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—a 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—an 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—like 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—a predator poised to strike.
Suddenly, from within the blood-smeared house, a sound erupted—a 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—something 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—some 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—a 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—it 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—
The commanding officer.
The noble stood firm, blade gleaming even through the fog. His movements were ruthless, methodical—each 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—the 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, grisly crack.
The beast convulsed, its remaining legs jerking in frantic, erratic spasms before it crumpled to the ground—shuddering, trembling—then finally, 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—those 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.
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—lye soap, vinegar, and a stiff-bristled brush—from 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—Clara'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—a 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—it 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—cheats, 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—his 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—a 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—infusing 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—or worse, the cult—could 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—or 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 power 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.
[System]
Name: Silas Crowell
Age: 16
Status: Fine
Body: 6.3 / 10
Spirit: 9.3 / 10
Functions: Status Interface, Soul Armor, Parasite ( Locked )
Collection Module: 15% of impact or cause and effect collected, within a 3-hour time frame, centered around the user.
Information Module: Analyze, Extract and Deduce ( range and depth can be amplified by consuming points)
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 – 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—disjointed 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 – First Order Chronicle (Incomplete)
Ritual Requirements:
Arrange specific anatomical parts of cats, rats, and dogs in a ritualistic diagram.Ingest the eyes of each creature while chanting the oath:
"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):
Silent Steps (1st Sublimation) – Walk without sound and diminish one's presence.Ambush (2nd Sublimation) – Conceal oneself, then strike with enhanced agility.
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—it 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.