The world reeked of copper and decay.

Silas Crowell woke with a violent cough, the taste of dust and something metallic coating his tongue. His body ached as though he'd been wrung dry, and the cold stone floor beneath him pressed like ice against his skin. He squinted into the dim, flickering glow of candlelight. Shadows danced across the walls, revealing grotesque shapes etched in dried blood.

He was lying in the center of a ritualistic diagram—intricate symbols drawn with precision, surrounded by the severed limbs of small animals. The air was thick with the stench of death and burning tallow. His breath quickened as panic clawed at his chest.

Where am I? The thought cracked through the haze of his mind. He pressed a trembling hand to his forehead—and then came the pain.

A sharp, searing agony exploded behind his eyes. Memories flooded his mind, crashing into him like a collapsing dam. His name: Silas Crowell. Sixteen years old. An orphan. Parents gone, dead for reasons he could never uncover. The struggle of survival in Evergarde's Outer City. Days spent as a runner for The Cogwheel Gazette, exploited by a boss who saw him as cheap labor. Nights spent nursing a forbidden dream—to become an explorer, one of the mystical wanderers who ventured beyond the walls into the Fallen Lands.

And then came the most recent memory: crouching in an alley, watching from the shadows as the hooded figures of a cult faced the armored Nightwatch. A clash of whispered incantations and crackling rifles. The ground trembled as something shifted in the fog. And then—

The page.

His hand shot to his coat pocket. His fingers found the brittle, crumpled scrap of parchment. He pulled it out, unfolding it beneath the candlelight. Lines of ancient script twisted across the page, along with a sketch of the very diagram he had awoken in. The ink shimmered unnaturally in the dimness.

What have I done? Panic surged again. The original Silas had taken the page to study it, hoping to unlock powers whispered about in the city's darkest corners. He never intended to pay for that curiosity with his life.

A sharp knock shattered the silence.

Silas froze. The sound came from the basement door at the top of the stairs.

The Nightwatch. His heart raced. They must have tracked the ritual. His eyes darted to the blood-streaked floor. I need to erase it.

He scrambled to the nearest candle and tipped it, spilling wax over the symbols. The blood resisted, the lines refusing to blur as though seared into the stone. The knocking came again—louder this time.

Silas's hands trembled. He smeared the diagram with his sleeve, the fabric soaking in crimson streaks. The third knock came with the force of a fist.

Think. Think! He forced himself to his feet, every muscle protesting. He wiped his bloodied hands on his trousers and staggered toward the door.

The handle rattled.

He inhaled, steadied his voice, and opened it.

A girl stood there, backlit by the dim, grayish glow from the street. Dark curls framed her pale face, cascading down in unruly waves that caught the faint shimmer of lanternlight. Her brown eyes, wide and alert, reflected a curiosity laced with caution. A small scar curved along her left eyebrow, a faint mark from a childhood fall. Freckles dotted her nose, softened by the cool, mist-laden air. She wore a faded wool shawl draped tightly around her shoulders, the fabric worn thin from years of use. The faint scent of lavender clung to her—a rare touch of warmth in the otherwise cold, metallic air. Her lips parted slightly as though she were about to speak, but uncertainty held her back.

"Clara," Silas whispered, exhaling a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly. "You look... different," she said, voice hesitant but laced with genuine concern.

She tilted her head, brows furrowed. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

He forced a laugh that sounded hollow in his own ears. "Just...fell asleep down here. Got spooked."

Her gaze shifted past him to the dim basement. "It smells weird."

"Yeah," he said quickly. "Mold. Lots of damp." He shifted his stance to block her view. "What's that?"

She held up a chipped ceramic plate covered with a cloth. "My mum sent this. Said you're always skipping meals."

The aroma of roasted turnips and stale bread wafted toward him. His stomach growled. "Thanks," he said, taking the plate with one hand and gripping the doorframe with the other to hide his unsteady legs. "Tell her I appreciate it."

Clara hesitated. "You sure you're okay?"

"Yeah. Just tired." He forced a smile. "I'll be fine."

"If you say so." She gave him one last, uncertain look before turning away, her footsteps fading into the fog. Outside, the night lay shrouded in thick fog, with streetlights reduced to faint, flickering halos struggling to pierce the gloom. Clara lived next door, and Silas stood motionless, listening intently until he heard the soft thud of the adjacent door closing.

Only then did he shut his own door, pressing his forehead against the cold, weathered wood. His heart drummed against his ribs like a war drum, each beat a reminder of the danger he had narrowly escaped. With a shaky breath, he turned and descended the creaking steps to the basement.

The ritual site awaited him, unchanged yet oppressive.

He rubbed his temples. He wasn't just dizzy or disoriented. He felt different. As though he'd been torn from one world and stitched into another.

He needed to erase every trace. Wax pooled over some symbols, but the lines beneath remained vivid, as if etched into the stone itself. He found a rag and scrubbed harder. The dried blood flaked away in patches, though faint impressions lingered.

As he worked, fragments of memory floated through his mind—images of Evergarde's sprawling, fog-choked streets. The city was a fortress against the cursed Fallen Lands, divided by towering walls into two distinct worlds. The Inner City was a realm of marble towers and polished brass, home to nobles and scholars who never knew hunger. The Outer City, where he lived, was a maze of narrow alleys, crowded tenements, and smoke-belching factories. Here, soot clung to skin like a second layer.

Beyond the towering walls stretched the Fallen Lands—an endless, forsaken wilderness shrouded in eternal mist. The air there was said to be thick with corruption, where twisted, 

ravenous creatures prowled without rest. Few dared to venture into that cursed expanse, and fewer still lived to tell the tale.

The original Silas had come across fleeting mentions of other cities hidden somewhere within the fog—distant, shadowy enclaves lost to time. But those were just rumors, faint whispers buried beneath layers of uncertainty and fear. Nothing more.

The candlelight dimmed as his mind drifted. His old world had been nothing like this. He remembered cities bathed in sunlight, glass towers, and glowing screens. How had he come here? The ritual? The parchment page?

Why me?

He knelt beside the diagram, tracing its outer edge with one finger. The symbols meant nothing to him, but the metallic tang of blood stirred unease in his gut. But there were no answers here. Only the cold stone and his trembling hands.

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Silas slumped against the wall. I've been given a second chance. His old life was gone, but his memories remained.

He exhaled slowly. "I'm alive," he whispered. "That's enough for now."

Exhausted, Silas trudged toward his bedroom. The wooden stairs groaned beneath his steps, each creak echoing like a weary sigh through the modest home. As he reached the ground floor, he passed the cramped kitchen—a narrow space with a soot-streaked hearth, where a rusted iron kettle rested on a crooked hook. The wooden counter bore knife marks and stains from years of meager meals. A single cupboard, its door slightly ajar, revealed chipped ceramic plates and mismatched utensils. The faint aroma of stale bread and boiled turnips lingered in the cool air.

His room was tucked beneath the slanted roof, a drafty, dim retreat from the world outside. The walls were warped with damp, the plaster cracked and discolored from constant moisture. A narrow window, smudged with grime, overlooked the alley where the fog coiled like a living thing. Beside his straw-stuffed mattress stood a rickety desk cluttered with ink-stained papers, a chipped lantern, and a dull penknife. In the corner, an old wooden chest sat partially open, revealing threadbare clothes and a pair of worn boots.

He collapsed onto the mattress, the coarse fabric itching against his skin. The scent of mildew mingled with the faint, metallic tang still clinging to his clothes—a reminder of the ritual and the mystery now entwined with his life. The distant groan of factory gears hummed through the walls as sleep finally claimed him.

Suddenly, he felt something unusual, a pull within himself. Opening his eyes he focused on the feeling, he envisioned himself floating in a void where a white ball of light hovered in front of him. He reached out to touch it, and a strand emerged from the ball, stretching toward him. When he made contact, he experienced a voice “phenomenon” — a sense of understanding washed over him, revealing the concept of "cause and effect." This was the source of the ball’s power. Four strands twisted together to form it, though they were gradually dissipating. Silas realized that this power was somehow obtained by him during his transmigration, but it would soon dissipate unless he solidified a purpose for it. This will and must be his source of hope in this cursed world.

After a moment of thought, he tried to use one strand to create something to hold the others, but it didn’t work. Thinking harder, he considered his options, ultimately deciding to use about five percent of one strand to gain insight into this mysterious void and understand what was happening. The knowledge he gained clarified that he was within his "consciousness space"—a realm created by the shattering of the original soul and resulting in this unique effect. Now, as the controller of this space, Silas could manipulate it freely.

This space contained not only his memories but also the memories of the original Silas Crowell. Through these memories, he learned that the strand could bypass the cause and directly manifest the effect. It couldn't create something out of nothing but could materialize something from a plausible source. With this knowledge, he decided to use a portion of the strand to bolster his soul. He would then use this enhanced part of his soul to form a protective armor wrapping his soul in it, which would shield him from dissipation upon death and grant him complete control over his consciousness space. Additionally, it would allow him to "parasite" into other people if his current body perished, enabling him to possess them as a last resort. Although he was cautious about using the strand on his soul directly, he felt that this plan would give him some security.

After using another few portion of the strand to confirm the safety of his idea, he learned that it would require ninety percent of the first strand to complete it. He proceeded, falling into a trance as the process unfolded. Upon regaining awareness, he confirmed that the effect had succeeded. Using the remaining portion of the first strand, he refined the armor’s form and ensured it could only be used by him. Satisfied, he turned his attention to the second strand, using seventy-five percent of it to create a middleware within the armor, to manipulate and store the remaining strands of phenomena. This measure would prevent them from dissipating. Finally, he returned from his consciousness space, now able to control the armor and his soul, even outside of this mental realm.

The next morning, Silas woke to the pale, muted light filtering through the fog-smeared window. The chill in the air gnawed at his bones, and the events of the previous night lingered in his mind like a shadow. He rubbed his eyes and sat up, the straw mattress crackling beneath him.

The basement… the ritual… the cult… The thoughts coiled tighter as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. I need to clean it. No mistakes. No traces.

He stood, stretching his stiff limbs, and shuffled toward the kitchen. The hearth was cold, and the iron kettle sat untouched. He lit the fire with practiced hands, feeding it slivers of kindling until the flames crackled to life. He poured water into the kettle and set it to boil, then tore a stale loaf of bread in half. Spreading a thin layer of butter—rancid at the edges—on the bread, he chewed slowly, his mind already organizing the day ahead.

First, meet Grint. He’ll want something sensational. Blood always sells. His jaw tightened. Then the cleaning supplies… can’t risk leaving the symbols visible.

As the water boiled, he steeped a single tea bag, the bitter aroma mixing with the faint scent of damp plaster. He drank quickly, wincing as the scalding liquid burned his throat.

He returned to his room and dressed in a gray wool shirt, its elbows patched with mismatched fabric. He laced up his worn boots and pulled on his threadbare overcoat—the lining was frayed, but it concealed the parchment safely tucked into the inner pocket. His fingers lingered there, feeling the brittle texture beneath the fabric.

This page changed everything. I just need more information.

Standing before the cracked mirror, he adjusted the collar of his coat and stared at his reflection. His eyes were sunken, his skin pale. He exhaled sharply and ran a hand through his hair.

You’re Silas Crowell. Runner for the Gazette. Just another face in the crowd. Act normal.

With a final, steadying breath, he left the house, locking the door behind him. The fog outside was thicker than usual, muffling the clang of distant factory bells. His boots tapped against the cobblestones as he walked, the cold air stinging his cheeks.

The language was strange, its cadence sharp and unfamiliar. Yet, to Silas, it felt instinctively familiar.

The memories... he realized. The influx of thoughts and recollections from this new life had brought more than just a name. Embedded within were the words, the phrases, the entire linguistic framework of this world. He understood the signs, the conversations, even the subtle inflections that hinted at deception or urgency.

“At least I won’t be lost in translation,” Silas thought, stepping into the mist with cautious confidence.

Meet Grint. Get the supplies. Study the parchment. One step at a time.

His hand brushed against the coins in his pocket. Evergarde's currency consisted of gilds, stamped brass tokens marked with the crest of a crow for ones, a gear for fives, and a tower for tens. He had three crow-gilds, just enough for cleaning supplies if he haggled well.

He navigated through the mist-choked streets of the Outer City, every detail sharper than he remembered. The cobblestones were slick with soot, the air thick with the acrid tang of burning coal. Factories loomed on either side, their brass chimneys vomiting plumes of steam into the endless fog. Silas's footsteps echoed against crumbling brick walls adorned with faded posters warning of the dangers of the Fallen Lands.

In the far distance, beyond the tangled maze of rooftops and smoke-stained spires, rose the colossal walls of the Inner City. They loomed like a fortress of privilege, their smooth, pale stone untouched by soot or grime. The walls stood as silent sentinels, overlooking everything below—a constant reminder of the vast divide between the nobles' world of security and the relentless struggle of the Outer City. Gas lamps flickered along the parapets, casting faint, golden halos through the haze. From here, the spires of the Silvermoon Cathedral pierced the sky like jagged thorns, ever-present, ever-watchful.

Turning his gaze the other way, Silas saw another wall in the distance—darker, rougher, more foreboding. The Outer Wall, as it was called, marked the end of the city's domain and the beginning of the unknown. Built from slabs of reinforced ironstone, it stretched endlessly into the fog, crowned with rotating watchlights that sliced through the gloom in slow, mechanical arcs. Beyond that barrier lay the Fallen Lands, an expanse of corrupted wilderness where monsters prowled and nightmares took shape in the mist.

The sight of the Outer Wall sent a chill through Silas. It felt less like a barrier for protection and more like a scar—a desperate, man-made boundary separating fragile civilization from the chaos beyond. The air seemed colder here, and the distant hum of the Nightwatch's patrol engines resonated through the ground like a low growl.

He tightened his grip on his coat and quickened his pace. The city was vast, yet suffocating. Between the walls of power and the walls of fear, the Outer City felt like a forgotten prison yard where hope struggled to survive.

One day, Silas thought, his eyes lingering on the Inner City's pale walls. One day, I’ll cross those gates—not as a servant, but as someone who matters.

He crossed Gearlock Bridge, its iron frame slick with condensation, and descended into Smog Hollow—a district notorious for pickpockets and whispering black-market dealers. The Gazette's office stood at the corner of Brasslane Alley, wedged between a pawnshop and a distillery. The building's sign hung crookedly: The Cogwheel Gazette—Truth Through Industry.

Inside, the air was stifling. Stacks of yellowed paper leaned against the walls. The scent of ink and stale sweat clung to the wooden floorboards. Behind a battered oak desk sat Oswald Grint, the editor-in-chief—a man whose waistcoat strained against his bulging stomach. His face was ruddy, his eyes perpetually narrowed, as if suspecting everyone of stealing time or money.

"You're late, Crowell," Grint barked, his voice like grinding gears. "Again."

"Got caught in the fog," Silas said, wiping his palms on his trousers.

"Fog's always here," Grint sneered. "Try a better excuse next time. Now, quit wasting air. We've got a story—a family's been butchered in Sable Court. Go sniff around. Find something sensational. Blood sells." He jabbed a finger toward the door. "And don't come back empty-handed."

Silas nodded, pulse quickening. Sable Court. The same neighborhood where the original Silas had seen the cult few nights before. With a curt nod, he turned and left the office, the weight of the assignment settling like ice in his chest.