But Silas’s thoughts were elsewhere.
I need money.
The realization sat like a cold stone in his gut.
Working as a runner for the Gazette barely paid enough to survive, and while he had managed for now, it wouldn’t last. It was never meant to last. If he wanted to thrive in this city—no, if he wanted to survive long enough to grow stronger—he needed more.
The question was how.
His mind churned through the options, dissecting each possibility.
With Engraved Echo, he could create powerful items—reinforced weapons, enchanted tools, and artifacts that even low-level Wielders or desperate thugs would pay a fortune for.
But it was too dangerous.
If he started selling such items, it wouldn’t take long before the wrong people noticed.
The Nightwatch would track him down, interrogate him, and if they deemed his ability valuable, they wouldn’t just let him walk free. They would confine him, force him to engrave for them, strip away his freedom in the name of control.
And the nobles?
They would be worse.
To them, unique abilities were commodities, not rights. If they discovered what he could do, he wouldn’t be negotiating contracts. He’d be shackled, engraving at their whim until there was nothing left of him.
That thought alone was enough to send a cold shudder through his spine.
No. Absolutely not.
Even if he sold discreetly, all it would take was one wrong buyer, one unlucky slip, and his fate would be sealed.
If the items were too effective, too unique, people would start asking questions. Where did they come from? Who was making them? Rumors would spread, and someone—whether the Nightwatch, a noble, or a desperate Wielder—would eventually start tracking him down.
And once they found him, there would be no escape.
The night pressed in around Silas’s modest room, the only source of light a faint glow from the oil lantern sitting on the edge of his desk. Outside, the fog had thickened, swallowing the distant hum of factory bells and the murmurs of the Outer City’s restless streets.
Silas sat on his bed, his back against the creaking wooden frame, staring at the dimly flickering System interface in his mind.
He had just finished a modest meal—the same stale bread, dried meat, and lukewarm tea that had become routine. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.
His focus, however, was elsewhere.
Causal Points: 5,078
The number had grown throughout the day, accumulating from passive interactions, actions, and decisions—a slow but steady resource.
And tonight, he had a purpose for it.
If I’m going to steal, I need the right tools.
His current abilities were useful, but none were specifically designed for theft. Stealing wasn’t just about speed or brute force—it was about control, precision, deception.
For this, he wouldn’t settle for just abilities.
I need to extract full Chronicles. That way, I can comprehend, store and eventually synergize the abilities to get the whole chronicle when I unlock Codex Weaving.
Silas exhaled slowly, then issued the command.
"System, extract three 1st Order Chronicles related to stealing."
A soft pulse flickered through his mind as the System processed the request, consuming 3,000 causal points.
[Processing…]
[Extraction Complete.]
[Three 1st Order Chronicles acquired.]
Silas reviewed the abilities extracted by the System from Chronicle imprints in the 1st Layer, carefully deciding which one to comprehend.
Extracted Chronicles & Abilities
Thief Chronicle
- Quick Fingers – Enhances dexterity, allowing for swift, precise movements that make stealing undetectable.
- Shadow Step – Briefly suppresses footstep noise, making movement nearly silent for a few seconds.
Pickpocket Chronicle
- Sleight of Hand – Grants an instinctive understanding of how to manipulate objects discreetly, increasing theft success.
- Distraction Tactics – Creates minor visual or auditory illusions to divert attention for a moment.
Burglar Chronicle
- Silent Entry – Enhances lockpicking, allowing the wielder to bypass mechanical locks quickly and quietly.
- Cat’s Balance – Improves agility, allowing for silent landings and precise movements across rooftops or unstable surfaces.
Silas studied the extracted abilities, his mind methodically weighing each option against his current strengths and weaknesses. He needed skills that would complement what he already had—something practical, something efficient.
After a moment of careful deliberation, he made his choice.
Silent Entry and Cat’s Balance from the Burglar Chronicle… and Sleight of Hand from Pickpocket.
Lockpicking, agility, and precision.
One to slip through locked doors unseen.
One to move across unstable ground without a sound.
And one to take what wasn’t his without leaving a trace.
They fit together seamlessly—a perfect blend of subtlety and control.
Without hesitation, Silas activated the System’s comprehension function, consuming the rest of the points, committing to his path.
Sergeant Garrick Voss was many things, but above all, he was a man who knew how to take his share.
The streets of the Outer City were harsh, but for men like him—men who wore the Nightwatch coat and carried the weight of authority like a club—they were ripe with opportunity.
Tonight had been a good night.
His salary had come in, but that was the least of his earnings. The real wealth lay in the pockets of those too weak to fight back.
A few extra gilds slipped into his hands from the street hooligans he "overlooked."
A decent cut from the pickpockets who paid for protection.
And, of course, the bribes from merchants who didn’t want trouble.
By the time the evening mist had thickened over the streets, Garrick was in high spirits, the weight of coin-heavy pouches tucked beneath his coat a reminder that power in this city belonged to those who took it.
He was not a man of patience. He didn’t believe in waiting for things when he could simply take them.
And tonight, like many nights before, he had taken everything he wanted.
The small apartment reeked of sweat and cheap perfume, the scent clinging to the damp sheets as Garrick lounged on the rickety mattress, shirt unbuttoned, his boots still on. A bottle of half-drunk brandy rested on the nightstand, its contents sloshing from the rough way he had set it down.
Beside him, Annalise sat on the edge of the bed, her back to him, arms clutched tightly around herself. The dim lantern light cast long shadows over her figure, emphasizing the tense lines of her shoulders, the stiffness of her movements as she pulled the thin bedsheet around herself.
She was not here by choice.
But she was here nonetheless.
"You’re quiet tonight," Garrick muttered, taking another swig from the bottle before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His voice was thick with alcohol and satisfaction.
Annalise didn’t answer.
She was always like this after. Silent. Withdrawn.
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Like a dog that knows it’s been beaten too many times to fight back anymore.
Garrick smirked to himself.
"Still sulking about your husband?" he asked, his tone mocking as he reached over and ran a hand lazily down her bare back.
She flinched.
That reaction always amused him.
"You should be thanking me, you know," he continued, his fingers trailing over her skin like a spider weaving its web. "That bastard would’ve just dragged you into the gutter with him. Do you have any idea what happens to fools who cross the wrong people in this city?"
He leaned in, his breath hot against her neck.
"He’s rotting in a cell because he was stupid, Annalise. And you? You’re here. With me. Warm, well-fed, untouched by the filth of the streets."
Her hands clenched into fists against her lap, but she still said nothing.
Garrick let out a low chuckle.
"Ah, still pretending you’ve got some fight left in you," he mused. "But we both know how this works."
He grabbed her chin roughly, forcing her to face him.
"Don’t we?"
Her eyes burned with resentment, but there was no defiance left in them—only helplessness buried beneath layers of exhaustion.
She held his gaze for a long moment, then finally, with a slow, controlled breath, lowered her eyes.
"Yes," she whispered.
Garrick grinned. "Good girl."
Satisfied, he released her and leaned back against the headboard, reaching for his drink once more.
Outside, the city hummed with life, its smog-choked streets filled with people who thought they still had choices.
Idiots.
He took another swig, letting the warmth spread through his chest.
Tomorrow, he would go back to his life of power and indulgence.
Tomorrow, Annalise would return to her lonely apartment, knowing she’d have no choice but to come back when he summoned her again.
And that was just the way Garrick Voss liked it.
By the time he stumbled back home, the streets had emptied, leaving only the distant hum of the Nightwatch patrols and the occasional shout of a drunkard.
His boots thudded heavily against the wooden floor as he kicked the door shut behind him. His cramped apartment reeked of old tobacco, sweat, and stale ale, but Garrick barely noticed.
His first priority was always his money.
He walked over to the rickety dresser in the corner, pulling out a false-bottomed drawer. Beneath it, stacks of Crow Gilds, Gear Gilds, and even a few Tower Gilds gleamed under the faint lantern light.
With clumsy fingers, he counted the night’s earnings, muttering under his breath.
Still not enough. Never enough.
He shoved the coin pouches inside the hidden compartment, securing the false panel in place before dragging himself to bed.
His coat hit the floor, his belt landed on the chair, and soon, he collapsed onto his creaking mattress, exhaling a long, satisfied sigh.
Tomorrow would be another day of taking what he pleased.
But for now—for now, he slept.
What Garrik did not know was that a shadow was standing near him - wearing a hooded dark coat and dark wooden mask.
The streets of the Outer City had long since fallen into a restless silence, the fog swallowing the last traces of life as Evergarde slouched into the deep hours of the night.
But Silas Crowell was awake.
He moved without sound, his shadow blending into the alleys and crumbling brick walls, his presence no different from the damp air that clung to the city like a second skin.
His gaze was fixed ahead, expression unreadable, every movement slow and measured.
Tonight was not a night for emotion.
I am not a savior. I am a survivor.
And Garrick Voss was a means to that survival.
Silas had chosen him carefully.
That morning, as he walked through the city, he had run an analysis with the System, filtering through the filth of Outer City to find someone who wouldn’t just be easy to rob, but deserving of it.
Target Identified: Sergeant Garrick Voss.
Occupation: Nightwatch.
Known Corruption: Extortion, Bribery, Coercion, Unlawful Arrests, Abuse of Power.
Additional Notes: History of Violence Against Civilians.
Silas’s lips had curled into a faint smirk as he read the details.
Perfect.
He had followed Voss throughout the day, keeping his distance, letting the System track his movements as the Nightwatchman collected his bribes, his hush money, his cut from the criminals who paid for his protection.
Then came the celebration.
The drinks. The stolen woman. The arrogance of a man who thought himself untouchable.
Silas had watched it all.
And now, as Voss lay sprawled in his bed, unconscious and reeking of alcohol, Silas finally moved.
The System pulsed in his mind, running a quiet scan of the house’s layout.
[Scouting Complete.]
[Target's money stash located: False-bottomed drawer, left corner of the room.]
Silas exhaled slowly.
This is just another step forward.
He activated Silent Entry.
The door creaked open just enough for him to slip inside, his movements fluid, seamless. The stench of alcohol, sweat, and stale breath filled the room, nearly as suffocating as the corruption that festered within the man sleeping inside it.
Garrick Voss lay sprawled across his mattress, one arm flung over his chest, his mouth slightly open as he snored.
For a brief moment, Silas simply watched him.
This was a man who ruined lives with a flick of his wrist. Who took what he wanted—money, power, people—without consequence.
No remorse. No hesitation. No fear.
Silas’s fingers twitched slightly, but he pushed down the thought.
I’m not here to kill him. Not yet.
Instead, he moved to the dresser in the corner of the room, where the System had pinpointed the stash.
Kneeling, Silas ran a gloved hand along the old wooden surface, searching for the false panel.
There. A slight indentation beneath his fingertips. He activated Sleight of Hand.
His movements became instinctively precise, as if he had practiced this motion for years. With a soft click, he pulled back the hidden compartment.
His gaze flickered over stacks of Crow Gilds, Gear Gilds, and even a few Tower Gilds. More than enough to sustain him for months.
Silas worked quickly, his breathing steady, pocketing the gilds without a sound. As he finished, his eyes drifted back toward Voss. Still unmoving. Still sleeping.
His fingers tightened around the hilt of his dagger, the cool metal pressing against his palm. The stolen gilds in his pocket were enough to sustain him for a while, but something about simply leaving felt… unfinished.
A man like Garrick Voss doesn’t deserve to wake up in comfort tomorrow.
Silas turned his gaze toward the sleeping brute, sprawled across the filthy mattress, his mouth slightly open, reeking of alcohol and indulgence.
This was a man who thrived on the suffering of others.
A man who had stolen lives, broken families, tormented the powerless.
And now? He lay there, untouched, oblivious, content in his filth.
That wouldn’t do.
He needs to know what it feels like to lose something.
A slow, deliberate breath left Silas’s lips. His heartbeat remained steady, his mind eerily calm—an effect of his heightened spirit attribute.
He took a step forward, then another, moving like a phantom, his footsteps silent.
Let’s see how you survive without your sight, Garrick.
With a measured precision, Silas activated Edge Flicker.
His dagger gleamed with a faint blue-green hue, the sharp edge vibrating slightly as it honed itself to an unnatural sharpness.
No struggle. No noise. Just clean, effortless pain.
In one fluid motion, he slashed across Garrick’s eyes.
The blade cut deep, parting flesh like hot steel through wax, severing the delicate nerves in an instant.
The effect was immediate.
A wet gasp, followed by a howl of agony, tore through the room.
Garrick’s hands flew to his face, blood spilling between his fingers, his legs kicking wildly as he thrashed against the bed, sending the empty bottle of brandy crashing to the floor.
"AAAARGH! MY EYES!"
The scream was raw, desperate—not just from the pain, but from the realization.
He was blind.
Forever.
Silas watched for a moment, his face void of emotion.
A fitting end for someone who spent his life preying on those weaker than him.
With that, he turned away, moving toward the door, his movements still controlled, efficient.
[Passive Ability Active: Blur Trace]
[Astral Signature Concealment: 99% Efficiency]
Not a single trace of his presence remained in the room. No prints. No lingering energy. Nothing the Nightwatch or Wielders could trace.
By the time the first neighbors awoke to the sound of Garrick’s agonized wailing, Silas was already gone—vanishing into the twisting streets of the Outer City, swallowed by the fog.
The walk back was uneventful, his body relaxed, yet alert. His mind ran through the operation step by step, ensuring no mistakes had been made.
He had taken what he needed.
He had left no evidence.
And he had delivered justice in the only way this city understood.
As he approached his apartment, Silas silently deactivated Blur Trace, letting his Eternal Grimoire shift its passive ability back to Veilguard—his primary safeguard against mental intrusion or detection.
One less piece of filth in the Outer City.
Without a second thought, he stepped into his home, locked the door behind him, and disappeared into the quiet of the night.
The morning air was cold and damp, thick with the lingering fog that never quite lifted from the Outer City. The streets were already bustling, factory workers trudging toward their shifts, merchants setting up their stalls, and beggars eyeing the crowds for an opportunity.
Silas walked through it all, his hands tucked into his coat pockets, his mind sharp despite the lack of sleep.
Another day. Another round of pretending to be a lowly errand boy.
His destination: The Cogwheel Gazette.
He had no intention of quitting just yet. His position here was useful—a source of information, a way to keep his ear to the ground.
The smell of ink and old paper filled the air as he stepped inside. Workers bustled about, hauling stacks of newspapers, shouting orders, and wiping sweat from their brows. The printing assistants had been working since dawn, their fingers stained with ink.
Silas weaved through the chaos, heading toward the central desk where fresh copies of the morning edition were stacked. He grabbed one, his eyes scanning the front page.
A small smirk tugged at Silas’s lips as he read the headline.
The article was dramatic, filled with speculation about a "violent and merciless thief" who had not only robbed Sergeant Garrick Voss but had also "delivered a brutal, permanent punishment."
Violent? Merciless?
Silas folded the paper under his arm, suppressing a chuckle.
The Nightwatch didn’t care about justice. They cared about power. If someone had cut out a thief’s tongue for stealing, they wouldn’t have batted an eye. But now that one of their own had suffered?
Now, it was a crisis.
I wonder how they’ll react when they realize their "merciless thief" won’t be caught.
His System pulsed faintly, and he checked it.
Causal Points: 4,323—and still climbing.
This is the correct way to use the System.
A steady, passive accumulation of power. Influencing the city without being seen.