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—another 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) – 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) – 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—a 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—a 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—but 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—the 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—the ever-sarcastic, permanently irritated Grint—was 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—his newly evolved ability.

If it worked as he theorized, it wasn’t just about mimicking abilities—it was about embedding them into objects, turning them into extensions of his power.

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. 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—a 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

* Gravemark Resilience – Reinforces durability, enabling resistance to external force.

* Ironthread Vitality – Enhances endurance, fortifying the body’s resilience.

* Silent Steps – Allows for near-soundless movement and presence reduction.

* Blur Trace – Erases astral signatures and misleads tracking attempts.

* Edge Flicker – Temporarily sharpens bladed attacks with an ethereal cutting force.

* Gale Rush – A burst of speed, useful for evasive maneuvers.

2nd Order Ability

* Veilguard – A passive mental defense against mind-affecting influences.

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—more 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—patterns, structures, formation techniques—the 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—just 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—Gravemark Resilience.

The cane’s structure strengthened instantly, its fibers reinforcing beyond natural durability. Though it looked unchanged, Silas could feel it—a 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—Blur 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—denser, 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—a 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—Clara’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—deep 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—the 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—the 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—one 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—tried 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—one 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.