The Explorer's Union stood at the heart of Ironclad District, a squat, fortress-like building of dark stone and iron braces. Its windows were reinforced with brass latticework, and above the entrance hung a sign depicting a crossed compass and sword. The cobblestones here were uneven, scarred from the constant movement of heavy wagons that hauled supplies for expeditions beyond the walls.

As Silas approached, he passed vendors hawking gear: rusted goggles, reinforced gloves, and leather maps that promised "Guaranteed Accurate Fallen Lands Routes!" A group of children in patched coats huddled near a steam grate for warmth, while across the street, a Nightwatch patrol questioned a man near a boarded-up apothecary.

The Union's heavy oak doors creaked as Silas pushed them open. Inside, the air smelled of damp leather, metal polish, and faint traces of gunpowder. The stone floor was worn smooth by countless boots. To the left, a wide bulletin board displayed maps and mission postings. One map caught his eye: a faded diagram of the city walls with black ink marking territories beyond labeled Dead Hollow, Fogmire Ridge, and The Weeping Grove.

At the counter stood a woman in a brown leather coat, hair pulled into a tight braid. Her sleeves were rolled up, revealing muscular forearms streaked with old scars. She glanced at Silas with sharp, assessing eyes.

"Need something, boy?" she asked, voice low and gravelly.

"Uh, yeah. I’m with The Cogwheel Gazette." Silas forced his best nervous smile. "Heard some explorers just got back. My boss sent me to, you know, ask a few questions."

"Reporters." She shook her head and jabbed a thumb toward a side door. "Try your luck in the mess hall. They're drowning stories in cheap whiskey."

"Thanks." Silas turned toward the door but hesitated. "Sorry, what's your name?"

"Lieutenant Darya Quinn," she said, already turning back to her paperwork. "Nightwatch liaison. Don't bother lying to me again."

Silas's pulse spiked. She knew? He hadn't even tried to hide his purpose, yet she'd read him like a book. He swallowed hard and pushed through the side door, the distant murmur of voices drawing him toward the explorers' tales.

His instincts whispered that something was off about the woman behind the counter. She hadn't just dismissed him with the usual disdain for reporters—she'd seen through his nervous act in seconds.

Lieutenant Darya Quinn... he repeated the name in his mind, the weight of her stare lingering on his skin. Keeping his expression neutral, he triggered a discrete system scan.

[Analysis Activated – Cost: 0.2 p]

The response came almost instantly:

[Subject: Darya Quinn – Wielder detected. Chronicle: Inspector, First Order.]

Silas's stomach twisted into a knot. A Wielder. Right here. And a Nightwatch liaison at that.

His pulse quickened as cold dread coiled around his chest. What is a Nightwatch liaison doing here in the Explorer's Union? This made his mind race. The Nightwatch rarely mingled with the Union, at least not openly. Their job was to guard the city, not inquire about expeditions beyond the walls.

He didn't dare linger. With practiced ease, he adjusted his expression to one of casual indifference, gave a polite nod toward the counter, and pushed through the door. His footsteps slowed only once he was out of her line of sight.

----------------------------------------

The door creaked shut behind him, sealing him within the dimly lit confines of the Union's mess hall. The air was thick with the pungent mix of unwashed bodies, stale beer, and woodsmoke. The room was large but oppressive, with low ceilings supported by thick, iron-bolted beams. Brass lanterns swayed overhead, casting erratic shadows across the stone walls.

A dozen tables filled the space, most of them occupied by grim-faced explorers nursing their drinks or muttering among themselves. Their clothes were worn and stained with mud and ash. Silas instinctively cataloged the details: torn coats, patched gear, eyes that stared into nothing. These are people who've seen the Fallen Lands up close.

Near the back, three men sat huddled over a bottle of amber liquid, their voices loud with the kind of forced cheer that came only after surviving something harrowing. One of them had a bandage wrapped around his head; another's arm was splinted with rough strips of wood. Silas made his way toward them, weaving between chairs while maintaining his limp.

As he approached, he caught snippets of their conversation.

"...damn fog thicker than a death shroud, I tell ya. One minute, we were seeing the ridge clear as day; next, the ground was gone beneath us."

"It wasn't the fog that took Isaac," the bandaged man said, voice hoarse. "Something moved in it. Big. Fast. Didn't even scream."

The third man—older, with a silver streak in his beard—noticed Silas and straightened. "Oi, kid. You lost?"

Silas forced a sheepish smile and raised his hands in mock surrender. "Not lost. Just curious. I'm with The Cogwheel Gazette. My boss said you just came back from an expedition?"

"Bloody reporters," the bandaged man muttered, turning back to his drink.

"Hey, I'm not here to bother you," Silas said quickly. "Just looking for a few good stories. Maybe help make sure the city knows what kind of dangers are out there." He pulled a small notebook from his coat and held it up. "Anything interesting happen on your trip?"

The older man's gaze hardened. "Define 'interesting'."

"Strange sightings. Unusual sounds." Silas hesitated before adding, "The kind of things the citizens might care about."

The mention of the Nightwatch made all three men shift uneasily. The older man rubbed his temple, "Aye," he said after a long pause. "We saw something. Out near Fogmire Ridge."

"Fogmire?" Silas's pulse quickened. That was one of the locations he'd seen on the map earlier. "What exactly?"

The man leaned closer, his breath sour with whiskey. "A light. Deep in the mist. Green, faint, but it moved. We followed it for maybe half a klick, but it stayed just ahead. Then... the ground shook. Trees bent without snapping. And Isaac was gone."

"Gone how?" Silas asked, voice low.

"Just… gone." The man’s hands trembled. "No sound. No trace. One second he was beside me, the next, empty air."

Silas scribbled down the details, his mind racing. A green light… movement in the mist… and something powerful enough to bend trees. The pieces didn't fit. But the Nightwatch liaison’s presence suddenly made more sense.

"Thanks," Silas said, tucking the notebook away. He turned to leave, but the older man grabbed his wrist.

"Kid," he whispered, eyes bloodshot and wide. "Don't go near the Ridge. Whatever’s out there—it sees you before you see it."

Silas swallowed hard and nodded. Outside, the fog pressed against the windows like pale, watching faces.

Silas lingered a moment longer, watching the tension etched into the older explorer’s face. The man’s grip, though rough and unsteady from drink, held a weight born from genuine fear. Fogmire Ridge, Silas thought, the name now carrying a sinister edge. He gave a small nod, murmured a quick thanks, and gently pried his wrist free.

As he turned away, his mind stirred with curiosity. These men had ventured beyond the safety of Evergarde's walls, into the corrupted wilderness where few dared to tread. They'd seen what lurked in the mist—things the average citizen only heard about in hushed rumors.

Time for a little insight.

He slowed his steps, pretending to adjust his coat, and activated the scan.

[Analysis Activated – Cost: 0.6 p – Multiple Targets Detected]

The system responded almost immediately. Faint static crackled through his mind, followed by fragmented impressions: the crack of gunfire, the metallic taste of fear, and the oppressive stillness of thick mist. Then, the results materialized:

* Arden Cross – Second Order Chronicle: Pathfinder

* Garrick Venn – First Order Chronicle: Fogcaller

* Elric Downs – First Order Chronicle: Vanguarder

Silas’s heart skipped a beat. A Second Order Chronicle. Arden Cross, the older one with the silver-streaked beard, was more than a seasoned explorer. And from the system's summary, their abilities complemented each other, forming a well-rounded team perfectly suited for survival in the Fallen Lands.

No wonder they came back alive.

He stole a final glance at the trio. Cross was whispering something to Garrick, whose bandaged head lolled slightly as he nodded. Elric leaned back in his chair, eyes closed, lips moving as though reciting a prayer. These weren’t ordinary adventurers—they were professionals. Survivors of a nightmare landscape.

The Explorer’s Union wasn’t just a gathering place for daredevils; it was a brotherhood of those who had braved the mist and returned to tell the tale. Their job was to chart fallen cities, map corrupted lands, and maintain what fragile connections still existed with distant, fog-shrouded enclaves. They ventured into places where death came quickly and painlessly—if one was lucky.

Silas remembered the stories whispered in Evergarde’s streets: The explorers lived on the edge of the abyss. Monsters, curses, and ancient traps were daily threats. Death is a mercy out there, the older folk often said. To be an explorer is to gamble with your soul.

Yet, paradoxically, they were some of the most respected figures in the city. Even the Nightwatch afforded them courtesy, and officials ensured they received the best rations, equipment, and medical care available. Few dared to join their ranks, despite the allure of glory. It was said that once you crossed into the Fallen Lands, you left part of yourself behind.

"Kid."

Silas froze. The voice came from behind him. Slowly, he turned. Arden Cross stood there, swaying slightly but still emanating the kind of alertness that came from years of survival. His eyes, sharp beneath the haze of drink, fixed on Silas with unsettling intensity.

"You been listening too long," Cross said, voice gravelly. "Or maybe you're just too curious for your own good."

"I… I was just leaving," Silas stammered, forcing a nervous chuckle. "Didn’t want to interrupt."

Cross's gaze flicked toward the door, then back to Silas. "Yeah? You got what you came for?"

Silas hesitated. "Mostly. My boss just wanted a survivor's account. Fogmire Ridge sounds like a nightmare."

"Nightmare." Cross huffed a bitter laugh. "That what you're gonna write? Call it a nightmare so folks can read about it over breakfast?"

"I don’t write the headlines," Silas said, voice low.

Cross leaned closer, the scent of whiskey and gunpowder thick on his breath. "The Fallen Lands ain't a bedtime story, boy. And the thing we saw at the Ridge? It wasn't just a nightmare. It was watching us. Learning." He jabbed a finger at Silas's chest. "Remember that when you write your piece."

Silas forced himself to nod. "I will."

Cross held his stare for a moment longer, then turned away, muttering to his companions. Silas exhaled shakily and headed for the door. His heart pounded as he stepped back into the street, the cool mist like a damp shroud against his skin.

The Nightwatch liaison. The explorers. The green light at Fogmire Ridge.

Silas trudged through the fog-laden streets, his mind still reeling from the day’s revelations. The green light at Fogmire Ridge. The explorers with complementary Chronicles. The Nightwatch liaison with an Inspector Chronicle—why was she stationed at the Union? And why would the Nightwatch, whose duty was to guard Evergarde’s walls, be so interested in explorers who ventured outside those very walls?

He rubbed his temples as he walked, the chill mist clinging to his skin. Too many threads. Too many unanswered questions. Instinct told him it all connected somehow, but the pattern remained just beyond his reach.

The distant clang of a steam engine bell brought him back to the present. He found himself in Rustwick Lane, a narrow street lined with crooked, brick-fronted shops. The apothecary was just ahead—a squat building with soot-streaked windows and a faded sign painted in neat, looping letters:

Grayson’s Apothecary – Remedies for Body and Mind

A lantern hung outside the door, its brass frame dulled by time. Silas stepped inside, a bell above the door chiming softly.

The air changed the moment he crossed the threshold. The metallic tang of coal smoke vanished, replaced by the sharp scents of dried herbs, alcohol, and medicinal tinctures. Shelves lined the walls, cluttered with glass jars, parchment-labeled vials, and small potted plants with curling leaves. Behind the counter stood a young man who looked barely older than Silas. His blond hair was slicked back, though a stubborn lock fell across his forehead. He wore a dark vest over a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves and held a small brass scoop as he measured a fine green powder into a paper pouch.

"Evening," the young man greeted without looking up. His voice was smooth, but there was an alertness beneath the casual tone. "Headache? Cough? Or something stronger?"

"Evening," Silas said, stepping closer. "Just need some basic supplies. Antiseptic, gauze. Maybe something for pain."

The apothecary met his gaze then, his pale blue eyes sharp. "Planning a wilderness expedition?"

Silas gave a tight smile. "Nothing that exciting. Just a precaution. Got banged up last night during that mess at Sable Court."

The apothecary's eyebrows lifted slightly. "The cult thing?"

"Yeah," Silas said, leaning against the counter. "Saw it up close. A monster broke through the wall. Nearly killed me."

The young man whistled softly. "You’re lucky. Most don’t walk away from something like that." He turned and grabbed a small glass jar from the shelf. "Here—willowbark tonic. Good for pain. And some antiseptic salve. Five crow-gilds."

Silas's lips twitched at the price. Five? For common supplies? He reached for the coins, then paused. Let’s see who I’m dealing with first.

He triggered a discrete system scan.

[Analysis Activated – Cost: 0.2 p]

The result appeared with surprising speed:

[Subject: Elias Grayson – Wielder Detected. Chronicle: Pharmacist, First Order.]

Silas's breath caught, though he kept his expression neutral. Another Wielder. The outer city was beginning to feel far more crowded with the wielders than he’d ever imagined.

"Everything alright?" Elias asked, eyeing him curiously.

"Yeah," Silas said quickly. "Just… remembering the monster. Makes me jumpy."

The apothecary gave a sympathetic nod. "Fogborn beasts do that. Seen a few during supply runs near the wall. Don’t trust the fog, friend. It sees what you don’t."

Silas forced a laugh. "Yeah, I’m learning that."

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

He paid the five crow-gilds, tucked the supplies into his satchel, and left with a polite nod. Outside, the mist had thickened, muffling the sounds of factory bells and distant footsteps. Silas walked briskly to the corner bakery, bought a loaf of coarse bread and a wedge of pale cheese, and headed home.

The door creaked as he stepped into the familiar confines of his tiny house. He bolted the lock and lit the kitchen lamp, the flame flickering against the damp walls. The plate Clara had brought him still sat on the counter. He sliced a portion of the bread and cheese, set it on the plate, and wrapped a cloth over it.

The walk to Clara’s house took only seconds; their homes were separated by a narrow alley where the fog swirled like coiling snakes. He knocked softly on the door and shifted the plate in his hands. A moment later, the door opened, revealing Clara’s curious eyes peeking out.

"Silas?" she said, blinking in surprise.

"Evening, Clara." He held up the plate. "Figured I should return this. And brought a little something to go with it."

She opened the door wider, the lamplight behind her casting a halo around her curls. She wore a knitted shawl over her shoulders and smelled faintly of lavender and flour.

"Thanks," she said, taking the plate. "Want to come in for tea? Mum baked some seed cakes."

Silas’s chest tightened. The warmth of the invitation tempted him, but he couldn’t shake the day’s events from his mind. "Wish I could," he said with an apologetic smile. "Got a report to finish for the Gazette."

Clara tilted her head. "You always have work."

"Yeah," he said, forcing a chuckle. "Boss thinks sleep is for the lazy."

She laughed softly. "Sounds like him. Well, thanks for this. Mum will be happy."

"Tell her I said hello," Silas replied, stepping back. "Goodnight, Clara."

"Goodnight, Silas."

As he walked away, he felt her gaze linger until the door clicked shut.

Back home, Silas lit the lantern in his room and sank onto his bed. The muffled hum of Evergarde’s night still reached him: the low groan of distant factory engines, the occasional hiss of steam from a nearby pipe. He stretched out on the mattress, staring at the water-stained ceiling.

Silas sat up in bed, the remnants of restless dreams still clinging to his mind like cobwebs. The night had passed in a haze of fractured images—green lights in the mist, hollow-eyed explorers, and the cold, piercing stare of Lieutenant Quinn. He rubbed his eyes and exhaled slowly. The system hummed faintly in his consciousness, an ever-present whisper beneath his thoughts.

Time to check my reserves.

He focused inward, summoning the system interface. The familiar sensation washed over him, like dipping his mind into a cold, still pond.

[Phenomenal Points: 2154 p]

Silas blinked. Wait… 2154?

He remembered the last time he'd checked. It had been just over 2000 points, and he hadn't actively used the system much since then—only a few scans here and there. That left only one explanation.

The system's been passively collecting points.

Relief coursed through him. The system wasn’t just a static tool; it was adaptive, constantly gathering fragments of 'effect' from his interactions with the world - the wonder of the collection module. His pulse quickened. He was the butterfly in the butterfly effect.

Cause and effect. Every interaction leaves a mark.

He stood and paced the room, the wooden floorboards groaning beneath his feet. The phrase inherent risk drifted back into his mind, echoing from the system's initial analysis. He had dismissed it then, but now… now it felt like a loose thread dangling from a tightly woven mystery.

The system warned about inherent risk during sublimation. But what kind of risk?

He sank into the rickety chair at his desk, fingers drumming the surface. Sublimation was how Wielders advanced—transforming themselves by tapping into their Chronicle’s core power. The process granted skills, altered attributes, and shaped abilities. But what if that transformation wasn't guaranteed to go smoothly?

What if the risk isn’t just failure… but corruption?

The thought made his stomach twist. He remembered the nightmarish creature from Sable Court, its spiderlike limbs and empty, mindless rage. The cultists had performed a ritual. The monster hadn't come from the outside—it had emerged from the victim. A failed sublimation?

Is that why the Nightwatch was watching the Explorer’s Union?

The realization struck like a hammer. Explorers pushed themselves to the limits, often undergoing sublimations to survive the horrors of the Fallen Lands. If something went wrong… if the process turned them feral…

That’s why the Nightwatch calls them cults. They're not always cultists. They're failed Wielders—people who took the risk and lost.

His breathing quickened. The 'inherent risk' wasn't just a footnote in the system’s analysis; it was the missing link in the puzzle. Sublimation didn’t merely unlock power—it flirted with something dangerous, something that could unravel the mind and twist the soul.

What did the system say? The oath acts as a guide.

He remembered the Stalker oath: "In silence, I walk; unseen, I prevail…" The oath wasn't just ceremonial; it was a tether to the Chronicle’s core identity. Without it, the Wielder risked losing themselves.

Silas closed his eyes and whispered, "System, verify hypothesis: Inherent risk during sublimation linked to mental or physical corruption."

The system hesitated longer than usual after consuming a few points. The void of his mind grew colder, more vast, until the response finally materialized.

[Verification Complete – Hypothesis Confirmed.]

Risk Factors:

* Loss of cognitive integrity.

* Behavioral deterioration.

* Physical mutation in advanced failures.

Mitigation:

* Strict adherence to Chronicle oath.

* Incremental sublimation progression.

* External stabilization methods (uncommon).

Silas inhaled sharply. So that’s why most Wielders outside the Explorer’s Union and Nightwatch hide. They weren't harboring dark secrets or forbidden knowledge—they were protecting themselves from the very power they wielded.

And when they fail...

His mind painted the image of the monster from Sable Court: limbs grotesquely elongated, eyes devoid of reason, driven by instinct and violence.

That's why the Nightwatch hunts them. Failed Wielders aren’t just dangerous—they're contagious anomalies.

The weight of the revelation pressed down on him. He leaned forward, head in his hands. Evergarde wasn’t just a city surrounded by mist and monsters—it was a fragile balance teetering atop forces no one fully understood.

He stood, pacing again. The Nightwatch had their systems, the Explorer’s Union had their strategies. But Silas had the system. The subtle, quiet, invisible eye that could peel back layers of reality without anyone knowing.

I need to learn more. About the Fallen Lands. About sublimation. About this risk.

A shiver ran through him as he imagined the path ahead. Every step deeper into this mystery carried danger. Yet turning away wasn’t an option.

The fog outside whispered against the glass. Silas placed his hand on the cold window, watching the faint glow of lanterns struggle against the mist. Somewhere out there, the Nightwatch was patrolling. Somewhere beyond the walls, explorers were returning—some whole, some broken.

I won't end up like them, Silas vowed. I’ll walk the line. Stay sharp. Stay hidden.

He turned away from the window, his mind already crafting a plan. The system had given him the first thread. Now, it was time to follow it into the shadows.

The question surfaced in Silas's mind like a stone breaking the surface of still water: Chronicles… how did they come into existence? He had already encountered several—Stalker, Pathfinder, Fogcaller, Inspector. Each one distinct, each bound to an oath that seemed almost ritualistic. But where did they truly originate?

He paced the room, gnawing the inside of his cheek. The system had revealed that these abilities were connected to the Astral World, a higher dimension that coexisted with reality. But something didn’t sit right. The Astral World is a realm of phenomena, not a creator. These Chronicles feel… crafted.

The idea lodged itself firmly in his mind. He hesitated for only a moment before giving the command.

"System, analyze Chronicle origins."

[Analysis Requested – Cost: 520 p. Proceed?]

Silas sucked in a sharp breath. 520 points? He had over 2100, but that was still a considerable investment. Why so high? The system rarely demanded that much for historical or conceptual information.

He tapped his fingers on the desk, weighing the risk. Information was power. And this—this could be the foundation of everything.

"Proceed."

The familiar cold sensation gripped his mind. The world around him dimmed as the system's tendrils of analysis reached beyond the material plane. His thoughts fractured into impressions: diagrams sketched on parchment, flickering candles around ritual circles, voices chanting ancient words in countless dialects. He felt, rather than saw, the vast, pulsing expanse of the Astral World—a realm of shifting forces and unyielding, impersonal will.

Then the answer crystallized in his consciousness:

[Chronicle Origins Analysis Complete]

Chronicles are human-designed constructs, created through meticulous research into mystical phenomena. However, their existence is contingent upon Astral Resonance.

Silas’s brow furrowed. Human-designed? He leaned forward, absorbing the next lines as they unfurled like a scroll in his mind.

The Astral World does not create Chronicles; it merely recognizes and resonates with the constructs when aligned with its fundamental principles. The oath serves as the link—a linguistic, conceptual, and symbolic key that aligns the Chronicle with the corresponding Astral forces.

He exhaled slowly, the implications sinking in.

So humans invented these abilities. Through research. Trial. Error.

He tried to picture it: scholars in candlelit rooms, experimenting with diagrams and oaths until the Astral World responded. The thought was both exhilarating and terrifying.

The system continued:

The resonance process is inherently dangerous. While anyone can theoretically craft a new Chronicle, the Astral World's recognition is unforgiving. Misalignment during the oath or structural flaws in the Chronicle design or the ritual result in rejection.

Rejection triggers a catastrophic event: the subject is flooded with unfiltered, high-dimensional power. Survival is very rare—death is often instantaneous. However, in those few who endure, the power warps both mind and body, resulting in grotesque mutations and feral, instinct-driven behavior. The survivors are left unhinged, their sanity fractured beyond repair.

Silas’s stomach churned. The cult creature at Sable Court… was that the result of a failed Chronicle?

The next lines confirmed his suspicion:

The oath and the ritual serve as more than a just ceremony—it is the Chronicle’s identity, path, and authentication key. An incomplete or incorrect oath and ritual severs the link with the Astral World, invoking the rejection phenomenon.

The memory of the original Silas flashed before him—not as a face, but as a concept. A boy who had dared to follow the cult, steal a ritual page, and conduct an incomplete summoning. His oath had been flawed, missing a crucial line.

The Astral World rejected him… and killed him.

That explained the dried blood, the animal parts, the mangled remains of the ritual site. It hadn’t been a cult sacrifice—it had been a failed Chronicle initiation. The original Silas hadn't just stumbled into danger. He had unknowingly triggered the punishment.

Silas ran a hand through his hair, heartbeat thundering in his ears.

"The oath and the ritual, the guide, the path, the password," he murmured. The wrong oath or ritual brings rejection.

The pieces slid into place with sickening clarity. The Nightwatch wasn’t just patrolling the city—they were monitoring potential Wielders who might attempt unauthorized Chronicle creation. Failed Wielders became feral monsters. The cults they hunted weren’t merely fanatics; they were often victims of their own ambition.

The Explorer's Union must know this. They must deal with oaths and phenomena regularly. The Nightwatch respects and monitors them for a reason.

He stood and paced, the lantern light casting sharp shadows on the walls. The fog beyond the window thickened, swirling like a living thing.

The realization struck Silas with a jolt: If a Chronicle is successfully created, anyone with the correct oath can access it. The implications made his thoughts race.

So, what if that’s why the nobles are so powerful?

The nobles of Evergarde held immense influence, far beyond their wealth or political clout. Many were known to possess mystical abilities. What if they weren’t individually more talented or gifted but simply had access to established Chronicles—passed down, preserved, and shared exclusively within their bloodlines and inner circles?

They’ve built a network of power by monopolizing Chronicles, Silas thought. Family secrets. Hidden rituals. The same oaths whispered across generations.

His mind conjured images of noble houses seated around grand mahogany tables, reciting ancient phrases, each member inheriting the same Chronicle. That's how they maintain their dominance. Not by strength alone, but through shared power.

But if that were true, why hadn’t the nobles created vast armies of Wielders to crush any opposition? With their resources, they could have fielded battalions of Stalkers, Pathfinders, and Inspectors. Yet, the Nightwatch and the Explorer's Union remained relatively small, and independent Wielders still existed in hiding.

There must be a reason.

He sat at the desk and focused inward.

"System, verify hypothesis: Increasing the number of Wielders sharing the same Chronicle raises sublimation risk."

The system processed the request. The seconds dragged on, tension coiling tighter in Silas's chest. Finally, the response appeared:

[Verification Complete – Hypothesis Confirmed.]

As the number of individuals bonded to a single Chronicle increases, the sublimation risk for all linked Wielders proportionally rises. The Astral World, recognizing the broader resonance, intensifies the challenge to maintain the Chronicle’s integrity. Excessive proliferation results in reduced sublimation success rates, cognitive instability, and increased mutation probability.

Silas exhaled slowly, the truth sinking in.

So that’s the limitation. The more Wielders connected to a Chronicle, the more dangerous the advancement process becomes.

Sublimation wasn’t just a linear path to power; it was a delicate, treacherous process dependent on the Astral World's recognition. When too many tapped into the same Chronicle, the system became unstable. The Astral World demanded exclusivity—or perhaps authenticity—and punished those who tried to mass-produce power.

That's why the nobles don’t build armies of Wielders. They know it would destabilize the Chronicles and weaken their potential for advancement.

His mind circled back to the hidden Wielders scattered throughout Evergarde. They weren’t just staying underground to avoid the Nightwatch; they were guarding their chances of sublimation.

Sharing a Chronicle might grant temporary strength, but it dooms all who bear it to stagnation—or worse.

Silas leaned back in his chair, the weight of revelation pressing down on him. The nobles guarded their secrets not out of altruism, but to maintain control and ensure their own safe progression. Those who refused to share their Chronicles weren't selfish—they were survivors, protecting their path to higher Orders.

The Nightwatch knows this. The Explorer's Union knows this. And now... I do too.

He traced the grain of the wooden desk with his fingertip, mind alight with the dangerous knowledge he'd just unearthed.

Power isn’t just about obtaining a Chronicle. It's about protecting the path of sublimation.

The nobles had been playing this game for generations. Silas was just beginning.

The question had been gnawing at Silas for hours, growing louder with each revelation. He had learned how Chronicles were crafted, how the Astral World resonated with human research, and how the oath served as both key and anchor. He knew that sharing a Chronicle diluted its power, that sublimation was fraught with peril, and that the nobles guarded their secrets like dragons hoarding gold.

But one question remained—the most crucial of all.

Can the system create a new Chronicle?

His heart raced as the thought solidified. If the system could analyze fragments of forgotten rituals, reconstruct missing oaths, and decipher complex phenomena strands, perhaps it could go further. Much further.

He took a deep breath and gave the command.

"System, analyze feasibility: Chronicle creation."

[Analysis Requested – Cost: 250 p. Proceed?]

Silas blinked. Only 250 points? He had expected a far steeper price. The knowledge of Chronicle origins alone had cost more than double that. Yet here was a potentially groundbreaking query—a discovery that could rewrite everything he knew about wielding mystical power—offered for a comparatively minor sum.

The low cost unsettled him. Why is it so… accessible?

His pulse quickened. He hovered on the edge of uncertainty, then clenched his fists.

"Proceed."

The system responded with eerie swiftness. A cold, tingling sensation slid across his skull like icy fingers running through his thoughts. The faint hum that often accompanied minor scans deepened into a low, resonant vibration. The air around him seemed to grow heavier.

Then, the response unfolded within his mind:

[Chronicle Creation Feasibility: Confirmed.]

Silas’s breath caught in his throat.

The system, utilizing the Information Module, can deduce and design a new Chronicle by analyzing existing phenomena patterns and utilizing accumulated Phenomenal Points. Chronicle formation requires resonance with the Astral World, guided through a meticulously constructed oath.

He gripped the edge of the desk, heart slamming against his ribs.

The system can create a Chronicle… from scratch.

The next lines appeared with stark clarity:

By consuming Phenomenal Points, the system can exert limited influence over cause-and-effect structures within the first few layers of the Astral World. This manipulation, while constrained, can facilitate Chronicle resonance, initiate sublimation, and induce Wielder status directly. The required points, however, will be substantial.

Silas exhaled a shaky breath, his mind struggling to grasp the enormity of what he had just learned.

The system can control cause and effect? In the Astral World?

The Astral World, that intangible higher dimension that scholars only theorized about, wasn’t merely observable through the system—it was, in part, manipulable. Not in grand, reality-altering ways, but enough to forge a Chronicle, induce sublimation, and, if necessary, bypass the natural restrictions of mundane existence.

He pressed a hand to his chest, feeling the frantic drumbeat of his heart.

I don’t even need an existing Chronicle. The realization struck with terrifying clarity. I can become a Wielder without joining a cult, without stealing an oath, without pledging myself to a noble house.

His legs wobbled beneath him. He collapsed into the chair, eyes fixed on the cracked plaster ceiling. The lantern's glow flickered unevenly, shadows stretching across the walls like grasping tendrils.

Phenomenal Points… they’re more than currency for analysis. They’re my key to altering the framework of reality.

It wasn’t just the strands he'd consumed during the ritual. Every interaction, every scan, every moment the system observed phenomena contributed to this growing reservoir of potential. 1254 points… and climbing. With enough time and knowledge, I could reshape the very forces that govern the Astral World.

He ran his hands through his hair, breathing unsteady. The weight of it made his skin prickle. Power of this magnitude didn't come without a price.

He had to guard this secretly as the whole world might hunt him down if it is discovered.

The system had handed him the tools to become extraordinary. But even extraordinary individuals died when they miscalculated the Astral World’s rules.

He exhaled shakily and sat upright, forcing his thoughts into order.

Phenomenal Points are the key. The more I accumulate, the better.

His mind raced back to the cult ritual that had triggered the system's awakening. The blood. The symbols. The oath spoken into the void. He hadn't been the intended recipient. The original Silas had tried—and failed—to claim that power.

The fog beyond the window thickened, pressing against the glass like a living thing. Silas stared into the swirling gray, heart pounding with a mix of fear and exhilaration.

"I have the power to create my own Chronicle. To become a Wielder."