharp scent of astral energy coiled around him, prickling his skin like a swarm of invisible needles. His heart raced¡ªnot with fear, but with anticipation. "System, initiate second sublimation." [Second Sublimation ¨C Chronicle: Occultist] [Ability: Mimicry Echo ¨C Cost: 2,000 p. Proceed?] He hesitated for only a moment. "Proceed." The air thickened. The flame of the lantern dimmed until it was swallowed by shadow. The room around him blurred as if the walls themselves had softened. His limbs grew heavy, his mind stretching beyond the confines of his skull. [Recite the Oath.] The words surfaced unbidden, drawn from the core of his Chronicle: "In mystery, I seek; in knowledge, I endure. The veiled shall be unveiled; the unknown shall be understood. To witness, to comprehend, to adapt¡ªI walk the path of the unseen scholar." A sharp crack split the silence. Silas gasped as invisible threads of energy laced around his body, coiling tighter with each heartbeat. His vision swam. The walls peeled away, revealing a vast, endless expanse of mist and shadow. Shapes moved in that void¡ªindistinct figures wrapped in flowing darkness. They circled him, whispering in languages he didn¡¯t understand. The threads connecting him to the floor trembled. The pressure mounted, suffocating in its intensity. Then, without warning, the tension snapped. Silas collapsed onto the floor, chest heaving. His vision slowly cleared. The candle had burned down to a molten puddle, the air thick with cold vapor. [Sublimation Complete.] [Ability Unlocked: Mimicry Echo ¨C Temporarily replicate mystical abilities previously analyzed. Duration and effectiveness depend on comprehension level.] Silas sat up, skin clammy with sweat. The whispering presence lingered at the edges of his mind¡ªa faint echo of something vast and distant. He flexed his fingers, feeling the subtle shift within. Mimicry Echo. The power to mirror the abilities of other Wielders after sufficient observation and research. He found he can instantly mimic the 3 comprehended abilities. For an ability to be mimicked, it had to be first comprehended. Chapter 8: Mimicry Echo Over the following nights, Silas immersed himself in the meticulous process of testing his new abilities. The thrill of his recent sublimation lingered, a constant reminder of the fragile yet exhilarating power now at his fingertips. Mimicry Echo¡ªthe culmination of days spent deciphering patterns, enduring strain, and following the path of the unseen scholar¡ªwas no longer a distant goal. It was his. Now came the true test: mastery. He began with Silent Steps, weaving through the labyrinthine alleys of Evergarde¡¯s Outer City. The fog, thick and unyielding as always, turned the streets into a maze of shadows and shifting silhouettes. He crouched low near a lamppost, breathing deeply. He tapped into his Chronicle¡¯s new ability. Mimicry Echo: Silent Steps. A faint warmth surged through his legs and feet. The moment he moved, he felt the difference. His footfalls, once a faint whisper, now vanished entirely. Even the cobblestones beneath his soles seemed to dull their hardness, absorbing the subtle impact. He tested it in stages: Each time, the sensation was the same¡ªlike slipping through reality''s cracks, present but undetectable. The fog welcomed him, coiling lazily around his legs as if acknowledging a fellow phantom. Once Silent Steps felt instinctive, he shifted focus to Gravemark Resilience. He chose the abandoned railyard on the city''s outskirts¡ªa forgotten expanse of rusted tracks and derelict carriages. The ground here was uneven, strewn with metal debris and broken sleepers. The perfect environment for pain and endurance. He started with simple tests: sprinting through the maze of twisted steel, forcing his muscles to adapt to sudden, jarring impacts. With each collision, the Chronicle¡¯s influence grew clearer. The dull ache that should have built into agony dissipated into a manageable burn. The next night, he escalated the training. He scaled the crumbling side of an old watchtower, gripping unstable bricks while relying on Mimicry Echo: Gravemark Resilience. Halfway up, the stones beneath his left hand crumbled. The world slowed. His muscles tensed, skin hardening under the invisible influence of astral reinforcement. He slammed into the ground with a bone-rattling thud¡ªbut rose with only a faint bruise. The resilience didn''t eliminate pain entirely, but it redistributed it, like water dispersing through cracks in stone. [Gravemark Resilience Efficiency: 78%. Increasing with repeated exposure to high-impact forces.] A faint smile touched his lips. The Chronicle rewarded intelligent, methodical practice. Pain became a tool, not a limitation. Ironthread Vitality proved the most grueling. Silas began by running circuits around the fog-choked streets each morning. The city stirred early¡ªworkers trudging toward factories, their faces pale beneath the perpetual gray mist. He ran past them unnoticed, lungs burning as his Chronicle¡¯s passive threads wove into his muscles. But the true test came when he mimicked the ability fully. Mimicry Echo: Ironthread Vitality. The change was immediate. His breathing steadied; the fire in his chest cooled into a manageable simmer. His strides grew smoother, each step landing with mechanical efficiency. He pushed harder, lengthening his route until the familiar streets blurred into unknown intersections. The endurance boost didn¡¯t merely enhance stamina; it extended his capacity for focus. His mind, often fatigued after prolonged Insight Tap usage, remained sharp even as his body ran beyond its usual limits. By the third night of training, he no longer thought of stamina as a finite resource but as a malleable boundary he could bend with effort. The real breakthrough came on the fourth night. He stood in the shadow of an old factory, steam hissing from overhead pipes. Mimicry Echo: Silent Steps. Gravemark Resilience. Ironthread Vitality. The warmth returned¡ªbut this time, it wasn¡¯t limited to a single part of his body. It spread like a web through his limbs, chest, and core. He hurled himself forward, feet striking the cobblestones with muted precision. The mist curled around him, cloaking his movements as if the ground itself conspired to grant him safe passage. Each step found unexpected purchase, the slick stones yielding subtle traction beneath his soles. He reached the pipe running along the wall and launched upward, twisting midair. His hands caught the cold metal with unerring accuracy, muscles absorbing the impact without protest. As he steadied himself atop the pipe, a ripple of awareness prickled along his consciousness. A sharp, nagging sensation¡ªlike a needle pressing into the back of his mind¡ªsent a jolt through his body. Something was wrong. A wave of exhaustion crashed over him. His breath hitched, chest tightening as his limbs trembled. He barely had time to process the warning before his body reacted instinctively. He immediately cut off the Mimicry Echo sustaining all three abilities. The effect was instant¡ªhis legs buckled, and he nearly lost his balance on the narrow pipe. A cold sweat slicked his skin as he gritted his teeth, swallowing back the rising nausea. His heart pounded, erratic and heavy, as though it were trying to escape his ribcage. Too much. I pushed too far. The system had no need to remind him¡ªhis own body screamed the consequences. Using three abilities at once had nearly shattered the delicate framework of his Mimicry Echo. His muscles, once so perfectly attuned, now trembled with overexertion, his veins burning as if filled with molten lead. Just a few more seconds¡­ and I would have collapsed. His Insight Tap pulsed with alarm, flashing urgent warnings in his mind. A phantom pressure loomed at the edge of his awareness, reminding him of what lay beyond the limit. The Chronicle buried deep within his consciousness had nearly crumbled. If he had strained it even a moment longer, his abilities would have collapsed entirely¡ªand with it, his very being. A few seconds. That was all it would have taken. Silas clenched his fists, willing his ragged breaths under control. A few seconds more, and I wouldn¡¯t just be unconscious. I would have been reduced to a corpse¡ªor worse, a degenerate beast. The terrifying thought made his skin crawl. He had read about it. Those who lost control of their sublimated abilities didn¡¯t always die. Some lost their humanity instead, their minds unraveling, their bodies twisting into grotesque, mindless husks of failed wielders. He shivered, swallowing against the dry lump in his throat. The night air pressed against him, damp and heavy, the distant clatter of Evergarde¡¯s streets echoing in his ears. The mist curled through the alleyways below, indifferent to his near self-destruction. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and took a slow, steadying breath. Cooldown periods. I have to account for them. Unlike raw physical exertion, the strain wasn¡¯t just on his body¡ªit was on the very foundation of his abilities. His Chronicle wasn¡¯t limitless. If overloaded, if pushed beyond its structure, it would collapse. That wasn¡¯t a lesson he needed to relearn the hard way. A sharp exhale left his lips. He made a mental note, etching the realization into his mind like a carved warning on stone. Control over power is more important than having power. Silas forced his body still, steadying his breathing. The tremors in his limbs began to subside, though his muscles ached with every movement. This was the price of recklessness. The price of not knowing his limits. He wouldn¡¯t make the same mistake again. With one final glance at the shifting mist below, he straightened his stance. He had work to do¡ªbut now, he would move with precision. No more unnecessary risks. The familiar pulse of insight tap hummed faintly in the back of his mind. Silas, after testing his abilities, returned home, his mind buzzing with possibilities. The following days passed uneventfully, though the city''s familiar routines now felt different. The hiss of steam from factory vents, the rhythmic clatter of metal gears, and the murmur of conversations in crowded markets¡ªall seemed sharper, more vivid. Yet, beneath the surface of normalcy, a subtle tension lingered. Year 363, Sixth Month, 19th Day. That night, as the lantern light cast restless shadows across his small room, Silas sat by the window, lost in thought. The fog outside coiled like a living thing, pressing against the glass. He exhaled slowly, trying to shake the unease gnawing at his chest. "Just nerves," he muttered. "I''ve been on edge since the test." He turned away from the window, but a faint prickling sensation halted him mid-step. His pulse quickened. The familiar hum of insight tap stirred, unbidden. He closed his eyes, focusing on the sensation. Outside. Across the street. Someone was there. Silas¡¯s breath caught in his throat. He shifted the insight tap''s focus, narrowing the field. The signature was faint but undeniable¡ªan observer lurking in the shadows beyond the lamplight. "Who are you?" he whispered to himself, heart pounding. He glanced around the room, mind racing. No clear answers, just that single, undeniable fact: someone was watching. And they''d been there for a while. The air seemed colder. The usual comfort of his modest home felt compromised. His instincts screamed to act, to confront the intruder. But logic held him back. "Wait," he murmured, forcing his breathing to slow. "Think first. Plan later." Silas edged toward the window, peering through the foggy glass. A shadow flickered beneath the gaslight, too still to be casual. The figure shifted slightly, and though the face remained obscured, the intent was clear. They weren¡¯t just passing by. They were watching him. The mist swirled like a shroud around the figure as Silas stepped back, muscles coiled with tension. He had crossed the threshold from caution to dread. "What do you want?" he whispered to the empty room, eyes locked on the unseen threat beyond the glass." Silas dressed quickly, pulling on a dark coat and gloves. He slipped the wooden mask over his face and descended into the streets. The figure had disappeared. The fog outside was heavier than usual. The streetlamps glowed like distant stars, their light barely piercing the haze. Silas activated Silent Steps, and his footsteps melted into the cobblestones. The astral signature trailed east, toward the old industrial quarter. He followed it through twisting alleys and side streets, the glowing threads serving as his guide. The path ended abruptly at the mouth of a steam vent corridor¡ªa narrow, labyrinthine passage running beneath the city''s network of pipes. Steam hissed from rusted valves, turning the air thick and hot. The signature led inside. Silas hesitated. His instincts screamed caution. Whoever left the trace had either stopped here or wanted him to follow. He took a deep breath and stepped into the corridor. The pipes groaned around him, their brass surfaces slick with condensation. The fog here felt different¡ªdenser, with a metallic tang that coated his tongue. The signature grew stronger, pulling him deeper into the maze of steam vents. Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon. A faint sound echoed ahead: footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Silas pressed himself against the wall and activated Insight Tap. The fog dissolved into shifting layers of energy. A silhouette appeared around the bend¡ªa tall figure clad in a long coat and wide-brimmed hat, standing motionless in the center of the corridor. The figure turned its head slightly, as though aware of his gaze. Silas froze. The air around the stranger shimmered with faint astral currents, tendrils of energy pulsing in time with each breath. The figure wasn¡¯t a mundane bystander. It was a Wielder. The stranger raised a hand and pressed something against the nearest pipe. A small, metallic disk. The energy signature spiked. Silas¡¯s system flashed a warning. [Unknown Astral Signature Detected.] A high-pitched hum filled the corridor. Silas reacted instinctively, ducking back behind the corner. The pipe exploded with a deafening hiss, releasing a blast of scalding steam. The shockwave rattled the walls, and the metal groaned as bolts sheared loose. Silas felt the heat lick his skin even through the barrier. When the steam cleared, the figure was gone. He emerged cautiously, senses on high alert. The only sign of the encounter was the small metal disk, still attached to the cracked pipe. He retrieved it carefully. The surface was engraved with a symbol: a spiral of interconnected lines. Blood spiral. He pocketed the disk and scanned the surroundings with Mimicry Echo still active. Faint astral traces lingered in the air, coiling upward into the mist. Silas made his way back to his room, every step accompanied by the nagging sensation of being watched. Once inside, he locked the door, drew the curtains, and placed the disk on the desk. The system immediately responded. [Analyzing ¡­] The surface glowed faintly under his gaze. [Material: Silver alloy infused with trace astral resonance.] [Inscription: Ritual Conduit ¨C Low-tier artifact designed to amplify forced sublimation patterns.] [Marking: The Hollow Choir.] Silas leaned closer. The spiral pattern was more intricate than it first appeared¡ªlines within lines, intersecting at irregular intervals. At the center, faintly etched, were the words: "The Choir Gathers." His pulse quickened. "System, detect similar astral signatures within Outer City" The system processed the command for several long seconds, and almost emptied his reserve of points. [Four matching signatures detected: Industrial Quarter, Outer Canal, Blackthorn Manor ruins, Cathedral District.] They''re everywhere. The Hollow Choir wasn¡¯t experimenting anymore. They were preparing for something larger. And now they knew someone was watching them. Silas sank into the chair, running a hand through his hair. He¡¯d gained power¡ªbut power alone wouldn¡¯t save him from what was coming. His gaze locked onto the fog-laced window, where the distorted glow of street lanterns cast eerie shapes across the walls. The air felt thicker than usual, pressing against his chest like a phantom''s grip. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, his breath uneven. The memory of the masked watchers stirred an unease he couldn''t shake. His heart drummed a steady rhythm of dread and resolve. I can¡¯t sit here waiting for their next move, he thought, jaw tightening. If I hesitate, I give them the advantage. I need to act first¡ªand stay invisible while doing it. His eyes burned with determination as the system''s interface shimmered faintly in his mind, awaiting his command. The game of shadows had begun, and Silas intended to stay one step ahead." He sat cross-legged on the worn floorboards, eyes closed, as the system interface flickered to life within his mind. The encounter with the Hollow Choir left him restless, but he knew his next step required precision. He needed new abilities¡ªones that would let him stay hidden while delivering a sharp, decisive strike when necessary. ¡°System, analyze available abilities from Chronicle imprints in the First Layer of the Astral World for anti-reconnaissance and weapon based combat¡± he commanded mentally. The system responded with a soft hum, and a list of potential abilities materialized before his inner eye: [Chronicle Analysis Complete. Potential Abilities Identified:] Anti-Reconnaissance Abilities: Muted Veil (Silencer Chronicle) Blur Trace (Shadewalker Chronicle) Quiet Pulse (Hushwarden Chronicle) Weapon-Based Combat Abilities: Edge Flicker (Steelshroud Chronicle) Hookstrike (Ironfang Chronicle) Pierce Line (Threadpiercer Chronicle) Silas¡¯s eyes scanned the list, his mind weighing the possibilities. Blur Trace seemed perfect for maintaining stealth during reconnaissance. Edge Flicker added unpredictability to his attacks without drawing much attention. ¡°System, initiate comprehension process for Blur Trace and Edge Flicker.¡± [Command Accepted. Initiating Ability Comprehension ¨C Estimated Completion: 48 Hours. Causal Points Required: 1,400.] The interface dimmed, and Silas exhaled, leaning back against the cool wooden wall. His muscles relaxed slightly, but the tension of the task ahead remained. ¡°Let¡¯s see how well the Choir tracks me when the trail runs in circles.¡± The next few days passed in a carefully crafted routine. Silas woke at dawn, washed quickly with the biting cold water from the basin, and made his way to the Cogwheel Gazette. The streets of Evergarde were the same as always¡ªdrenched in fog and thick with the scent of soot, oil, and damp stone. Work was a monotonous cycle. Running errands, delivering papers, dodging the occasional factory worker too caught up in their miserable morning rush to watch where they were going. Then there was Grint. "Late again, Crowell," Grint sneered the moment Silas walked in, arms crossed over his chest. His beady eyes glinted with perpetual irritation. "What, did you get lost delivering one of your own bloody articles?" Silas barely looked up. If I was writing articles, you''d be out of a job, old man. Grint scowled but didn¡¯t push further, instead launching into his usual tirade about deadlines, incompetence, and the fine art of not pissing off the wrong people in Evergarde. Silas tuned out most of it. He had bigger concerns than his boss¡¯s endless complaints. But the worst part of the day? The food. Every lunch break, he found himself staring down at the same uninspiring meal¡ªstale bread, a lump of cheese that smelled a day too old, and weak tea that tasted like hot rainwater. He scowled, prodding at the bread like it was something alien. I lived a whole life before this one, and somehow, this is my fate? He briefly considered throwing the whole tray into the nearest bin, but hunger gnawed at him. With a sigh of resignation, he forced himself to take a bite. It was as awful as he expected. The morning of the fourth day began as usual¡ªuntil the system chimed softly in his mind. [Comprehension Complete: Blur Trace & Edge Flicker.] Silas sat up immediately. Excitement sparked in his veins, banishing the last remnants of sleep. He flexed his fingers, feeling a strange lightness in his body. Already? That was fast. Then again¡­. He smirked, cracking his knuckles. I can already mimic them. He reached into his pocket, fingers curling around his old penknife. It was nothing special¡ªsmall, worn-down, its blade dulled by time. But it would do for a test. Silas activated Mimicry Echo: Edge Flicker. The moment he did, a shift coursed through his body. The air around him grew sharp with an almost imperceptible hum, like a blade drawn from its sheath. He held up the knife, his breath steady, and examined it through Insight Tap. A thin, blue-greenish glow shimmered along the blade¡¯s edge, pulsing faintly as if responding to his will. He curled his fingers around the handle and gave it a light swing. At first, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Then, within seconds, his movements became smoother, his swings faster. The knife whistled through the air, cutting the space around it with a precision that hadn''t been there before. His arm moved almost instinctively, the blade¡¯s edge flickering with every motion. A low whistle escaped his lips. Well, that''s something. His gaze flickered toward the small wooden table in the corner of his room. The thing was already battered from use¡ªone more mark wouldn¡¯t hurt. Without hesitation, he brought the knife down. A sharp shhk! cut through the silence. The blade slid through the table¡¯s corner with unsettling ease, severing the wood as if it were soft wax. The cut was clean¡ªunnaturally so. He trailed his fingers along the new edge, the surface smooth where there should have been resistance. A dull penknife did this? He let out a breath of laughter, shaking his head. This ability''s the real deal. Power curled beneath his skin, but he reminded himself to stay cautious. The system had already warned him¡ªpushing too far had consequences. He clenched his fist around the knife, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. Next, I see how it works on something that fights back. The evening air carried the scent of damp stone and smoke, the distant clang of metal striking metal ringing from the factory district. Shadows stretched long in the narrow alleyways of Brasslane, consuming everything the dim streetlights couldn¡¯t reach. Silas moved through them like a phantom, the dark wood mask concealing his face. He was alone. But not for long. The prickle of awareness ran down his spine. He wasn¡¯t imagining it¡ªsomeone was following him. No, not someone. Multiple. His pace remained steady, but his ears sharpened, tracking the shifting footsteps behind him. The alley grew darker ahead, the last remnants of gaslight vanishing behind him. It would be difficult to see faces here. That worked in his favor. "Who''s there?" he called, layering his voice with panic. He took a step back, letting his breath hitch just enough to sound afraid. Low laughter echoed through the alley, followed by the shuffling of boots on stone. Five figures emerged from the gloom, spreading out like a pack of starving dogs. "Look at this poor bastard," one of them sneered. "Wandering where he shouldn¡¯t be." Silas didn''t respond. He let his body shift, muscles coiling as he activated Mimicry Echo: Gravemark Resilience and Blur Trace. A familiar weight settled into his limbs, grounding him, while his Astral Signature fragmented into false echoes, leaving misleading trails in the air. Then, he moved. He shot forward like a whip, his fist hammering into the nearest thug¡¯s gut with brutal force. The impact rippled through the man¡¯s body. A sick, wheezing gasp escaped him as he doubled over, collapsing onto his knees, hands clutching his stomach like he was trying to hold his insides together. Before the others could react, Silas pivoted and struck again. His knuckles slammed into another man''s ribs with a dull, meaty thud. A sharp crack followed. The thug screamed, staggering backward, eyes wide with agony as he cradled his side. Panic spread like wildfire. "What the fuck¡ª!" Silas didn''t wait for them to recover. He turned and bolted into the darkness. "Get him!" one of them barked. They all gave chase. Perfect. Silas weaved through the labyrinthine alleys, letting Blur Trace work its magic. Every few steps, his signature twisted, flickering in another direction. To anyone trying to track him, it would be like chasing smoke¡ªnever solid, never real. Then, just as planned, he stopped. With Mimicry Echo: Silent Steps engaged, his body became weightless, his movements noiseless. He pressed into the shadows, waiting as the first thug ran past him, panting and wild-eyed. Silas struck. A swift, brutal punch to the torso sent the man sprawling to the ground, retching from the force of the blow. He let out a strangled scream, curling into himself. Another one rushed toward the sound, only for Silas to step behind him and slam his elbow into the thug¡¯s spine. The man howled, collapsing to his knees, but before he could react, Silas grabbed his arm¡ªtwisted¡ª A sickening snap. The man shrieked, his voice raw with agony. "My arm! My fucking arm!" The last two men had stopped running. One of them turned wildly, scanning the darkness. "Where the hell is he?! Who the fuck is this guy?!" Silas exhaled slowly, then moved again. He emerged from behind, his fist smashing into the next thug¡¯s ribs so hard that bone cracked beneath his knuckles. The man let out a choking sound and collapsed, writhing on the ground. The last one barely had time to react before Silas grabbed his wrist and twisted. Another snap. Another scream. The alley filled with the sound of agonized breathing, of groans and whimpers. The thugs lay sprawled, broken and useless. Silas loomed over them, adjusting the mask on his face. When he spoke, his voice was rough, cold¡ªunrecognizable. "Your money. Now." Hands trembling, they fumbled through their pockets, tossing whatever coins they had onto the wet stone. Silas knelt, scooping them up, then straightened. "If you try to follow me¡­" He let the words hang, stepping over one of the whimpering men. "You¡¯ll leave more than just your money behind next time." Then, without another word, he melted into the shadows. By the time the thugs gathered the strength to lift their heads, he was already gone¡ªnothing left behind except their broken bones and fading screams. Silas moved swiftly through the alleys, his body vanishing into the thick, curling fog. The night was cold, and the scent of damp stone mixed with the distant stink of coal smoke from the factory districts. He didn''t look back¡ªthere was no need. The thugs wouldn¡¯t be following. Not with their bodies broken and their moans still echoing through the narrow passage. He ducked into an alcove beneath an old tenement, leaning against the chilled brick. His breath was steady, controlled. Slowly, he opened his gloved palm, revealing the tarnished coins he had collected. A mix of crow-gilds, gear-gilds, and a single tower-gild gleamed faintly under the weak glow of a distant streetlamp. He counted quickly: nine crow-gilds , three gear-gilds,each worth five crow-gilds, making them more valuable and one tower-gild ¨C worth ten crow-gilds, a rare find in the pockets of petty criminals. Altogether, he had thirty-seven crow-gilds worth of coins. More than enough to buy what he needed. Silas let out a slow exhale, slipping the money into his inner coat pocket. This would do. His next stop was the Thieves¡¯ Market. Chapter 9: Informant Brasslane had two faces¡ªthe one the city saw and the one it chose to ignore. The main streets bustled with workers, peddlers, and the occasional Nightwatch patrol, their dark uniforms a sharp contrast to the soot-stained walls. But just beneath the surface, past rusted iron gates and forgotten alleyways, was where the real trade happened. The Thieves¡¯ Market wasn¡¯t a place marked on any map. It moved. Sometimes it was in the basement of an abandoned warehouse, other times in the crumbling ruins of an old foundry. As Silas moved through the shadowed tunnels toward the Thieves¡¯ Market, his mind drifted back to a conversation from weeks ago¡ªone that had first planted the idea of this place in his mind. It had been a slow afternoon at the Cogwheel Gazette. The scent of ink and old parchment hung in the air, mixing with the ever-present scent of cheap tea. Silas had been sorting through the latest reports, tuning out Grint¡¯s grumbling in the background, when a familiar voice caught his attention. ¡°You ever hear about the tunnels beneath the Old Aqueduct?¡± Silas glanced up from his desk. Across from him, slouched in his chair, was Marcus Flynn, one of the senior reporters. Flynn had been with the Gazette for years¡ªlong enough to know every alley, every scandal, and every rumor that Evergarde¡¯s streets whispered in the dark. Silas arched a brow. ¡°What about them?¡± Flynn smirked, leaning forward conspiratorially. ¡°That¡¯s where you go when you need something... off the books.¡± Silas feigned disinterest. ¡°Smugglers?¡± ¡°Smugglers, thieves, fences¡ªyou name it,¡± Flynn said, lowering his voice. ¡°They call it the Thieves¡¯ Market. Moves around every few weeks, but when it¡¯s under the Aqueduct, it¡¯s the safest place to do business.¡± Silas tilted his head slightly. Safe? That was an odd word to use for a den of criminals. Flynn took a sip of his lukewarm tea before continuing. ¡°The law doesn¡¯t go down there. Even the Nightwatch doesn¡¯t bother unless someone starts a fire big enough to draw them in. You need stolen documents, rare alchemical ingredients, or... well,¡± he shrugged, ¡°something sharp? That¡¯s where you go.¡± That last part had caught Silas¡¯s attention. He leaned back, tapping his fingers against his desk. ¡°Sounds risky.¡± Flynn chuckled. ¡°It¡¯s only risky if you don¡¯t know how to play the game.¡± Silas let the conversation drift into another topic after that, but he hadn¡¯t forgotten. The Thieves¡¯ Market. A place where no one asked questions, where coin and silence held more value than names. Now, as he stepped into the flickering torchlight beneath the ruined stonework of the Old Aqueduct, he realized Flynn had been right. The market was alive with hushed deals, quiet exchanges, and the sharp glint of steel passed between hands. Tonight, it was beneath a collapsed section of the Old Aqueduct, past the drainage tunnels that no honest citizen dared to tread. Silas adjusted his mask and descended into the depths. The air thickened with the scent of damp stone, mildew, and something metallic¡ªrust, or perhaps blood. The path was uneven, the old stonework cracked from years of neglect. He kept his steps light, his senses sharp. Torchlight flickered ahead, casting warped shadows against the tunnel walls. The distant murmur of voices grew clearer as he approached. Soon, the cavernous space beneath the aqueduct stretched before him¡ªa makeshift bazaar, hidden from the eyes of the law. The market was alive with movement. Lanterns, hung from rusted chains, bathed the space in a dim, golden glow. Merchants sat behind crude wooden stalls, their wares displayed on tattered cloths¡ªstolen jewelry, counterfeit documents, vials of unknown liquids, and, most importantly for Silas¡ªweapons. A man in a patchwork coat barked out prices for untraceable potions. A woman with a scarred face sharpened a set of throwing knives. Two figures whispered in hushed tones over a map, their fingers tracing unseen routes. Silas scanned the vendors carefully. He wasn¡¯t here to waste time. He needed blades¡ªsomething sharp, balanced, and durable. His eyes landed on an older man sitting behind a low wooden table. Unlike the other merchants, he wasn¡¯t calling out for buyers. Instead, he meticulously polished a dagger, his movements slow and deliberate. The weapons laid out before him were modest¡ªno elaborate engravings, no decorative pommels¡ªjust simple, deadly steel. Silas approached. "Looking to buy," he said, keeping his voice neutral. The man didn¡¯t look up, continuing his slow, practiced movements. ¡°You got coin?¡± Silas pulled out a gear-gild and placed it on the table. The merchant finally glanced at him, eyes flickering over the dark wood mask. He smirked. ¡°For one? Or two?¡± "Two," Silas replied without hesitation. The merchant grunted and reached under the table. He set down two daggers¡ªboth slim, double-edged, with black leather-wrapped hilts. Functional. Reliable. Lethal. "Clean steel. Won¡¯t break unless you do something stupid," the man muttered. Silas picked up one, testing its weight. It was balanced, well-forged, the grip fitting snugly in his palm. He gave a small nod and slid two more crow-gilds across the table. The merchant pocketed the money without a word. Transaction complete. Silas sheathed the daggers beneath his coat and turned to leave. Now, he was armed. And soon, he''d be ready for what came next. Year 363, Sixth Month, 26th Day. Silas sat cross-legged on the wooden floor of his dimly lit room, a stack of rough parchment before him. The flickering candlelight cast shifting shadows across the walls as he carefully dipped his quill into the inkpot. The scent of dried parchment mixed with the faint metallic tang of ink, grounding him as he worked. Each chit had to be precise¡ªcryptic enough to stir curiosity, detailed enough to be taken seriously. The system¡¯s ranged scan had uncovered Hollow Choir activity across several key locations: He wrote in a deliberately rough, varied script to avoid recognition. "The Choir gathers near the factories. The smog hides more than smoke. If the Watch remains blind, Evergarde will choke." On another, he scrawled: "The canals carry more than water. The Choir moves beneath the bridges. The city does not listen, but the currents do." A third: "Blackthorn still stands, though no one should walk there. The Choir sings to the empty halls. Do you hear it?" And finally, the most unsettling one: "Not even the Cathedral is safe. The Choir prays to something older. Will the Watch kneel before it too?" Every message was crafted to feel like the words of an unseen informant¡ªsomeone who had seen too much and was now warning those who would listen. Once he finished, Silas placed a hand over the stack of chits and activated Mimicry Echo: Blur Trace. The system hummed softly in his mind. [Applying Blur Trace ¨C Astral Signature Concealment: 99% Efficiency.] A faint shimmer rippled over the parchment before vanishing completely. If any sensory Wielder tried to track their origin, all they would find was a scattered mess of false signatures, leading nowhere. Silas exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of exhaustion settle into his limbs. It was worth the cost. If the Hollow Choir had sensory wielders within their ranks, they wouldn''t be able to trace these warnings back to him. Now to set them loose. The streets of Evergarde never truly slept, and that worked in Silas¡¯s favor. He moved through the Outer Bastions, placing the chits where the Nightwatch would find them first. A factory locker room in the Industrial Quarter, where off-duty Watch officers often changed between shifts. A dockside registry office in the Outer Canal, where the Watch monitored suspicious cargo entries. A discarded patrol report stack in Blackthorn Manor ruins, slipped between pages before they reached the commanding officers. A notice board near the Cathedral District, where informants occasionally left unsigned tips. Each location was chosen not for chaos, but for precision. The right people needed to see the warnings first. Only after the Watch began moving would the rumors spread¡ªensuring the Choir learned too late to escape. To further guarantee action, he added a single bold line at the bottom of each chit: "Deliver to the Watch. Do not ignore this." It wasn¡¯t a plea¡ªit was a directive. A command masked as a warning. Fear and authority intertwined. Evergarde¡¯s people were used to living under unseen threats, and a message like this, written with certainty, would be impossible to dismiss. Even then, he left nothing to chance. Silas ensured that some chits passed through multiple hands, further obscuring their origins. He let one slip into a courier¡¯s satchel, timed so it would be found in transit. Another he "accidentally" dropped at a gambling den, where a debt-ridden player might see profit in trading it for favor with the Watch. By the time the Nightwatch acted, the Hollow Choir¡¯s fate had already been sealed. It didn¡¯t take long for the Cogwheel Gazette to pick up the ripples. Silas sat at his desk, listening as Grint slammed a rolled-up newspaper onto the wooden surface with a frustrated grunt. "Someone¡¯s feeding the Watch cult rumors," Grint growled, rubbing his temples. He pointed at the scattered reports in front of him. "Industrial Quarter, Outer Canal, Blackthorn Manor¡ªhalf the damn city¡¯s on edge. And you know what¡¯s worse? Some poor bastards actually believe these chits came from an informant!" Silas kept his expression carefully neutral. ¡°What does the Watch think?¡± ¡°They¡¯re taking it seriously,¡± Grint admitted with a scowl. ¡°Can¡¯t ignore a lead when it¡¯s dropped into their laps. Patrols have already been deployed. And now we¡¯ve got a real problem¡ªsome of these chits were found by people with actual credibility. So guess what?" Silas arched an eyebrow. Grint exhaled sharply, looking even more irritated than before. "You¡¯re going to find out who¡¯s spreading these rumors." Silas blinked, suppressing a smirk. He had just been tasked to investigate his own handiwork. Now that¡¯s ironic. Feigning a sigh, he gave a half-hearted nod. ¡°Alright, I¡¯ll dig around.¡± Grint grumbled something under his breath before waving him off, already distracted by another stack of reports. Silas turned away, his lips twitching at the edges. The Nightwatch was mobilized. His plan had worked. And no one suspected a thing. As he leaned back in his chair, he let his fingers drum idly against the desk, already thinking about his next move. That night, Silas sat perched atop an abandoned building on the outskirts of Blackthorn Manor ruins, his coat drawn tight against the cold night air. The distant ruins stood in eerie silence, half-swallowed by creeping ivy and thick fog. From this vantage point, he could see the faint glows of lanterns moving in the distance¡ªthe Nightwatch patrols, creeping closer. He exhaled slowly, his breath vanishing into the cold as he activated the system¡¯s reconnaissance functions. [System Log: Scanning...] His vision blurred momentarily as the system overlaid the area with a faint, spectral outline of Astral activity. Thin, lingering threads of Hollow Choir presence flickered in the ruins, fragmented and weak. Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. Something had happened here recently. Then, a new disturbance. [Detected: Astral Signature ¨C Blackthorn Manor Ruins.] Silas¡¯s pulse steadied as the system pulsed again. [Faint traces of Choir Astral Signatures dissipating.] It was beginning. The ruins of Blackthorn Manor stood like a rotting corpse beneath the moonlight. The crumbling walls, once proud and towering, now lay half-buried in ivy and soot, their jagged remains casting eerie shadows in the dense fog. The air crackled with tension. The Hollow Choir had arrived. Eight figures moved through the ruins, their dark robes barely distinguishable from the gloom. They were masked, silent, their steps measured. Each one a wielder. Their presence carried weight, a subtle distortion in the atmosphere¡ªlike reality itself bent around them. One of them, the tallest of the group, raised a gloved hand. "Something is wrong." Their senses had been trained to detect traps, distortions, the unseen workings of the Astral World. And right now? The very air around Blackthorn Manor felt wrong. The moment of hesitation cost them everything. A single sharp whistle split the silence. Then the Nightwatch attacked. A hail of steam-powered crossbow bolts rained down from the surrounding rooftops. Each bolt hissed with unnatural speed, their silver-tipped heads designed to pierce through more than just flesh¡ªthey disrupted Astral energy, shattering weak defensive wards. One Choir member barely managed to react, their hands flashing through the air in an intricate motion. A translucent barrier, woven from violet Astral Threads, surged to life in front of them. The bolts struck, warping the air around them¡ªthen splintered. The wielder let out a breath. Then the second volley came. A bolt slammed straight through the chest of one of the Choir members¡ªa woman with silver embroidery on her mask. She let out a gasp, her hands trembling as she reached for the wound. Astral energy leaked from the impact, her body twitching unnaturally before she collapsed onto the wet ground. The fight had begun. The remaining Choir members sprang into action. The tall leader flicked his wrist, and the ground buckled beneath the nearest Nightwatch riflemen. A surge of gravity pressed downward, pulling debris and men alike into the dirt. The soldiers stumbled, their shots going wide. Another Choir wielder thrust their hands forward, and a pulse of ink-black mist exploded outward. The Nightwatch nearest to them recoiled, hacking violently as their lungs filled with an unnatural choking vapor. A silence field followed¡ªcutting off their voices. No orders could be shouted, no cries for help. A Nightwatch Wielder responded immediately, stepping forward with his hand raised. A burst of golden light flared from his palm, cutting through the mist like a divine beacon. The choking soldiers gasped as fresh air rushed back into their lungs. Then, the true wielders clashed. A Hollow Choir duelist, wielding twin daggers wreathed in shifting shadows, closed the distance in an instant. His movements were unnatural, his limbs twisting mid-strike as if he had no bones. The unnatural distortions made it impossible to predict his trajectory. His blades sang through the air¡ªone aimed for the throat, the other for the ribs. The Nightwatch officer facing him reacted with trained efficiency, his brass-lined gauntlets crackling with kinetic force. With a swift movement, he caught one of the daggers against his reinforced forearm, then drove his other fist forward. The shockwave rippled through the air, smashing into the Choir assassin¡¯s chest. The robed figure was sent hurtling back, crashing into the stone remains of the manor¡¯s great hall. Elsewhere, another Choir wielder raised his hand and pulled at the Astral Threads in the air. A spectral chain, shimmering with red-hot runes, shot from his fingertips, wrapping around a Nightwatch enforcer¡¯s leg. The soldier let out a roar of frustration, slamming his boot into the ground. An Astral pulse detonated outward from him, severing the chains in an instant. With the restraint broken, the enforcer charged forward, his fist coated in hardened force. The Choir wielder barely had time to react before the blow connected¡ªhis ribs shattered with an audible crunch. His body convulsed, the energy leaving him in flickering wisps. Then, he collapsed. The battle had turned. The Choir had arrived expecting secrecy, but now half of them lay dead or dying. The remaining wielders knew this fight was lost. They vanished into the mist, their figures dissolving into shadows as they fled into the city. The Nightwatch did not pursue. They had already won. The remaining soldiers moved through the ruins, securing the wounded and finishing off those too weak to flee. Their rifles still smoked from the battle, their blades slick with blood. A silence settled over Blackthorn Manor¡ªone born not of peace, but of death. The Hollow Choir had been broken here tonight. And the city would never know. By the time dawn broke, the battle had already been reduced to whispers. The Cogwheel Gazette buzzed with restless energy the next morning. The sharp scent of ink filled the air as printing presses groaned under the weight of fresh copies, their rhythmic clanking blending with the usual office chatter. Stacks of still-warm newspapers were being bundled and distributed by junior runners, some dashing in and out of the building with urgency. Silas sat at his desk, casually flipping through the front page while the others scrambled around him. His eyes skimmed the familiar, sterilized headline. "Cult Activity in Blackthorn Ruins ¨C Nightwatch Reports Minor Clashes." Nothing more. No mention of the wielders. No mention of the sheer number of dead. No hint of the actual events of last night. A carefully constructed lie, wrapped in a half-truth. Just as expected. Across the room, Marcus Flynn, the senior reporter who had once whispered about the Thieves¡¯ Market, let out a dry laugh as he tossed his own copy onto his desk. "That¡¯s it? That¡¯s the report?" he scoffed, raking a hand through his graying hair. "¡®Minor clashes¡¯? ¡®Minimal casualties¡¯? Hells, half the city¡¯s already saying the Choir was slaughtered last night. And we¡¯re supposed to act like it was some routine scuffle?" A younger reporter, Elaine Marsh, glanced up from where she was organizing notes, her brows knitting together. ¡°I heard two of the Nightwatch were carried out on stretchers. People in the market were talking about it.¡± ¡°Damn right they were.¡± Flynn tapped the article, shaking his head. "Every time the Choir gets hit hard, the Watch sweeps it under the rug. Can¡¯t have people thinking this city¡¯s on the brink of something worse, eh?" From the other side of the room, Jorik, one of the printing assistants, let out a short laugh as he stuffed a roll of parchment into a leather satchel. ¡°You lot think this is bad? Try listening to the folks down by the foundries this morning. Heard a merchant say the Choir ¡®vanished into thin air¡¯¡ªlike some ghost story.¡± He smirked. ¡°Some folks swear they saw masked figures running through the alleys before dawn. But the Watch? Nah, they¡¯ll say it was nothing.¡± Elaine crossed her arms. ¡°So, what? We just accept it? Report what they tell us?¡± Flynn exhaled through his nose, rubbing his temple. ¡°You¡¯re new, so I¡¯ll spell it out. The Watch feeds us what they want. We print it, and Evergarde keeps running.¡± He flicked a glance at Silas. "Ain¡¯t that right, Crowell?" Silas met his gaze, hiding his amusement behind a sip of lukewarm tea. ¡°I don¡¯t know, Flynn. Maybe we¡¯re just not meant to know everything.¡± Flynn snorted. ¡°You¡¯d make a fine mouthpiece for the Watch, kid.¡± Silas merely shrugged, returning to his paper. No one knew he was behind it. And that was exactly how he wanted it. Silas exhaled softly as he stepped into the narrow alley leading to his home. The streets were empty, thick with lingering fog, curling around the old brick buildings like a living thing. The cold had settled deep into the city, the distant clang of metalwork from the industrial districts the only sound breaking the silence. It was a success. The Hollow Choir was in disarray, the Watch had unknowingly played into his hands, and for the first time in days, no one was hunting him. Then, as he reached his doorstep, a shadow shifted near the adjacent house. "Back late again, Crowell?" Silas barely stopped himself from tensing. He turned to see Clara, leaning casually against her own door frame, arms crossed. Her dark hair was pulled into a loose braid, and her sharp gaze flickered over him with something between curiosity and suspicion. For a brief moment, neither of them spoke. The dim glow of the streetlamp barely illuminated her face, but the way she was watching him made it clear¡ªshe had seen something. "You¡¯re out a lot these days," she mused, pushing off the frame and stepping closer. "And tonight? You came back wearing a mask." Silas forced a light chuckle, keeping his movements slow as he removed his gloves. "You ever try running through the backstreets of Evergarde without one? Might as well carry a sign saying ¡®rob me.¡¯" Clara didn¡¯t laugh. "You were sneaking." "I was being careful," he corrected smoothly, meeting her gaze without hesitation. Half-lies always worked better than full ones. "I heard something strange near Brasslane. Thought it might be worth looking into for the Gazette. Grint likes stories that get people talking." She studied him for a long moment, then sighed. "You¡¯re going to get yourself in trouble, you know that?" "I know how to handle myself." "Right," she muttered, shaking her head as she turned toward her door. "Just don¡¯t come crying when you find out curiosity isn¡¯t free in this city." Silas waited until she disappeared inside before stepping into his own home. Only then did he let out a slow breath. That was close. But something else had changed. A subtle, almost imperceptible shift in his being. His hands curled slightly as a sensation¡ªlike an unseen weight lifting from his mind¡ªwashed over him. A loosening of something deep, something binding. Silas knew what this was. He opened the System Status. Silas stood still, staring at the flickering interface before him. The room was silent except for the faint crackling of the oil lamp in the corner, its dim glow stretching his shadow across the walls. His pulse was steady, but there was an undeniable shift within him¡ªa clarity he hadn''t possessed before. He focused on the system window, scanning the details. [Status] The numbers weren¡¯t just abstract values anymore. He felt the difference. His body was tougher, his muscles more responsive, able to endure far more than when he first arrived in this world. The constant strain of mimicking Gravemark Resilience had hardened his bones, and Ironthread Vitality had left him with denser, more flexible muscle fibers. But more than that¡ªhis mind. His Spirit had reached 20. Everything was clearer. Thoughts connected faster, observations registered deeper. The fog of instinctive reaction was gone¡ªreplaced by precision, calculation. The system pulsed again, confirming what he already understood. [Your actions have adhered to the Oath of the Occultist.] [In mystery, you sought. In knowledge, you endured.] [The veiled was unveiled; the unknown was understood.] [You witnessed, comprehended, adapted.] [You have walked the path of the unseen scholar.] Silas exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders. The loosening of the Oath¡ªhe had felt it the moment he stepped inside his home. It wasn¡¯t breaking free from a restriction. It was acknowledgment. He was becoming what the Chronicle demanded of him. A slow smirk curled at the edges of his lips. "I see. So this is how it works." The next day was overcast, the sky a dull, iron gray as Silas left the Cogwheel Gazette and stepped onto the bustling main street. The usual sounds of Evergarde greeted him¡ªcarriages rattling over uneven cobblestone, street vendors shouting their wares, the occasional murmur of factory workers discussing the Nightwatch¡¯s recent crackdown. Silas adjusted his coat, his mind already drifting to his next steps. But then, just as he turned the corner, he saw her. Elize. She leaned against a lamppost, arms folded, watching him with her usual air of amusement. Her coat was slightly damp from the cold air, stray blonde strands escaping her braid. But her smirk was as sharp as ever. "Took your time," she said as he approached. "Didn¡¯t know I was expected." Elize tilted her head. "Then you haven¡¯t been paying attention." Something in her voice made him pause. She wasn¡¯t here for casual banter. "Walk with me." She didn¡¯t wait for a response¡ªjust turned and began moving. Silas fell into step beside her, their boots clicking softly against the cobblestone. She led him through the winding streets, away from the main road, past old factories and smoke-stained buildings, until they reached a secluded side alley. The noise of the city faded, replaced by a quiet stillness. Only then did Elize finally speak. "You¡¯ve been busy." Silas raised an eyebrow. "Have I?" "Don¡¯t play dumb." Her golden eyes flickered with something unreadable. "The Hollow Choir gets hit harder than ever, the Watch scrambles to clean up the mess, and you sit there acting like it¡¯s just another morning at the Gazette?" Silas gave a noncommittal shrug. She didn¡¯t know. Not for certain. "It¡¯s a dangerous thing," Elize continued, stepping closer, lowering her voice. "Playing with forces you don¡¯t fully understand." There was something odd in her tone¡ªnot a warning, but an acknowledgment. Elize tapped the folded newspaper against her palm, her smirk unwavering. "The meeting details are hidden across three papers," she said, tossing the Cogwheel Gazette onto a nearby crate. "You¡¯ll need all of them to piece it together." Silas arched an eyebrow. "Three?" "The Gazette, of course. Then there''s The Industrial Herald¡ªwhere I work. And the third?" She flicked a glance toward the distant streets. "The Outer City Tribune." Silas rolled the name over in his mind. The Tribune was barely more than a rag, catering to the rougher outskirts of Evergarde¡ªfactory workers, drifters, and those too poor or too distant to care for the polished lies of the central districts. "Spreading the pieces between them keeps it hidden," Elize continued. "The Watch won¡¯t suspect anything from three separate, mundane articles. But for those who know how to read between the lines? The message is there." She flipped open the Gazette, landing on an article about explorer expeditions outside the city walls. Silas skimmed the text. It detailed a recent convoy heading toward a distant outpost in the Fallen Lands, escorted by a battalion of hired guards. The piece itself seemed standard¡ªan update on a dangerous route, warnings about mutated wildlife, and the usual emphasis on the explorers¡¯ bravery. Nothing unusual. Except for the last sentence. "If the stars align, the next departure shall be on the third bell past dusk." Silas exhaled softly. "Time?" he guessed. Elize nodded. "That¡¯s your first piece." She then pulled out The Industrial Herald and flipped to a small, unassuming report about metal shipments from Evergarde¡¯s foundries. The article detailed factory output, including a section about excess material being moved to a ¡®secure secondary storage site.¡¯ Buried in the technical jargon, a single sentence stood out: "Beyond the blackened gate, where iron sleeps beneath the old stones." "Location," Silas murmured. Elize¡¯s smirk deepened. "Now you¡¯re getting it." Finally, she held up The Outer City Tribune, opening it to a nearly unreadable section filled with incident reports¡ªbar fights, street brawls, and minor disputes the Watch couldn¡¯t be bothered to handle. One particular report stood out: "A small gathering dispersed last moon. The same shall come again in three nights'' time." Silas tapped the page. "The date." "You¡¯ve got it now," Elize said, watching him carefully. Silas leaned back slightly, piecing the message together. The time, the place, and the date¡ªscattered across three papers, hidden in plain sight. A lesser mind wouldn¡¯t have noticed. But for those who paid attention? The gathering awaited. He folded the newspapers carefully, slipping them inside his coat. "Clever," he admitted. "But how do you know I won¡¯t just take this information and not show up?" Elize shrugged. "I don¡¯t. But you¡¯re curious, and that¡¯s enough." Her golden eyes gleamed as she stepped back into the street. "See you there, Crowell." Then, just as quickly as she had appeared, she vanished into the crowd. Silas stood in the quiet alleyway, fingers idly drumming against his coat. A secret gathering of wielders. He exhaled slowly. Chapter 10: The Secret Gathering Silas made sure his routine remained unchanged in the days leading up to the gathering. Any sudden shifts in behavior, any unusual patterns, could invite the wrong kind of attention. The Cogwheel Gazette was the same as always¡ªfilled with the rustling of paper, the clatter of typewriters, and the occasional sharp voice cutting through the noise. "Crowell! You¡¯ve got two hours to turn this in, not two damn days!" Grint¡¯s gruff bark didn¡¯t faze him. Silas simply nodded, keeping his responses short. He had long since learned that blending in meant giving people what they expected¡ªno more, no less. At lunch, he sat in his usual spot, a corner table where no one bothered him. The conversations around him drifted through the air, casual yet laced with the quiet desperation that clung to Evergarde¡¯s Outer City. "Nightwatch patrols have increased again. Something must be stirring." "I heard they found some poor bastard in the canal last night. No one¡¯s sure how he died." Silas listened without looking up, storing the details for later. The city had its own rhythm, and those who paid attention could hear the shifts before they became storms. Each evening, once the world outside settled into uneasy quiet, Silas practiced. The worn wooden dummy in his room bore countless shallow gashes and punctures, evidence of his relentless drilling. He gripped the practice knife, rolling his shoulders before slipping into stance. [System Analysis: Dagger Arts Training] The system logged his progress in precise calculations, offering subtle adjustments. Every minor inefficiency was corrected, every wasted movement smoothed out. His strikes became faster. More controlled. He adjusted his grip, experimenting with different angles¡ªa quick stab, a fluid slash, a deceptive feint. The goal wasn¡¯t just speed or power. It was precision. A fight in Evergarde rarely gave second chances. The first strike had to count. [New Efficiency Threshold Reached ¨C Adaptation Mode Engaged] Sweat trickled down his back as he exhaled slowly, lowering the blade. His breath was steady, but his body ached from the relentless practice. Better, but not enough. He had no illusions about where he stood in this world. A single mistake, one miscalculation, and he wouldn¡¯t get a rematch. He wasn¡¯t the protagonist of some grand tale. He was just another man trying to survive. Late at night, Silas sat by his window, staring at the fog-shrouded city beyond. Evergarde was restless. He could feel it in the murmurs at the Gazette, in the tension hanging over the streets. Something was shifting. The gathering wasn¡¯t just a place for trade¡ªit was an opportunity, but also a risk. He didn¡¯t know who would be there, or what their agendas were. But he did know one thing. He had no safety net. If things went wrong, no one would come to save him. He leaned back, fingers drumming lightly against his knee. He would be careful. He would be patient. And above all else¡ªhe would be ready. Year 363, Seventh Month, 3rd Day. The night air was thick with fog, curling through the narrow streets like silent tendrils. The lamps cast dim halos of light, barely piercing the gloom. Evergarde¡¯s Outer City was restless, as it always was¡ªwhispers of distant conversations, the occasional clang of metal from distant factories, and the rhythmic creak of poorly maintained carriages. Silas walked beside Elize, their movements quiet, deliberate. He had memorized the ciphered message, cross-referencing it until the route was etched into his mind. Tonight was not a night to make mistakes. Their path took them through narrow alleys and backstreets, weaving between old warehouses and tenement buildings. They passed a row of slumped figures by a firepit¡ªworkers too exhausted to go home, or perhaps with no home to return to. Their murmurs died as the two passed, their gazes shifting with quiet suspicion before returning to the flames. Ahead, Elize led him through a rusted iron gate, its hinges coated in years of grime. The moment they stepped past it, the atmosphere shifted. The distant hum of the city seemed to muffle, the air growing heavier, charged with an unseen tension. They approached a large abandoned structure, its former purpose lost to time. Its walls were cracked, the metal reinforcements corroded. A faint scent of oil and dust lingered. This could have been a factory once, or a storage facility. Now, it was something else entirely. A meeting ground for those who wished to remain unseen. The entrance was a small, reinforced door, barely noticeable from the outside. Elize knocked twice, paused, then knocked again¡ªa deliberate pattern. A moment passed before a faint click echoed from within. The door creaked open just enough for them to slip inside. The interior was dimly lit, illuminated by a mix of old gas lamps and small arcane orbs emitting a faint glow. The walls were layered with aged metal sheets, muffling sound from escaping. Stacked crates and broken machinery formed a perimeter around the space, giving it an almost claustrophobic feel. Seven figures were already present. Silas was the last to arrive. They stood apart from one another, maintaining a wary distance. All wore masks. Some simple, some ornate. Each disguise was carefully chosen¡ªnot just for anonymity, but as a statement of their identity. The Host, stood at the head of the gathering. Her mask was a deep crimson, carved with intricate veins that resembled flowing blood. A deliberate display. To her left, a tall man wore a smooth, featureless porcelain mask, his posture unnervingly straight. His movements were slow, deliberate, like someone who measured every action carefully. Another figure, a woman with a mask stitched together from old parchment, her eyes barely visible behind slits in the material, leaned against a crate, arms crossed. She exuded an air of disinterest, but Silas could tell¡ªshe was listening to everything. Across from her, a man sat on a barrel, his mask made of woven brass wires, shaped like a twisted grin. His fingers drummed idly against his knee, betraying a nervous energy beneath his relaxed posture. Two more stood toward the edges, silent observers for now¡ªone with a dark, beak-like mask, resembling a plague doctor, the other with a wooden mask resembling a fox, its painted eyes giving an illusion of mirth. And then, there was Elize. Unlike the others, her mask was simple¡ªa dark cloth covering her lower face, leaving only her sharp golden eyes visible. A calculated choice. Unassuming, practical, familiar. Silas himself wore a plain black mask carved from dark wood, featureless except for a faint engraving along its edges. Not too elaborate to attract attention, but not forgettable either. The Host¡¯s gaze swept over him, lingering for a fraction longer than the others. "You¡¯re the new one." Not a question. A statement. Silas nodded but said nothing. The air was thick with caution, each member waiting for someone else to make the first move. Trust did not exist in places like these. The Host let the silence stretch before finally speaking. "Now that we''re all here, let¡¯s begin." The Host let the silence linger for a moment longer, as if measuring the weight of every gaze behind the masks. Then, she finally spoke, her voice calm but carrying an unmistakable authority. "For the sake of the newcomer, we will go over the rules once more." Her gloved fingers traced the surface of the crate beside her, absentmindedly tapping against the wood as she continued. "This gathering operates under one principle¡ªEquivalent Exchange. Nothing is given freely, and nothing is taken without value. What you offer must match the worth of what you receive. Knowledge, weapons, artifacts, and even fragments of Chronicles¡ªall can be traded, so long as the balance is met." She gestured to the group. "No debts. No charity. No second chances." The message was clear. If someone tried to cheat a trade, there would be consequences. Her crimson-veined mask tilted slightly toward Silas. "And you¡ªour new arrival¡ªshould understand this well. We do not tolerate fools who mistake this for an act of goodwill." Silas gave a slight nod, keeping his expression neutral behind his mask. He had no intention of making enemies here¡ªnot yet. The Host straightened, then extended a hand to the others. "We do not use our real names here. Code names only. You may share as little or as much as you wish." She gestured to the first person on her left, the tall, stiffly postured man in the smooth, featureless porcelain mask. His voice was deep, measured. "I go by Pallid." A pause. "My focus is Astral Theory and resonance-based wielding techniques. If you seek knowledge about Astral harmonization or distortions, I can provide it¡ªfor a price." The next was the woman leaning against the crate, her stitched parchment mask crinkling slightly as she chuckled. "Call me Scrivener. I deal in information, written records, old texts. If it has been recorded, I can find it. If it has been erased, I can uncover it." Her voice was smooth, confident¡ªsomeone used to playing dangerous games with words. The brass-wire grin shifted as the man perched on the barrel gave a lazy wave. "Gildhand. I deal with artifacts, enchanted trinkets, and items that might otherwise never reach your hands." He leaned forward, his voice carrying a faint amusement. "And before you ask, yes¡ªsome of them are stolen. No refunds." The one in the dark beaked mask spoke next, his voice rasping slightly. "Mourner. Alchemy, poisons, and augmentations. If you need something that burns, blinds, or breaks a man from the inside, I have it." Beside him, the fox-masked woman chuckled lightly. "Call me Wraith. I¡¯m a wielder like all of you, but I specialize in practical combat knowledge. Fighting techniques, countermeasures, survival strategies¡ªif it keeps you alive, I might be willing to part with it." Finally, Elize, still leaning against a pillar with her simple cloth mask, gave a small nod. "Rook. Information, mostly." She glanced at Silas, her golden eyes sharp beneath the mask. "You already knew that, didn¡¯t you?" Silas didn''t respond. He simply let the silence speak for him. The Host remained the last to introduce herself. "You may call me Crimson." A slow pause. "And you will come to understand that I do not make trades lightly." She turned to Silas. "Now, newcomer. You are the only one left. Choose a name¡ªor let us choose for you." Silas exhaled slowly, considering. He had anticipated this and had already settled on something neutral. "Shade." A murmur of acknowledgment moved through the room. The Host¡ªCrimson¡ªgave a slow nod. "Very well, Shade. Now, let us begin." Tension hung in the air as the first trades were proposed. Each member had something of value, but none were willing to part with it cheaply. Pallid and Scrivener debated a trade involving a set of resonance diagrams, arguing over the credibility of the source material. Mourner offered a vial of liquid that could render a wielder''s Astral Signature unreadable for a short time, but Gildhand countered with an enchanted throwing dagger that could momentarily phase out of physical space. Crimson oversaw every exchange, ensuring fairness¡ªbut never intervening unless necessary. Silas observed carefully, analyzing the rhythm of negotiation, the way value was determined. Then, it was his turn. Crimson¡¯s masked face turned toward Silas, waiting in silent expectation. The others watched as well, their expressions hidden but their attention palpable. Silas remained still for a moment before speaking, his voice even. "I want information." A simple request, but in this room, every word had weight. Crimson gave a slow nod, acknowledging the request but offering nothing more. It was clear she wouldn¡¯t provide answers freely¡ªhe would have to offer something in return. Before making his move, Silas activated a minute system scan, carefully keeping its energy output subtle to avoid detection. The gathered wielders were unknown variables, and he needed to at least understand their Chronicles. The results filtered in: Silas barely resisted the urge to tense. Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation. Blood. Blood-related Chronicles sounded notoriously dangerous. Maybe wielders with such chronicles could control their own lifeforce or of those around them. The specifics of Crimson¡¯s abilities were unknown, but one thing was certain¡ªshe was not someone to take lightly. Keeping his unease hidden, Silas turned his focus back to the trade. The Exchange ¨C the Stalker Chronicle for Knowledge "I need information on Chronicle Promotion to 2nd Order." A ripple of interest passed through the room. Some of the members turned slightly, curious but remaining silent. Crimson let the request hang in the air before finally responding. "What do you offer in return?" Silas had already decided. "I¡¯ll trade knowledge on an incomplete Chronicle¡ªStalker Chronicle." A pause. The Stalker Chronicle was a known but incomplete path¡ªa Chronicle that specialized in tracking, pursuit, and silent eliminations. It was a Chronicle designed for hunters, but due to missing fragments, wielders attempting to refine it might meet dead ends or suffer dangerous drawbacks. Even partial knowledge of its structure had value, particularly to those interested in stealth or assassination techniques. Crimson considered the offer, tilting her head slightly. The silence in the room stretched, the weight of unspoken calculations pressing against the air. Then, she gave a slow nod. "Accepted." But instead of immediately providing the information, she let the moment linger before speaking again. "Do you wish to hear this knowledge alone, or are you willing to share?" Silas didn¡¯t answer immediately. His gaze flicked across the room. The other members were already watching with measured interest¡ªthis wasn¡¯t just some trivial trade. The path to Second Order wasn¡¯t easily accessible, and even if some of them weren¡¯t yet ready for promotion, knowing what awaited them could be invaluable. A voice broke the silence first. "I¡¯d rather not be left in the dark," Scrivener said, shifting her weight against the crate she leaned on. "I want to listen." "Same here," Pallid murmured, his tone as neutral as ever. Mourner chuckled softly from beneath his mask. "Would be a waste not to hear something so rare." Gildhand gave a casual shrug. "If he agrees, I¡¯ll listen too." Elize said nothing, but her sharp gaze locked onto Silas, waiting for his response. Wraith simply inclined her head. Silas exhaled slowly. He had expected this. "Fine. But if you want to listen, you¡¯ll have to pay for the privilege." There was a pause. "Twenty Crow Gilds each." A beat of silence, then a chuckle. "Hah. Clever," Gildhand muttered. No one objected outright. Twenty Crow Gilds wasn¡¯t a small amount, but knowledge had a price¡ªand it was still far cheaper than stumbling blind into the 1st Layer of the Astral World without a clue. One by one, small pouches of Crow Gilds clinked onto the table. Silas quickly counted¡ª120 Crow Gilds in total, a satisfying sum for something he would have asked for regardless. Crimson, watching the transaction unfold, finally spoke. "Very well. Now listen carefully." The room stilled. And with that, she began to explain the path to Second Order. "A Wielder¡¯s promotion is not something granted¡ªit is something taken. Forced into existence through resonance with the Astral World." She moved slightly, tilting her head as she spoke, her presence commanding attention. "To advance, a wielder must step beyond the material world. Upon Chronicle maturation, the Astral World will begin to recognize them¡ªnot just as an observer, but as an entity within its structure." Silas remained still, absorbing every word. "This allows a Wielder to enter the 1st Layer¡ªthe boundary realm where the true nature of their Chronicle is tested." Her tone darkened slightly. "The 1st Layer does not function as a single realm. It is fragmented, shaped by the nature of the wielders who step into it. When you make your attempt at promotion, the Astral World will pull you toward an area that resonates with your Chronicle. A manifestation of its truth." Silas¡¯s mind worked quickly. A location tailored to his Chronicle. That meant each wielder faced a unique trial, and there would be no shared knowledge or shortcuts. "Each area has different dangers," Crimson continued. "Some face physical threats, others mental, and some... far worse." She let the implication linger before continuing. "To ascend to the 2nd Order, you must find and pass through the White Door." The term struck something deep in Silas. "The White Door is the threshold of progression," Crimson explained. "A gateway between what you are and what you can become. Each wielder must find it within the 1st Layer, and only by touching it can they advance." Silas committed the words to memory. The White Door was not just an entrance¡ªit was a trial. A test of survival, navigation, and one¡¯s own Chronicle. Crimson¡¯s voice dropped slightly. "But be warned¡ªmost areas of the 1st Layer are extremely dangerous. There are entities that prey on intruders. Some are drawn by Astral signatures, others by intention alone. If you enter unprepared¡­" She let the words trail off. The warning was clear. "You may never return." Silas remained silent, processing everything. He had gained what he came for. He now understood what was required. He had to let the Astral World pull him into a space that reflected his Chronicle, survive whatever trial awaited him, find the White Door, and touch it. Simple in explanation. Deadly in execution. He nodded once. "Understood." The trade was done. He had what he needed. But as he withdrew into himself, a thought lingered in his mind: How many had entered the 1st Layer, only to never leave? He didn¡¯t intend to be one of them. As Crimson¡¯s explanation concluded, the room remained silent for a moment, as if the weight of the knowledge had settled over them all. The price of promotion was clear¡ªthe Astral World would not grant strength freely. Silas took the pouch of Crow Gilds and tucked it away, careful not to let any hint of satisfaction show. The deal had been successful, but he was still surrounded by unknowns. "That concludes our trade," Crimson stated, her voice firm. "Unless there are other offers, this gathering is adjourned." A few members lingered, murmuring amongst themselves, but Silas knew better than to stay longer than necessary. The longer one remained, the more likely they were to become involved in something unintended. Elize, still leaning against the crate, caught his gaze as he turned to leave. She had been watching him closely throughout the exchange. "You profited well tonight, Shade," she said, her tone casual but her golden eyes sharp. Silas shrugged. "Knowledge has its price." She smirked but said nothing more. Without another word, he slipped into the dimly lit exit tunnel, his footsteps silent against the cold stone floor. The iron door closed behind him with a muted clang, sealing the gathering behind him. The fog outside greeted him like an old companion. Silas moved swiftly through the fog-laden streets, his steps careful yet measured. The pouch of Crow Gilds sat heavy in his coat pocket, a silent reminder of the eyes that had watched him inside the gathering. He had gained valuable knowledge, but knowledge alone wouldn''t keep him safe. The members of the gathering weren¡¯t fools. They wouldn¡¯t attempt something as crude as mugging him¡ªbut tracking him? That was a possibility. I need to make sure this money doesn¡¯t lead back to me. Reaching a deserted alleyway near a row of abandoned workshops, Silas stopped beneath the cover of an old iron awning. The metal creaked faintly as a cold gust of wind passed through. He loosened the pouch''s drawstrings, letting the Crow Gilds slip into his palm. The dull, metallic glint of the coins caught the faint glow of a distant street lamp. Closing his fingers over them, he activated Mimicry Echo: Blur Trace. [Applying Blur Trace ¨C Astral Signature Concealment: 98% Efficiency.] [Falsified trace points scattered across multiple locations.] A faint shimmer pulsed over the coins before vanishing entirely. Now, if anyone tried to track him through the Gilds, they¡¯d be led on a wild chase across multiple false locations¡ªsome near the Industrial Quarter, others near Brasslane Alley, even a few near the Outer Canal. Satisfied, Silas let out a slow breath and tightened the pouch once more. That should keep them guessing. With that done, he resumed his journey, keeping to the quieter streets and back alleys, making sure his return home was just as untraceable as his departure. Now that his tracks were covered, he could focus on what came next. He did not trust people blindly. Even with the system helping him, he had seen enough of this world to know that people lied, exaggerated, or withheld details for their own benefit. As he reached his small rented room, he locked the door, pulled the curtains shut, and finally opened his system interface. [System Inquiry: Chronicle Promotion ¨C Second Order] Analyzing gathered knowledge... Cross-referencing with recorded Astral World data... Validation Process: 87% Match His fingers tapped lightly against the wooden desk. So it was mostly accurate¡­ but not entirely. He waited for the discrepancies to appear. Discrepancy Detected: Silas exhaled slowly, absorbing the details. The core of Crimson¡¯s explanation had been truthful, but there were crucial details omitted or misunderstood. That means either she doesn¡¯t know everything herself, or she deliberately left things out. Either way, he would prepare for the worst. Now that he had verified the knowledge, his next step was preparation. The first and most crucial element¡ªhe needed ways to reduce risks in the Astral World. Silas''s greatest concern was whether the system would still function within the promotion area of the Astral Realm. His current priorities were clear: His daggers had served him well, but against the unknown? There were too many uncertainties. I¡¯ll need something better to prepare¡­ and I know exactly where to find it. His next destination was set¡ª The Thieves¡¯ Market. Silas walked with measured steps, his dark wooden mask obscuring his features as he blended into the shifting crowd. The market was alive with whispers and muted negotiations, voices haggling in the shadows. Vendors sat beneath tattered awnings, their wares spread out over stained wooden tables¡ªdaggers lined in neat rows, lockpicks glinting under dim gaslight, vials of unknown liquids promising miracles and madness alike. A group of men in patchwork coats leaned against a rusted iron post, watching passersby with the sharp-eyed gaze of predators. A hunched woman, her face half-covered in soot, sold worn-out books with titles scratched off. Somewhere deeper within, a clockwork automaton stood eerily still, its hollow eyes tracking movement¡ªlikely an enforcer for some underworld figure. Silas ignored the obvious traps¡ªthe stalls meant for the naive and the doomed. His goal was elsewhere. After passing through a narrow passageway, he found it¡ªa small, secluded shop nestled between two leaning buildings, its sign half-hidden beneath curling ivy. The entrance was shrouded by a dark curtain instead of a door, muffling the voices within. He stepped inside. The air was thick with the scent of aged fabric, oil, and something faintly metallic. Dim candlelight cast jagged shadows over racks of clothing¡ªcoats reinforced with hidden plating, gloves stitched with alchemical threads, hoods designed to break silhouettes. Behind the counter stood the shopkeeper¡ªa wiry man with a face like a dried-out corpse, his eyes sunk deep into their sockets. He didn¡¯t greet Silas. Instead, he simply tilted his head, waiting. Silas took his time browsing, running his fingers over different materials. Some were thick and rugged, meant for street brawlers; others were woven with lightweight mesh, ideal for escape artists and assassins. Then he saw it¡ªa long, dark coat with reinforced seams, its hood deep enough to cast an unnatural shadow over the face. The material had a muted sheen, like leather polished to an eerie smoothness, and its surface was stitched with subtle patterns that seemed to shift under the light. "That one," Silas said, tapping the coat. The shopkeeper''s lips twisted into something resembling a grin. "Good eye. Reinforced lining. Won¡¯t stop a bullet, but it¡¯ll muffle movement and make it harder for eyes to follow." Silas lifted the coat, testing its weight. Perfect. "How much?" The shopkeeper¡¯s grin widened. "Seventy Gild." Silas scoffed. "Forty." The man let out a breathless chuckle. "You¡¯re funny. Sixty-five." "Forty-five. And I¡¯ll take a pair of those gloves too." He pointed to a set of black gloves woven with a faintly shimmering thread, likely designed to improve grip or conceal weapons. The shopkeeper studied him for a moment before sighing. "Fifty-five. Final offer." Silas nodded. "Done." They exchanged coins, and within minutes, Silas was back on the streets¡ªhis new attire fitting him like a second skin. The coat draped over his shoulders perfectly, its weight a comfortable reminder of its presence. The gloves flexed smoothly over his fingers, offering a grip that felt natural. By the time he reached home, the city had settled into its usual night-time hush, the distant churning of factories never fully ceasing. As he shut the door behind him, he exhaled slowly. The preparations had begun. Soon, he would step into the unknown. With his gear secured, Silas¡¯ final preparation was an ability¡ªsomething that would let him burst forward with speed, an evasive technique to escape or close distance instantly. A movement skill based on agility burst. Seated in the dim light of his room, Silas exhaled and focused. The System had matured alongside him, its functions sharper, more refined. He issued the command. "System, extract abilities related to rapid movement or dashing." As the request processed, another thought crossed his mind. The Astral Realm was an unknown, filled with dangers beyond mere physical threats. Curses, debilitating afflictions¡ªthings that could cripple him without a chance to fight back. "System, extract abilities related to resisting debuffs or curses." A brief silence. Then, the response came. [No suitable abilities found. The First Layer¡¯s imprints do not contain resistance-type skills.] Silas frowned. That meant he¡¯d be vulnerable to anything beyond physical damage. A gap in his defenses he couldn¡¯t fix¡ªat least, not yet. Shaking off the concern, he returned his focus to the first request, awaiting the System¡¯s list of movement-based abilities. A brief pause. Then, the familiar blue-tinted interface shimmered before his eyes, presenting options. Extracted Abilities (1st Order Chronicles): Silas analyzed the list. Ironbound Sprint was out¡ªit relied too much on brute force. Phantom Rush sounded useful but was too specialized. Flicker Step had deception value, but he needed something more reliable. That left two. Surge Stride had the sheer speed he wanted but lacked fine control. Gale Rush, on the other hand, combined speed with reaction time enhancement. "System, I choose Gale Rush." The moment he confirmed his selection, a wave of knowledge flooded his mind¡ªthe mechanics, the muscle control, the energy flow required to activate it. His heightened comprehension, enhanced by the matured Occultist Chronicle, turned what should have taken weeks into mere hours. By dawn, he had grasped its fundamentals. The following nights were spent honing the ability in secrecy. At the abandoned warehouse near the outer district, Silas practiced relentlessly¡ªpushing himself to the limit. By the fourth night, he was ready. Silas stood atop a rooftop, cloaked in darkness, staring out over the city. The wind carried the scent of oil and damp stone. He took a deep breath. Mimicry Echo: Gale Rush activated. In an instant, he blurred forward, his body surging like a shadow in the wind. Smooth. Controlled. Deadly. Everything was in place. Tomorrow, he would step into the unknown. Chapter 11: Promotion Year 363, Seventh Month, 14th Day. The city lay silent, swallowed by the thick night fog. The streets outside were empty, blanketed in an eerie stillness that seemed almost unnatural. Even the distant hum of machinery and life that usually persisted in the background of Evergarde had faded, leaving only the occasional creak of shifting pipes and the muffled echo of distant footsteps. Silas stood in his dimly lit room, his breath slow, steady, controlled. The air was heavy, thick with anticipation. He glanced down at himself¡ªhis new gear fit snugly, the dark fabric blending into the gloom. Both daggers rested at his waist, their weight reassuring, while the penknife sat concealed within his sleeve, a hidden edge ready to be drawn at a moment¡¯s notice. He flexed his fingers, feeling the slight resistance of the gloves. Everything was in place. His Causal Points had exceeded ten thousand, a staggering amount compared to what he once had. His recent encounters¡ªlearning, fighting, adapting¡ªhad caused an unnatural surge in comprehension, pushing his limits further than ever before. Even after the points he had spent recently, a vast reserve remained. More than enough. I¡¯m ready. The words echoed in his mind, steady and resolute. Yet beneath them, a quiet unease stirred. This wasn¡¯t just another step forward¡ªit was a crossing, a true shift into the unknown. Once he began, there would be no turning back. He took a deep breath, forcing his nerves into submission. "System, monitor me. I¡¯m initiating the promotion." The response flickered in his mind, instant and emotionless. [Acknowledged. Monitoring activated.] Silas closed his eyes and reached inward, toward the very core of his being, where the Chronicle had settled and matured. It was no longer the unstable, fledgling thing it once was. It pulsed now, steady, strong¡ªdemanding to evolve. He expressed his intent. The moment he did, the world lurched. A violent pull, sudden and absolute, ripped him from reality. His stomach twisted, his limbs seized, and for a fleeting moment, he felt as though he were falling¡ªnot through space, but through something far more alien. Reality peeled away in layers, twisting and distorting, colors bleeding into each other like ink dissolving in water. The dim candlelight of his room stretched into elongated spirals, the walls folded inward, and then¡ª Everything snapped. Silas staggered, his boots scraping against uneven stone. His breath came ragged, his pulse hammering in his ears. The shift had stopped, but the air felt wrong, thick with something that crawled against his skin. He opened his eyes. He stood in a vast, abandoned institution, its towering gothic architecture stretching into a sky of endless gray. The building was in ruins¡ªcrumbling walls, shattered windows, and twisting, unnatural growths that pulsed with an eerie light. The architecture itself seemed to reject logic; pillars bent at unnatural angles, hallways stretched too far, and doors led to places that should not exist. A heavy presence loomed in the air, pressing against his senses like an unseen weight. The very walls seemed to breathe, lined with scribbled runes and shifting, unreadable text, as though something had desperately tried to record knowledge that refused to be understood. Then, a voice¡ªlow, ancient, and eerily distant, as if carried through layers of time itself¡ªwhispered into his mind. "Find the White Door¡­ or be forgotten." The words slithered through his thoughts, neither hostile nor kind¡ªjust a statement, cold and absolute. It carried the weight of something that had seen countless souls before him, something that had watched and judged. Silas stiffened, his breath slowing. The voice was gone as quickly as it had come, but the warning lingered. Silas felt his heart quicken, his survival instincts flaring. Calm down. You expected this. He had known the Astral Realm would be nothing like reality. And yet¡­ experiencing it firsthand was entirely different. There was an oppressive, almost sentient silence, as if the very fabric of this place was watching him, waiting. He exhaled sharply and pressed his back against a cracked stone wall. "System, still functional?" The familiar text flickered in his mind, and relief washed over him. [System is operational. Passive scanning enabled at minimal point consumption.] Good. That was one less concern. Silas activated Mimicry Echo: Blur Trace and Silent Steps, his presence melting into the surrounding darkness. He moved carefully, each step soundless against the stone. His eyes darted across the ruins, scanning for movement, for signs of life¡ªor worse, something that had never been alive to begin with. For the first time since he had arrived in this world, Silas was in a place where he truly had no control. No city laws, no predictable human behavior¡ªjust the unknown, waiting to consume those too weak to survive it. And yet, despite the unease crawling under his skin, a small, dark thought settled in his mind. The real test begins now. The air in the ruined institution was thick with decay and whispers. It wasn¡¯t just the scent of damp stone or rotting wood¡ªit was something deeper, something woven into the very fabric of this place. The stillness pressed against Silas like unseen hands, urging him to turn back. But there was no turning back. A sharp pulse ran through his mind. [Warning: Presence detected. You are not alone.] Silas froze, a chill running down his spine. The System rarely issued warnings like that. His grip tightened around the dagger at his waist as his instincts sharpened. He strained his hearing, his vision adjusting to the flickering, dying light that bled through shattered windows. And then, he saw them. They lurked in the corridors, in the spaces where the light refused to reach. Their bodies were hunched and grotesque, moving in slow, unnatural motions. Their elongated skulls pulsed as if their very thoughts were alive, twisting beneath veiny, stretched skin. Numerous bulging eyes covered their heads¡ªno symmetry, no order¡ªeach pupil moving independently, twitching, scanning, searching for prey. They exuded a constant low whisper, an eerie, mind-scraping noise that wasn¡¯t spoken aloud but seeped directly into consciousness, like a thousand voices murmuring just beyond understanding. Silas¡¯ breath hitched. [Analyzing¡­] The System¡¯s text appeared in his mind, but he barely noticed, his attention locked onto the creatures as they slithered forward, their deformed limbs bending at unnatural angles. [Hostile Entities Identified: The Seething Watchers.] [Primary Threat: Cursed Gaze¡ªDirect eye contact induces mental instability or paralysis.] [Secondary Threat: Seers perceive more than sight. They are drawn to thoughts, movement, and intent.] Silas felt a slow, creeping horror settle into his bones. They can sense thoughts? That explained why his heart pounded harder, why his skin prickled with an unnatural sensation¡ªas if something was grazing the edges of his mind, testing for weakness. The System¡¯s next message was blunt. [Solution: Rupture eardrums or block auditory input.] The whispering wasn¡¯t just background noise¡ªit was an invasive force, worming into the mind, breaking down reason. Silas clenched his jaw. He wasn¡¯t desperate enough to rupture his own eardrums¡ªnot yet. Instead, he tore a strip of cloth from his inner sleeve, rolling the fabric and stuffing it deep into his ears. Instantly, the whispers dulled. Not gone, but muffled. His thoughts felt clearer, his sense of self more intact. He forced a slow exhale, his muscles still coiled with tension. Avoid their gaze. Avoid their thoughts. Avoid their movement. Mimicry Echo: Silent Steps. His presence diminished, his body melting into the shadows like a fleeting specter. His heartbeat slowed, his breathing steadied. Mimicry Echo: Blur Trace. His astral signature vanished, leaving behind only false trails, ensuring that if something tried to track him, it would be led in the wrong direction. The System sent another notification: [New strategy implemented: System will pass detected threats directly into consciousness. Avoid looking. Avoid thinking.] A silent acknowledgment passed between Silas and the System. He would rely entirely on the System¡¯s scans to navigate, trusting its silent guidance rather than his own senses. Slowly, he moved¡ªhis footsteps completely soundless against the cracked stone floor. The shadows seemed deeper here, swallowing what little remained of the institution¡¯s sanity. The corridors twisted, bending at impossible angles. The walls were lined with scribbled runes, shifting, writhing, as if something had tried to record knowledge that refused to be understood. Silas felt them shifting in his periphery, but he refused to look directly. A faint chittering noise echoed ahead. He halted, muscles tensing. [Two Seething Watchers nearby. Do not move.] He didn¡¯t dare breathe. The creatures slithered closer, their grotesque forms brushing against the walls. Their oversized, vein-riddled heads pulsed, a disturbing movement¡ªas if the thoughts inside were struggling to break free. One of them stopped. Silas felt a crawling sensation in his mind, like unseen fingers scraping against the edges of his thoughts. He forced his mind blank, thinking of nothing, focusing only on the silence, on the System¡¯s passive scans feeding him information. This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings. The creature lingered, twitching. Its many pupils contracted, dilated, shifted, each one searching. And then¡ª It moved on. Silas swallowed hard. His hands were damp with sweat, but he did not let himself shudder. Not yet. He pressed forward, deeper into the forsaken ruin, where the corridors grew narrower, and the darkness grew alive. There were things here¡ªthings that should not be. Silas pressed forward, deeper into the forsaken ruin, where the corridors grew narrower, and the darkness felt alive¡ªnot in the way shadows flickered in the wind, but as if it watched, waiting. The air was thick, stagnant, heavy with the scent of damp stone and something more unnatural, something that lingered in the very walls. What little light existed came only from the gray, fog-covered sky seeping in through shattered windows and cracks in the high, crumbling ceilings. It was barely enough to make out the shifting outlines of the ruined institution, casting the world in an eerie half-darkness where shadows bled into each other, distorting perception. The Seething Watchers moved like nightmares, their grotesque forms gliding through the corridors, their elongated skulls twitching with every whisper. Their veiny, swollen heads pulsed in slow, sickening rhythms, their skin stretching as if something writhed beneath. Countless bulging eyes shifted independently, scanning their surroundings¡ªnot just with sight, but with something far worse. Their whispers were ceaseless. A chorus of hushed, fragmented voices that clawed at the edges of thought, unraveling focus, breaking down reason. The deeper Silas ventured, the more their presence gnawed at his mind, pressing against the barriers of his consciousness like unseen fingers prying at a locked door. He kept his breathing slow, his steps lighter than a falling feather. The System pulsed in his mind, mapping their erratic movement patterns, predicting when they would shift, pause, or turn. Every move he made was calculated, precise¡ªone mistake, and he would be seen, heard, or worse, sensed. Yet, despite his caution, there were close calls. A Watcher slithered past a collapsed doorway, its many eyes twitching unnaturally, searching for something unseen. Silas pressed himself against the wall, his heart hammering. The creature stopped. For a breathless moment, it hovered there, its head pulsing, the flesh stretching as if struggling to contain whatever thoughts festered within it. Then, it twitched violently, all its eyes swiveling toward the space beside him¡ªinches from where he stood. The whispers surged. A low, grating murmur spilled from its form, a sound that wasn¡¯t truly a sound, but something that slithered directly into the mind. A probing thought. A testing hunger. Silas felt its awareness brush against him. A flicker of recognition¡ªor was it just his paranoia? His fingers tightened around the hilt of his dagger. If it turned toward him, he would have to act. But then¡ªit shifted away. The Watcher lurched forward, its massive head pulsating, and continued down the corridor, leaving only the echo of its presence behind. Silas let out a silent exhale, forcing his pulse to steady. Too close. The air was thick with rot, the scent of damp stone and something far worse¡ªsomething old, something wrong. Silas crouched low, his form blending into the broken ruins as he watched the creature slither past. A Seething Watcher, its grotesque, veiny skull pulsing like a dying heart, its mass of bulging, disjointed eyes twitching in all directions, searching, hunting. It exuded whispers, a maddening chorus of fragmented voices scratching at the edges of his mind. He had to act. Quick. Precise. Soundless. Silas activated Mimicry Echo: Silent Steps¡ªhis presence fading, his movements melting into the gloom. The Watcher halted, sensing nothing. He moved. Mimicry Echo: Edge flicker applied to the blade of dagger. A breath of steel cutting through stagnant air. The dagger sank into its pulsing throat. The Watcher shuddered, a grotesque, gurgling sound escaping its shifting mouths¡ªbut no whisper came. Silas had silenced it before the thought could manifest. He twisted the blade, severing the pulsing tendrils beneath its veined flesh. Its massive skull throbbed violently, as if resisting death¡ªbut it was already too late. With Mimicry Echo: Blur Trace, he erased the evidence, distorting his astral signature as he dragged the twitching corpse into the shadows, ensuring no trace remained. Then¡ªa flicker of movement. Another Watcher approached. Silas stilled, his heartbeat steady but his muscles coiled like a predator in wait. The creature passed inches from him. Its presence was overwhelming¡ªa walking mass of sight and sound, a grotesque abomination of vision and whispers. Its many pupils contracted and dilated erratically, sweeping over the space just beyond where Silas stood. He did not breathe. The whispers itched at his skull, pressing, probing, seeking a crack in his focus. And then¡ªit turned. In one smooth, bladed motion, Silas struck like a phantom. Mimicry Echo: Edge Flicker activated. His dagger became sharper, faster¡ª A quick slash tore through the pulsing tendrils at the base of its skull. A precise thrust to the temple ended its struggle before it could react. The Watcher lurched, its body spasming in an unnatural, inhuman way, its many eyes rolling violently in its final moments before going still. Silas withdrew his dagger, watching as the thing¡¯s form collapsed, its whispers fading into nothing. A moment passed. Then another. He scanned the corridor. No movement. No response. The Seething Watchers were powerful, but they were not invincible¡ªat least, not against something faster, something deadlier. But this was not a place to hunt. This was a place to escape. Silas moved further into the ruins, his surroundings growing more structured, more purposeful. Then he saw them. Books. Scattered across broken wooden desks, piled against rotting bookshelves, half-buried beneath the rubble¡ªancient tomes, their pages crumbling at the edges, their ink smudged by time. A library. Even with the decay, it still held the remnants of what it once was¡ªa place of knowledge. A place of research. This was no ordinary institution. His fingers brushed over the surface of a faded, leather-bound book, the title long erased. The pages were filled with symbols, foreign text, strange diagrams that made his head ache just from glancing at them. "System, extract and scan." A pulse of blue flickered in his mind. [Extracting¡­ Deciphering partial text¡­] [Institution Identified: The Orphic Athenaeum] [Primary Study: The Astral Abyss] [Notes Recovered: Multiple warnings against deep exploration of the Astral Abyss.] [Observation: Astral Abyss is vast, layered, and unpredictable. Deeper layers contain entities beyond comprehension.] [Power System: Institution scholars were called ''Watchers.'' Their abilities relied on rituals and glyph-based invocations.] Silas¡¯ eyes narrowed. Astral Abyss¡­ So they didn¡¯t call it the Astral Realm¡ªthey called it something else. And they feared it. The further they went, the less they understood. And whatever knowledge they uncovered, it destroyed them. He could feel the unease settle in his bones. Whatever had happened to the Watchers of the Orphic Athenaeum, their legacy had been reduced to ruins and whispers. Perhaps they ventured too deep. Perhaps they found something they shouldn¡¯t have. Or perhaps¡­ something found them first. A new System notification flashed in his mind. [Warning: Time Running Short. Promotion Instability Increasing.] His pulse quickened. He had spent too much time searching, speculating. No more delays. If the White Door existed anywhere, it would be here, buried beneath the forgotten knowledge of those who failed before him. With one last glance at the decayed books, he turned away and pressed deeper into the ruined institution¡ªsearching for the White Door before time ran out. With one last glance at the decayed books, Silas turned away, his mind still heavy with the revelations of the Orphic Athenaeum. The Astral Abyss, the forgotten Watchers, the warnings¡ªall of it led to a single conclusion. They feared what was above. But now was not the time to dwell. The White Door was his priority. Silas moved swiftly yet cautiously, navigating the twisting corridors with the System passively scanning his surroundings. The deeper he ventured, the more warped the architecture became¡ªhallways bent at unnatural angles, doorways led to dead ends or looped back on themselves, and the once-solid floors seemed to shift underfoot if stared at for too long. The Seething Watchers still lurked, but he had learned their patterns¡ªwhere they hesitated, where their senses flickered, how to move unseen. After what felt like hours of silent navigation, a new System alert flickered in his mind. [Anomaly Detected: Sealed Section of Institution Found] [Unnatural Reality Distortion Present] Silas stopped before a half-buried doorway, the entrance choked by collapsed beams and rubble. It wasn¡¯t supposed to be accessible¡ªnot anymore. But something behind it called to him. Carefully, he cleared just enough debris to squeeze through, emerging into a sealed-off classroom, untouched by time yet utterly unnatural. The moment he stepped inside, his breath hitched. The space felt... wrong. The classroom was preserved, unlike the ruin surrounding it. Desks and chairs stood perfectly aligned, their wood unstained by decay. The walls bore no cracks, no signs of age. And yet, it was silent¡ªa void of sound, as if the entire room had been severed from existence. At its center stood the White Door. It was featureless, smooth, with an unsettling clarity that made it feel out of place, even in this distorted reality. It did not shimmer, did not glow, yet its presence pressed against Silas like an unseen weight. He took a step forward¡ª And stopped. Something was here. A presence. He shifted his gaze slightly, and his stomach tightened. It stood at the far end of the room¡ªmotionless. Unlike the Seething Watchers, this entity did not move, did not whisper, did not even breathe. It was tall, statuesque, its body wrapped in tattered ceremonial robes, its elongated head crowned with twisted bone-like protrusions. Countless eyes covered its face and body¡ªbut they were all closed. A thin layer of dust coated its form, as if it had stood there for centuries, undisturbed. The System flashed a quiet warning. [Caution: Unknown Entity Present] [Status: Dormant] [Threat Level: Extreme] Silas¡¯ fingers tensed around the hilt of his dagger. His instincts screamed at him¡ªthis thing was different. Unlike the Watchers, it did not seek, did not search. But it was guarding the door. If he moved recklessly, he knew¡ªwithout a doubt¡ªthat it would awaken. I can¡¯t fight this. He knew it as surely as he knew his own limits. Even without seeing its full capabilities, the sheer presence it exuded in stillness was enough. But that didn¡¯t mean he was trapped. He took a slow, steady breath and activated Mimicry Echo: Silent Steps and Blur Trace, suppressing his presence to the absolute minimum. Then, he studied the room. Every inch of it. Every shadow, every chair, every blind spot in the creature¡¯s field. His gaze flicked across the dust on the floor, the untouched desks, the spaces where the air did not seem as thick. And he saw it¡ªa precise path. A way to move without disturbing the air, without shifting the dust, without triggering even the slightest change in the unnatural balance of this room. Carefully, methodically, he moved. The entity remained still. Its countless closed eyes did not stir. Silas reached the White Door. He lifted his hand¡ª And placed his palm against its surface. The moment his skin met the door, the world shattered. The classroom, the entity, the ruin itself¡ªall of it peeled away like a fragile illusion, dissolving into the abyss. There was no sensation of falling, no transition¡ªonly a sudden nothingness, a weightless void that stretched endlessly in all directions. The moment Silas¡¯ palm met the White Door, reality collapsed. A cold, weightless sensation swallowed him whole, pulling him into a void without sound, without air, without direction. It was not falling, nor drifting¡ªit was simply being erased. And in that instant¡ªhe and the door vanished. The sealed-off classroom stood in silence once more. But something had changed. The air, once still and undisturbed, trembled. A faint shift, almost imperceptible¡ªuntil the dormant entity at the far end of the room began to stir. Its many closed eyes¡ªeyes that had remained shut for centuries, perhaps longer¡ªquivered. Then, one by one, they slightly opened, revealing glimpses of something far beyond human comprehension. A deep, resonant whisper scraped through the still air, a voice that did not belong to the material world. Another one who dives into the abyss for knowledge¡­ The eyes did not fully open. The being did not move. And then¡ªjust as suddenly as it had stirred¡ªit fell silent once more, retreating into its timeless, patient watch. Chapter 12: Second - Order Silas felt himself sinking¡ªnot through the floor, nor through space, but through something deeper. Reality peeled away, unraveling like worn parchment, and suddenly, he was weightless, drifting through an endless void. No sound. No sensation. No air. Just the vast unknown. Yet, ahead of him, something stirred. At first, it was subtle¡ªa shimmer, a disturbance in the void¡¯s fabric. Then, like distant stars igniting in an eternal night, seven spheres of light emerged. Each one pulsed with an unseen rhythm, their glow neither warm nor cold, neither inviting nor repelling. They simply¡­ were. Silas narrowed his eyes. These weren¡¯t just lights. They were choices. Instinct guided him forward. He reached out, hesitantly, his fingers grazing the nearest sphere. The moment he touched it, a voice unlike any he had ever heard resonated through his mind¡ªnot spoken, not heard, but understood. It was ancient, its depth stretching beyond time, beyond existence itself. "Runescribe¡ªMaster of Arcane Inscriptions." "In script, I preserve; in runes, I empower. The silent etchings shall speak, and the lost words shall awaken. To inscribe, to channel, to shape¡ªI walk the path of the eternal scribe." Silas pulled his hand back, a shiver running down his spine. That was¡­ unexpected. He turned to the next sphere, brushing against its surface. Again, the voice emerged. "Mnemonic Adept¡ªMaster of Memory & Knowledge Retention." "In thought, I wield; in memory, I endure. The past shall never be lost, and the forgotten shall be reclaimed. To recall, to refine, to transcend¡ªI walk the path of the boundless mind." A Chronicle focused on knowledge retention¡­ intriguing. Silas moved to the next. "Relicbinder¡ªMaster of Arcane Relics & Stored Power." "In the old, I find power; in the lost, I find purpose. Artifacts shall whisper, and ancient energies shall rise again. To bind, to restore, to wield¡ªI walk the path of the relic keeper." Another promising choice. He continued. "Echo Savant¡ªMaster of Replication & Perfect Imitation." "In reflection, I grow; in repetition, I master. The echo shall become truth, and the imitation shall surpass the original. To observe, to refine, to perfect¡ªI walk the path of the mirrored blade." Silas exhaled slowly. This one reminded him of Mimicry Echo. A Chronicle focused on replication could be¡­ useful. "Hexforger¡ªMaster of Cursed Runes & Maledictions." "In curses, I create; in hexes, I reign. The wicked shall be marked, and fate shall bow to my craft. To inscribe, to afflict, to command¡ªI walk the path of the branded fate." His brows furrowed. Cursed runes? Maledictions? A dangerous path. "Occult Engineer¡ªMaster of Mystic Machinery & Arcane Mechanisms." "In craft, I fuse; in invention, I thrive. The arcane and the machine shall be one, and the gears of sorcery shall turn at my will. To build, to refine, to innovate¡ªI walk the path of the arcane artificer." A fusion of technology and sorcery. Something rarely heard of in Evergarde. Then, he reached the final sphere. "Arcane Codex¡ªMaster of Runic Engraving & Memory Weaving." "In knowledge, I engrave; in echoes, I inscribe. The fleeting shall be eternal, and the ephemeral shall be carved into existence. To store, to merge, to redefine¡ªI walk the path of the living archive." Silas stilled. The word knowledge lingered in his thoughts. He took a slow breath. The System was the reason he had advanced so efficiently in the Occultist Chronicle. If there was a way to maximize his advantage, it would be through something that complemented the System¡¯s capabilities. Silas stood in the void, surrounded by the seven glowing spheres of light, each pulsing with a silent invitation. He had examined them all, listened to the ancient whispers that spoke their names and oaths into his mind. Yet, two choices lingered in his thoughts, refusing to be dismissed. Mnemonic Adept¡ªthe master of memory and knowledge retention. "In thought, I wield; in memory, I endure. The past shall never be lost, and the forgotten shall be reclaimed. To recall, to refine, to transcend¡ªI walk the path of the boundless mind." And Arcane Codex¡ªthe master of runic engraving and memory weaving. "In knowledge, I engrave; in echoes, I inscribe. The fleeting shall be eternal, and the ephemeral shall be carved into existence. To store, to merge, to redefine¡ªI walk the path of the living archive." Both paths revolved around preserving knowledge, but the way they wielded it differed. Silas clenched his jaw, weighing the implications. Mnemonic Adept would allow him to retain everything he learned with perfect clarity, making even the most complex knowledge instantly accessible. His understanding of wielding techniques, astral lore, and mystical principles would deepen beyond normal human limits. But Arcane Codex¡­ Silas'' eyes narrowed. This Chronicle wasn¡¯t just about remembering knowledge¡ªit was about engraving it into reality. With it, he could store abilities, inscribe them into objects, create lasting artifacts of power. His fingers twitched. If I combine this with the System¡­ He exhaled sharply and activated the System''s analytical function, seeking confirmation of what he already suspected. [Analysis Complete: Comparison Between "Mnemonic Adept" & "Arcane Codex"] Mnemonic Adept: Grants absolute memory retention, enhancing mental clarity, comprehension, and recall. Increases the efficiency of all knowledge-based abilities. Arcane Codex: Allows knowledge and abilities to be stored externally and recalled at will. Engraves abilities into objects, scrolls, or even the wielder¡¯s body, making skills permanently accessible. Conclusion: Arcane Codex has a higher synergy with System functionalities. Silas'' breath steadied. The System was the reason he advanced so fast as an Occultist¡ªit let him comprehend, analyze, and refine knowledge in ways normal Wielders couldn¡¯t. If he wanted to make full use of it, then Arcane Codex was the superior choice. This Chronicle wasn¡¯t just about knowledge¡ªit was about engraving, storing, and preserving abilities. Silas had already experimented with Mimicry Echo, but its limitations were clear. If he could permanently store what he mimicked, instead of temporarily borrowing it¡­ His entire approach to combat and survival would change. His fingers tightened. He confirmed his choice. This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it. "[You have chosen: Arcane Codex. Chronicle Evolution will now commence.]" At once, the void trembled. A force rushed into him, like ink spilling into parchment, like knowledge burning itself into his mind. He gritted his teeth as mystical energies flooded his body, his soul, his very existence. He saw symbols inscribed on ancient monoliths, words whispered into the void, knowledge preserved beyond time. And then¡ªhis own Chronicle shifted. Occultist ¡ú Arcane Codex [Second Order Chronicle Achieved.] His sublimated abilities began to shift as well, altering their form as they were reforged in the light of his new Chronicle. Evolved Insight Tap ¡ú Eternal Grimoire Grants the ability to store an unlimited number of copied abilities, spells, or techniques in engraved mediums (books, scrolls, weapons, or even the body) after studying and comprehension. These stored powers can be accessed or transferred at will. Silas'' breath hitched. Unlimited storage of abilities? That meant he could collect, refine, and combine abilities over time. Evolved Mimicry Echo ¡ú Engraved Echo Instead of temporarily mimicking a skill, the copied ability is etched into an object, turning it into a lasting artifact or tool. If inscribed on oneself (in the Eternal Grimoire), the ability can be activated any number of times as it is permanently stored. No time limits. No fading effects. Silas grinned, the weight of his new power sinking in. This¡­ this was perfect. The void shattered. A rush of air slammed into him as he found himself back in his dimly lit room, the flickering candlelight barely illuminating his surroundings. His hands trembled, his pulse still hammering from the experience. The transition had been instantaneous¡ªbut the change was absolute. He took a breath, steadying himself. It was over. He was no longer a 1st Order Wielder. He had stepped into the Second Order. Silas then focused inward, sinking into the depths of his conscious space. The armored construct made using his soul power and his own soul had both expanded¡ªnot just in size, but in essence. They were denser, more refined, pulsing with a newfound strength and depth that resonated through his very being. The transformation of his Chronicle was complete. The Arcane Codex had fully merged into his very being, its essence woven into the core of his existence. A slow breath left his lips as he withdrew from the depths of his consciousness. He opened his eyes, the dim light of his room grounding him back in reality. But he wasn¡¯t done. Let¡¯s test it. He activated Eternal Grimoire. A pulse of invisible power rippled through him, and before his eyes, something manifested from nothingness. A thick black grimoire appeared¡ªfloating weightlessly in the air. Its cover was dark and smooth, yet shifting with phantom-like translucence, as though it were a thing between reality and illusion. Intricate blue inscriptions glowed faintly across its surface, pulsing in quiet acknowledgment of its master. Silas stared at it. It had no real physical form¡ªno weight, no mass¡ªyet he could feel it, control it, as if it were an extension of himself. He willed it to move. The grimoire hovered at his silent command, gliding effortlessly in the air. He sent it forward, then backward, watching as it obeyed without resistance. A thought¡ªcloser. The phantom grimoire drifted toward him. Another thought¡ªopen. The cover flipped back, and its pages began to turn, revealing the inscribed essence of his abilities. His eyes moved over the pages, each one engraved with runic script and inscriptions, detailing the very foundation of the techniques he had comprehended and mastered over time. Gravemark Resilience¡ªetched in dense, sturdy runes. Ironthread Vitality¡ªinterwoven with fluid, winding inscriptions. Silent Steps¡ªdepicted in faint, whispering sigils. Blur Trace¡ªits markings shrouded in false trails and layered patterns, symbolizing deception. Edge Flicker¡ªsharp, jagged engravings that seemed to cut across the page itself. Gale Rush¡ª white marking and inscriptions, as if depicting the wind. Each ability was not just stored¡ªbut perfectly documented, preserved, and accessible. He could recall any ability from its respective page, reviewing every layer of insight he had gained upon its comprehension. This was no mere archive¡ªit was a living, evolving record, bound to him, shaped by him. And it existed within his very soul. A slow grin tugged at his lips. This¡­ is beyond what I expected. He also realized that Eternal Grimoire, having evolved from Insight Tap, retained its core ability¡ªallowing him to see and analyze mystical structures. However, its capabilities had expanded, granting him even deeper insight, unraveling complexities that had once remained hidden. Satisfied, he willed the phantom grimoire to vanish. The moment he dismissed it, the book faded into nothingness, its presence retreating into the depths of his soul. Yet, he could still feel it there, waiting¡ªan ever-present part of him. This was the true power of the Arcane Codex. Silas exhaled slowly, his fingers trembling slightly as he brought up his System Status. The wooden desk beside him was cluttered with scattered notes, half-formed rune sketches, and remnants of past experiments. Outside, the muffled chatter of Evergarde¡¯s Outer city streets faded into the background as his focus honed in on the floating text before him. [Status Report] His heartbeat drummed steadily, an undercurrent of excitement threading through his veins. His attribute cap had increased to 30. A quiet realization settled in¡ªif the limit for an average man was 10, then with his raw physicality alone, he could likely overpower a dozen men at once, even without activating any abilities. His fists clenched and unclenched, testing the newfound strength coursing through his body. His muscles felt denser, his movements more precise, his very breath steadier than before. A smirk tugged at his lips. He was growing stronger. Then, a sudden shift. The system¡¯s presence pulsed, a subtle ripple in the back of his mind, as new text unfurled before him. System Enhancement Detected. Analyzing new capabilities¡­ System Expansion: Now able to extract and interpret data from the 2nd Layer of the Astral Realm, following intricate cause-and-effect threads. Warning: The deeper the layers, the greater the risks. Caution is advised. Silas¡¯ breath hitched. The Second Layer. The very mention of it sent a chill crawling up his spine. The Astral Realm was already a place where logic and madness blurred, where wielders vanished without a trace, and now his system could pry into an even deeper layer of that terrifying world? The possibilities were endless, but so were the dangers. A sharp exhale left his lips. He wasn¡¯t ready for that yet. Not until he understood more. His gaze shifted to the next piece of information¡ªthe true reward of reaching 2nd Order. Chronicle Sublimations Unlocked Sublimations will occur at Level 5 and Level 15. New Abilities Upon Sublimation: His fingers hovered over the words as he reread them, his mind spinning with possibilities. Codex Weaving. The ability to combine inscriptions and abilities into something entirely new. He could forge techniques that had never existed before, wield knowledge in ways no one else could. Archive Phantasm. The thought of summoning the echoes of past scholars and wielders sent a shiver down his spine. If he could access the wisdom of those who came before, he wouldn¡¯t just be growing stronger¡ªhe would be learning from the very foundations of power itself. But then, the system¡¯s final warning appeared. Caution: The path beyond 1st Order is perilous. Sublimations at 2nd Order carry significantly greater risks. Many strive to ascend, but few survive the trials ahead. Silas exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders as tension coiled in his muscles. So, that was how it was. Most wielders could obtain a 1st Order Chronicle, but as they climbed higher, fewer and fewer succeeded. Advancement wasn¡¯t just a matter of power¡ªit was a test of will, intelligence, and survival. The air in his room felt heavier. The weight of his path ahead was clearer than ever. Still, a slow grin spread across his lips. He had come this far. And he wasn¡¯t about to stop now. Chapter 13: Delayed Justice Year 363, Seventh Month, 15th Day. More than two months had passed since he arrived in this world. It was now the Seventh Month, 15th Day. Morning arrived swiftly, though Silas felt as if he had only just closed his eyes. Yet, despite the restless night, exhaustion did not weigh on him. His mind was clear, his body refreshed¡ªanother sign that with his enhanced attributes, he required far less rest than before. Stretching slightly, he sat up, running a hand through his hair before glancing at the dim light seeping through the cracks in his window. The city was still waking, but his thoughts were already racing ahead. Silas activated the System, his voice low and measured. "Extract abilities related to abnormal state resistance or curse mitigation." The interface flickered, consuming 3000 Causal Points as it processed his request. [Searching the 2nd Layer of the Astral Realm¡­] [Filtering abilities with resistance properties¡­] [Analysis complete. Displaying available options.] Several abilities materialized before him, each accompanied by its respective 2nd Order Chronicle name and effect description. [Available Abilities] Veilguard (Sentinel Chronicle) ¨C A passive resistance ability that weakens the influence of mental interference, illusions, and mind-affecting afflictions. Grants a faint mental barrier that automatically reacts to foreign influences. Gloomward (Duskbringer Chronicle) ¨C A defensive aura that suppresses the lingering effects of curses and abnormalities. Does not prevent initial affliction but actively counteracts further spread or intensification. Silas narrowed his eyes, carefully weighing the two options. Each ability had merit, but he needed something that would provide him with consistent protection, rather than a temporary defense. Veilguard. It was subtle, passive, and did not require activation¡ªa safeguard that would always be in place, reducing the risk of mental corruption or external influence. Without hesitation, he selected it. [Ability Selected: Veilguard] [Comprehension Cost: 1500 Causal Points] [Proceed?] Yes. The moment the command was given, a pull surged through his consciousness, the weight of new knowledge integrating into his being. His mind stretched, expanded, adjusting to the presence of the ability. Unlike before, where comprehension was slow and gradual, his newly enhanced spirit attribute made the process almost effortless. The barriers of understanding dissolved in an instant, and within an hour, the ability had fully settled into his Eternal Grimoire. A faint sensation settled over his mind¡ªa subtle, unseen barrier, gently distorting external influences before they could reach him. It was not intrusive, nor overwhelming, but an ever-present shield, woven into his very being. Through Eternal Grimoire, he realized that one passive ability could remain permanently active, seamlessly integrated without requiring conscious activation. He exhaled, a satisfied glint in his eyes. A sudden possibility stirred at the edges of his mind. "System," he asked, his voice steady. "If I comprehend both sublimation abilities of a Chronicle¡­ will Eternal Grimoire hold the full Chronicle?" There was a brief pause. [Processing request¡­] [2500 Phenomena Points required to analyze Chronicle Synergy Potential.] Silas¡¯ lips thinned. It was a steep price, but knowledge had never been free. "Proceed." A surge of invisible power rippled through him as the System conducted an in-depth analysis. After several moments, the response materialized. [Answer: Yes. By comprehending both sublimation abilities of a 1st Order Chronicle, Eternal Grimoire can synergize them into a complete Chronicle, effectively granting access to its full power.] [Note: This requires the ability Codex Weaving, which is part of the first sublimation of your Arcane Codex Chronicle.] [Warning: The generated Chronicle will not be a true Chronicle. It cannot be promoted beyond its existing order.] Silas¡¯ fingers tightened slightly. So¡­ I can gather multiple 1st Order Chronicles, store them within the Eternal Grimoire, and use their powers freely¡ªbut I won¡¯t be able to promote them? That meant his true progression would remain tied to Arcane Codex, but he could possess and wield multiple Chronicles of lower orders without restriction. A slow, satisfied smile crept onto his lips. With enough knowledge¡­ This Chronicle will be overpowered. The world outside his door was unchanged¡ªthe ever-present fog curled through the narrow streets, softening the harsh edges of crumbling brick and rusted metal. Dim light bled weakly through the mist, marking the beginning of another day in Evergarde¡¯s Outer City. As Silas stepped out, pulling the door shut behind him, a familiar figure emerged from the neighboring house. Clara. She carried a small trash bin, her hair loosely tied back, her expression groggy but still bearing the warmth of morning familiarity. Their eyes met. "Morning," she greeted, voice light but still laced with sleep. Silas nodded. "Morning." She tossed the garbage into the bin by the alley wall, dusting off her hands before turning back toward him. Then, as if remembering something, she paused. "By the way," she started, tilting her head slightly, "Mum wanted to invite you over for dinner." Silas blinked, caught off guard for a moment. "Just me?" he asked, arching a brow. Clara shrugged, lips twitching. "Pretty sure she means all of us, but you were mentioned by name. She probably thinks you don¡¯t eat properly." Silas exhaled lightly. She wasn¡¯t entirely wrong. "Alright," he said, stuffing his hands into his coat pockets. "Tell her I¡¯ll come." Clara gave a small nod, then disappeared back into her house, leaving Silas to continue down the familiar cracked pathways of the Outer City. The Cogwheel Gazette was as loud and chaotic as ever, filled with the sounds of ink-stained hands slamming down papers, typewriters clacking furiously, and the occasional curses of reporters who had lost an exclusive. Silas navigated through the mess, bracing himself for what was to come. And, of course, Grint didn¡¯t disappoint. The moment he stepped into the office, his boss¡ªthe ever-sarcastic, permanently irritated Grint¡ªwas already looking at him with the expression of a man who had been disappointed by life far too many times. "You," Grint grunted, tossing a rolled-up paper at Silas, who caught it easily. "Congratulations. You¡¯ve survived another day without me firing you." Silas sighed, already expecting the usual verbal sparring. "How generous of you," he muttered, pulling up a chair and slumping into it. Grint gave a dry laugh. "Don¡¯t get comfortable, brat. No news for you to run to today, but I¡¯m sending you out anyway. Can¡¯t have you thinking this is some cushy desk job." Silas rubbed his temples, wondering how he had ended up in a place where doing nothing still got him kicked out of the office. "Right," he said, standing up before Grint could throw something else at him. "I¡¯ll be off then, since you¡¯re so eager to be rid of me." Grint waved him off without looking up. "If you come back with an actual lead, I¡¯ll consider not hating you for five minutes." Silas smirked faintly. "A whole five minutes? You must be getting sentimental." "Get out." Shaking his head, Silas stepped out into the street once more, the cool mist brushing against his face as he exhaled. As he walked, his thoughts drifted toward Engraved Echo¡ªhis newly evolved ability. If it worked as he theorized, it wasn¡¯t just about mimicking abilities¡ªit was about embedding them into objects, turning them into extensions of his power. If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. And if that was the case¡­ A weapon is obvious, but what about something subtle? Something unassuming? His pace slowed as his eyes landed on a small, cluttered shop nestled between two larger buildings. The sign above the door was barely readable, its paint long faded, but Silas had passed by enough times to know it sold all sorts of small, everyday tools. He pushed the door open, a soft chime ringing as he stepped inside. The interior was dimly lit, the shelves stacked with everything from old lanterns to brass instruments, walking sticks, and pocket tools. Dust floated lazily in the air, catching the weak light filtering in through the smudged windows. Behind the counter, an older man sat hunched over a ledger, his spectacles perched on the edge of his nose. He barely glanced up as Silas entered. "Looking for something in particular?" the man grunted, voice rough with age. Silas scanned the shelves before his gaze settled on what he needed¡ªa sturdy wooden cane, unadorned and simple, but well-made. "This one," Silas said, picking it up and testing its weight. It was solid, but not too heavy. Durable enough to last. The shopkeeper peered at it, then at Silas. "You got a bad leg?" Silas gave a half-smirk. "Something like that." The old man grunted in amusement, rubbing his chin. "Six gear gilds. No haggling." Silas pulled out the coins, setting them on the counter. "Fair enough." As the transaction was completed, he gripped the cane firmly, feeling its smooth surface beneath his fingers. This will do. The scent of aged wood and faint candle smoke lingered in the air as Silas stepped into his dimly lit home. He walked toward the small kitchen space, setting down a wrapped piece of cheese on the counter. A simple gift, meant for Clara¡¯s mother. It wasn¡¯t much, but it was better than showing up empty-handed. From there, he moved to his bedroom, setting his newly purchased wooden cane on the worn wooden table. With a breath, he summoned the Eternal Grimoire. The air around him hummed faintly, a ripple of unseen energy distorting the space before the phantom tome materialized. Its black cover shimmered with ghostly blue inscriptions, shifting and pulsing with arcane presence. Weightless, yet powerful. It hovered effortlessly before him, awaiting his command. With a mere thought, its pages flipped open, revealing the engraved forms of his abilities. [Eternal Grimoire] 1st Order Abilities 2nd Order Ability Silas'' fingers hovered over the phantom pages, tracing the engravings with unspoken thought. This isn¡¯t enough. The Eternal Grimoire¡¯s true strength lay in its vast capacity. If he was to wield it properly, he needed more¡ªmore abilities, more knowledge, more power. His gaze flickered to the System interface, scanning the small yet growing resource he had accumulated throughout the day. [Causal Points: 2,960] It was enough to extract new abilities, but he refrained. He had learned to be cautious. Causal Points were a resource best kept for emergencies. I¡¯ll gather more abilities later. For now, he had something else in mind. Silas exhaled, then activated Engraved Echo. Instantly, a cascade of insights and knowledge flooded his mind¡ªpatterns, structures, formation techniques¡ªthe means through which abilities could be etched into an object, fusing knowledge with matter. His hand tightened around the wooden cane. It was sturdy, but mundane¡ªjust an ordinary walking stick. That would change. A soft blue glow pulsed beneath his fingertips, spreading across the cane¡¯s surface in intricate, flowing lines. Runes and inscriptions etched themselves into the wood, coiling like a living script, as though the cane itself was awakening to a new existence. The first layer settled¡ªGravemark Resilience. The cane¡¯s structure strengthened instantly, its fibers reinforcing beyond natural durability. Though it looked unchanged, Silas could feel it¡ªa density that hadn''t been there before, a sturdiness that defied its original make. But he wasn¡¯t finished. Another pulse of energy surged through his fingers as a second set of inscriptions began climbing over the first, weaving into the existing engravings without disrupting their integrity. This time, the effect was different¡ªBlur Trace. The moment the process completed, the glowing runes faded, retreating into the cane¡¯s surface until it appeared as ordinary as before. Yet, Silas knew better. He lifted it, testing the weight in his hand. It felt heavier now¡ªdenser, reinforced. With a casual motion, he struck the floor. A sharp, metallic clang resonated through the room, as though steel had met stone. Silas smirked. Perfect. Satisfied with his work, he set the cane down and turned toward the door. It was time to head to Clara¡¯s house. Silas adjusted the cuffs of his worn but neatly pressed suit, ensuring he looked presentable despite the ever-present layer of city grime that clung to everything in the Outer City. The air outside was thick with mist and distant smoke, curling between the narrow alleys as he made his way to Clara¡¯s home. In his hand, he carried the small, wrapped package of cheese¡ªa simple but thoughtful gesture. He wasn¡¯t sure if it would be considered much, but it felt like the right thing to do. Arriving at the familiar wooden door, he lifted his hand and knocked. For a moment, there was only silence. Then, the faint creak of floorboards sounded from within before the door swung open. Standing there was Mr. Aldric Hawthorne¡ªClara¡¯s father. The man was broad-shouldered but slightly hunched, a once-strong frame now weathered by time and hardship. His face bore the marks of a life spent in the harsh streets¡ªdeep lines of experience, a grizzled beard, and sharp but tired eyes that studied Silas with a measured gaze. Then, his expression softened. "Silas," Aldric greeted, his voice rough with age but firm. He stepped aside, gesturing inward. "Come in, lad." Silas nodded and stepped inside, the warm glow of the dim lantern light washing over him as the door clicked shut behind him. The house was modest, its wooden walls lined with shelves filled with old books, a few scattered relics of the past, and tools that had not seen use in years. The scent of cooked food still lingered in the air, mingling with the faint aroma of burning candle wax. At the dining table, Clara¡¯s mother, Mireille Hawthorne, was placing dishes carefully on the wooden surface. Her movements were precise but restrained, as if accustomed to avoiding notice. Silas had seen her only a handful of times. Unlike Aldric and Clara, Mireille rarely left the house. The reason was evident¡ªthe burn scar that covered the left side of her face, trailing down to her neck, a mark from an accident long past. She glanced up at him, her expression unreadable but not unkind. "Welcome, Silas," she said quietly, offering a small nod. Silas returned the gesture, stepping forward to place the wrapped cheese on the counter. "A little something I picked up on the way." Mireille¡¯s gaze flickered to it before she gave a faint smile, one that barely reached her eyes. "Thank you. That¡¯s kind of you." Clara, who had been arranging utensils, paused and raised an eyebrow at him. "Didn¡¯t expect you to bring gifts," she muttered, smirking slightly. Silas smirked back. "Even I have manners, sometimes." Aldric let out a short chuckle, shaking his head as he moved toward the table. "Sit, lad. No point standing around." They all gathered around the worn wooden table, the plates simple but filled with a hearty meal. It wasn¡¯t extravagant, but in the Outer City, a warm meal with company was worth more than gold. As they ate, the conversation drifted between mundane topics¡ªthe rising price of goods, the worsening conditions in the Outer City, the rumors of the Nightwatch increasing patrols. Then, as the meal neared its end, Aldric set down his fork with a quiet clink. His sharp eyes lingered on Silas for a moment before he spoke. "I don¡¯t know if you remember much about your parents, lad," Aldric said, his tone heavier now, "but they were good people. Better than most in this city." Silas¡¯ hand stilled briefly. Of course, he remembered. Or rather, the original Silas did. Edwin and Lillian Crowell. The memories weren¡¯t his own, but they might as well have been. His father, Edwin, had been a factory worker¡ªone of thousands trapped in the grinding machinery of Evergarde¡¯s industrial beast. His mother, Lillian, had been a seamstress, taking in work to support the family. And then, one day, they were gone. Aldric¡¯s jaw tightened slightly. "The factory took them." Silas met his gaze. "The explosion." Aldric nodded. "That was the official story, at least." Silas already knew where this was going. The original Silas had tried to investigate the truth behind their deaths¡ªtried to uncover what really happened that day. But he had been warned. And not subtly. "Nothing good comes from digging too deep in this city," Aldric muttered, his fingers tapping against the table absently. "I tried to help back then. Put my neck on the line to push for answers." He gestured to his bad leg, the limp he had carried for years. "This was my reward." Silas didn¡¯t speak. He didn¡¯t have to. Aldric had been a Nightwatch officer back then¡ªone of the few good ones. And for his trouble, he had been silenced, removed from his position, and left to rot in the Outer City. It was a familiar story. One told in blood and quiet disappearances. Clara, who had been silent, clenched her fists under the table. Mireille¡¯s gaze was downcast, staring at her plate. Aldric leaned back, exhaling tiredly. "I don¡¯t bring this up to burden you, lad," he said, his voice quieter now. "Just¡­ be careful. You¡¯re working at that damn paper, and your boss isn¡¯t the type to give you real chances. He¡¯s using you to do the grunt work." Silas exhaled, offering a small smirk. "Oh, I¡¯m painfully aware." Aldric huffed a laugh at that, shaking his head. "Then be smarter about it. If you can, look for something better. The city¡¯s getting worse, and if things turn ugly, I¡¯d rather know you and Clara weren¡¯t stuck here." Silas met his gaze, something unspoken passing between them. "I¡¯ll keep that in mind," he said. Aldric didn¡¯t seem entirely convinced, but he let it go. With the meal finished, Clara and Mireille began clearing the table, gathering plates while Aldric pushed himself up from his seat with a quiet grunt. "Stay a bit longer," he said, stepping toward the shelf. "Got something to share." From a hidden compartment, he pulled out a small bottle of aged wine, its glass slightly dusted from disuse. "A rare thing these days," he mused, setting it down. "Figured it¡¯s as good a time as any." He poured two glasses, sliding one to Silas before taking the other for himself. Silas tilted the glass slightly, watching the dark liquid swirl inside before taking a small sip. It was bitter, with a faint warmth that spread through his chest. Aldric took a slow drink, his expression unreadable. "The city¡¯s falling apart," he murmured after a moment. "I don¡¯t like where things are going." Silas said nothing. Aldric¡¯s gaze lingered on him, a quiet weight behind his eyes. "You ever need anything, lad," he said finally, "you come to me first. Got it?" Silas nodded. "Got it." The mist had thickened by the time Silas left the house, the dim glow of distant lamps barely cutting through the haze. He walked in silence, his thoughts churning. Aldric had been a good man in a city that punished the good. And for that, he had lost everything. Silas clenched his fists. I took his body. His past. His name. The least I can do is give him justice. Chapter 14: A Survivor The evening mist curled around the narrow streets of the Outer City, thick and unrelenting, swallowing the dim glow of lanterns that barely cut through the gloom. Silas walked alone, his hands tucked into his coat pockets, his steps soundless against the damp cobblestones. The air smelled of soot and old metal, carrying the faint echoes of distant factory gears grinding against each other¡ªan ever-present reminder of the city¡¯s relentless march forward, no matter how many were crushed beneath it. But Silas¡¯s thoughts were elsewhere. I need money. The realization sat like a cold stone in his gut. Working as a runner for the Gazette barely paid enough to survive, and while he had managed for now, it wouldn¡¯t last. It was never meant to last. If he wanted to thrive in this city¡ªno, if he wanted to survive long enough to grow stronger¡ªhe needed more. The question was how. His mind churned through the options, dissecting each possibility. With Engraved Echo, he could create powerful items¡ªreinforced weapons, enchanted tools, and artifacts that even low-level Wielders or desperate thugs would pay a fortune for. But it was too dangerous. If he started selling such items, it wouldn¡¯t take long before the wrong people noticed. The Nightwatch would track him down, interrogate him, and if they deemed his ability valuable, they wouldn¡¯t just let him walk free. They would confine him, force him to engrave for them, strip away his freedom in the name of control. And the nobles? They would be worse. To them, unique abilities were commodities, not rights. If they discovered what he could do, he wouldn¡¯t be negotiating contracts. He¡¯d be shackled, engraving at their whim until there was nothing left of him. That thought alone was enough to send a cold shudder through his spine. No. Absolutely not. Even if he sold discreetly, all it would take was one wrong buyer, one unlucky slip, and his fate would be sealed. If the items were too effective, too unique, people would start asking questions. Where did they come from? Who was making them? Rumors would spread, and someone¡ªwhether the Nightwatch, a noble, or a desperate Wielder¡ªwould eventually start tracking him down. And once they found him, there would be no escape. The night pressed in around Silas¡¯s modest room, the only source of light a faint glow from the oil lantern sitting on the edge of his desk. Outside, the fog had thickened, swallowing the distant hum of factory bells and the murmurs of the Outer City¡¯s restless streets. Silas sat on his bed, his back against the creaking wooden frame, staring at the dimly flickering System interface in his mind. He had just finished a modest meal¡ªthe same stale bread, dried meat, and lukewarm tea that had become routine. It wasn¡¯t much, but it was enough. His focus, however, was elsewhere. Causal Points: 5,078 The number had grown throughout the day, accumulating from passive interactions, actions, and decisions¡ªa slow but steady resource. And tonight, he had a purpose for it. If I¡¯m going to steal, I need the right tools. His current abilities were useful, but none were specifically designed for theft. Stealing wasn¡¯t just about speed or brute force¡ªit was about control, precision, deception. For this, he wouldn¡¯t settle for just abilities. I need to extract full Chronicles. That way, I can comprehend, store and eventually synergize the abilities to get the whole chronicle when I unlock Codex Weaving. Silas exhaled slowly, then issued the command. "System, extract three 1st Order Chronicles related to stealing." A soft pulse flickered through his mind as the System processed the request, consuming 3,000 causal points. [Processing¡­] [Extraction Complete.] [Three 1st Order Chronicles acquired.] Silas reviewed the abilities extracted by the System from Chronicle imprints in the 1st Layer, carefully deciding which one to comprehend. Extracted Chronicles & Abilities Thief Chronicle Pickpocket Chronicle Burglar Chronicle Silas studied the extracted abilities, his mind methodically weighing each option against his current strengths and weaknesses. He needed skills that would complement what he already had¡ªsomething practical, something efficient. After a moment of careful deliberation, he made his choice. Silent Entry and Cat¡¯s Balance from the Burglar Chronicle¡­ and Sleight of Hand from Pickpocket. Lockpicking, agility, and precision. One to slip through locked doors unseen. One to move across unstable ground without a sound. And one to take what wasn¡¯t his without leaving a trace. They fit together seamlessly¡ªa perfect blend of subtlety and control. Without hesitation, Silas activated the System¡¯s comprehension function, consuming the rest of the points, committing to his path. Sergeant Garrick Voss was many things, but above all, he was a man who knew how to take his share. The streets of the Outer City were harsh, but for men like him¡ªmen who wore the Nightwatch coat and carried the weight of authority like a club¡ªthey were ripe with opportunity. Tonight had been a good night. His salary had come in, but that was the least of his earnings. The real wealth lay in the pockets of those too weak to fight back. A few extra gilds slipped into his hands from the street hooligans he "overlooked." A decent cut from the pickpockets who paid for protection. And, of course, the bribes from merchants who didn¡¯t want trouble. By the time the evening mist had thickened over the streets, Garrick was in high spirits, the weight of coin-heavy pouches tucked beneath his coat a reminder that power in this city belonged to those who took it. He was not a man of patience. He didn¡¯t believe in waiting for things when he could simply take them. And tonight, like many nights before, he had taken everything he wanted. The small apartment reeked of sweat and cheap perfume, the scent clinging to the damp sheets as Garrick lounged on the rickety mattress, shirt unbuttoned, his boots still on. A bottle of half-drunk brandy rested on the nightstand, its contents sloshing from the rough way he had set it down. Beside him, Annalise sat on the edge of the bed, her back to him, arms clutched tightly around herself. The dim lantern light cast long shadows over her figure, emphasizing the tense lines of her shoulders, the stiffness of her movements as she pulled the thin bedsheet around herself. She was not here by choice. But she was here nonetheless. "You¡¯re quiet tonight," Garrick muttered, taking another swig from the bottle before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His voice was thick with alcohol and satisfaction. Annalise didn¡¯t answer. She was always like this after. Silent. Withdrawn. The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. Like a dog that knows it¡¯s been beaten too many times to fight back anymore. Garrick smirked to himself. "Still sulking about your husband?" he asked, his tone mocking as he reached over and ran a hand lazily down her bare back. She flinched. That reaction always amused him. "You should be thanking me, you know," he continued, his fingers trailing over her skin like a spider weaving its web. "That bastard would¡¯ve just dragged you into the gutter with him. Do you have any idea what happens to fools who cross the wrong people in this city?" He leaned in, his breath hot against her neck. "He¡¯s rotting in a cell because he was stupid, Annalise. And you? You¡¯re here. With me. Warm, well-fed, untouched by the filth of the streets." Her hands clenched into fists against her lap, but she still said nothing. Garrick let out a low chuckle. "Ah, still pretending you¡¯ve got some fight left in you," he mused. "But we both know how this works." He grabbed her chin roughly, forcing her to face him. "Don¡¯t we?" Her eyes burned with resentment, but there was no defiance left in them¡ªonly helplessness buried beneath layers of exhaustion. She held his gaze for a long moment, then finally, with a slow, controlled breath, lowered her eyes. "Yes," she whispered. Garrick grinned. "Good girl." Satisfied, he released her and leaned back against the headboard, reaching for his drink once more. Outside, the city hummed with life, its smog-choked streets filled with people who thought they still had choices. Idiots. He took another swig, letting the warmth spread through his chest. Tomorrow, he would go back to his life of power and indulgence. Tomorrow, Annalise would return to her lonely apartment, knowing she¡¯d have no choice but to come back when he summoned her again. And that was just the way Garrick Voss liked it. By the time he stumbled back home, the streets had emptied, leaving only the distant hum of the Nightwatch patrols and the occasional shout of a drunkard. His boots thudded heavily against the wooden floor as he kicked the door shut behind him. His cramped apartment reeked of old tobacco, sweat, and stale ale, but Garrick barely noticed. His first priority was always his money. He walked over to the rickety dresser in the corner, pulling out a false-bottomed drawer. Beneath it, stacks of Crow Gilds, Gear Gilds, and even a few Tower Gilds gleamed under the faint lantern light. With clumsy fingers, he counted the night¡¯s earnings, muttering under his breath. Still not enough. Never enough. He shoved the coin pouches inside the hidden compartment, securing the false panel in place before dragging himself to bed. His coat hit the floor, his belt landed on the chair, and soon, he collapsed onto his creaking mattress, exhaling a long, satisfied sigh. Tomorrow would be another day of taking what he pleased. But for now¡ªfor now, he slept. What Garrik did not know was that a shadow was standing near him - wearing a hooded dark coat and dark wooden mask. The streets of the Outer City had long since fallen into a restless silence, the fog swallowing the last traces of life as Evergarde slouched into the deep hours of the night. But Silas Crowell was awake. He moved without sound, his shadow blending into the alleys and crumbling brick walls, his presence no different from the damp air that clung to the city like a second skin. His gaze was fixed ahead, expression unreadable, every movement slow and measured. Tonight was not a night for emotion. I am not a savior. I am a survivor. And Garrick Voss was a means to that survival. Silas had chosen him carefully. That morning, as he walked through the city, he had run an analysis with the System, filtering through the filth of Outer City to find someone who wouldn¡¯t just be easy to rob, but deserving of it. Target Identified: Sergeant Garrick Voss. Occupation: Nightwatch. Known Corruption: Extortion, Bribery, Coercion, Unlawful Arrests, Abuse of Power. Additional Notes: History of Violence Against Civilians. Silas¡¯s lips had curled into a faint smirk as he read the details. Perfect. He had followed Voss throughout the day, keeping his distance, letting the System track his movements as the Nightwatchman collected his bribes, his hush money, his cut from the criminals who paid for his protection. Then came the celebration. The drinks. The stolen woman. The arrogance of a man who thought himself untouchable. Silas had watched it all. And now, as Voss lay sprawled in his bed, unconscious and reeking of alcohol, Silas finally moved. The System pulsed in his mind, running a quiet scan of the house¡¯s layout. [Scouting Complete.] [Target''s money stash located: False-bottomed drawer, left corner of the room.] Silas exhaled slowly. This is just another step forward. He activated Silent Entry. The door creaked open just enough for him to slip inside, his movements fluid, seamless. The stench of alcohol, sweat, and stale breath filled the room, nearly as suffocating as the corruption that festered within the man sleeping inside it. Garrick Voss lay sprawled across his mattress, one arm flung over his chest, his mouth slightly open as he snored. For a brief moment, Silas simply watched him. This was a man who ruined lives with a flick of his wrist. Who took what he wanted¡ªmoney, power, people¡ªwithout consequence. No remorse. No hesitation. No fear. Silas¡¯s fingers twitched slightly, but he pushed down the thought. I¡¯m not here to kill him. Not yet. Instead, he moved to the dresser in the corner of the room, where the System had pinpointed the stash. Kneeling, Silas ran a gloved hand along the old wooden surface, searching for the false panel. There. A slight indentation beneath his fingertips. He activated Sleight of Hand. His movements became instinctively precise, as if he had practiced this motion for years. With a soft click, he pulled back the hidden compartment. His gaze flickered over stacks of Crow Gilds, Gear Gilds, and even a few Tower Gilds. More than enough to sustain him for months. Silas worked quickly, his breathing steady, pocketing the gilds without a sound. As he finished, his eyes drifted back toward Voss. Still unmoving. Still sleeping. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his dagger, the cool metal pressing against his palm. The stolen gilds in his pocket were enough to sustain him for a while, but something about simply leaving felt¡­ unfinished. A man like Garrick Voss doesn¡¯t deserve to wake up in comfort tomorrow. Silas turned his gaze toward the sleeping brute, sprawled across the filthy mattress, his mouth slightly open, reeking of alcohol and indulgence. This was a man who thrived on the suffering of others. A man who had stolen lives, broken families, tormented the powerless. And now? He lay there, untouched, oblivious, content in his filth. That wouldn¡¯t do. He needs to know what it feels like to lose something. A slow, deliberate breath left Silas¡¯s lips. His heartbeat remained steady, his mind eerily calm¡ªan effect of his heightened spirit attribute. He took a step forward, then another, moving like a phantom, his footsteps silent. Let¡¯s see how you survive without your sight, Garrick. With a measured precision, Silas activated Edge Flicker. His dagger gleamed with a faint blue-green hue, the sharp edge vibrating slightly as it honed itself to an unnatural sharpness. No struggle. No noise. Just clean, effortless pain. In one fluid motion, he slashed across Garrick¡¯s eyes. The blade cut deep, parting flesh like hot steel through wax, severing the delicate nerves in an instant. The effect was immediate. A wet gasp, followed by a howl of agony, tore through the room. Garrick¡¯s hands flew to his face, blood spilling between his fingers, his legs kicking wildly as he thrashed against the bed, sending the empty bottle of brandy crashing to the floor. "AAAARGH! MY EYES!" The scream was raw, desperate¡ªnot just from the pain, but from the realization. He was blind. Forever. Silas watched for a moment, his face void of emotion. A fitting end for someone who spent his life preying on those weaker than him. With that, he turned away, moving toward the door, his movements still controlled, efficient. [Passive Ability Active: Blur Trace] [Astral Signature Concealment: 99% Efficiency] Not a single trace of his presence remained in the room. No prints. No lingering energy. Nothing the Nightwatch or Wielders could trace. By the time the first neighbors awoke to the sound of Garrick¡¯s agonized wailing, Silas was already gone¡ªvanishing into the twisting streets of the Outer City, swallowed by the fog. The walk back was uneventful, his body relaxed, yet alert. His mind ran through the operation step by step, ensuring no mistakes had been made. He had taken what he needed. He had left no evidence. And he had delivered justice in the only way this city understood. As he approached his apartment, Silas silently deactivated Blur Trace, letting his Eternal Grimoire shift its passive ability back to Veilguard¡ªhis primary safeguard against mental intrusion or detection. One less piece of filth in the Outer City. Without a second thought, he stepped into his home, locked the door behind him, and disappeared into the quiet of the night. The morning air was cold and damp, thick with the lingering fog that never quite lifted from the Outer City. The streets were already bustling, factory workers trudging toward their shifts, merchants setting up their stalls, and beggars eyeing the crowds for an opportunity. Silas walked through it all, his hands tucked into his coat pockets, his mind sharp despite the lack of sleep. Another day. Another round of pretending to be a lowly errand boy. His destination: The Cogwheel Gazette. He had no intention of quitting just yet. His position here was useful¡ªa source of information, a way to keep his ear to the ground. The smell of ink and old paper filled the air as he stepped inside. Workers bustled about, hauling stacks of newspapers, shouting orders, and wiping sweat from their brows. The printing assistants had been working since dawn, their fingers stained with ink. Silas weaved through the chaos, heading toward the central desk where fresh copies of the morning edition were stacked. He grabbed one, his eyes scanning the front page. A small smirk tugged at Silas¡¯s lips as he read the headline. The article was dramatic, filled with speculation about a "violent and merciless thief" who had not only robbed Sergeant Garrick Voss but had also "delivered a brutal, permanent punishment." Violent? Merciless? Silas folded the paper under his arm, suppressing a chuckle. The Nightwatch didn¡¯t care about justice. They cared about power. If someone had cut out a thief¡¯s tongue for stealing, they wouldn¡¯t have batted an eye. But now that one of their own had suffered? Now, it was a crisis. I wonder how they¡¯ll react when they realize their "merciless thief" won¡¯t be caught. His System pulsed faintly, and he checked it. Causal Points: 4,323¡ªand still climbing. This is the correct way to use the System. A steady, passive accumulation of power. Influencing the city without being seen. Chapter 15: New abilities The days passed in a blur of routine. During the daylight hours, Silas played his role well¡ªjust another lowly runner for the Gazette, slipping through the city¡¯s streets, fetching ink, delivering messages, and listening. But the real work? That happened in the stillness of the night. The System pulsed in his mind, a silent observer as he sat at his desk, his fingers running over the surface of his twin daggers. The steel was unremarkable to the naked eye¡ªno ornate engravings, no lavish decorations¡ªjust simple, functional weapons meant for silent precision. But that was about to change. He took a measured breath, then summoned the Eternal Grimoire. The phantom tome materialized before him, it''s dark cover lined with blue inscriptions that pulsed like a heartbeat, linked directly to the Chronicle within his soul. First, the daggers. Silas activated Engraved Echo, the ability flowing through him like an unseen current. As he held the blade steady, glowing runes and inscriptions began to carve themselves into the steel¡ªnot with hammer and chisel, but with something deeper, something more arcane. Edge Flicker¡­ for sharper, deadlier strikes. Blur Trace¡­ to ensure each attack left no trace behind. The first set of arcane etchings glowed a faint blue-green, then faded seamlessly into the metal, as though they had always been a part of the blade. He gave one dagger a test swing. A faint shimmer followed the motion¡ªa whisper of something far too sharp, too precise. He barely needed to exert force; the steel felt weightless, the edge unnaturally keen. Satisfied, he repeated the process for the second dagger, embedding the same abilities before finally placing them on the table. Now, I don¡¯t need to activate Edge Flicker manually from the Grimoire. The daggers will always carry its effect. A small smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. Progress. But he wasn¡¯t done yet. Silas reached for his dark coat and mask, the disguise he wore when stepping into the world¡¯s shadows. The material was worn, but durable, stitched together with practicality in mind. And now? It would be something more. Gravemark Resilience¡­ to reinforce the fabric against strikes and blunt force. Blur Trace¡­ to ensure the engravings remained undetectable. The moment he began engraving, the fabric responded, as if absorbing the arcane power. The coat didn¡¯t change outwardly, but when he ran his fingers over it, there was a noticeable difference¡ªa subtle tension, a hidden resilience that hadn¡¯t been there before. The mask, too, was enhanced, now more than just a symbol of anonymity. No more being tracked so easily. And then, he turned to his daily attire¡ªhis ragged suit, the one he wore to the Gazette, the one that made him look like just another struggling worker in the Outer City. The same defenses. Now, even his everyday clothing was a layer of protection. Lastly, the boots. The most vital piece. In a world where speed could mean the difference between life and death, where hesitation could kill, he needed more than just protection. He needed movement. Gravemark Resilience¡ªto fortify the material, reinforcing every fiber. Gale Rush¡ªto propel him forward in an instant. Blur Trace¡ªto leave no trace behind. Three engravings. His current limit. The moment the final inscription settled, he felt the shift¡ªsubtle, but undeniable. The boots were no longer just leather and stitching, no longer just a pair of worn soles. They had become an extension of him, carrying latent power woven into their very structure, ready to respond at a moment¡¯s notice. Silas exhaled, clenching his fists as he took in his work. Every piece of my gear is more than just clothing now. It¡¯s a weapon. A shield. A tool. Silas sat in the dim glow of his apartment, the cold morning air creeping through the cracks in the warped wooden walls. His boots were laced, his coat buttoned. His daggers were hidden beneath the layers of fabric. And yet, one thing still lingered in his mind. The resignation. A normal person would have quit by now. A 2nd Order Wielder didn¡¯t need to spend his mornings running errands for a newspaper, delivering messages and collecting information like a common street rat. But Silas wasn¡¯t stupid. He was a hidden 2nd Order Wielder. And that, more than anything, was what mattered. The System¡¯s interface pulsed in his mind, a quiet reminder of his progress. He exhaled slowly, then checked his current accumulation. [Causal Points: 10,123 P] His lips curled slightly. Good. The points are stacking faster than expected. The system had proven itself time and time again, and he had no intention of wasting its potential. His last ability extractions had reshaped his combat approach, and now it was time to refine it further. He already had Edge Flicker, a sublimated ability from the Steelshroud Chronicle that had turned his daggers into flickering phantoms of steel, striking faster than the eye could follow. It had been one of his most effective tools¡ªa seamless blend of lethality and precision. If one ability from Steelshroud had been that useful¡­ Then what about the other? The answer was obvious. You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story. [Extracting 2nd Sublimation Ability: Steelshroud Chronicle ¨C 200 Causal Points Consumed.] A familiar sensation washed over him¡ªa pull, a shift, an unraveling of hidden knowledge that wove itself into his mind like threads of iron. The moment comprehension settled, he understood. [Ironbound Reflex ¨C Steelshroud Chronicle] A reactive enhancement¡ªbut far more than just that. It was a passive ability. His muscles, his very skin, would instinctively harden like tempered steel the instant he was struck¡ªor about to be. The effect was instantaneous, a rapid shift between flesh and unyielding resilience, allowing him to absorb incoming force without slowing his movements. It was a perfect counter to sudden attacks. A blade meant to pierce his ribs? It would glance off hardened flesh. A club swinging for the back of his head? His skull would turn momentarily unbreakable. Even a sniper¡¯s bullet, if fired at the right angle, could be mitigated before it truly struck home. It was not permanent, nor was it something he could manually activate. It was instinct. A defensive mechanism woven into his very being. And more importantly¡ªit complemented Edge Flicker seamlessly. Attack and defense in harmony. Blades that flicker like ghosts, striking before they can be seen. A body that turns to steel when touched by an enemy¡¯s blade. Silas flexed his fingers, his knuckles tightening into a slow, deliberate fist. He could already feel it, the sensation of strength coiled beneath his skin, waiting to be triggered. He leaned back in his chair, the candlelight catching against the silver edge of his daggers lying on the table. The room was silent, save for the distant howl of the wind through the city¡¯s broken alleys. His gaze dropped to the System interface. [Ability Successfully Comprehended.] [Ironbound Reflex: Integrated in Eternal Grimoire.] The Ironbound Reflex ability had been a revelation¡ªthe perfect counterbalance to his existing skills. It only made sense to take the next step. His fingers drummed against the wooden desk as he issued his next command. [Extract 2nd Order Chronicle of Steelshroud Chronicle] The System pulsed. Then¡ª [Extraction Failed.] Silas¡¯s brow furrowed. That was unexpected. He leaned forward slightly, waiting for the explanation. [Steelshroud does not possess a 2nd Order Evolution.] Silas blinked. "What?" The response continued. [Certain 1st Order Chronicles, when given strong names such as ¡®Steelshroud,¡¯ ¡®Hushwarden,¡¯ or ¡®Brassguard,¡¯ are formed with rigid, complex Oaths. This results in increased sublimation difficulty and, in most cases, an inability to evolve into a 2nd Order Chronicle.] Silas¡¯s heartbeat slowed. He read the words again, then again. No 2nd Order? That¡¯s¡­ It didn¡¯t make sense¡ªuntil it did. Steelshroud. Hushwarden. Brassguard. These Chronicles ¡ªones that exuded power just from their names¡ªbelonged to Wielders who were always formidable within their Order, sometimes to an overwhelming degree. Yet, despite their strength, they never advanced. They stayed in the 1st Order. Some even disappeared from the ranks of Wielders entirely. Because they had reached their limit. A Chronicle¡¯s name defines its existence. The stronger and more complex it is, the heavier the Oath that binds it. And the heavier the Oath¡­ ¡­the harder it is to break free and ascend. Silas sat back in his chair, exhaling sharply. He had never thought about it before, but it explained so much. There had been a time, back when he was still 1st Order, that he had felt a sting of envy. Why did I get a Chronicle called ¡®Occultist¡¯ while others had something as grand as ¡®Steelshroud¡¯? Why was mine so¡­ simple? Now he knew. He had dodged a bullet. If he had been given something like Steelshroud, no matter how strong it was in its rank, he would have eventually hit a ceiling. The realization left him cold. He leaned forward again, staring at the interface, thinking. Steelshroud might not have a path forward, but it was still a powerful Chronicle within its Order. The same went for Hushwarden, Brassguard, and all the others like it. They weren¡¯t worthless¡ªnot at all. They¡¯re perfect for Arcane Codex. Unlike other Wielders, Silas had no reason to worry about promotion for them. He wasn¡¯t looking to advance them, to push them beyond their limits. All he needed was their power. He could store these high-tier 1st Order Chronicles within his Eternal Grimoire, granting himself their abilities without the restrictions of their Oaths. Power without the chains. Silas closed his eyes for a moment, letting the thought settle. When he opened them again, he was smiling. I might not have the strongest-sounding Chronicle¡­ But I have something better. Control. Silas exhaled slowly, steadying his thoughts. He thought back to his priorities¡ªthree goals now stood before him. First, learn more abilities¡ªexpand his arsenal, sharpen his edge. Second, attend the secret gathering in two days. Information flowed in the shadows, and he needed every advantage he could get. Third¡ªuncover the truth behind his parents'' deaths. That last goal lingered, heavier than the rest, pressing against his ribs like a weight he couldn¡¯t shake. With a slow exhale, he checked his Causal Points. [Causal Points: 9,923 P] Enough for something substantial. He needed two 2nd Order abilities¡ªone for agility, to refine his movement in both combat and evasion, and another for pure battle efficiency. Silas issued the command. [Extracting abilities and Comprehension: 8,800 Causal Points Consumed.] A wave of data and sensation flooded his mind, as if pieces of forgotten knowledge were slotting into place. The moment the process was complete, he analyzed what he had gained. Resolute March (Ironmarshal Chronicle) Silas clenched his fist. This was exactly what he needed. Too often, fights were dictated by who could last longer. He wasn¡¯t foolish enough to think he was untouchable¡ªeventually, someone would land a hit. Pain won¡¯t stop me. Fatigue won¡¯t slow me. I¡¯ll keep moving until the fight is over. The second ability took on a different form¡ªone that catered to his stealth and unpredictability. Blindside Weave (Shadowcourier Chronicle) As dawn broke over Evergarde, Silas woke early, stretching as he checked the updated status report flashing in his mind. [Status Report] Name: Silas Crowell Age: 16 Chronicle: Arcane Codex (2nd Order) ¨C Level 3/20 Abilities: Attributes: Eternal Grimoire Stored Abilities: Causal Points: 1,123 P Silas¡¯s eyebrow twitched. His abilities had grown. His Chronicle had reached Level 3, unlocking a crucial advantage¡ªhe could now keep two abilities as passive within his Eternal Grimoire. After careful thought, he had chosen Ironbound Reflex. A single moment could decide life or death, and as long as he lived, there was hope. But his Causal Points had plummeted. A deep exhale escaped him as he rubbed his temples. Back to square one with points, huh? It was a necessary expense, but it still left him feeling a little hollow. If I want to keep growing, I need more ways to accumulate Causal Points. His current method¡ªtriggering events¡ªwas working. But it wasn¡¯t fast enough.