Silas made sure his routine remained unchanged in the days leading up to the gathering. Any sudden shifts in behavior, any unusual patterns, could invite the wrong kind of attention.
The Cogwheel Gazette was the same as always—filled with the rustling of paper, the clatter of typewriters, and the occasional sharp voice cutting through the noise.
"Crowell! You’ve got two hours to turn this in, not two damn days!"
Grint’s gruff bark didn’t faze him. Silas simply nodded, keeping his responses short. He had long since learned that blending in meant giving people what they expected—no more, no less.
At lunch, he sat in his usual spot, a corner table where no one bothered him. The conversations around him drifted through the air, casual yet laced with the quiet desperation that clung to Evergarde’s Outer City.
"Nightwatch patrols have increased again. Something must be stirring."
"I heard they found some poor bastard in the canal last night. No one’s sure how he died."
Silas listened without looking up, storing the details for later. The city had its own rhythm, and those who paid attention could hear the shifts before they became storms.
Each evening, once the world outside settled into uneasy quiet, Silas practiced.
The worn wooden dummy in his room bore countless shallow gashes and punctures, evidence of his relentless drilling. He gripped the practice knife, rolling his shoulders before slipping into stance.
[System Analysis: Dagger Arts Training]
* Grip stability: +3.2% improvement.
* Strike velocity: Increased by 7.6%.
* Movement efficiency: +5.1%.
* Stamina consumption: Reduced by 4.9%.
The system logged his progress in precise calculations, offering subtle adjustments. Every minor inefficiency was corrected, every wasted movement smoothed out.
His strikes became faster. More controlled. He adjusted his grip, experimenting with different angles—a quick stab, a fluid slash, a deceptive feint. The goal wasn’t just speed or power. It was precision.
A fight in Evergarde rarely gave second chances. The first strike had to count.
[New Efficiency Threshold Reached – Adaptation Mode Engaged]
* Predictive strike paths optimized.
* Evasion patterns adjusted for real-time combat.
Sweat trickled down his back as he exhaled slowly, lowering the blade. His breath was steady, but his body ached from the relentless practice.
"Better, but not enough."
He had no illusions about where he stood in this world. A single mistake, one miscalculation, and he wouldn’t get a rematch.
He wasn’t the protagonist of some grand tale. He was just another man trying to survive.
Late at night, Silas sat by his window, staring at the fog-shrouded city beyond.
Evergarde was restless. He could feel it in the murmurs at the Gazette, in the tension hanging over the streets. Something was shifting.
The gathering wasn’t just a place for trade—it was an opportunity, but also a risk. He didn’t know who would be there, or what their agendas were. But he did know one thing.
He had no safety net.
If things went wrong, no one would come to save him.
He leaned back, fingers drumming lightly against his knee. He would be careful. He would be patient.
And above all else—he would be ready.
The night air was thick with fog, curling through the narrow streets like silent tendrils. The lamps cast dim halos of light, barely piercing the gloom. Evergarde’s Outer City was restless, as it always was—whispers of distant conversations, the occasional clang of metal from distant factories, and the rhythmic creak of poorly maintained carriages.
Silas walked beside Elize, their movements quiet, deliberate. He had memorized the ciphered message, cross-referencing it until the route was etched into his mind. Tonight was not a night to make mistakes.
Their path took them through narrow alleys and backstreets, weaving between old warehouses and tenement buildings. They passed a row of slumped figures by a firepit—workers too exhausted to go home, or perhaps with no home to return to. Their murmurs died as the two passed, their gazes shifting with quiet suspicion before returning to the flames.
Ahead, Elize led him through a rusted iron gate, its hinges coated in years of grime. The moment they stepped past it, the atmosphere shifted. The distant hum of the city seemed to muffle, the air growing heavier, charged with an unseen tension.
They approached a large abandoned structure, its former purpose lost to time. Its walls were cracked, the metal reinforcements corroded. A faint scent of oil and dust lingered. This could have been a factory once, or a storage facility. Now, it was something else entirely.
A meeting ground for those who wished to remain unseen.
The entrance was a small, reinforced door, barely noticeable from the outside. Elize knocked twice, paused, then knocked again—a deliberate pattern.
A moment passed before a faint click echoed from within. The door creaked open just enough for them to slip inside.
The interior was dimly lit, illuminated by a mix of old gas lamps and small arcane orbs emitting a faint glow. The walls were layered with aged metal sheets, muffling sound from escaping. Stacked crates and broken machinery formed a perimeter around the space, giving it an almost claustrophobic feel.
Seven figures were already present. Silas was the last to arrive.
They stood apart from one another, maintaining a wary distance. All wore masks. Some simple, some ornate. Each disguise was carefully chosen—not just for anonymity, but as a statement of their identity.
The Host, stood at the head of the gathering. Her mask was a deep crimson, carved with intricate veins that resembled flowing blood. A deliberate display.
To her left, a tall man wore a smooth, featureless porcelain mask, his posture unnervingly straight. His movements were slow, deliberate, like someone who measured every action carefully.
Another figure, a woman with a mask stitched together from old parchment, her eyes barely visible behind slits in the material, leaned against a crate, arms crossed. She exuded an air of disinterest, but Silas could tell—she was listening to everything.
Across from her, a man sat on a barrel, his mask made of woven brass wires, shaped like a twisted grin. His fingers drummed idly against his knee, betraying a nervous energy beneath his relaxed posture.
Two more stood toward the edges, silent observers for now—one with a dark, beak-like mask, resembling a plague doctor, the other with a wooden mask resembling a fox, its painted eyes giving an illusion of mirth.
And then, there was Elize.
Unlike the others, her mask was simple—a dark cloth covering her lower face, leaving only her sharp golden eyes visible. A calculated choice. Unassuming, practical, familiar.
Silas himself wore a plain black mask carved from dark wood, featureless except for a faint engraving along its edges. Not too elaborate to attract attention, but not forgettable either.
The Host’s gaze swept over him, lingering for a fraction longer than the others.
"You’re the new one."
Not a question. A statement.
Silas nodded but said nothing. The air was thick with caution, each member waiting for someone else to make the first move. Trust did not exist in places like these.
The Host let the silence stretch before finally speaking.
"Now that we're all here, let’s begin."
The Host let the silence linger for a moment longer, as if measuring the weight of every gaze behind the masks. Then, she finally spoke, her voice calm but carrying an unmistakable authority.
"For the sake of the newcomer, we will go over the rules once more."
Her gloved fingers traced the surface of the crate beside her, absentmindedly tapping against the wood as she continued.
"This gathering operates under one principle—Equivalent Exchange. Nothing is given freely, and nothing is taken without value. What you offer must match the worth of what you receive. Knowledge, weapons, artifacts, and even fragments of Chronicles—all can be traded, so long as the balance is met."
She gestured to the group.
"No debts. No charity. No second chances."
The message was clear. If someone tried to cheat a trade, there would be consequences.
Her crimson-veined mask tilted slightly toward Silas. "And you—our new arrival—should understand this well. We do not tolerate fools who mistake this for an act of goodwill."
Silas gave a slight nod, keeping his expression neutral behind his mask. He had no intention of making enemies here—not yet.
The Host straightened, then extended a hand to the others.
"We do not use our real names here. Code names only. You may share as little or as much as you wish."
She gestured to the first person on her left, the tall, stiffly postured man in the smooth, featureless porcelain mask. His voice was deep, measured.
"I go by Pallid." A pause. "My focus is Astral Theory and resonance-based wielding techniques. If you seek knowledge about Astral harmonization or distortions, I can provide it—for a price."
The next was the woman leaning against the crate, her stitched parchment mask crinkling slightly as she chuckled.
"Call me Scrivener. I deal in information, written records, old texts. If it has been recorded, I can find it. If it has been erased, I can uncover it." Her voice was smooth, confident—someone used to playing dangerous games with words.
The brass-wire grin shifted as the man perched on the barrel gave a lazy wave.
"Gildhand. I deal with artifacts, enchanted trinkets, and items that might otherwise never reach your hands." He leaned forward, his voice carrying a faint amusement. "And before you ask, yes—some of them are stolen. No refunds."
The one in the dark beaked mask spoke next, his voice rasping slightly.
"Mourner. Alchemy, poisons, and augmentations. If you need something that burns, blinds, or breaks a man from the inside, I have it."
Beside him, the fox-masked woman chuckled lightly.
"Call me Wraith. I’m a wielder like all of you, but I specialize in practical combat knowledge. Fighting techniques, countermeasures, survival strategies—if it keeps you alive, I might be willing to part with it."
Finally, Elize, still leaning against a pillar with her simple cloth mask, gave a small nod.
"Rook. Information, mostly." She glanced at Silas, her golden eyes sharp beneath the mask. "You already knew that, didn’t you?"
Silas didn't respond. He simply let the silence speak for him.
The Host remained the last to introduce herself.
"You may call me Crimson." A slow pause. "And you will come to understand that I do not make trades lightly."
She turned to Silas.
"Now, newcomer. You are the only one left. Choose a name—or let us choose for you."
Silas exhaled slowly, considering. He had anticipated this and had already settled on something neutral.
"Shade."
A murmur of acknowledgment moved through the room. The Host—Crimson—gave a slow nod.
"Very well, Shade. Now, let us begin."
Tension hung in the air as the first trades were proposed. Each member had something of value, but none were willing to part with it cheaply.
Pallid and Scrivener debated a trade involving a set of resonance diagrams, arguing over the credibility of the source material. Mourner offered a vial of liquid that could render a wielder's Astral Signature unreadable for a short time, but Gildhand countered with an enchanted throwing dagger that could momentarily phase out of physical space.
Crimson oversaw every exchange, ensuring fairness—but never intervening unless necessary.
Silas observed carefully, analyzing the rhythm of negotiation, the way value was determined.
Then, it was his turn.
Crimson’s masked face turned toward Silas, waiting in silent expectation. The others watched as well, their expressions hidden but their attention palpable.
Silas remained still for a moment before speaking, his voice even.
"I want information."
A simple request, but in this room, every word had weight.
Crimson gave a slow nod, acknowledging the request but offering nothing more. It was clear she wouldn’t provide answers freely—he would have to offer something in return.
Before making his move, Silas activated a minute system scan, carefully keeping its energy output subtle to avoid detection. The gathered wielders were unknown variables, and he needed to at least understand their Chronicles.
The results filtered in:
* Pallid – Resonator Chronicle (1st Order)
* Scrivener – Inkkeeper Chronicle (1st Order)
* Gildhand – Relicbound Chronicle (1st Order)
* Mourner – Bileshaper Chronicle (1st Order)
* Wraith – Shadewalker Chronicle (1st Order)
* Elize (Rook) – Seeker Chronicle (1st Order)
* Crimson (Host) – Bloodbinder Chronicle (2nd Order)
Silas barely resisted the urge to tense.
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Blood.
Blood-related Chronicles sounded notoriously dangerous. Maybe wielders with such chronicles could control their own lifeforce or of those around them.
The specifics of Crimson’s abilities were unknown, but one thing was certain—she was not someone to take lightly.
Keeping his unease hidden, Silas turned his focus back to the trade.
The Exchange – the Stalker Chronicle for Knowledge
"I need information on Chronicle Promotion to 2nd Order."
A ripple of interest passed through the room. Some of the members turned slightly, curious but remaining silent.
Crimson let the request hang in the air before finally responding.
"What do you offer in return?"
Silas had already decided.
"I’ll trade knowledge on an incomplete Chronicle—Stalker Chronicle."
A pause.
The Stalker Chronicle was a known but incomplete path—a Chronicle that specialized in tracking, pursuit, and silent eliminations. It was a Chronicle designed for hunters, but due to missing fragments, wielders attempting to refine it might meet dead ends or suffer dangerous drawbacks.
Even partial knowledge of its structure had value, particularly to those interested in stealth or assassination techniques.
Crimson considered the offer, tilting her head slightly. The silence in the room stretched, the weight of unspoken calculations pressing against the air. Then, she gave a slow nod.
"Accepted."
But instead of immediately providing the information, she let the moment linger before speaking again.
"Do you wish to hear this knowledge alone, or are you willing to share?"
Silas didn’t answer immediately. His gaze flicked across the room. The other members were already watching with measured interest—this wasn’t just some trivial trade. The path to Second Order wasn’t easily accessible, and even if some of them weren’t yet ready for promotion, knowing what awaited them could be invaluable.
A voice broke the silence first.
"I’d rather not be left in the dark," Scrivener said, shifting her weight against the crate she leaned on. "I want to listen."
"Same here," Pallid murmured, his tone as neutral as ever.
Mourner chuckled softly from beneath his mask. "Would be a waste not to hear something so rare."
Gildhand gave a casual shrug. "If he agrees, I’ll listen too."
Elize said nothing, but her sharp gaze locked onto Silas, waiting for his response.
Wraith simply inclined her head.
Silas exhaled slowly. He had expected this.
"Fine. But if you want to listen, you’ll have to pay for the privilege."
There was a pause.
"Twenty Crow Gilds each."
A beat of silence, then a chuckle.
"Hah. Clever," Gildhand muttered.
No one objected outright. Twenty Crow Gilds wasn’t a small amount, but knowledge had a price—and it was still far cheaper than stumbling blind into the 1st Layer of the Astral World without a clue.
One by one, small pouches of Crow Gilds clinked onto the table. Silas quickly counted—120 Crow Gilds in total, a satisfying sum for something he would have asked for regardless.
Crimson, watching the transaction unfold, finally spoke.
"Very well. Now listen carefully."
The room stilled.
And with that, she began to explain the path to Second Order.
"A Wielder’s promotion is not something granted—it is something taken. Forced into existence through resonance with the Astral World."
She moved slightly, tilting her head as she spoke, her presence commanding attention.
"To advance, a wielder must step beyond the material world. Upon Chronicle maturation, the Astral World will begin to recognize them—not just as an observer, but as an entity within its structure."
Silas remained still, absorbing every word.
"This allows a Wielder to enter the 1st Layer—the boundary realm where the true nature of their Chronicle is tested."
Her tone darkened slightly.
"The 1st Layer does not function as a single realm. It is fragmented, shaped by the nature of the wielders who step into it. When you make your attempt at promotion, the Astral World will pull you toward an area that resonates with your Chronicle. A manifestation of its truth."
Silas’s mind worked quickly. A location tailored to his Chronicle. That meant each wielder faced a unique trial, and there would be no shared knowledge or shortcuts.
"Each area has different dangers," Crimson continued. "Some face physical threats, others mental, and some... far worse."
She let the implication linger before continuing.
"To ascend to the 2nd Order, you must find and pass through the White Door."
The term struck something deep in Silas.
"The White Door is the threshold of progression," Crimson explained. "A gateway between what you are and what you can become. Each wielder must find it within the 1st Layer, and only by touching it can they advance."
Silas committed the words to memory.
The White Door was not just an entrance—it was a trial. A test of survival, navigation, and one’s own Chronicle.
Crimson’s voice dropped slightly.
"But be warned—most areas of the 1st Layer are extremely dangerous. There are entities that prey on intruders. Some are drawn by Astral signatures, others by intention alone. If you enter unprepared…"
She let the words trail off. The warning was clear.
"You may never return."
Silas remained silent, processing everything.
He had gained what he came for. He now understood what was required.
He had to let the Astral World pull him into a space that reflected his Chronicle, survive whatever trial awaited him, find the White Door, and touch it.
Simple in explanation. Deadly in execution.
He nodded once.
"Understood."
The trade was done. He had what he needed.
But as he withdrew into himself, a thought lingered in his mind:
"How many had entered the 1st Layer, only to never leave?"
He didn’t intend to be one of them.
As Crimson’s explanation concluded, the room remained silent for a moment, as if the weight of the knowledge had settled over them all. The price of promotion was clear—the Astral World would not grant strength freely.
Silas took the pouch of Crow Gilds and tucked it away, careful not to let any hint of satisfaction show. The deal had been successful, but he was still surrounded by unknowns.
"That concludes our trade," Crimson stated, her voice firm. "Unless there are other offers, this gathering is adjourned."
A few members lingered, murmuring amongst themselves, but Silas knew better than to stay longer than necessary. The longer one remained, the more likely they were to become involved in something unintended.
Elize, still leaning against the crate, caught his gaze as he turned to leave. She had been watching him closely throughout the exchange.
"You profited well tonight, Shade," she said, her tone casual but her golden eyes sharp.
Silas shrugged. "Knowledge has its price."
She smirked but said nothing more.
Without another word, he slipped into the dimly lit exit tunnel, his footsteps silent against the cold stone floor. The iron door closed behind him with a muted clang, sealing the gathering behind him.
The fog outside greeted him like an old companion.
Silas moved swiftly through the fog-laden streets, his steps careful yet measured. The pouch of Crow Gilds sat heavy in his coat pocket, a silent reminder of the eyes that had watched him inside the gathering.
He had gained valuable knowledge, but knowledge alone wouldn't keep him safe.
The members of the gathering weren’t fools. They wouldn’t attempt something as crude as mugging him—but tracking him? That was a possibility.
"I need to make sure this money doesn’t lead back to me."
Reaching a deserted alleyway near a row of abandoned workshops, Silas stopped beneath the cover of an old iron awning. The metal creaked faintly as a cold gust of wind passed through.
He loosened the pouch's drawstrings, letting the Crow Gilds slip into his palm. The dull, metallic glint of the coins caught the faint glow of a distant street lamp.
Closing his fingers over them, he activated Mimicry Echo: Blur Trace.
[Applying Blur Trace – Astral Signature Concealment: 98% Efficiency.]
[Falsified trace points scattered across multiple locations.]
A faint shimmer pulsed over the coins before vanishing entirely.
Now, if anyone tried to track him through the Gilds, they’d be led on a wild chase across multiple false locations—some near the Industrial Quarter, others near Brasslane Alley, even a few near the Outer Canal.
Satisfied, Silas let out a slow breath and tightened the pouch once more.
"That should keep them guessing."
With that done, he resumed his journey, keeping to the quieter streets and back alleys, making sure his return home was just as untraceable as his departure.
Now that his tracks were covered, he could focus on what came next.
He did not trust people blindly. Even with the system helping him, he had seen enough of this world to know that people lied, exaggerated, or withheld details for their own benefit.
As he reached his small rented room, he locked the door, pulled the curtains shut, and finally opened his system interface.
[System Inquiry: Chronicle Promotion – Second Order]
Analyzing gathered knowledge...
Cross-referencing with recorded Astral World data...
Validation Process: 87% Match
His fingers tapped lightly against the wooden desk.
"So it was mostly accurate… but not entirely."
He waited for the discrepancies to appear.
Discrepancy Detected:
* The Astral World does not ‘pull’ the wielder at random. Instead, it reacts to intention and chronicle alignment.
* Not all White Doors are the same. Some are unstable or false gates, leading wielders astray or into dead ends.
Silas exhaled slowly, absorbing the details.
The core of Crimson’s explanation had been truthful, but there were crucial details omitted or misunderstood.
"That means either she doesn’t know everything herself, or she deliberately left things out."
Either way, he would prepare for the worst.
Now that he had verified the knowledge, his next step was preparation.
The first and most crucial element—he needed ways to reduce risks in the Astral World.
* Concealment: He needed to use Blur Trace to leave fewer traces while inside the 1st Layer.
* Combat Efficiency: He had to ensure he could fight effectively but also disengage when needed. If direct confrontation was unavoidable, he needed to end fights quickly.
* Emergency Escape Measures: The system might have ways to pull him out if things went wrong consuming phenomena points but he could not just rely on that.
Silas's greatest concern was whether the system would still function within the promotion area of the Astral Realm.
His current priorities were clear:
* Comprehending and refining a new ability—something to make avoiding danger easier.
* Enhancing his combat training with the system’s guidance.
* Acquiring clothing suited for the promotion area—anything that would provide flexibility and protection.
His daggers had served him well, but against the unknown? There were too many uncertainties.
"I’ll need something better to prepare… and I know exactly where to find it."
His next destination was set—
The Thieves’ Market.
Silas walked with measured steps, his dark wooden mask obscuring his features as he blended into the shifting crowd. The market was alive with whispers and muted negotiations, voices haggling in the shadows. Vendors sat beneath tattered awnings, their wares spread out over stained wooden tables—daggers lined in neat rows, lockpicks glinting under dim gaslight, vials of unknown liquids promising miracles and madness alike.
A group of men in patchwork coats leaned against a rusted iron post, watching passersby with the sharp-eyed gaze of predators. A hunched woman, her face half-covered in soot, sold worn-out books with titles scratched off. Somewhere deeper within, a clockwork automaton stood eerily still, its hollow eyes tracking movement—likely an enforcer for some underworld figure.
Silas ignored the obvious traps—the stalls meant for the naive and the doomed. His goal was elsewhere.
After passing through a narrow passageway, he found it—a small, secluded shop nestled between two leaning buildings, its sign half-hidden beneath curling ivy. The entrance was shrouded by a dark curtain instead of a door, muffling the voices within. He stepped inside.
The air was thick with the scent of aged fabric, oil, and something faintly metallic. Dim candlelight cast jagged shadows over racks of clothing—coats reinforced with hidden plating, gloves stitched with alchemical threads, hoods designed to break silhouettes.
Behind the counter stood the shopkeeper—a wiry man with a face like a dried-out corpse, his eyes sunk deep into their sockets. He didn’t greet Silas. Instead, he simply tilted his head, waiting.
Silas took his time browsing, running his fingers over different materials. Some were thick and rugged, meant for street brawlers; others were woven with lightweight mesh, ideal for escape artists and assassins. Then he saw it—a long, dark coat with reinforced seams, its hood deep enough to cast an unnatural shadow over the face. The material had a muted sheen, like leather polished to an eerie smoothness, and its surface was stitched with subtle patterns that seemed to shift under the light.
"That one," Silas said, tapping the coat.
The shopkeeper's lips twisted into something resembling a grin. "Good eye. Reinforced lining. Won’t stop a bullet, but it’ll muffle movement and make it harder for eyes to follow."
Silas lifted the coat, testing its weight. Perfect.
"How much?"
The shopkeeper’s grin widened. "Seventy Gild."
Silas scoffed. "Forty."
The man let out a breathless chuckle. "You’re funny. Sixty-five."
"Forty-five. And I’ll take a pair of those gloves too." He pointed to a set of black gloves woven with a faintly shimmering thread, likely designed to improve grip or conceal weapons.
The shopkeeper studied him for a moment before sighing. "Fifty-five. Final offer."
Silas nodded. "Done."
They exchanged coins, and within minutes, Silas was back on the streets—his new attire fitting him like a second skin. The coat draped over his shoulders perfectly, its weight a comfortable reminder of its presence. The gloves flexed smoothly over his fingers, offering a grip that felt natural.
By the time he reached home, the city had settled into its usual night-time hush, the distant churning of factories never fully ceasing.
As he shut the door behind him, he exhaled slowly. The preparations had begun. Soon, he would step into the unknown.
With his gear secured, Silas’ final preparation was an ability—something that would let him burst forward with speed, an evasive technique to escape or close distance instantly. A movement skill based on agility burst.
Seated in the dim light of his room, Silas exhaled and focused. The System had matured alongside him, its functions sharper, more refined. He issued the command.
"System, extract abilities related to rapid movement or dashing."
As the request processed, another thought crossed his mind. The Astral Realm was an unknown, filled with dangers beyond mere physical threats. Curses, debilitating afflictions—things that could cripple him without a chance to fight back.
"System, extract abilities related to resisting debuffs or curses."
A brief silence. Then, the response came.
[No suitable abilities found. The First Layer’s imprints do not contain resistance-type skills.]
Silas frowned. That meant he’d be vulnerable to anything beyond physical damage. A gap in his defenses he couldn’t fix—at least, not yet.
Shaking off the concern, he returned his focus to the first request, awaiting the System’s list of movement-based abilities.
A brief pause. Then, the familiar blue-tinted interface shimmered before his eyes, presenting options.
Extracted Abilities (1st Order Chronicles):
* Flicker Step (Lurker Chronicle) – A short-range burst of speed that leaves behind a faint blur, making it harder for enemies to track movement. Best for quick retreats and sudden repositioning.
* Surge Stride (Tempest Runner Chronicle) – A sudden acceleration forward, covering a fixed distance in an instant. The speed burst is difficult to control at first.
* Ironbound Sprint (Breaker Chronicle) – Converts raw strength into a forward charge, smashing through obstacles but hard to stop once in motion.
* Phantom Rush (Shade Dancer Chronicle) – A fluid, multi-step dash with reduced friction, allowing seamless movement through tight spaces.
* Gale Rush (Wind Strider Chronicle) – An explosive forward motion that briefly enhances reaction speed, ideal for dodging.
Silas analyzed the list. Ironbound Sprint was out—it relied too much on brute force. Phantom Rush sounded useful but was too specialized. Flicker Step had deception value, but he needed something more reliable.
That left two.
Surge Stride had the sheer speed he wanted but lacked fine control. Gale Rush, on the other hand, combined speed with reaction time enhancement.
"System, I choose Gale Rush."
The moment he confirmed his selection, a wave of knowledge flooded his mind—the mechanics, the muscle control, the energy flow required to activate it. His heightened comprehension, enhanced by the matured Occultist Chronicle, turned what should have taken weeks into mere hours.
By dawn, he had grasped its fundamentals.
The following nights were spent honing the ability in secrecy.
At the abandoned warehouse near the outer district, Silas practiced relentlessly—pushing himself to the limit.
* The first night, he misjudged the acceleration, nearly crashing into a rusted crate. The burst was too sudden, too wild.
* The second night, he learned to anchor his stance—timing the burst so it wouldn't leave him stumbling. The reaction boost was subtle but invaluable, letting him adjust mid-motion.
* The third night, it clicked. His body adapted, his movements seamless, his control precise.
By the fourth night, he was ready.
Silas stood atop a rooftop, cloaked in darkness, staring out over the city. The wind carried the scent of oil and damp stone.
He took a deep breath. Mimicry Echo: Gale Rush activated.
In an instant, he blurred forward, his body surging like a shadow in the wind. Smooth. Controlled. Deadly.
Everything was in place.
Tomorrow, he would step into the unknown.