Over the following nights, Silas immersed himself in the meticulous process of testing his new abilities. The thrill of his recent sublimation lingered, a constant reminder of the fragile yet exhilarating power now at his fingertips. Mimicry Echo—the culmination of days spent deciphering patterns, enduring strain, and following the path of the unseen scholar—was no longer a distant goal. It was his. Now came the true test: mastery.
He began with Silent Steps, weaving through the labyrinthine alleys of Evergarde’s Outer City. The fog, thick and unyielding as always, turned the streets into a maze of shadows and shifting silhouettes. He crouched low near a lamppost, breathing deeply.
He tapped into his Chronicle’s new ability.
Mimicry Echo: Silent Steps.
A faint warmth surged through his legs and feet. The moment he moved, he felt the difference. His footfalls, once a faint whisper, now vanished entirely. Even the cobblestones beneath his soles seemed to dull their hardness, absorbing the subtle impact.
He tested it in stages:
* Walking behind passing enforcers without so much as a creak.
* Darting through narrow gaps between buildings with the grace of a shadow.
* Skimming along factory scaffolding, unseen and unheard despite the rusted metal beneath his boots.
Each time, the sensation was the same—like slipping through reality's cracks, present but undetectable. The fog welcomed him, coiling lazily around his legs as if acknowledging a fellow phantom.
Once Silent Steps felt instinctive, he shifted focus to Gravemark Resilience. He chose the abandoned railyard on the city's outskirts—a forgotten expanse of rusted tracks and derelict carriages. The ground here was uneven, strewn with metal debris and broken sleepers. The perfect environment for pain and endurance.
He started with simple tests: sprinting through the maze of twisted steel, forcing his muscles to adapt to sudden, jarring impacts. With each collision, the Chronicle’s influence grew clearer. The dull ache that should have built into agony dissipated into a manageable burn.
The next night, he escalated the training. He scaled the crumbling side of an old watchtower, gripping unstable bricks while relying on Mimicry Echo: Gravemark Resilience. Halfway up, the stones beneath his left hand crumbled.
The world slowed. His muscles tensed, skin hardening under the invisible influence of astral reinforcement. He slammed into the ground with a bone-rattling thud—but rose with only a faint bruise. The resilience didn't eliminate pain entirely, but it redistributed it, like water dispersing through cracks in stone.
[Gravemark Resilience Efficiency: 78%. Increasing with repeated exposure to high-impact forces.]
A faint smile touched his lips. The Chronicle rewarded intelligent, methodical practice. Pain became a tool, not a limitation.
Ironthread Vitality proved the most grueling.
Silas began by running circuits around the fog-choked streets each morning. The city stirred early—workers trudging toward factories, their faces pale beneath the perpetual gray mist. He ran past them unnoticed, lungs burning as his Chronicle’s passive threads wove into his muscles.
But the true test came when he mimicked the ability fully.
Mimicry Echo: Ironthread Vitality.
The change was immediate. His breathing steadied; the fire in his chest cooled into a manageable simmer. His strides grew smoother, each step landing with mechanical efficiency. He pushed harder, lengthening his route until the familiar streets blurred into unknown intersections.
The endurance boost didn’t merely enhance stamina; it extended his capacity for focus. His mind, often fatigued after prolonged Insight Tap usage, remained sharp even as his body ran beyond its usual limits.
By the third night of training, he no longer thought of stamina as a finite resource but as a malleable boundary he could bend with effort.
The real breakthrough came on the fourth night.
He stood in the shadow of an old factory, steam hissing from overhead pipes.
Mimicry Echo: Silent Steps. Gravemark Resilience. Ironthread Vitality.
The warmth returned—but this time, it wasn’t limited to a single part of his body. It spread like a web through his limbs, chest, and core.
He hurled himself forward, feet striking the cobblestones with muted precision. The mist curled around him, cloaking his movements as if the ground itself conspired to grant him safe passage. Each step found unexpected purchase, the slick stones yielding subtle traction beneath his soles. He reached the pipe running along the wall and launched upward, twisting midair. His hands caught the cold metal with unerring accuracy, muscles absorbing the impact without protest.
As he steadied himself atop the pipe, a ripple of awareness prickled along his consciousness. A sharp, nagging sensation—like a needle pressing into the back of his mind—sent a jolt through his body. Something was wrong.
A wave of exhaustion crashed over him. His breath hitched, chest tightening as his limbs trembled. He barely had time to process the warning before his body reacted instinctively.
He immediately cut off the Mimicry Echo sustaining all three abilities.
The effect was instant—his legs buckled, and he nearly lost his balance on the narrow pipe. A cold sweat slicked his skin as he gritted his teeth, swallowing back the rising nausea. His heart pounded, erratic and heavy, as though it were trying to escape his ribcage.
Too much. I pushed too far.
The system had no need to remind him—his own body screamed the consequences. Using three abilities at once had nearly shattered the delicate framework of his Mimicry Echo. His muscles, once so perfectly attuned, now trembled with overexertion, his veins burning as if filled with molten lead.
Just a few more seconds… and I would have collapsed.
His Insight Tap pulsed with alarm, flashing urgent warnings in his mind. A phantom pressure loomed at the edge of his awareness, reminding him of what lay beyond the limit.
The Chronicle buried deep within his consciousness had nearly crumbled. If he had strained it even a moment longer, his abilities would have collapsed entirely—and with it, his very being.
A few seconds. That was all it would have taken.
Silas clenched his fists, willing his ragged breaths under control. A few seconds more, and I wouldn’t just be unconscious. I would have been reduced to a corpse—or worse, a degenerate beast.
The terrifying thought made his skin crawl. He had read about it. Those who lost control of their sublimated abilities didn’t always die. Some lost their humanity instead, their minds unraveling, their bodies twisting into grotesque, mindless husks of failed wielders.
He shivered, swallowing against the dry lump in his throat.
The night air pressed against him, damp and heavy, the distant clatter of Evergarde’s streets echoing in his ears. The mist curled through the alleyways below, indifferent to his near self-destruction.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead and took a slow, steadying breath.
Cooldown periods. I have to account for them.
Unlike raw physical exertion, the strain wasn’t just on his body—it was on the very foundation of his abilities. His Chronicle wasn’t limitless. If overloaded, if pushed beyond its structure, it would collapse.
That wasn’t a lesson he needed to relearn the hard way.
A sharp exhale left his lips. He made a mental note, etching the realization into his mind like a carved warning on stone.
Control over power is more important than having power.
Silas forced his body still, steadying his breathing. The tremors in his limbs began to subside, though his muscles ached with every movement. This was the price of recklessness. The price of not knowing his limits.
He wouldn’t make the same mistake again.
With one final glance at the shifting mist below, he straightened his stance. He had work to do—but now, he would move with precision.
No more unnecessary risks.
The familiar pulse of insight tap hummed faintly in the back of his mind.
Silas, after testing his abilities, returned home, his mind buzzing with possibilities. The following days passed uneventfully, though the city's familiar routines now felt different. The hiss of steam from factory vents, the rhythmic clatter of metal gears, and the murmur of conversations in crowded markets—all seemed sharper, more vivid. Yet, beneath the surface of normalcy, a subtle tension lingered.
One night, as the lantern light cast restless shadows across his small room, Silas sat by the window, lost in thought. The fog outside coiled like a living thing, pressing against the glass. He exhaled slowly, trying to shake the unease gnawing at his chest.
"Just nerves," he muttered. "I've been on edge since the test."
He turned away from the window, but a faint prickling sensation halted him mid-step. His pulse quickened. The familiar hum of insight tap stirred, unbidden. He closed his eyes, focusing on the sensation.
Outside. Across the street. Someone was there.
Silas’s breath caught in his throat. He shifted the insight tap's focus, narrowing the field. The signature was faint but undeniable—an observer lurking in the shadows beyond the lamplight.
"Who are you?" he whispered to himself, heart pounding. He glanced around the room, mind racing. No clear answers, just that single, undeniable fact: someone was watching. And they'd been there for a while.
The air seemed colder. The usual comfort of his modest home felt compromised. His instincts screamed to act, to confront the intruder. But logic held him back.
"Wait," he murmured, forcing his breathing to slow. "Think first. Plan later."
Silas edged toward the window, peering through the foggy glass. A shadow flickered beneath the gaslight, too still to be casual. The figure shifted slightly, and though the face remained obscured, the intent was clear.
They weren’t just passing by. They were watching him.
The mist swirled like a shroud around the figure as Silas stepped back, muscles coiled with tension. He had crossed the threshold from caution to dread.
"What do you want?" he whispered to the empty room, eyes locked on the unseen threat beyond the glass."
Silas dressed quickly, pulling on a dark coat and gloves. He slipped the wooden mask over his face and descended into the streets. The figure had disappeared.
The fog outside was heavier than usual. The streetlamps glowed like distant stars, their light barely piercing the haze. Silas activated Silent Steps, and his footsteps melted into the cobblestones.
The astral signature trailed east, toward the old industrial quarter. He followed it through twisting alleys and side streets, the glowing threads serving as his guide.
The path ended abruptly at the mouth of a steam vent corridor—a narrow, labyrinthine passage running beneath the city's network of pipes. Steam hissed from rusted valves, turning the air thick and hot. The signature led inside.
Silas hesitated. His instincts screamed caution. Whoever left the trace had either stopped here or wanted him to follow.
He took a deep breath and stepped into the corridor.
The pipes groaned around him, their brass surfaces slick with condensation. The fog here felt different—denser, with a metallic tang that coated his tongue. The signature grew stronger, pulling him deeper into the maze of steam vents.
A faint sound echoed ahead: footsteps. Slow. Deliberate.
Silas pressed himself against the wall and activated Insight Tap. The fog dissolved into shifting layers of energy. A silhouette appeared around the bend—a tall figure clad in a long coat and wide-brimmed hat, standing motionless in the center of the corridor.
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The figure turned its head slightly, as though aware of his gaze.
Silas froze. The air around the stranger shimmered with faint astral currents, tendrils of energy pulsing in time with each breath. The figure wasn’t a mundane bystander. It was a Wielder.
The stranger raised a hand and pressed something against the nearest pipe. A small, metallic disk. The energy signature spiked.
Silas’s system flashed a warning.
[Unknown Astral Disruption Detected.]
A high-pitched hum filled the corridor. Silas reacted instinctively, ducking back behind the corner.
The pipe exploded with a deafening hiss, releasing a blast of scalding steam. The shockwave rattled the walls, and the metal groaned as bolts sheared loose. Silas felt the heat lick his skin even through the barrier.
When the steam cleared, the figure was gone.
He emerged cautiously, senses on high alert. The only sign of the encounter was the small metal disk, still attached to the cracked pipe. He retrieved it carefully. The surface was engraved with a symbol: a spiral of interconnected lines.
Blood spiral.
He pocketed the disk and scanned the surroundings with Mimicry Echo still active. Faint astral traces lingered in the air, coiling upward into the mist.
Silas made his way back to his room, every step accompanied by the nagging sensation of being watched.
Once inside, he locked the door, drew the curtains, and placed the disk on the desk. The system immediately responded.
[Analyzing …]
The surface glowed faintly under his gaze.
[Material: Silver alloy infused with trace astral resonance.]
[Inscription: Ritual Conduit – Low-tier artifact designed to amplify forced sublimation patterns.]
[Marking: The Hollow Choir.]
Silas leaned closer. The spiral pattern was more intricate than it first appeared—lines within lines, intersecting at irregular intervals. At the center, faintly etched, were the words:
"The Choir Gathers."
His pulse quickened.
"System, detect similar astral signatures within Evergarde."
The system processed the command for several long seconds, and almost emptied his reserve of points.
[Four matching signatures detected: Industrial Quarter, Outer Canal, Blackthorn Manor ruins, Cathedral District.]
They're everywhere.
The Hollow Choir wasn’t experimenting anymore. They were preparing for something larger. And now they knew someone was watching them.
Silas sank into the chair, running a hand through his hair. He’d gained power—but power alone wouldn’t save him from what was coming.
His gaze locked onto the fog-laced window, where the distorted glow of street lanterns cast eerie shapes across the walls. The air felt thicker than usual, pressing against his chest like a phantom's grip.
He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, his breath uneven. The memory of the masked watchers stirred an unease he couldn't shake. His heart drummed a steady rhythm of dread and resolve.
"I can’t sit here waiting for their next move," he thought, jaw tightening. "If I hesitate, I give them the advantage. I need to act first—and stay invisible while doing it."
His eyes burned with determination as the system's interface shimmered faintly in his mind, awaiting his command. The game of shadows had begun, and Silas intended to stay one step ahead."
He sat cross-legged on the worn floorboards, eyes closed, as the system interface flickered to life within his mind. The encounter with the Hollow Choir left him restless, but he knew his next step required precision. He needed new abilities—ones that would let him stay hidden while delivering a sharp, decisive strike when necessary.
“System, analyze available abilities from Chronicle imprints in the First Layer of the Astral World for anti-reconnaissance and weapon based combat” he commanded mentally.
The system responded with a soft hum, and a list of potential abilities materialized before his inner eye:
[CHRONICLE ANALYSIS COMPLETE. POTENTIAL ABILITIES IDENTIFIED:]
ANTI-RECONNAISSANCE ABILITIES:
1. Muted Veil (Silencer Chronicle)
* Dampens the wielder's Astral Signature within a ten-meter radius.
* Effectiveness decreases with prolonged use.
* Ideal for avoiding detection during passive surveillance.
2. Blur Trace (Shadewalker Chronicle)
* Temporarily disrupts the trail of the user's Astral signature.
* Leaves false signatures in random directions to mislead trackers.
* Requires active focus
3. Quiet Pulse (Hushwarden Chronicle)
* Reduces the detection range of Insight-based abilities within a 15-meter radius.
* Causes a faint distortion in Astral readings, giving the illusion of an empty area.
* Less effective against high-order perceptive abilities.
WEAPON-BASED COMBAT ABILITIES:
1. Edge Flicker (Steelshroud Chronicle)
* Enhances strikes with a minor phase shift, increasing speed and unpredictability.
* Limited to lightweight bladed weapons.
* Consumes faster if used in rapid succession.
2. Hookstrike (Ironfang Chronicle)
* Grants the ability to project an Astral tether from a melee weapon for short-range pulls.
* Primarily effective against unarmored targets or for environmental manipulation.
* Requires manual retraction and recalibration after each use.
3. Pierce Line (Threadpiercer Chronicle)
* Focuses Astral energy into the weapon’s tip, increasing penetration against basic defenses.
* Increases weapon accuracy during thrust-based strikes.
* Less effective against reinforced Astral barriers.
Silas’s eyes scanned the list, his mind weighing the possibilities. Muted Veil seemed perfect for maintaining stealth during reconnaissance. Edge Flicker added unpredictability to his attacks without drawing much attention.
“System, initiate comprehension process for Muted Veil and Edge Flicker.”
[Command Accepted. Initiating Ability Comprehension – Estimated Completion: 48 Hours. Phenomena Points Required: 1,400.]
The interface dimmed, and Silas exhaled, leaning back against the cool wooden wall. His muscles relaxed slightly, but the tension of the task ahead remained.
“Let’s see how well the Choir tracks me when the trail runs in circles.”
The next few days passed in a carefully crafted routine. Silas woke at dawn, washed quickly with the biting cold water from the basin, and made his way to the Cogwheel Gazette. The streets of Evergarde were the same as always—drenched in fog and thick with the scent of soot, oil, and damp stone.
Work was a monotonous cycle. Running errands, delivering papers, dodging the occasional factory worker too caught up in their miserable morning rush to watch where they were going. Then there was Grint.
"Late again, Crowell," Grint sneered the moment Silas walked in, arms crossed over his chest. His beady eyes glinted with perpetual irritation. "What, did you get lost delivering one of your own bloody articles?"
Silas barely looked up. "If I was writing articles, you'd be out of a job, old man."
Grint scowled but didn’t push further, instead launching into his usual tirade about deadlines, incompetence, and the fine art of not pissing off the wrong people in Evergarde. Silas tuned out most of it. He had bigger concerns than his boss’s endless complaints.
But the worst part of the day? The food.
Every lunch break, he found himself staring down at the same uninspiring meal—stale bread, a lump of cheese that smelled a day too old, and weak tea that tasted like hot rainwater.
He scowled, prodding at the bread like it was something alien. I lived a whole life before this one, and somehow, this is my fate? He briefly considered throwing the whole tray into the nearest bin, but hunger gnawed at him.
With a sigh of resignation, he forced himself to take a bite. It was as awful as he expected.
The morning of the fourth day began as usual—until the system chimed softly in his mind.
[Comprehension Complete: Blur Trace & Edge Flicker.]
Silas sat up immediately. Excitement sparked in his veins, banishing the last remnants of sleep. He flexed his fingers, feeling a strange lightness in his body.
"Already? That was fast. Then again..." He smirked, cracking his knuckles. "I can already mimic them."
He reached into his pocket, fingers curling around his old penknife. It was nothing special—small, worn-down, its blade dulled by time. But it would do for a test.
Silas activated Mimicry Echo: Edge Flicker.
The moment he did, a shift coursed through his body. The air around him grew sharp with an almost imperceptible hum, like a blade drawn from its sheath. He held up the knife, his breath steady, and examined it through Insight Tap.
A thin, blue-greenish glow shimmered along the blade’s edge, pulsing faintly as if responding to his will.
He curled his fingers around the handle and gave it a light swing.
At first, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Then, within seconds, his movements became smoother, his swings faster. The knife whistled through the air, cutting the space around it with a precision that hadn't been there before. His arm moved almost instinctively, the blade’s edge flickering with every motion.
A low whistle escaped his lips. "Well, that's something."
His gaze flickered toward the small wooden table in the corner of his room. The thing was already battered from use—one more mark wouldn’t hurt.
Without hesitation, he brought the knife down.
A sharp shhk! cut through the silence.
The blade slid through the table’s corner with unsettling ease, severing the wood as if it were soft wax. The cut was clean—unnaturally so. He trailed his fingers along the new edge, the surface smooth where there should have been resistance.
"A dull penknife did this?" He let out a breath of laughter, shaking his head. "This ability's the real deal."
Power curled beneath his skin, but he reminded himself to stay cautious. The system had already warned him—pushing too far had consequences.
He clenched his fist around the knife, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes.
"Next, I see how it works on something that fights back."
The evening air carried the scent of damp stone and smoke, the distant clang of metal striking metal ringing from the factory district. Shadows stretched long in the narrow alleyways of Brasslane, consuming everything the dim streetlights couldn’t reach. Silas moved through them like a phantom, the dark wood mask concealing his face.
He was alone. But not for long.
The prickle of awareness ran down his spine. He wasn’t imagining it—someone was following him. No, not someone. Multiple.
His pace remained steady, but his ears sharpened, tracking the shifting footsteps behind him. The alley grew darker ahead, the last remnants of gaslight vanishing behind him. It would be difficult to see faces here. That worked in his favor.
"Who's there?" he called, layering his voice with panic. He took a step back, letting his breath hitch just enough to sound afraid.
Low laughter echoed through the alley, followed by the shuffling of boots on stone. Five figures emerged from the gloom, spreading out like a pack of starving dogs.
"Look at this poor bastard," one of them sneered. "Wandering where he shouldn’t be."
Silas didn't respond. He let his body shift, muscles coiling as he activated Mimicry Echo: Gravemark Resilience and Blur Trace. A familiar weight settled into his limbs, grounding him, while his Astral Signature fragmented into false echoes, leaving misleading trails in the air.
Then, he moved.
He shot forward like a whip, his fist hammering into the nearest thug’s gut with brutal force. The impact rippled through the man’s body. A sick, wheezing gasp escaped him as he doubled over, collapsing onto his knees, hands clutching his stomach like he was trying to hold his insides together.
Before the others could react, Silas pivoted and struck again. His knuckles slammed into another man's ribs with a dull, meaty thud. A sharp crack followed. The thug screamed, staggering backward, eyes wide with agony as he cradled his side.
Panic spread like wildfire.
"What the fuck—!"
Silas didn't wait for them to recover. He turned and bolted into the darkness.
"Get him!" one of them barked. They all gave chase.
Perfect.
Silas weaved through the labyrinthine alleys, letting Blur Trace work its magic. Every few steps, his signature twisted, flickering in another direction. To anyone trying to track him, it would be like chasing smoke—never solid, never real.
Then, just as planned, he stopped.
With Mimicry Echo: Silent Steps engaged, his body became weightless, his movements noiseless. He pressed into the shadows, waiting as the first thug ran past him, panting and wild-eyed.
Silas struck.
A swift, brutal punch to the torso sent the man sprawling to the ground, retching from the force of the blow. He let out a strangled scream, curling into himself.
Another one rushed toward the sound, only for Silas to step behind him and slam his elbow into the thug’s spine. The man howled, collapsing to his knees, but before he could react, Silas grabbed his arm—twisted—
A sickening snap.
The man shrieked, his voice raw with agony.
"My arm! My fucking arm!"
The last two men had stopped running. One of them turned wildly, scanning the darkness.
"Where the hell is he?! Who the fuck is this guy?!"
Silas exhaled slowly, then moved again. He emerged from behind, his fist smashing into the next thug’s ribs so hard that bone cracked beneath his knuckles. The man let out a choking sound and collapsed, writhing on the ground.
The last one barely had time to react before Silas grabbed his wrist and twisted.
Another snap. Another scream.
The alley filled with the sound of agonized breathing, of groans and whimpers. The thugs lay sprawled, broken and useless.
Silas loomed over them, adjusting the mask on his face. When he spoke, his voice was rough, cold—unrecognizable.
"Your money. Now."
Hands trembling, they fumbled through their pockets, tossing whatever coins they had onto the wet stone. Silas knelt, scooping them up, then straightened.
"If you try to follow me…" He let the words hang, stepping over one of the whimpering men. "You’ll leave more than just your money behind next time."
Then, without another word, he melted into the shadows.
By the time the thugs gathered the strength to lift their heads, he was already gone—nothing left behind except their broken bones and fading screams.
Silas moved swiftly through the alleys, his body vanishing into the thick, curling fog. The night was cold, and the scent of damp stone mixed with the distant stink of coal smoke from the factory districts. He didn't look back—there was no need. The thugs wouldn’t be following. Not with their bodies broken and their moans still echoing through the narrow passage.
He ducked into an alcove beneath an old tenement, leaning against the chilled brick. His breath was steady, controlled. Slowly, he opened his gloved palm, revealing the tarnished coins he had collected.
A mix of crow-gilds, gear-gilds, and a single tower-gild gleamed faintly under the weak glow of a distant streetlamp. He counted quickly: nine crow-gilds , three gear-gilds,each worth five crow-gilds, making them more valuable and one tower-gild – worth ten crow-gilds, a rare find in the pockets of petty criminals.
Altogether, he had thirty-seven crow-gilds worth of coin. More than enough to buy what he needed.
Silas let out a slow exhale, slipping the money into his inner coat pocket. This would do.
His next stop was the Thieves’ Market.