Chapter 1+2 - Observation & Subjectivity
Someone was following him.
No matter the time of the day, whether he was surrounded by a bustling crowd out in the boroughs, or alone in his lodging at night, someone was watching him, observing all his actions. Somewhere very close, yet just out of sight.
If Vern had to trace back this odd feeling, it started right after he got off the train and set foot in the city three days ago. But why would anyone care about his visit to Elmhurst? Hundreds of researchers and more than a couple Savants like him gathered here from all over the empire every day for the upcoming annual conference at the Symposium.
He had yet to do his duty as a civilian and involve the Kingsmen but he didn't have any solid evidence to back up his claims, and being locked away in some room under the name of protection wasn't his idea of a paid vacation.
Driven by the suspicion that maybe all the Savants were targets of this—surveillance, Vern had reached out to his colleagues, subtly enquiring about the matter in his letters. In response, they had either completely missed the hint or implicitly denied any such happenings.
Shaking his head, Vern cleared his mind and focused on navigating the streets. Now wasn't the time to reflect on his fruitless investigations. Elmhurst had its own charms that needed to be explored, like the famous toast at this coffeehouse by the cathedral. He wouldn't miss out on it, even if someone was fulfilling their voyeuristic tendencies at his expense.
The morning sun rose above the myriad towering spires, casting a golden glow over the shorter buildings that lined the street of this borough. The architecture of the buildings was grand and imposing, with intricate details and ornate facades complemented by high ceilings and grand entrances.
As the morning rush began, the streets quickly filled with people hurrying to their various destinations. Men in top hats and long coats made their way to offices and businesses, while women in proper dresses and bonnets hurried along the sidewalks on their way to shops or social calls. The droning of the steam carriages and calls of street vendors added to the bustle and noise of the city.
Despite the crowds, however, an air of formality and decorum permeated the scene, with people moving with a sense of purpose as they went about their lives.
Vern dressed to match the city's aesthetics in a crisp white shirt with a high collar, neatly tucked into his charcoal gray trousers tailored to fit. Draped over the shirt was an unbuttoned black single-breasted coat with about six pockets, its smooth fabric accentuating his lean figure. To rid himself of monochrome tones, he also had a golden chain that extended from the button of his shirt to a pocket watch resting in his trousers.
Blending right into the crowd, he advanced towards his noble objective, turning onto Carmen St.—and he felt it. Swiveling to the left, he looked straight at the window on the second floor of a house across the street.
Something shuffled in the dim ambiance of the room, before the blinds clamped shut and he stood there, staring at the now-closed window, blocking the people behind him on the walkway.
Feeling a little cold, he buttoned his coat and exited the scene with quick strides. Having made some distance from the place, he pulled out his notebook and pencil from the pockets and made another entry in the long list of his suspected sightings. Details about all the times he had been able to notice the stares.
They weren’t much to go on, and were as vague as this encounter, occurrences he would generally pass off as mere coincidence if they didn't happen so damn often. A simple count of entries spoke of a trend. The unwelcome trackers were either getting bolder by the day, or he had gotten better at noticing them.
But, well, the cathedral was right around the corner, and his deductions could wait until he had something in his stomach. Not like this was the first time it had happened to him anyway.
Weaving through the crowd, he got closer to the aroma of freshly baked bread that wafted from all around, and that's when he saw it. Another one in such a short interval!
Visible in the mirror of a store—about a few paces behind him, someone was looking straight at him, barely visible in the sea of heads and hats.
A chance!
He had never been able to notice one of them so close to himself, and there was no way he was going to miss this opportunity. Vern maneuvered in the crowd to mask himself from the line of sight of his supposed stalker, and, in but a few steps, slipped into an alleyway.
This alleyway, like most others, was just a backstreet that cut across two parallel ones. Keeping a clear vision of the flowing crowd, he pedaled backward. It was a chance to get a good look at his perpetrator and finally involve the Kingsmen with solid evidence.
A few seconds passed in wild anticipation as the throng of people just moved forward without the man crossing by the small opening. Until he did, and moved right past the entrance, drowning in the horde of people. Not very perceptive, are we?
It was a thin man with a pale face wearing shabby clothes that were too big for him. There was a fair share of destitute beggars in the city, and nothing about him struck Vern as odd. But whatever the case, he was sure that someone had his eyes glued on him ever since he left his place, and this guy was probably it.
If not a confrontation, Vern could always have a better day with one less creep eyeing him. Hell, even better, he could circle around and stalk the stalker from a little distance to give them a taste of their own medicine while confirming his suspicions.
It wasn't every day you got to play with fire while having insurance to not die in a random ditch. Elmhurst was one safe haven during the conference month and likely the reason he had yet to faint from his nerves at this whole ordeal.
In every borough he'd been to, kingsmen dotted the roofs, staring down like executioners with their gleaming gear and sharp eyes. Just yesterday, from his very own room's balcony, he saw one of these punishers swoop down with their rope caster and sever the arm of some trigger-happy individual in the blink of an eye. Efficient and accurate.
Shaping up the exact details of his spontaneous plan, he turned around with a grin—and instantly froze up. A towering figure stood right in front of him, draped in black from head to toe. The top hat's brim obscured the stranger's forehead while a mask that covered all of his face, including the eyes, hid his countenance.
Vern backed up a little and looked the figure straight in its eyes. Wow, I fucked up. Did they get mad that I escaped them for a second? They have never confronted me like this. What changed?
"I've got a whole crew on my back, eh?" asked Vern without delay in a calm tone while his heart was anything but that, drumming like crazy. "Care to shed some light on why I'm so popular?" he followed up, making sure his voice didn't waver.
No way they will attack me in broad daylight with hundreds of people just a few steps away. Should I shout for help?
He bit down hard and suppressed his impulsiveness as he waited for an answer. There must be a reason for this. They've had far better opportunities than this to get rid of him quietly.
A few seconds passed by before the figure moved, and Vern watched his movements with rapt attention, ready to retreat at a moment's notice.
The person in black pulled out a paper from their pocket and shoved it onto Vern's chest before turning around and walking away at a brisk pace.
Vern was dumbfounded but wasn't ready to let the man go just yet. He stored the paper in his pocket and chased after the figure, shouting, "At least tell me who you work for."
The figure exited the alley without a response and made for the right. Vern pursued posthaste, and when his vision opened up to the bright street outside, a somewhat crowded walkway greeted him, with no signs of the figure in black.
Scary bastards!
It was frustrating, to say the least. All he had to do was shout that this man was a thief, and someone on the street would have gladly played the hero.
But doing so ran the risk of harming his relations with their organization. And there was no guarantee that the figure would divulge anything useful even if he managed to stop them. His unwanted observers had finally initiated an interaction after three days, and he didn't want to burn the bridges without understanding their angle on the situation.
Vern went around the back of the cathedral to Carmen St., then sauntered to his original destination. Entering the coffeehouse, he beelined to a corner table and ordered the toast he was so eager to try not so long ago. Without further ado, he retrieved the paper and scanned its contents with a frown.
'CLC-307-23. Mayst thou accept the gracious gift of eyes, ere the hour of reckoning befall thee. ~Yharl Ballin'
Vern knew a library book identification number when he saw one. It was simply the author's initials, section, and shelf number, but the message and name after that? Yeah, he had no clue.
What is this? A team of highly coordinated specialists monitored me twenty-four seven, all in an elaborate plan to scare me and deliver this threat? Gift? Is this their version of a stick and a carrot? If I don't get this 'gift of eyes' within some time, 'reckoning' will befall me?
As in, they will simply kill me if I don't comply and accept this gift? He had somehow managed to underestimate and overestimate the severity of this situation at the same time.
After a few minutes, a waiter dropped his plate of baked bread straight from the oven, lightly toasted to golden brown with butter melting over them in excess as fragrant steam rose from the plate. Vern took off his black gauntlet gloves and made quick work of the toasts.
Having sated his appetite, he took out his notepad and added the key points of the latest development to his entries. It helped him get his mental gears grinding.
The motivation of his invasive followers was still unclear, but involving Kingsmen right away didn't seem like the smartest idea. He had already reduced the possibility of his murder being their motive to under ten percent. They wanted something from him, and if reading a book could help him make an informed decision, he wasn't averse to the idea.
What if they were some invasive assholes that ruined the start of his vacation? If the scale of balance between benefit and comfort was tipped towards the benefit, he wouldn't mind entertaining their proposal.
However, he wouldn't work on something illegal. He already had a clear path to success with his apprenticeship and was on the cusp of plucking the fruits of his labor.
That aside, the amount of information he had gathered in three days was pathetic, and little could be concluded from it. He did have a clear course of action, though. I can check out the book today, but for the name, I will have to ask around or send an inquiry to Master. I can't involve Ari in this affair, after all.
However, the message had quite a peculiar word choice, suggesting that reading this book will give him a gift of eyes. As in opening his eyes to something significant? Vern had a hard time believing that.
As one of the youngest Savants recognized by the Coven for his significant contributions towards the advancement of civilization, there was little that could shake him anymore. But knowledge was not to be denied, and his stalkers deserved a benefit of the doubt for all their effort.
A long day in the library sounded tempting regardless, and he didn't have much else to do before the conference other than touring around the city anyway.
His next steps planned, Vern didn't dally any further, paid his well-spent three crowns, and left the establishment. There wasn't much contest as to where this book was located.
Elmhurst had a library to which one shouldn't miss paying a visit, even if they didn't fancy books. Just its beauty and architecture were praised by many as a symbol of the coven's superior aesthetics. Not that Vern cared much about that himself.
Eleonora's archive was one of the grandest in the whole empire, and Vern was looking for excuses to go there regardless.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
He retrieved a city map from another of his coat's pockets and planned a route to the archive. Looking at it, he'd need to do a lot of walking in rush hour and get directions from locals multiple times to get there. Or I could just get a carriage.
Vern stood at the sidewalk's edge and raised his arm, making eye contact with all the drivers passing by. His hand got sore in no time, and before he got bored enough to bring out and continue reading the analysis of this state-of-the-art force multiplication gearbox he'd been fascinated with—a hissing sound intensified and died down with a sputter as a carriage stopped by.
"Where to, good sir?"
"To Eleonora's archive, please."
"I can drop you by the bridge across the scholar's place if that's okay with you. It's just a few minutes walk from there. You see, I can't cross the bridge without paying a full day's toll." Said the scrawny yet well-dressed man with an obsequious smile.
"Sure. How much is the ride?"
"Three crowns, eight pence. The usual for this distance."
Vern just nodded and boarded the carriage, settling on the corner across from an elderly couple. In but a few seconds, the scenery outside the windows started receding, changing from packed streets to broader roads, passing by what seemed to look like a crafts market, then onto narrower roads with housing squares, and at last, one of those bridges that the city was so famous for.
This one, just like the others he'd seen before, was a feat of engineering. A myriad of thin cables ran above, and massive pillars taller than the thirty-meter gorge stood underneath. The whole thing was somehow wide enough to have four carriages pass side by side from one bank to the other, more spacious than most streets.
Vern still felt awed every time he saw one of these. It wasn't that these bridges had cutting-edge technology or something, but due to the fact that they were built about seven hundred years ago.
Why did he know this? Because anyone who didn't know about Elmhurst's bridges might as well be living under a rock. Whatever these bridges were made of was strong. So strong, in fact, that even a team of Chaos fundamentalists failed to scrape more than a handful of dust from the bridge.
The vista outside the window ceased to retreat as the carriage screeched to a halt. He deboarded without much elegance and shelled out four crowns. Handing them to the driver with a nod, he turned around and walked across the metallic relic toward the archive.
Fancy balustrades carved in the sights of old gods lined the railings, and queer symbols ran along the wires, stretching all the way to the top if he saw correctly. Vern took out his notepad and started penning down these oddities like any other enthusiastic citizen.
Once the patterns began repeating themselves, he got bored of them and asked himself the real question. Was someone still following him? He didn't know.
Due to the habit he had developed over the last three days, Vern had been glancing back every so often, but had yet to register those dark shadows lurking around.
Not like he was always able to notice them, and more often than not, it was just his paranoia and hypersensitivity scaring him of dark shadows, which this city had an abundance of, for some reason.
Also, there was no way they got left behind in the dust from a simple carriage ride. He had quite a few of those since he arrived in the city, yet he never managed to really lose them.
However, this whole chain of events was too perplexing. Did they really just mean to deliver this note to me? Why wait three days? Did they have some condition set for delivery? Based on some performance metric for which they monitored me?
How hard could it have been to set up a meeting and talk like refined gentlemen? Even interviewing him was on the table if they wanted to test him or something. He'd have agreed in exchange for some compensation anyway.
But there's got to be more than what meets the eye. It wouldn't do me any good to underestimate this situation any longer. He did not have the information needed to understand their perspective nor why they were doing all this. So, for now, he would take it a step at a time and handle things as they came.
Then, before he fell into another cycle of recursive thoughts, the grand archive was already upon him.
As grand as the largest cathedral he'd seen, the library spanned what seemed to be a whole residential block by itself. Its steep-pitched roof that towered high above was studded with spires, each reaching for the sky. Complex corbellings jutted out of the structure's intricate brickwork decorated by arched windows and numerous balconies.
Purple hue radiated out of the said windows and terrace, most likely emitted by the flameless lighting, the recent invention of Sterling Rupert, already ubiquitous in most rich establishments.
Hopefully, he will clarify the technicalities of his subpar paper on cyclical condensation during his lecture at the conference. We could have had so many derivations in the market if only they understood whatever the hell he's on about in the paper.
Vern's steps grew quicker, halting at the entrance. Five Kingsmen stood guard—two women and three men, their gear shimmering in the sunlight. Doing his best to form an amiable smile, Vern unhooked the coven badge from the pocket watch's chain and passed it over to the only one with an emblem of hourglass etched on his uniform.
The man scrutinized the badge with the same symbol as his own and spoke after a bit, "This is good. However, before you go in, and excuse me for asking, but do you happen to have anything highly flammable on your person? If so, I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to deposit it here for safekeeping until you're ready to leave. Hiding or smuggling any such materials is strictly prohibited under the coven's laws and could result in heavy penalties."
Knowing this was the procedure of any and all of the coven's libraries, Vern just shook his head and retrieved all the items from the myriad pockets of his coat and spread them out on the table by the representative. "Nothing of the sort. Please feel free to shake me down."
The coven's representative motioned towards Vern, and one of the Kingsmen grunted before giving Vern a thorough pat down. With a nod, he returned to his position, and the representative gave his emblem back, waving him in.
Vern latched his emblem back on, shoved all his belongings back to their respective dwellings, and walked by a narrow corridor alongside a few clerks before his sight opened to a vast reading hall.
Rows upon rows of shelves lined the colossal hall, each stacked with literary promises to another world or a voyage to a time bygone. A throng of scholars drifted around in their institute's uniforms, their heads glued to the graying books in a numbing silence disturbed only by the clock's ticking.
Chandeliers adorned the sections with a ceiling, while every pillar was studded with tiny circular chunks of glass that reflected the omnipresent lavender radiance. Murals of Lennian Scholars dyed the pristine white walls portraying their major inventions in gorgeous strokes.
On the ceiling hung small spherical flameless lanterns, suffusing the environment with their rich amethyst glow. Another wonder derived from some obscure Lennian fundamentals by Rupert. Two small compartments were conjoined together in a wondrous connection that somehow emitted this beautiful light.
It's pretty and all, but purple light isn't really the best for reading. Though it's quite bright and probably better than not reading past sundown or burning the library while doing so.
Vern squinted at the little devilish contraptions. He had inquired about purchasing them in all kinds of places with nothing to show for it. Petitioning to buy one from the library's management was an option he considered, but the queue of petitions was already a few months long. So, he can always borrow one, right? No doubt he would reassemble it and return it to its rightful place. Yeah, I should grab one from somewhere less crowded.
Making up his mind on that front, Vern approached a clerk and asked for directions to section 307 in a hushed tone. According to the clerk, section 307, being on the second floor instead of the third, made perfect sense. Shaking his head, he made his way over to one of the staircases and climbed the spiral to the second floor.
This floor seemed like a sprawling maze, packed with more shelves than scholars. Another set of Lennian murals dyed the walls in crimson strokes. Its arches and pillars were adorned with the same flameless spherical lanterns and mirrors, their glow overshadowed by the blazing sun pouring in from the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Vern skipped past many aisles to zero in on this section 307, his steps quick and a little haphazard. It'd be a lie to say that all the events hadn't fazed him.
Getting chased around by shadowy figures for no apparent reason had done more than a number on his mental state. It was one thing to not feel threatened because of the city's measures, but another to be in a situation where he had no control over the outcome.
He was playing right into the hands of the perpetrator by reading this book. Pursuing this might get him some answers, but it might mean getting further embroiled in whatever his stalkers or this Yharl Ballin was cooking up.
Passing another section, he finally reached 307. Just another set of big old shelves that were arranged in ascending order. So getting to shelf 23 wasn't an ordeal. Loaded with thick tomes, the shelf seemed dedicated to older books with a knack for more pages and poor binding.
Finding no interesting titles at a glance, he did another sweep of the shelf, focusing on author's names on spines, and found the culprit in no time, a thin one in this thick bunch. 'Observation record of Subjectivity by Cyrus L. Cartwright,' retrieving it without hesitation, Vern found himself a quiet table in a corner by a floor-to-ceiling window and settled down.
It looked ancient, bound in a faded leather jacket with decrepit and yellowing pages, but an intricate embossing, barely visible, was etched into its surface. Vern flipped open the book and was greeted by the distinct scent of old parchment and ink alongside a peculiar introduction:
'The pursuit of objectivity is a necessary prerequisite to determine the facts about our cosmos. However, the acquisition of these facts is dependent upon the act of observation, but to observe is to shade reality with one's perception, thereby rendering the concept of objectivity somewhat elusive.
It is, therefore, pertinent to explore the question of what constitutes objectivity within the context of observation. This text, however, doesn't intend to ambitiously define objectivity but instead aims to enable one to perceive the subjectivity of reality. A path to enlightenment, to be regarded as a quantifiable entity, an observer.'
His brows furrowed as he read on and on. Intrigued, he zoned out the noise and immersed himself in the arcane words.
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Vern stood out on the terrace, his coat buttoned up all the way to combat the chill. A frown creased his brows as he held the worn book in his hand and leaned against the railing. A sprawling city encompassed his vision, multiple disjoint boroughs connected to each other via metal bridges. Bridges that spanned the meandering rivers which cut through the metropolis gave these tiny disparate landmasses a semblance of unity.
Six chimes reverberated throughout the city as the shorthand of the clock on the tallest tower in Fulham borough pointed straight down. An enormity, peeking through the shimmering rays of the setting sun, visible all the way here, three bridges away.
This was wrong. It just doesn't make any logical sense. Vern had gone over the book, and the fundamentalist within him couldn't seem to come to terms with the situation. He would have no doubt passed it off as mere fiction with great attention to detail if it wasn't for that diagram.
Information within wasn't just significant, as he'd hoped. It was borderline heretic if that could be a thing in the context of mechanical arts. It presented the idea of viewing reality through a unique perspective. At first glance, there was nothing remarkable about that, right? Everyone already had a unique viewpoint, after all. Wrong.
This was something deeper, more primal. It was about the laws that governed reality itself, and the idea was that one could see these very laws in their own unique interpretation as their subjective observer. This alone, if real, would send every fundamentalist on Prima into a maddening frenzy.
The ability to form new schools of thought, grounded in a core concept, would no doubt usher the whole civilization into a new era and bring about revolutionary changes. It was subversive to the point it made Vern contemplate existence. Lennian Fundamentals defined reality, but no one had ever found something like subjective observation in them.
The story, however, didn't end there. From reading between the lines and extrapolating from context, it was all but written in bold that it was possible to change the very laws of reality itself with subjective observers of one mind in enough quantity. Vern didn't even want to think of the disaster that could spell.
A simple thought experiment, however, was necessary despite his unease. Assuming there were enough subjective observers that decided to observe laws of gravity and concluded that it should only exert half of its current force.
Then the entire reality would be thrown into a state of low-gravity chaos. Buildings and infrastructures not built to withstand such conditions might crumble or float away, their foundational assumptions literally upended.
Objects would weigh half as much as they used to, disrupting a myriad of daily activities from the mundane act of walking to the critical task of cooking. Even more concerning, trees would struggle to draw water from the ground, birds would have to relearn flight, and the tides of the oceans would dramatically shift, possibly leading to a widespread ecological disaster.
The very atmosphere of Prima might start to escape into the ether due to the reduced gravitational pull, threatening all life as we know it. This and billions of other changes he couldn't even begin to fathom would come simply on the whims of some people.
The thought sent shivers down his spine, and his frown only grew deeper. The very act of touching this delicate balance of current laws could grind civilization to a halt in no time or even annihilate it completely. All this was bizarre enough as ideas, but what made him panic was the diagram he encountered a few pages into the book.
Ascension from a passive to a subjective observer didn't include some sacrificial ritual like one would expect. It was apparently as simple as comprehending the abstract diagram in the book. By all means, it was nothing more than a picture printed onto some textured paper, but looking at it was like hallucinating.
The intricate patterns moved and reformed on a piece of paper! Just this mechanical art of moving lines on a paper without an apparent energy source could pique the curiosity of all Lennian Fundamentalists. Though he doubted it worked like that.
What borderline made him consider visiting a psychiatrist was the nature of the diagram itself. If he focused hard enough, the lines would rearrange themselves into sentences that only got more concise as time passed by, becoming more rudimentary as links formed between them in some mesmerizing pattern. Vern had spent more than five hours straight gazing at differing variations of that diagram.
The final nail in the coffin that made him close the book for good was the fact that Vern felt something from within himself. A feeling of being on the verge of understanding and comprehension, perceiving that fleeting insight that would change everything, lingered in his mind.
And that is where Vern had to draw a line. A balanced and stable mindset was the key to long-term progression. This feeling of imminent comprehension was compulsive and made him anxious.
It was one thing to make an informed decision and receive 'Enlightenment' out of his own will, but completely another to be compelled by stalkers and a book to delve outside the realm of Lennian Fundamentals and possibly lose his head due to naive stupidity and haste.
The book didn't have specifics on the risks and after-effects that would follow this enlightenment, and Vern never made it a habit to gamble unless necessary.
If he had to generalize this idea of enlightenment from the given information, it was probably as simple as acknowledging and comprehending that the world around one can be 'subjective' and exist in a state of superposition, all the possibilities existing at the same time.
The diagram was simply a catalyst or example to guide the perception. But something was missing. If it was that simple, someone could post this paper in the city square and forcefully enlighten everyone that saw it. It would spread faster than a plague, and there was no way something with such a low entry barrier could have stayed under wraps for so long.
However, the book was too short. The diagram was only a few pages in, and everything else after that was just blank pages. Inferring from what he knew about observation, he even suspected that they weren't really blank, but he had to be a subjective observer to read them.
This would need proper consideration and auxiliary research before I—
His thoughts were cut short as two arms clasped around his chest from behind, passing on their warmth to his cold self.
"Big brother, please go to hell!" a feminine voice exclaimed in a hushed tone.