The system had proven its worth beyond his expectations. It had bridged gaps, reconstructed ancient knowledge, and revealed the full ritual instructions.
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—a 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—they 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—granting 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—where 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—within five meters—to 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—all 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—just enough to identify potential threats—without 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 – 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—just 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—just 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—his newfound system, the horrifying creature at Sable Court, and the realization that he was entangled in something far larger than himself—still 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—just 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.
"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 – 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—a 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—a 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—he 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—
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.
[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—a 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—sealed 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—not 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.