Brasslane had two faces—the 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—one 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—long 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—you 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—rust, 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—a 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—stolen jewelry, counterfeit documents, vials of unknown liquids, and, most importantly for Silas—weapons.
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—something 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—no elaborate engravings, no decorative pommels—just 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—both slim, double-edged, with black leather-wrapped hilts. Functional. Reliable. Lethal.
"Clean steel. No enchantments, no gimmicks. 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.
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—cryptic enough to stir curiosity, detailed enough to be taken seriously.
The system’s ranged scan had uncovered Hollow Choir activity across several key locations:
* Industrial Quarter – Where factory workers whispered of disappearances in the smog-choked streets.
* Outer Canal – A decaying waterway, rumored to be a site for clandestine meetings.
* Blackthorn Manor ruins – A forgotten estate, abandoned yet strangely untouched by scavengers.
* Cathedral District – The heart of the outer city’s faith.
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—someone 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 – 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—ensuring 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—it 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—half 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—some 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—the 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.
Something had happened here recently.
Then, a new disturbance.
[Detected: Astral Signatures – Blackthorn Manor Ruins.]
If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
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—like 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—they 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—then 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—a 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—cutting 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—one 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—his 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—one 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 – 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’—like 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.
Tonight had been a success. The Hollow Choir was in disarray, the Watch had unknowingly played into his hands, and for the first time in weeks, 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 doorframe, 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—she 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—like an unseen weight lifting from his mind—washed 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—a clarity he hadn't possessed before.
He focused on the system window, scanning the details.
[Status]
* Chronicle: Occultist [10/10] (Matured)
* Body: 17.8 (Enhanced by repeated use of Mimicry Echo: Gravemark Resilience & Ironthread Vitality)
* Spirit: 20 (Threshold Reached—Mental Clarity Enhanced)
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—his mind.
His Spirit had reached 20.
Everything was clearer. Thoughts connected faster, observations registered deeper. The fog of instinctive reaction was gone—replaced 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—he 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—carriages 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—just 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—not 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—where 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—factory 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—an 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—bar 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—scattered 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.