Silas arrived at the crime scene in Sable Court, the cobblestones slick beneath his feet as he blended into the gathering crowd. The air was thick with the ever-present coal smoke. Nightwatch enforcers stood in rigid formation, their brass-buttoned coats gleaming faintly in the mist. Steam rifles were gripped tight in their hands, eyes scanning the street with wary tension.
A commanding figure caught Silas's attention—a tall officer who seemed to draw the very mist toward him. His posture was rigid, his steps measured with an authority that made the surrounding enforcers instinctively stand straighter. A jagged scar slashed across his jaw, stark against his pale skin, and at his hip hung a long, curved sword—an anomaly amidst the standard-issue bayonets carried by the others. The weapon's hilt gleamed with intricate etchings, and on the man's dark coat, embroidered in silver thread, was an insignia: a sword wrapped in thorned vines.
That crest… Silas's breath caught in his throat. A noble.
The realization sent a jolt through his chest. Nobles rarely ventured into the Outer City, and when they did, they came cloaked in guarded carriages, untouched by the grime and desperation of the streets. Yet here stood one, commanding the Nightwatch in the aftermath of a brutal murder. The air around him seemed heavier, colder, as though the mist itself recoiled from his presence.
The officer's eyes scanned the crowd with predatory precision. They were sharp, unforgiving—like twin shards of ice cutting through the fog. Silas ducked behind a rusted lamppost, pressing his back against the cold metal. His heart hammered in his chest. Don’t look. Don’t breathe. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, forcing himself to calm the rising panic.
The surrounding silence was broken only by the distant hiss of steam and the occasional murmur from the crowd. The stench of gunpowder and blood clung to the air, mingling with the ever-present metallic tang of the city's breath.
Who is he? Silas dared a glance around the post. The officer stood still now, his gaze fixed on the house where the murders had occurred. His expression was unreadable, but there was a tension in his stance—a predator poised to strike.
Suddenly, from within the blood-smeared house, a sound erupted—a shriek of pure, mind-breaking terror. Silas's vision swam; the scream wasn't just sound but a force that rattled through his bones. He staggered, clutching his ears.
The house's facade exploded outward with a deafening crack. Bricks and splinters showered the street as a monstrous figure burst forth—a grotesque amalgamation of spider and hound, its eight legs skittering across the pavement with unnatural speed. The creature's maw gaped open, revealing rows of jagged, glistening fangs. Its milky eyes, devoid of pupils, fixated on the crowd.
People screamed and scattered. Silas remained frozen as the beast surged toward him, the ground trembling beneath its weight.
Suddenly, a shadow darted through the fog with inhuman speed, a blur of steel and precision. The creature screeched as three of its limbs were severed mid-stride, thick black blood splattering across the cobblestones like ink spilled from a nightmare. Silas ducked behind a broken wagon, heart hammering in his chest, as the commanding officer engaged the beast. The officer moved with ruthless efficiency, sword glinting through the haze, each strike deliberate and devastating. With a final, wet crunch, the creature collapsed, its body convulsing before lying still. Five enforcers lay lifeless in the street, their uniforms soaked in crimson. Silas clutched his coat tightly and slipped away into the shadows, the urgent need for power burning in his mind like a brand. He needed strength—before the next nightmare came for him.
Silas resolved to report his findings to his boss, the next morning, . Before heading to home, he purchased cleaning agents—lye soap, vinegar, and a stiff-bristled brush—from a grim-faced vendor at the market square. The man barely spoke, eyes shadowed by the brim of his cap. With supplies in hand, Silas trudged back through the mist-laden streets toward home.
As he neared his house, he noticed a figure standing in front of the adjacent building. It was Mr. Aldric Hawthorne—Clara's father. The man was broad-shouldered, with graying hair and a perpetual frown etched into his weathered face. He wore a soot-streaked work coat and leaned heavily on his cane.
"Morning, Mr. Hawthorne," Silas greeted, voice cautious.
"Silas," the man acknowledged, his gaze sharp. "Heard strange noises from your place last night. And Clara said you looked...off. Everything alright?"
Silas's pulse quickened. He forced a casual shrug. "Just had a nightmare. Must've made some noise in my sleep."
Hawthorne studied him for an uncomfortably long moment, then gave a slow nod. "Hmm. The world's full of bad dreams these days. You best be careful, boy."
"I will, sir. Thanks."
As the man turned and limped away, Silas exhaled shakily and hurried inside. In the basement, he got to work. The blood had darkened to rust, crusted along the stone floor. He scrubbed until his arms ached, the smell of vinegar burning his nostrils. Yet, faint traces of the symbols remained, stubborn and unyielding—a haunting reminder of the night his world shifted forever.
In the dim solitude of his bedroom, Silas sat on the edge of his creaking bed, fingers intertwined as he stared at the cracked plaster walls. The faint glow of the lantern cast restless shadows across the wooden floor, mirroring the unease swirling in his mind. Survival in this unfamiliar, unforgiving world demanded more than luck—it required power, knowledge, and a plan.
I can’t rely on chance. Not here. Not with what I’ve seen.
His gaze shifted to the faint outline of the parchment tucked into his coat, thinking about the glowing strands in his consciousness. If the cult could wield such power, why couldn't he? His breath quickened at the thought.
In my old world, systems were the foundation of every LitRPG novel I devoured—cheats, skills, stats. He clenched his fists. They were tools for survival.
A flicker of excitement cut through the tension in his chest. Yes. A system—his own guiding force in this world. Not a blind, luck-driven gamble, but a framework for survival, growth, and power. If he could shape it correctly, it might become his anchor in the chaos of Evergarde.
The candlelight had long since burned low, wax pooling like melted resolve across the wooden desk. Silas sat hunched over, eyes heavy with exhaustion yet sharp with determination. Hours of meticulous planning had finally given shape to the idea forming in his mind—a system, built from the phenomena strands still coiled deep within his consciousness.
He leaned back, rubbing his temples as his thoughts circled the same uncertain path. The second strand… if I use the rest of it to test feasibility… He exhaled through clenched teeth. It was a gamble, but without testing the core structure, everything else would be guesswork. Moments later, the result came through. Feasible. The word hovered in his mind like a distant bell. He slumped forward, relief washing over him in a wave. It can work. It will work. But success came with a steep cost.
The analysis showed the full price: the entire third strand and ninety-eight percent of the fourth strand would be consumed during the creation process. Almost everything he had left. His jaw tightened. Four strands were my foundation… now I'll be left with fragments.
The thought gnawed at him. He had considered using the strands directly to enhance himself—infusing his body or mind with raw potential. The theory was simple: strengthen his physical abilities or sharpen his cognitive functions. The strands held the potential to elevate him beyond the limits of an ordinary human. But the analysis revealed more than promise; it revealed risk.
Direct enhancement... Silas drummed his fingers on the desk. Would I become an anomaly? What if the Nightwatch—or worse, the cult—could sense the change? His eyes shifted toward the window, where the fog pressed against the glass like a living thing.
The strands were finite; reckless experimentation could render them useless—or worse, shatter his fragile grasp on the power he barely understood. Long-term sustainability is the issue. He chewed the inside of his cheek.Caution must come first.
With a sigh, Silas straightened. The plan to enhance himself directly was shelved, locked away for a future when he'd gained more knowledge. For now, the system took precedence.
Information first. Power later.
He reached inward, commanding the strands to shift. The consciousness space stirred in response, like the surface of a still pond disturbed by an unseen ripple. Slowly, carefully, he guided the strands toward the foundation of the system. A blueprint of possibility unfolded before him.
This is the first step. Silas closed his eyes and exhaled. The first step toward understanding this world… and surviving it.
Once he began, the armor now contained an information module capable of collecting and analyzing data related to phenomena strands, cause and effect, and other requirements as he needed. The module could communicate directly with his soul and consciousness without risk of detection. He also added a "cause and effect collection module" to gather and store phenomena generated by his actions or those affecting him. Given the lack of strands, this module would only collect a small portion of phenomena caused by him, with restrictions on the distance, time, and percentage that could be collected from each instance. Finally, he integrated a common interface to control these modules, completing his cheat system. This system would only be visited and accessed in his consciousness space.
Status Report:
* Name: Silas Crowell
* Age: 16
* Status: Fine
* Body: 6.3
* Spirit: 9.3
* Collection Module: 15% of impact or cause and effect collected, within a 3-hour time frame, centered around the user.
* Information Module: Analyze, Extract and Deduce within 5m radius ( range and depth can be amplified by consuming points)
Phenomena Points: 2130 (1 strand = 100,000 point units; 2% of second strand remaining)
One single strand amounted to 100,000 units, and the strands allowed for the modification of concepts. Using this, Silas created the information and collection modules, which acted upon the concept of knowledge and phenomena. But he could not condense the strands from 100,000 p units as he was not ‘Strong’ enough according to information he gathered using points. The Phenomena points were a lower grade version of Phenomena strands in terms of power over cause and effect. These points will serve as fuel for amplifying the system functions. The system will act as an interface and allow him to use these points for other purposes.
With his system complete, Silas calmed his anxious heart. Now he has to test his system.
Silas retrieved the ritual page from his coat, unfolding it with careful, almost reverent hands. The parchment felt dry and brittle beneath his fingertips, the faded symbols etched in crimson like scars on flesh. The system responded immediately.
[Analysis – 150 p. Proceed?]
He gave a mental confirmation, and the page seemed to grow heavier in his grasp. A cold, tingling sensation crept through his mind as the system began its work. Moments later, fragmented whispers drifted through his consciousness—disjointed words in a language unfamiliar yet instinctively ominous. Faint images followed: shadowed figures cloaked in darkness, hands arranging limbs of animals in grotesque patterns, lips moving soundlessly in unison. The scene felt wrong, invasive, as though the parchment itself carried the memory of its past use.
Finally, the system condensed the extracted information into clear, concise text:
Stalker – First Order Chronicle (Incomplete)
Ritual Requirements:
* Arrange specific anatomical parts of cats, rats, and dogs in a ritualistic diagram.
* Ingest the eyes of each creature while chanting the oath:
"In silence, I walk; unseen, I prevail.
The shadows are my refuge, the hunt my purpose. [#missing]
I track without falter, I strike without mercy."
Potential Sublimations (2):
1. Silent Steps (1st Sublimation) – Walk without sound and diminish one’s presence.
2. Ambush (2nd Sublimation) – Conceal oneself, then strike with enhanced agility.
Silas's eyes narrowed as he reread the passage. The system had flagged the second line as missing from the parchment. The original Silas had clearly overlooked a crucial part of the oath. Yet, the system had pieced it together, filling the gap like a master locksmith crafting a missing key.
It really works, Silas thought, equal parts astonished and unnerved. The system wasn't just gathering data—it was reconstructing lost information, uncovering truths that had remained hidden until now. The missing line, once absent from the parchment, now glared back at him like an exposed nerve.
The shadows are my refuge, the hunt my purpose.
He traced the words with his fingertip. The oath wasn't just a chant; it was a declaration, a submission to the path of the Stalker.
Silent movement. Ambush tactics. The foundation of a predator.
The system had proven its worth beyond his expectations. It had bridged gaps, reconstructed ancient knowledge, and revealed the full ritual instructions. A single thought echoed through his mind:
According to the system's analysis, individuals who possess mystical abilities are collectively known as Wielders. The Stalker is a Chronicle of the First Order—a designation that functions similarly to a class or profession, much like those in the games from Silas's previous life. Each Chronicle grants specific skills through the process of sublimation, achieved by adhering to its unique oath.
Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.
The First Order represents the initial stage of wielding mystical power. When a person acquires a Chronicle at this level, they are recognized as a First Order Wielder, marking their first step toward becoming extraordinary. Sublimation not only unlocks new abilities but also enhances certain attributes aligned with the Chronicle's oath.
The oath serves as a guiding path, a conceptual framework unique to each Chronicle that directs the Wielder toward sublimation. Skills are not simply acquired—they are forged through the bond with the Chronicle and the commitment to its oath. At the First Order, a Wielder can undergo sublimation twice, each instance drawing them closer to the Chronicle's maturity.
Advancing beyond the First Order requires fulfilling specific, often obscure conditions. Only then can a Wielder ascend to the Second Order, where the Chronicle evolves to the next stage, abilities become more profound, and the challenges more formidable.
The source of these Chronicles lies beyond the physical world, originating from a higher-dimensional plane known as the Astral World. This mysterious realm coexists with reality, structured into layers that correspond to different Orders of Wielders, each layer resonating with the distinct power and complexity of its associated Chronicles. The deeper one ventures into the Astral layers, the rarer and more potent the Chronicles become—granting abilities that blur the lines between reality and the unknown.
But why was this knowledge not made public? Silas pondered this unsettling question, searching the page for more answers. The system provided a partial explanation: each sublimation carried inherent risks. What kind of risks? The document held no further clues.
Despite the lingering mystery, Silas felt deeply satisfied with his newfound system. It was a foundation, a tool to unlock the extraordinary. His next goal became clear: gather more information, expand his understanding, and ultimately ascend to become an extraordinary himself.
However, a new dilemma surfaced—where could he find such information? The parchment mentioned no sources, and the streets of Evergarde were shrouded in secrecy. Then, a new idea sparked in his mind. The system could analyze objects, extracting hidden details from mundane surfaces. What if it could do the same with people?
The analysis revealed a potential application: if the system could access the thoughts and experiences of individuals, it might uncover significant insights from their memories and accumulated knowledge. The process required proximity—within five meters—to initiate the data extraction.
Silas's heart quickened. If this worked, he wouldn't need ancient texts or dangerous rituals. He could walk through a crowd and uncover secrets whispered beneath breath and concealed behind masks. Power, knowledge, and survival—all within reach if he dared to test his theory. But the thrill of this discovery was quickly overshadowed by dread. What if the Wielders discover me? he thought, clenching his fists. What if they have abilities that can sense me? His breath grew shallow, and his mind raced with possibilities. The system provided no assurances about the limitations of other Chronicles.
I need to be careful, he resolved, forcing his heartbeat to slow. The exhilaration of newfound potential had blinded him momentarily. If the system's analysis could extract information from others, what stopped someone more experienced from doing the same to him?
Play it safe, Silas. Don't get reckless, he whispered to himself. Survival came first. Knowledge and power could follow.
The idea struck Silas like a spark in the darkness. What if I use the system more discreetly? If he could extract only the bare minimum of information—just enough to identify potential threats—without alerting the target, it might give him an edge in this dangerous, unfamiliar world.
His mind raced with the possibilities. The system’s capabilities had already surpassed his expectations; perhaps it could operate with subtlety as well. He initiated a feasibility analysis, sacrificing a few more points to test the concept. The response came swiftly, precise as always.
[Analysis Complete – Feasible with 0.2 p expenditure per scan.]
Silas's breath caught in his throat. For a negligible cost, the system could detect whether a person within a five-meter radius was a Wielder or a Mortal. The mechanism behind the scan was even more ingenious than he’d imagined: the signal would be dispersed from multiple directions, creating the illusion of randomness.
They won’t even realize they’ve been scanned.
His fingers tightened around the edge of the desk. The implications were staggering. He could walk through a crowd, stand beside someone in line, or pass by a stranger on the street and know, with near certainty, if they wielded mystical power. No rituals, no risky inquiries—just silent observation.
This world is filled with dangers I don’t understand. If I can’t fight them, I’ll at least see them coming.
For now, caution was his only ally. He would use the scan sparingly—just enough to stay safe. The system had given him the tools. How he wielded them would decide whether he thrived in this world or became just another nameless victim swallowed by the mist.
Night had fallen by the time Silas finally allowed himself to drift into sleep. The day's revelations—his newfound system, the horrifying creature at Sable Court, and the realization that he was entangled in something far larger than himself—still echoed in his mind. But beneath the tension, a flicker of confidence stirred. He had a plan now. A system. A path forward.
The next morning, pale, watery light seeped through the misty windowpane. Silas groaned, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The chill in the air bit through the thin blanket, urging him to move. He dressed quickly and shuffled into the kitchen, where he tore off a chunk of hardened bread and washed it down with lukewarm tea. As he rinsed the cup, his gaze fell on the chipped ceramic plate sitting on the counter. Clara’s plate.
He ran a hand through his hair. I forgot to return it. The thought stirred an awkward guilt. I’ll give it back this evening, tucking it into a corner of the shelf.
Time pressed on. He needed to get to the Gazette before Oswald Grint exploded with one of his infamous tirades. Grabbing his satchel, Silas hurriedly scribbled a rough report of the events from the previous night—just enough to satisfy his boss without revealing anything dangerous.
The streets of Evergarde were already bustling with life by the time he stepped outside. The air smelled of wet stone, coal smoke, and frying onions from a nearby street vendor. Steam hissed from overhead pipes, and distant factory horns blared their morning summons. Silas limped slightly, exaggerating the movement as he walked. The sprained-leg excuse would need to be convincing.
I need some coin out of that tightfisted bastard.
The Cogwheel Gazette stood exactly as he'd left it: a squat, crooked building squeezed between a pawnshop and a bakery. The sign overhead creaked on rusted hinges. Silas inhaled deeply, squared his shoulders, and stepped inside.
The familiar scent of ink and damp paper filled his nostrils. Across the cluttered room, Edric Grint sat hunched over his desk like a vulture guarding a carcass. His waistcoat strained against his girth, and his thin hair lay plastered to his scalp. The moment Silas crossed the threshold, Grint's bloodshot eyes snapped up.
"You're late," Grint barked. His voice was gravelly, like gears grinding over sand. "Again."
Silas winced, deepened his limp, and shuffled closer. "Sorry, sir. I... I almost died yesterday."
Grint snorted. "Died? You? You were probably napping in some alley while that beast tore through Sable Court."
"I was there, sir! The thing nearly got me." Silas clutched his leg with one hand, leaning heavily on the desk with the other. "Sprained my leg when I dove out of the way. Look." He gestured to his boots, scuffing the floor dramatically. "Hurts like hell."
Grint leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing. "Hmph. Sprained your leg, did you?"
"Yes, sir. Barely made it home." Silas lowered his voice, infusing it with just the right amount of desperation. "I… I need some money to see the apothecary."
Grint's laugh came out as a phlegmy wheeze. "Money? From me?" He jabbed a finger toward a ledger on the desk. "You think this paper runs on charity, boy? Ink’s expensive. Paper’s expensive. And runners like you? Cheap as dirt."
Silas bit the inside of his cheek. "Sir, I was doing your work. Reporting on the murder. I could’ve been torn apart like those poor bastards in that house."
Grint's eyes glinted with amusement. "That’s what makes it a good story, doesn't it? 'Runner Survives Encounter with Fogborn Beast.' Readers love a touch of near-death drama."
Silas's fists clenched at his sides. He won’t even part with a handful of coins. The man pinched every penny until it squealed.
"I just need a few gilds," Silas persisted, voice tight with false humility. "Just enough for some ointment. My leg won’t heal on its own."
Grint rubbed his stubbled chin, eyes calculating. "Fine. Two crow-gilds. No more. And you better have a report worth printing."
Silas forced a grateful smile. "Thank you, sir. You'll have the report today."
Grint grunted and slid two dull brass coins across the desk. Silas pocketed them and turned away, biting back the urge to throw one at his boss’s face.
Two crow-gilds. Enough for medicine. He limped toward the door, pulse still thrumming with frustration. But it'll do.
Behind him, Grint's voice rasped, "Make it good, Crowell. Blood sells, remember that."
Silas stepped into the street and exhaled slowly. Yeah, blood sells. Let's hope it isn't mine.
After finishing the report, Silas read it over one last time, ensuring it struck the right balance: vivid enough to satisfy Grint’s thirst for sensationalism, vague enough to keep the details to himself. With a sigh, he folded the pages and carried them back into the main office, where the smell of ink and damp wood lingered like a stubborn ghost.
Grint sat behind his desk, scratching figures into the ledger with a blunt-tipped pen. The brass buttons on his waistcoat strained dangerously with each shallow breath. His eyes flicked up as Silas approached.
"About time," Grint muttered. "Hope you didn't fill it with that literary crap you like to sneak in. People want blood, Crowell, not poetry."
"It's straightforward," Silas said, forcing a smile. "Lots of blood. Screaming. And the spider-dog thing." He placed the papers on the desk.
Grint grunted and snatched the report, squinting as he scanned the lines. Silas watched for a moment, then let his system trigger a discreet scan. The effort cost a mere 0.2 points, unnoticed amid the room’s ambient noise.
[Subject: Oswald Grint – Mortal. No Chronicle detected.]
Silas resisted a smirk. Of course. A Wielder wouldn’t pinch copper the way he does.
"Monster came from inside the house," Grint said, tapping the page with a stained finger. "Family slaughtered beforehand. Cult symbols. Sounds like the Umbral Veil's work."
"You know about them?" Silas asked, feigning ignorance.
"Been around longer than you, kid." Grint tossed the papers aside and leaned back, chair creaking in protest. "Those fanatics love rituals and carving up poor sods. You see their handiwork, you write about it. That's it. We don't dig deeper than that. Nightwatch doesn't like curiosity."
Silas swallowed. The memory of the officer with the thorned sword flickered through his mind. "Understood, sir."
"Good. Now, I need you to head to the Explorer's Union. Word is, a team just returned from the Fallen Lands. Go sniff out something worth printing. Monsters. Relics. Maybe some half-mad survivor who'll talk."
Silas paled. "The Union? They're… not fond of reporters."
Grint grinned. "Then don't act like one. Act like a curious kid. You're good at that."
Silas clenched his jaw but nodded. "I'll get it done."
"And keep limping," Grint said with a chuckle. "Might earn you some sympathy."
Silas turned away before his temper flared. The bell over the door jingled as he stepped outside, the thick fog wrapping around him like cold gauze. He adjusted his coat and limped toward Gearlock Square.
Silas turned into Brasslane Alley, the fog pressing against his skin like damp cotton. The two crow-gilds sat cold in his pocket—a hard-won prize from Grint. But the weight of those coins did little to ease the simmering tension in his chest. The city felt restless tonight. The mist swirled thicker than usual, muffling sounds and distorting shadows.
He walked faster.
A faint shuffle echoed behind him. Silas froze mid-step. His breath caught in his throat as he strained to listen. Another shuffle. Footsteps. Someone was following him.
His instincts screamed at him to stay calm. Act normal. He forced his shoulders to relax and turned the next corner, slipping into the narrow passage between a brick warehouse and a boarded-up tailor shop. The passage was short—a dead end with a rusted steam pipe hissing near the far wall. He pressed himself into the shadows beside the pipe and waited.
The footsteps followed.
Two figures emerged from the fog. The taller one held a wooden club, tapping it lightly against his palm. The shorter one clutched a curved knife. Their clothes were worn and dirty, faces hidden beneath threadbare scarves.
"Nice coat," the taller one said, voice low and raspy. "Hand it over."
Silas's heart raced. "I... I don’t want trouble," he said, raising his hands.
The man with the knife grinned beneath his scarf. "Nobody does." He gestured with the blade. "Coat. Coins. Now."
Silas’s mind raced. He couldn't fight them—he had no training and nothing more than a penknife. But the steam pipe… The valve was cracked, hissing faintly. If he could open it fully—
He took a slow step back, pretending to reach for his coat buttons. His fingers found the valve handle.
The taller thug sneered. "Hurry it up, kid, or we'll take a finger as interest."
Silas turned the valve sharply. The pipe groaned. A jet of scalding steam hissed outward, hitting the taller man's arm. The thug screamed and staggered back, dropping his club. The second man lunged at Silas, slashing wildly. The blade grazed Silas’s forearm, burning with sharp pain.
Silas kicked at the man's knee and bolted past them, heart pounding. He tore through the maze of alleys, the fog blurring his vision. He didn't stop running until he reached the main street near the Explorer’s Union. His lungs burned as he leaned against a lamppost, clutching his bleeding arm.
The coins were still in his pocket.
He staggered into a narrow side alley, his breath sharp and uneven. The wound on his arm pulsed with each heartbeat, warmth trickling beneath his sleeve. He pressed his back against a cold brick wall and forced himself to focus.
The Explorer's Union. Can't show blood. Can't invite questions.
His eyes fluttered shut as he summoned the familiar mental shift into his consciousness space. The world dimmed, the alley's sounds muffled as the system interface manifested in his mind's eye.
[Wound detected: Shallow laceration, left forearm. Bleeding rate: moderate. Infection risk: 14%.]
[Recommended action: Apply external pressure and seek medical assistance.]
Silas clenched his jaw. That's not good enough.
"System," he whispered, voice shaky. "Can...can I use Phenomena Points to fix it?"
The interface flickered, as though uncertain.
[Experimental protocol: Localized tissue regeneration. Cost: 500 P points.]
Silas hesitated. Five hundred points—a substantial sum, especially for something so mundane. But exposing the wound to the Union posed a greater risk.
"Do it," he said through gritted teeth.
The air around him seemed to thrum, though the alley remained still. His arm tingled, the sensation crawling from the wound inward, like threads weaving through flesh. Pain spiked, sharp and electric, as the Phenomena Strands bent reality to accelerate the body's natural regeneration.
The system displayed a fragmented diagram of his arm: shimmering, translucent lines overlaying his muscles and veins. The strands moved like invisible puppeteers, bypassing the usual biological timeline to manifest the end result—sealed skin.
The pain peaked, and then, abruptly, ceased.
[Tissue regeneration complete. 500 P points consumed.]
Silas exhaled shakily and peeled back his sleeve. The cut was gone, replaced by raw, pink skin. It felt tender but intact.
He flexed his fingers. A faint tug accompanied the motion, but no blood seeped through. His heart raced—not from fear, but from the profound, eerie sensation of having rewritten reality.
He wiped his hand on his trousers, adjusted his coat, and stepped back into the fog-shrouded street.
Power. The thought surfaced, unbidden. This is the edge I've needed.
But beneath the thrill, a colder, more practical thought followed: No one can know about the system.
With renewed caution, he made his way toward the Explorer's Union, arm healed but mind unsettled by the fragile, invisible threads of cause and effect he had just manipulated for the first time.