I had made my decision. In the silence of my office, with the map of Clockthon spread out like a corpse in an operating room, I had chosen my path. To join The Consortium. It was the most logical move, I would gain autonomy and accelerated access to Information. Now, I had my first assignment: to cripple House Droct's influence in the port district. And I intended to be very, very efficient.
My greater plan, which existed only in my mind, was about reaching the top of the food chain in this world. I wasn't aiming for the position of Emperor or General, but something else, the Crownless Heaven. Something that had no name in their history. To reach that, I needed power. And my power, the Bizarre Dao of the Outers, was hungry again.
For eight years at the academy, I had been training it in silence. I would sneak into forgotten tunnels beneath the academy, into abandoned houses on the border of the Lower City, perfect places to hunt Aberrations. I never fought them directly. I simply stood nearby, and my aperture, like a miniature black hole, would draw in their filthy Essence, purify it, and make it mine. Now, the indigo sea within me had reached its shore. My aperture was one hundred percent full after the last four days of ravenously consuming medium-high Aberrations.
I had also finished reading every word of Throne of Nothing. That book was never just a cultivation manual, I understood its worth. Within it was a philosophy on how to control emotion and respond without excess.
To face House Droct and The Consortium, the identity of Welt Rothes, the genius investor, wasn't enough. It was too public, too bound by rules. I needed another tool. An alter ego. I would create it, a legend that would haunt this city, a name that would become the most terrifying.
That night, I didn't return to my skyloft. I slept at my first hideout, deep in the heart of Clockthon, a rented room, anonymous and easily forgotten, moderately luxurious but average by Clockthon standards. I brought my white porcelain mask with me.
...…
The next morning, in the grand Cheva estate, in a sunlit study filled with the scent of cedarwood, a small family drama was unfolding.
"Father, I told you! I'm just going to meet my friend!" Irene Cheva's voice was full of frustration. She stood before her father, Count Sylvain Cheva, a man with ginger hair and sharp hazel eyes.
"No. I'll assign guards. You're not going alone, Irene," Count Cheva replied, his tone calm, yet final. "The situation in the city has become increasingly unstable."
"But Father! I'm not a child anymore!"
"As long as you live under this roof, you are my responsibility," said the Count, his tone softening slightly. "Your safety is my priority. You will be watched."
Irene stared at her father, her lips pressed tightly. She knew this argument would go nowhere. She sighed in resignation. "Fine."
She turned and left the room, her graceful posture betraying disappointment. Her father didn't understand. Irene knew she wasn't being confined to protect her from the outside world. She was being confined to protect the outside world from her.
...
I woke not by sound, but by a sense sharper than hearing. The air in my cramped rented room felt different. A strange pressure, a subtle shift in the dust. I opened my eyes slowly. On the small table in the corner, a cheap ceramic flower vase had shifted half an inch to the left from where I last remembered.
I didn't move. I would never panic, not even now. Instead, I let my brain process the data. There were five other breaths in the room, aside from mine. All shallow and controlled. They had suppressed their Essence auras to nearly zero. Professionals.
"Isn't this a rather rude way to wake someone up, assassins of Marshal Droct?" I said into the silence.
Silence. They seemed almost surprised that I knew they were here.
I slowly sat up at the edge of the bed. I didn't reach for a weapon, I hadn't brought one. Instead, I raised my right hand. In my palm, particles of darkness began to gather, swirl, and condense. Void Essence was no longer hidden in my circuits; I had begun to study how to manifest it physically. In the past few days, I'd used my aperture to conceal its strangeness, to keep it disguised. Now, in a flash, it formed a pitch-black dagger that seemed to absorb all surrounding light. Its tip resonated with a faint blue glow.
"Three on the ceiling. Two under the bed," I said again. "Good coordination."
Without waiting for a response, I threw the dagger, directly at a rusted metal pipe on the far wall.
Clang!
The black dagger struck the pipe and shattered into three shards of shadow that shot off in different directions at impossible speed. I had been trying to control Void Essence to scatter once the pipe broke and enter the pipes.
Slap. Slap. Slap.
Three muffled impacts, followed by three choked screams. Three figures fell from the ceiling. The first shard pierced one assassin's hand, pinning it to the wooden wall. The second sliced the knee ligaments of another. The third only grazed the cheek of the third, but it left a black mark, like a frostburn.
The two remaining figures leapt from beneath the bed, short swords drawn. They looked at their fallen comrades, then at me, with fear. Not fear of their wounds. I understood. They were now terrified of a power unlisted in any Channel they knew. Naturally. Channels from Archetype 4 upward didn't leak easily, for good reason. They were dangerous. Extremely dangerous.
I stood, now fully awake. "Marshal Droct sends five killers to assassinate a single teenager in a mediocre, slightly run-down rental room like this. A sad admission that he sees me as a serious threat."
I stepped toward one of the still-standing assassins, his body trembling uncontrollably. I looked into his eyes, letting the void aura inside me radiate outward. "Tell him I received his message. Now deliver mine: For every pawn he sends after me, I'll take one of his castles."
There was no need to repeat myself. They immediately moved to help their wounded allies and vanished from my room as fast as possible. They were terrified. Deeply terrified. Perhaps they'd suffer PTSD from this.
I looked at the Void Essence dagger, now dissolved back into particles and gone. That fight was too easy. A fully charged aperture gave me control and power far beyond my previous estimates. Of course, I meant that the aperture could add some extra damage, though nothing too significant. Still, this was dangerous. Easy victories breed arrogance.
I needed that alter ego. Now.
...…
The following night, the city of Clockthon birthed a new rumor. A ghost had begun haunting the warehouse district. They called it 'W.' Descriptions varied. Some said it moved like a shadow; others claimed it made no sound. The one consistent feature across all stories was a white porcelain mask without expression, and a single black raven feather always left at the scene.
My first target wasn't House Droct. That would've been too obvious. According to my plan, I targeted their allies: a smuggling syndicate led by a man named Rhinos "Ironfinger." They controlled the smuggling of minor Essence artifacts from the northern territories.
Through information provided by Magpie, who now unknowingly worked double for me and reported back via The Consortium, I discovered the location of their main warehouse and the schedule of their next shipment.
I moved under the cover of night as W. I couldn't just sneak in recklessly. Step by step, I walked past the guards, gradually wrapping myself in a thin veil of Void Essence. I was able to cancel sound and light waves around me, rendering myself functionally invisible and inaudible to normal senses.
Inside the warehouse, I found crates filled with artifacts. I didn't steal everything, that would've been crude and greedy. I only took the most valuable items. For the rest, I did something else. I dismantled each crate and arranged its contents in the center of the warehouse floor. I assembled Essence crystals, spell scrolls, and rare metals into a mosaic. A perfect replica of the House Droct emblem, constructed from their own stolen wealth, now desecrated.
Before leaving, I placed a single black raven feather in the center of that emblem.
The next morning, the harbor district was in an uproar. Rhinos Ironfinger flew into a rage. House Droct was humiliated. The Consortium sent me a brief message: "Good. Continue."
I had sent my message: I could reach anyone, at any time. Your allies are not safe.
...…
In her private tower at the Cheva estate, Irene stared at a report on her desk. It came from one of her father's contacts in the city guard. Its title: The Rhinos Warehouse Incident.
She read the details carefully. No witnesses. No traces. Valuables gone, but stranger still was the symbolic arrangement of what remained. And the raven feather.
Irene picked up a pen and started writing in her notebook. On one page, she wrote "Welt Rothes." On another, she wrote "W." She drew them almost alike, but distinctly different. Both began with W.
"His methodology is consistent," she murmured. "Psychological warfare, aimed at reputation and the illusion of safety, rather than brute violence. Highly precise, no unnecessary casualties."
She leaned back in her chair. The game was getting more interesting. W was crafting a legend that would shake an entire nation alone.
"What is your endgame, W?" she whispered into the silence. She felt like a detective in an impossibly intricate mystery novel, and she was savoring every page.
...…
My first victory as W gave me some breathing room. House Droct was now busy putting out fires in their own backyard, buying Doyle Acquisition time to continue its acquisitions without direct interference. I used this time to focus on my other objective.
I returned to the Lower City. This time, I didn't wear a mask. I came as Welt Rothes, the young philanthropist interested in the "community kitchen" project now run by Dave Vance.
The project was a major success. Under Vance's efficient and honest management, "Hungerful and Satisfied", the kitchen's new name, had become a community hub. Dockworkers received proper meals at affordable prices, and former Varner employees regained both jobs and dignity.
I found Silas behind the kitchen, distributing herbal medicines to a group of sick residents. He looked thinner, but his eyes were brighter.
"You came back," he said, unsurprised.
"I need to talk to you," I said. "About Fravikveidimadr. In short, I'll ask only what's necessary. Will you answer?"
He sighed. "That's a long story, Welt."
"I've got time."
We sat on wooden crates behind the kitchen, surrounded by the scent of broth and disinfectant. And he began to talk.
He told me how he was born with a rare Channel, The Empathic Giver, the ability to feel and absorb others' suffering. Fravikveidimadr found him when he was young and recruited him, seeing his potential to become a great healer. From then on, they trained him, studied him, and finally, dissected his power.
"They saw me as a tool," Silas said. "To be used for healing wounded agents. But they didn't care about the cost. Every time I healed, I bore part of the debt of that suffering. My body began to deteriorate from the inside."
He spoke of how he could take it no longer and tried to flee, using some money he'd stolen. That was when he met the real Welt Rothes, a starving orphan on the streets. He saw the same despair in that boy's eyes. He cared for him for a few weeks, even while on the run.
"Fravikveidimadr found me again," he continued. "This time, they didn't punish me. They gave me options. First: return to their lab. Second: 'serve' in the Lower City, where my 'gift' could be studied in a more natural setting. They wanted to know my limits. How much pain can one person absorb before they collapse and die?"
I listened silently. His story confirmed my suspicions, he was a lab rat.
"And the artifact beneath the academy?" I asked. "That strange fragment…"
Silas's face tensed. "Don't… don't speak of that. That thing shouldn't exist. It's the source of all this. A wound in the world. A relic that defies comprehension… not even one percent of it…"
Before I could press further, a commotion erupted in front of the kitchen. A group of burly men in Dock Workers' Union uniforms were shoving Vance's staff around.
"This is our turf!" shouted their leader, a bald man with a face tattoo. "Every business on this dock pays a protection fee to us. Including this ugly little charity kitchen!"
Vance stepped forward, placing himself between the thugs and his people. "We won't pay you a single coin, Gordo," he said calmly.
"Then we'll take it by force," Gordo growled, signaling his men.
This was a conflict I had anticipated. Doyle Acquisition's presence and "Hungerful and Satisfied" had disrupted the black market ecosystem controlled by the union and House Droct.
I stepped forward and stood beside Vance. "Mr. Gordo," I said. "I'm Welt Rothes, the investor behind this place. Perhaps we can discuss this more civilly."
Gordo laughed. "Civilly? There's no civilization here, kid. Only power."
"In that case," I said, locking eyes with him, "you'll soon realize you've misjudged the power present here."
I didn't need to move. Behind Gordo and his men, shadows began to emerge from the narrow alleys, guards I had hired, former mercenaries now working for Doyle Acquisition. There weren't many, just ten or so, but they were fully armed and moved with frightening precision, even by my standards. They encircled the thugs from all sides.
On a nearby rooftop, I caught a glimpse of red. Viviane, the Wild Hound. She stood watching the scene, blade glinting. As expected, she wouldn't intervene unless Silas was in direct danger.
Gordo's face shifted from smug to alert. He wasn't a fool, he recognized the trap.
"I'm offering you a deal, Mr. Gordo," I said. "You and your men walk away now and forget about this 'protection fee.' In return, I won't release the financial records showing how most of your union dues end up in the personal accounts of House Droct's upper ranks. I'm sure the Central Union would be very interested in that information."
That threat hit harder than any blow. Information is everything in this world. Without it, you're crippled.
Gordo glared at me with pure hatred, then signaled his men to retreat. And just like that, they left, Viviane also left.
Vance looked at me with a new expression. He no longer saw me with reverence, perhaps now with fear. The fact that I could resolve all of this without casualties or money, unsettled him.
I had solved one problem. But I knew this was just the beginning. House Droct wouldn't back down so easily. The Consortium was watching me. And the mystery of Silas and the underground artifact remained unsolved.
That night, I returned to my skyloft after everything had unfolded. I felt like I had won a small battle in a long war.
I touched the cold windowpane. "Kindness," I whispered to my reflection. "Such a terribly troublesome emotion."