The next day fog was heavier than usual by the time Silas reached his building. The narrow alley leading to his door was cloaked in pale mist, curling in ghostly tendrils around the lampposts and seeping into the cracks between cobblestones. His footsteps, dampened by the fog and the soft hum of distant machinery, felt disconnected from his body. His mind raced with the vivid, nightmarish images from Mournshade Street: the spirals of blood etched into the stone, the shattered bodies, and the whispers that seemed to linger in the air long after he left.

He closed the door behind him with a soft click, pressing his back against the wood and exhaling deeply. The familiar scent of damp wood and faint candle smoke grounded him. Yet the silence of the small, cramped room felt oppressive tonight.

"Insight Tap," he muttered.

The world shifted. The ordinary textures of the walls and floor gave way to faint, glowing threads of astral strands lingering in the corners of the room. His mind instinctively began to categorize them: traces left by his previous sublimation, patterns from the ritual diagram still faintly etched into the basement stones. But there was something else—something unfamiliar. Near the window, a faint strand of dark, jagged energy hovered in the air.

He crossed the room and extended his hand toward it. The strand vibrated slightly, giving off a cold, metallic sensation.

"System, analyze the signature."

The response came after a brief pause:

[Analysis Complete: Astral Signature Detected - Chronicle Fragment Identified: The Hollow Choir]

Silas froze. He repeated the words in his head. The Hollow Choir.

He'd heard the name whispered by an old archivist once while delivering a report at the Gazette—a ghost story about a cult that tried to "sing to the fog" and vanished without a trace. He hadn’t thought much of it then, dismissing it as one of the many urban legends that swirled through Evergarde's mist-laden streets.

But now the name was etched in front of him, backed by his system's analytical precision.

"System, cross-reference The Hollow Choir with known Chronicle imprints." The system hummed to life with reduction in phenomenal points.

[Searching available records…] No complete profile found. Partial Entry: The Hollow Choir – Associated with astral manipulation and resonance-based rituals. Believed extinct. No registered contemporary wielders. Patterns match the recent Mournshade Street anomaly.]

Silas clenched his jaw. The massacre hadn’t been random. Someone had tried to forcibly trigger sublimation among the residents by saturating the street with astral resonance. But why? For what purpose?

He turned away from the window, forcing himself to think logically. If the Hollow Choir was involved, then their activities had gone unnoticed for years. The Nightwatch would surely be aware of such an event—yet they hadn’t disclosed it publicly.

The fog hides more than just monsters, he thought.

He sat at the rickety desk and opened his notebook. The dim glow of the lantern flickered as he wrote:

* Mournshade Massacre: Forced Sublimation Attempt.

* Chronicle Signature: The Hollow Choir.

* Motive: Unknown.

* Astral Pattern: Spiraled lines

He stared at the final line. The spirals hadn't been random. The blood had followed specific patterns designed to direct mystical power towards a focal point. But the system had detected resonance failure. The ritual had collapsed mid-process.

What were they trying to achieve?

He closed the notebook and rubbed his eyes. Exhaustion gnawed at him, but sleep seemed impossible with his mind tangled in questions.

The Chronicle of the Occultist stirred faintly within him, the oath's principles whispering through his consciousness:

"In mystery, I seek; in knowledge, I endure. The veiled shall be unveiled; the unknown shall be understood."

He exhaled slowly, feeling the resolve settle in his chest.

"System," he said softly, "prioritize information gathering related to The Hollow Choir. Passive data collection only."

[Acknowledged. Monitoring for matching astral signatures.]

He stood and moved to the window, careful not to activate his ability again. The fog pressed against the glass like a living thing. Somewhere out there, the Hollow Choir was moving unseen, manipulating astral forces for purposes he couldn't yet grasp.

He would need more points. More abilities. More caution.

Knowledge is power.

He was already involved in this mess when he went to that street. And survival depended on learning faster than the cult could act.

The next morning, Silas made his way to the Gazette office, slipping into the archives room. Dust motes drifted through the pale light filtering in from the high, narrow windows. Rows of metal filing cabinets lined the walls, their surfaces cold to the touch. He ran his fingers along the labeled drawers until he found what he sought: Unsolved Incidents – Decade Archive.

He opened the drawer and flipped through brittle pages until he reached the year corresponding to the Fogfall Incident.

A soft cough behind him made him tense.

Silas blinked, mind racing. Why is she here? She works for the Industrial Herald.

He forced a casual smile. "Just chasing leads."

She stepped into the room and glanced at the papers he held. "Mournshade massacre got you curious too?"

"Seems unusual enough," he replied, watching her carefully. Why would a rival paper send a reporter here?

As if reading his thoughts, Eliza shifted her weight and gave a dry chuckle. "I’m here off the clock, actually. The Herald's editor doesn’t care about these cases." She tapped her notebook. "But I do."

"Just chasing leads," he said casually.

She stepped into the room and glanced at the papers he held. "Mournshade massacre got you curious too?"

"Seems unusual enough," he replied, watching her carefully.

"It is," she said softly. "And it’s not the first."

Silas raised an eyebrow. "There were others?"

Eliza reached into her coat and pulled out a small notebook, flipping it open. "Five other incidents in the last ten years. All in fog-heavy districts. Blood spirals. No survivors. Always chalked up to random Wielder incidents." She hesitated. "The Nightwatch covers it up. I tried digging deeper. Hit walls every time."

The air seemed colder. "Why tell me?"

"Because," she said, voice lowering, "you're not just chasing a story. And... because I saw you use a perception ability."

Silas stiffened.

"Relax," she said, holding up a hand. "I’m not Nightwatch. I’m a Wielder too. Seeker Chronicle. My ability is called Runic Trace. I can sense when astral abilities are used nearby."

If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

Silas's mind raced. Another Wielder. One who could track his abilities.

"The Hollow Choir," she continued, tapping the notebook. "They're trying to breach the Second Astral Layer. If they succeed, the fog won't protect the city anymore."

"What happens then?" Silas asked.

Eliza met his eyes. "Then the things beyond the mist come through.”

The revelation of Eliza’s Wielder status lingered in Silas’s mind long after she left the archives. A Seeker Chronicle. It made sense—she was too good at finding connections others missed. But it also made her dangerous. She could sense when Insight Tap was used, which meant he needed to be careful.

Still, the information she had shared was invaluable. Five other massacres. All hidden. All dismissed. The pattern was undeniable.

That night, as he sat in his cramped room, the system pulsed with a notification.

[Passive Data Collection Complete: Hollow Choir - Partial Chronicle Data Recovered.]

"System, display results."

Text appeared before him, lines of fragmented analysis:

**[The Hollow Choir] - (Fragmented Chronicle Data)

Status: Thought Extinct

Core Practice: Forced Sublimation through Astral Resonance

Objective: Unknown. Theorized goal—Creation of an ‘Astral Choir’ capable of harmonizing with deeper Astral Layers.

Ritual Patterns:

* Conducted in fog-heavy districts.

* Spiraled blood formations, resembling resonance diagrams.

* Use of vocal incantations to enhance astral alignment.

Failure Risks: Resonance Overload, Loss of Sanity, Irreversible Astral Displacement.

Silas exhaled slowly. Astral Displacement.

That explained the missing bodies. The cult wasn’t just killing people—they were pushing them beyond the veil. But where? And what did they hope to achieve?

"System, search for recorded instances of Astral Choirs."

[No records found. Searching Chronicle imprints…]

Silas waited, fingers drumming against the desk. A few seconds later, another response flickered into place.

[Partial Reference Found: The Choir at the Threshold.]

A chill ran down his spine.

The title sounded eerily similar to something he had come across once—an old explorer’s journal mentioning songs that bled into the mist. But he had dismissed it at the time as mere folklore.

That would need to change.

The next day, Silas made his way to The Rusted Compass, an old tavern near the docks where retired explorers often gathered. It wasn’t an establishment that welcomed outsiders, but Silas had done enough odd jobs delivering reports here that he wasn’t entirely unfamiliar.

Inside, the air was thick with pipe smoke and the scent of old leather. Maps, some stained and torn, were pinned haphazardly along the wooden walls. The place was dimly lit, the gas lamps flickering against the heavy fog seeping in through cracks in the windows.

Silas spotted his target near the back—a grizzled man with an iron prosthetic for a left hand, hunched over a half-empty bottle.

Arlen Strake. A former explorer, now a relic of a past few dared to remember.

Silas slid into the seat across from him, careful to keep his movements casual. “You once mentioned The Choir at the Threshold in one of your journals.”

Arlen’s one good eye flicked up, sharp despite his obvious inebriation. “And who the hell are you to be bringing that up?”

“A researcher.” Silas placed a few coins on the table. “And I think you know exactly why I’m interested.”

Arlen eyed the coins, then sighed, rubbing his face. “If you’ve got any sense, you’ll let that damn name fade into the fog where it belongs.”

“Can’t do that.”

The old man exhaled, shaking his head. “Fool’s errand,” he muttered. “Fine. You want to know about the Choir? Here’s what I’ll tell you: they weren’t just a cult. They were singers—real singers. And not just with their voices.”

Silas leaned in. “Explain.”

Arlen glanced around, lowering his voice. “You ever heard of resonance theory?”

Silas nodded.

“The Choir took it further. They believed the Astral World wasn’t just layers stacked on top of reality—it was a symphony. A vast, shifting harmony of frequencies beyond human perception. And they wanted to join it. Not just listen. Sing back.”

The words sent a shiver down Silas’s spine. “And forced sublimation?”

Arlen’s gaze darkened. “Their way of making a ‘choir.’ Drown a district in astral power, see who survives the resonance, and those who do—well, they become part of the song.” He downed the rest of his drink in one swig. “The rest? They either vanish or… change.”

Silas’s grip tightened on the edge of the table.

“They think they can control it,” Arlen continued. “That they can match their voices to something far older than us. But they don’t realize—they’re not the composers in this symphony. They’re just notes. And notes don’t get to choose how the song ends.”

Silas didn’t breathe for a long moment.

“And the last known sighting?” he asked finally.

Arlen gave him a tired smile. “Son, you already know. Mournshade Street.”

Silas left The Rusted Compass with his thoughts churning.

The Hollow Choir wasn’t just playing with sublimation. They were trying to reshape Evergarde itself into something unnatural. And the fog? It wasn’t a shield—it was a conductor.

He needed to be stronger. Now.

Back in his room, he activated the system.

"System, display ability progress."

[Abilities Studied:]

* Silent Steps (96% Comprehension – Nearing Completion)

* Gravemark Resilience (87% Comprehension – Steady Progress)

* Ironthread Vitality (92% Comprehension – Nearing Completion)

He clenched his fists. Just a little more.

Until finally, one night, the system pulsed with a notification.

[All Abilities Comprehended]

With his chronicle level also increased Occultist - 7/10

Silas barely had time to react before another alert followed.

[Second Sublimation Approaching – Conditions Met.]

A thrill ran through him. His next step toward power was here.

But the words of Arlen Strake haunted him:

"Notes don’t get to choose how the song ends."

He could only hope he wasn’t already part of the Choir’s composition.

The familiar chill of sublimation returned the moment Silas uttered the oath.

He knelt on the wooden floor of his bedroom, the candlelight flickering in response to the shift in the air. The thin, sharp scent of astral energy coiled around him, prickling his skin like a swarm of invisible needles. His heart raced—not with fear, but with anticipation.

"System, initiate second sublimation."

[Second Sublimation – Chronicle: Occultist]

[Ability: Mimicry Echo – Cost: 2,000 p. Proceed?]

He hesitated for only a moment.

"Proceed."

The air thickened. The flame of the lantern dimmed until it was swallowed by shadow. The room around him blurred as if the walls themselves had softened. His limbs grew heavy, his mind stretching beyond the confines of his skull.

[Recite the Oath.]

The words surfaced unbidden, drawn from the core of his Chronicle:

"In mystery, I seek; in knowledge, I endure.

The veiled shall be unveiled; the unknown shall be understood.

To witness, to comprehend, to adapt—I walk the path of the unseen scholar."

A sharp crack split the silence.

Silas gasped as invisible threads of energy laced around his body, coiling tighter with each heartbeat. His vision swam. The walls peeled away, revealing a vast, endless expanse of mist and shadow.

Shapes moved in that void—indistinct figures wrapped in flowing darkness. They circled him, whispering in languages he didn’t understand. The threads connecting him to the floor trembled. The pressure mounted, suffocating in its intensity.

Then, without warning, the tension snapped.

Silas collapsed onto the floor, chest heaving. His vision slowly cleared. The candle had burned down to a molten puddle, the air thick with cold vapor.

[Sublimation Complete.]

[Ability Unlocked: Mimicry Echo – Temporarily replicate mystical abilities previously analyzed. Duration and effectiveness depend on comprehension level.]

Silas sat up, skin clammy with sweat. The whispering presence lingered at the edges of his mind—a faint echo of something vast and distant. He flexed his fingers, feeling the subtle shift within.

Mimicry Echo. The power to mirror the abilities of other Wielders after sufficient observation and research. He found he can instantly mimic the 3 comprehended abilities. For an ability to be mimicked, it had to be first comprehended.