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 sudden urgency gripped him. He didn't know how he knew, but he was certain—this immense power was connected to his transmigration. And if he didn't act now, it would slip away forever.
He focused, his thoughts a frantic blur. How do I keep it? He grasped at the shifting strand, trying to mold it—shape it into something that could hold the rest. It unraveled, slipping through his mental grasp like sand through open fingers. A cold frustration settled over him. He didn't understand this power, didn't know its nature, yet it obeyed him—partially. That should have been reassuring. But it wasn't.
Think. If I don't figure this out, it'll all be gone.
He weighed his options, jaw tight. Blind experimentation wouldn't help him—he needed understanding.
This power shaped cause and effect, didn't it? Then perhaps... he could bend it, guide it, force reality to yield him an answer. A fragment of truth.
He drew a slow breath, steadying himself, then let a sliver of the power unravel—consuming itself, devouring its own essence in exchange for knowledge. A mere fraction. Five percent of a single strand, siphoned and directed toward understanding.
The response was immediate. Awareness crashed into him like a breaking tide, peeling back the veil that cloaked this place, unraveling its nature, its purpose
The Space within his consciousness. His soul.
His breath caught. So, this is what happened...
The shattering of the original Silas's soul and the fusion of his own had given rise to this space—an imprint of that violent change. A consequence of his very existence being rewritten. But beyond that, this place held something more.
His own memories. And the memories of the original Silas Crowell.
A strange emotion stirred within him—something between unease and curiosity. He could feel them, layered within his mind like echoes.
Pushing the thought aside, he turned his attention back to the strands. His newfound knowledge revealed something even more startling:
These strands could bypass the cause entirely—jumping straight to the effect. Like knowing how to ride a bicycle without ever learning. Or holding a pen and making words appear on paper without ever writing them. Skipping the process itself…
Not creation from nothing, but manifestation from a plausible source. In simpler terms this power can create events from a source. The implications were staggering.
His pulse quickened.
If that's true… then I can use it.
A plan formed in his mind. He would take a portion of the strand and reinforce his very soul—strengthen and increase it. If he succeeded, he could use the increased part of his soul, create an armor of sorts, a protective shell around his soul that would do far more than just shield him.
It would keep him intact.
Even in death. A Soul armor.
A chill ran through him at the thought, but he didn't hesitate. With such an armor, he wouldn't simply cease to exist if his body perished. He would have a failsafe—a last resort.
I could… take over another body if I had to.
The idea sat heavy in his mind, but he pushed aside the unease. He wasn't planning to use it. Not unless there was no other choice.
Still, a nagging worry lingered.
Will this even work? Is it safe?
Caution outweighed impulse. He guided a small portion of the strand forward, seeking answers—was this truly possible? Were there hidden dangers? When the strand responded, revealing no imminent harm, his confidence settled, solidifying his resolve.
This will work.
Ninety percent of the first strand was required to complete it, but he didn't hesitate any longer.
The process began.
A trance-like state overtook him as the effect unfolded. He could feel it—the slow, deliberate weaving of power into his soul, reinforcing it, forming an armor, binding it together. It was like forging armor, layer by layer, around something fragile.
When it was done, he slowly became aware of himself again.
Silas exhaled sharply. He felt different.
More solid. More… present.
Instinctively, he focused on the armor, testing its integrity, refining its structure with the last remnants of the first strand. He willed it to respond only to him, ensuring no one else could take advantage of it.
Satisfied, he turned his attention to the second strand.
Now, a new problem presented itself: The remaining strands are still unstable.
If he didn't act, they would eventually dissipate.
He needed a solution.
A container. He needed one. Could the armor surrounding his soul hold the strands now, given that it was forged from his very essence?
There was only one way to find out.
His fingers twitched in thought. The logic felt right.
He took seventy-five percent of the second strand, first testing the idea—confirming its possibility—before shaping it into reality.
The moment the process was complete, a strange sense of balance settled over him. The strands no longer felt volatile. He could feel them now—contained, controlled.
A slow smile crossed his lips.
It worked.
Finally, with everything stabilized, he pulled himself out of the consciousness space.
The next morning, he woke to the pale, muted light filtering through the fog-smeared window. The chill in the air gnawed at his bones, and the events of the previous night lingered in his mind like a shadow. He rubbed his eyes and sat up, the straw mattress crackling beneath him.
The basement… the ritual… the cult… The thoughts coiled tighter as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. I need to clean it. No mistakes. No traces.
He stood, stretching his stiff limbs, and shuffled toward the kitchen. The hearth was cold, and the iron kettle sat untouched. He lit the fire with practiced hands, feeding it slivers of kindling until the flames crackled to life. He poured water into the kettle and set it to boil, then tore a stale loaf of bread in half. Spreading a thin layer of butter—rancid at the edges—on the bread, he chewed slowly, his mind already organizing the day ahead.
First, meet Grint. He'll want something sensational. Blood always sells. His jaw tightened. Then the cleaning supplies… can't risk leaving the symbols visible.
As the water boiled, he steeped a single tea bag, the bitter aroma mixing with the faint scent of damp plaster. He drank quickly, wincing as the scalding liquid burned his throat.
He returned to his room and dressed in a gray wool shirt, its elbows patched with mismatched fabric. He laced up his worn boots and pulled on his threadbare overcoat—the lining was frayed, but it concealed the parchment safely tucked into the inner pocket. His fingers lingered there, feeling the brittle texture beneath the fabric.
This page changed everything. I just need more information.
Standing before the cracked mirror, he adjusted the collar of his coat and stared at his reflection. His eyes were sunken, his skin pale. He exhaled sharply and ran a hand through his hair.
You're Silas Crowell. Runner for the Gazette. Just another face in the crowd. Act normal.
With a final, steadying breath, he left the house, locking the door behind him. The fog outside was thicker than usual, muffling the clang of distant factory bells. His boots tapped against the cobblestones as he walked, the cold air stinging his cheeks.
The language was strange, its cadence sharp and unfamiliar. Yet, to Silas, it felt instinctively familiar.
The memories... he realized. The influx of thoughts and recollections from this new life had brought more than just a name. Embedded within were the words, the phrases, the entire linguistic framework of this world. He understood the signs, the conversations, even the subtle inflections that hinted at deception or urgency.
At least I won't be lost in translation, he thought, stepping into the mist with cautious confidence.
Silas combed through his memories. Today was Year 363, Fifth Month, Eighth Day—363 years since the founding of Evergarde.
The calendar was simple: ten months, each exactly thirty days. But beyond that, history was a void. Almost nothing was known about the time before Evergarde's founding. There were no schools in the Outer City to teach it, no records easily accessible to common folk. Whatever the original Silas had learned came from his parents, scattered rumors and half-forgotten tavern tales.
What unsettled him most, however, wasn't the missing history. It was the world itself.
There were no seasons. The temperature barely shifted, neither warm nor truly cold. The air always carried a faint dampness, a stillness that never changed.
Silas tilted his head, gaze drawn upward. A thick, gray fog blanketed the sky, endless and unbroken. No sun. No stars. At night, the moon sometimes appeared—a dim, half-hidden glow, like the faint edge of something vast and unknowable pressing through the mist.
A thought wormed into his mind. How did food grow without sunlight? How did anything thrive in a world where the very sky was suffocated?
His fingers twitched. There was no answer. And even if there was, it wouldn't help him now.
With a quiet exhale, he pushed the thoughts aside. Survival first. Questions later.
He focused on what he needed to do.
Meet Grint. Get the supplies. Study the parchment. One step at a time.
His hand brushed against the coins in his pocket. Evergarde's currency consisted of gilds, stamped brass tokens marked with the crest of a crow for ones, a gear for fives, and a tower for tens. He had three crow-gilds, just enough for cleaning supplies if he haggled well.
He navigated through the mist-choked streets of the Outer City, every detail sharper than he remembered. The cobblestones were slick with soot, the air thick with the acrid tang of burning coal. Factories loomed on either side, their brass chimneys vomiting plumes of steam into the endless fog. Silas's footsteps echoed against crumbling brick walls adorned with faded posters warning of the dangers of the Fallen Lands.
The streets were alive with a slow, grinding desperation, an unspoken tension threading through the masses. Men in patched-up suits, the kind that had seen too many years and too few washings, trudged past with collars pulled high against the cold. Their faces bore the hard edges of a life spent on survival—gaunt cheeks, sunken eyes, lips pressed into thin, weary lines. Women in faded, mended dresses huddled together at street corners, speaking in hushed tones, their hands clutching woven baskets filled with scraps of bread and dried fish. The children ran barefoot, darting between wagons, their small frames lost beneath oversized coats pilfered from older siblings.
A steam-wagon rattled past, its heavy iron wheels groaning against the uneven road. The massive contraption belched white vapor into the cold air, its brass piping hissing with pressure. Perched atop it, a driver wrapped in an oil-stained coat gripped the controls with a practiced grimace, his mustache bristling with condensation. Behind him, a row of well-dressed men—merchants, factory owners, or perhaps bureaucrats—sat stiffly, their expressions severe beneath polished top hats. Their dark coats were pristine, their gloves unsullied by the grime of the streets they passed through, a stark contrast to the laborers watching them with dull-eyed resignation.
The faint murmur of voices wove through the fog, fragments of conversation drifting past Silas as he walked.
"Three shifts in a row—how much more can we take?"
"Nightwatch patrols've doubled. Someone's been stirring trouble."
"Reckon the noble houses are behind it."
A black-clad figure loitered near an alley, his sharp gaze flicking toward Silas before melting into the crowd. A beggar with one arm outstretched, his sleeve pinned where the limb should have been, croaked out a plea for coin. Further ahead, two factory men argued over a broken crate of supplies, their voices tight with the kind of frustration that could turn to violence at any moment.
The Outer City was a beast of industry, its veins clogged with smog and its heart beating to the rhythm of labor and exhaustion. It stank of oil and iron, of lost dreams and crushed ambitions. Silas had seen places like this before—in movies depicting the slums of the Victorian era. Here, nothing had changed. Only the machines were different.
A cold wind slithered through the streets, carrying the echoes of distant factory bells. Silas pulled his coat tighter and walked on, blending into the city's endless cycle of toil and survival.
In the far distance, beyond the tangled maze of rooftops and smoke-stained spires, rose the colossal walls of the Inner City. They loomed like a fortress of privilege, their smooth, pale stone untouched by soot or grime. The walls stood as silent sentinels, overlooking everything below—a constant reminder of the vast divide between the nobles' world of security and the relentless struggle of the Outer City. Gas lamps flickered along the parapets, casting faint, golden halos through the haze. From here, the spires of the Silvermoon Cathedral pierced the sky like jagged thorns, ever-present, ever-watchful.
Turning his gaze the other way, Silas saw another wall in the distance—darker, rougher, more foreboding. The Outer Wall, as it was called, marked the end of the city's domain and the beginning of the unknown. Built from slabs of reinforced ironstone, it stretched endlessly into the fog, crowned with rotating watch lights that sliced through the gloom in slow, mechanical arcs. Beyond that barrier lay the Fallen Lands, an expanse of corrupted wilderness where monsters prowled and nightmares took shape in the mist.
The sight of the Outer Wall sent a chill through Silas. It felt less like a barrier for protection and more like a scar—a desperate, man-made boundary separating fragile civilization from the chaos beyond. The air seemed colder here, and the distant hum of the Nightwatch's patrol engines resonated through the ground like a low growl.
He tightened his grip on his coat and quickened his pace. The city was vast, yet suffocating. Between the walls of power and the walls of fear, the Outer City felt like a forgotten prison yard where hope struggled to survive.
One day, he thought, his eyes lingering on the Inner City's pale walls. One day, I'll cross those gates—not as a servant, but as someone who matters. That had been the ambition of the original Silas, a dream carved from years of struggle and resentment.
He crossed Gearlock Bridge, its iron frame slick with condensation, and descended into Smog Hollow—a district notorious for pickpockets and whispering black-market dealers. The Gazette's office stood at the corner of Brasslane Alley, wedged between a pawnshop and a distillery. The building's sign hung crookedly: The Cogwheel Gazette—Truth Through Industry.
Inside, the air was stifling. Stacks of yellowed paper leaned against the walls. The scent of ink and stale sweat clung to the wooden floorboards. Behind a battered oak desk sat Oswald Grint, the editor-in-chief—a man whose waistcoat strained against his bulging stomach. His face was ruddy, his eyes perpetually narrowed, as if suspecting everyone of stealing time or money.
"You're late, Crowell," Grint barked, his voice like grinding gears. "Again."
"Got caught in the fog," Silas said, wiping his palms on his trousers.
"Fog's always here," Grint sneered. "Try a better excuse next time. Now, quit wasting air. We've got a story—a family's been butchered in Sable Court. Go sniff around. Find something sensational. Blood sells." He jabbed a finger toward the door. "And don't come back empty-handed."
Silas nodded, pulse quickening. Sable Court. The same neighborhood where the original Silas had seen the cult a few nights before. With a curt nod, he turned and left the office, the weight of the assignment settling like ice in his chest.