Flashback. First Life. A house in the slum district of Namwon.
"Father!"
My voice, that of a ten‑year‑old boy, cracked and desperate. I was clutching his leg, wrapped in cheap cloth pants, refusing to let go. The cold wooden floor bit into my knees. My mother had died two years ago. This man was the only one left.
My father bent down. His face wore a mask of indifference forged from alcohol and disappointment. He yanked my hand off his leg roughly.
"Listen," he said, his voice hoarse and smelling of cheap soju. "You're a bastard, got it? I have no obligation to take care of a love‑child."
He reached into his pocket, pulled out a wad of crumpled bills, and threw it at my face. One hundred thousand won, he offered it as the price for my life. "Take it and never look for me again."
He turned and walked away, his steps unshaken, never once glancing back. I was left alone there, on the cold wooden floor, with bills scattered around me like dead leaves.
The years that followed were my struggle to survive, at least to eat. I did odd jobs, studied hard under streetlamp light, and survived with scholarships and the remnants of my pride. At seventeen, I saw the news on TV. The man who left me was now the respected mayor of Namwon, speaking about morality and family in front of the camera.
That was when Cheon Donghwan died. And a terrorist was born. I no longer believed in the system. I decided to destroy it, to the ends of Korea.
...…
October 25, 1754.
I woke in my sky manor. The memory faded like smoke, though it still left a bitter taste in my mouth. Almost perfect. The Doyle Acquisition engine was running smoothly, my underworld network was growing stronger, and House Droct was now busy covering their wounds. Now it was time for the next step. Time for 'W' to make his next appearance.
I donned a lightweight charcoal suit, layered my body with a dark travel cloak, and finally, that white porcelain mask. Cold and expressionless, the mask was perfect for scaring others with the sight of red eyes visible through it. I left my golden tower and descended into the crowded streets of Clockthon.
I headed to the Jewelry District, about five kilometers away. I could have walked, but I chose to take a carriage. Once aboard, I took a moment to focus my mind. This journey carried me through the city's layers, from the splendor of the Financial District to the hustle and bustle of the Trade District. Each sector had its own character and rhythm.
Finally, I arrived. The Jewelry District is a strange place. I paid the city's most crooked coachman two grior. Though wages were high, expenses were too.
I saw grand gemstone shops with thick iron grilles standing alongside narrow, filthy gold‑smith workshops. A place where wealth and crime were intertwined.
I walked straight through merchants and mercenaries toward a rarely used back alley. Amid piles of trash and dirty puddles, I found an old cast‑iron manhole cover engraved with a serpent consuming its own tail. Ouroboros. The sign of the underground market.
I lifted the cover with little effort, revealing a spiral staircase descending into darkness. I went down and closed it behind me.
Clink. Clink. Clink.
My footsteps echoed in the damp stone tunnel. I arrived in a dimly lit cavernous space, its vaulted ceiling supported by rusting iron pillars. Low‑hung oil lamps cast a faint glow over crude wooden kiosks lining the walls. As in any black market, the commodities weren't gemstones like the district above, they were secrets. Illegal potions, Essence‑modified weapons, confidential documents, and information.
The air buzzed with whispers and furtive glances. There were burly thugs, cunning merchants with darting eyes, and cloaked figures, obviously nobles seeking forbidden pleasures.
I approached an old man who looked like a vagrant, sitting by a pillar. "I'm looking for 'Old Man'," I said. That was the nickname of my informant, whose real identity I didn't even know.
He stared at me for a moment, his cloudy eyes sizing up my mask. "He's not here," he replied. "If you have a report, his office is at the end of this hallway, turn left."
I gave him some copper coins and walked as directed. I found an old unmarked wooden door wedged between an Aberration pet stall and an opium den. This had to be it.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
I knocked three times, that pattern had been agreed upon. The door opened slightly to reveal a burly guard who eyed me suspiciously.
"Milverton," I said softly.
The tension in his face disappeared, replaced by fear. The door swung wide open. "Please… come in."
I stepped inside, and the world changed. Behind that shabby front door was a lavish room. Polished black marble floors, walls draped in dark red velvet, and ebony furniture carved with precision. This was Milverton's new headquarters. He had used the resources I gave him exceedingly well.
On a thick rug sat a set of leather sofas facing each other. On one sat a man wearing an elegant black jester's mask. Milverton.
"Please sit, James," he said, his voice muffled behind the mask. James, the code name I had given him, short, concise, leaving no trace of my origin.
I sat on the opposite sofa. "You work fast," I said, observing the luxury around me. "Two weeks and you've built your own mini‑palace."
"Money can buy anything in the underworld, James," he replied. "Including speed and silence. Now, your report?"
"The Dockworkers' Union network is fully mapped. Their illegal cash flow to House Droct, the names of ship captains they've paid to look the other way, it's all here." I placed a slim data‑roll on the table. "Their weakness is greed and a command structure centered on one man: Gordo. Remove him, and the whole organization will panic."
"Good," said Milverton, taking the roll. "I'll handle it. Now, my turn." He leaned back, crossing his legs. "I have something that might interest you. A job from The Consortium."
"I already work for them," I replied.
"This is different. It's not from the board. What I'm talking about is from a personal member. A very discreet request. And the pay is huge."
I remained silent and waited.
"There is an artifact to be auctioned at a private event at Count Augustine's residence. Its name is 'Chronos Salvation.' Rumor has it, the object can manipulate local time flow in a small radius. Speed time up, slow it down, even stop it briefly. Just for a moment."
Time manipulation. A high-tier power. Possibly Archetype 4, maybe even nearing 3. Extremely dangerous.
"Who is the client?" I asked.
"I don't know. He didn't name himself. He only called himself 'The Puppeteer.' He wants us to steal the key during the auction. Not before, not after. Exactly while the auction is ongoing, to create maximum chaos and send a message to Count Augustine."
"What message?"
"That there is no safe place," said Milverton with a slight smile behind his mask.
This was a very dangerous game. Stealing from a Count's heavily guarded residence, in the middle of a gathering of nobles and the strongest Evolvers in Clockthon. A suicide mission.
"Why us?" I asked. "Why 'W'?"
"Because we are ghosts," he replied. "We are the only ones who can pull it off without leaving a trace, without being traced back to The Consortium. Ah, maybe more precisely, we're the perfect disposable tool."
I pondered it. The risk was immense. Failure meant open war with one of the oldest noble families in the kingdom, and likely denial by The Consortium, which would leave me bearing the fallout.
But the prize was Chronos Salvation. I knew it was an artifact that could manipulate time. If I could study it, understand it, it would represent a major leap in my power, I might make a significant stride toward my true objective. Moreover, succeeding in this mission would exponentially raise my value in The Consortium's eyes and give me more influence and access.
"I will take it," I said after a moment of silence. "But my way. I need better intel. Complete blueprints of the building, not public versions. Psychological profile of Count Augustine, including his obsessions, weaknesses, and daily routines. Surveillance recordings from his past events. I want to know every blind spot, every gap in his defenses."
"It's already here," said Milverton, pushing a folder toward me.
I spent the next hour studying every page of that initial intel. Building layout. Guard list. Patrol schedules. It all looked complete, too complete. Clearly, it was bait for someone foolish enough to trust given information.
Count Aushberg Augustine wasn't an ordinary old noble, my own intelligence described him as a former head of military intelligence, meaning the man was paranoid and obsessed with security. The public blueprint was the lure; his residence surely had private corridors and undisclosed defense layers.
"This information is not enough," I finally said, closing the folder. "This is a recipe for failure. I need human intelligence."
Milverton raised an eyebrow behind his mask. "Human intelligence?"
"Forget those blueprints," I explained. "I want you to find out about every staff member at Augustine's residence. The servants, cooks, gardeners. Look for those with gambling debts, those with sick children, those who hate their master."
I also assigned another task. "And Finch. Tell his team to dig all property records and building disputes related to Augustine's residence over the last fifty years. I want every renovation, every addition, every neighbor complaint. Maybe we can find pipes or unused escape tunnels."
Finally, I requested a verified guest list for the auction. I needed to know which other chess pieces would be present on that night's board.
Over the next week, I transformed my sky manor into a command center. Data began flowing in; Finch found record of an ancient aqueduct system from the pre‑kingdom era running just beneath Augustine's wine cellar. The system was closed and unused but structurally intact.
Magpie, through her extensive network, gave me staff profiles from within. My target was a low‑rank servant named Timothee, a boy who was often humiliated for his awkwardness and secretly in love with one of the Countess's personal maids. Most importantly, he had access to the linen storage room adjoining the wine cellar wall.
In my secret workshop, built without detection, I worked on assembling my devices. Milverton provided some materials, Northern Machine and Valcius Eyes, I would create a modified holographic projector capable of generating a 'W' image solid enough to interact with the environment to a limited degree. I also prepared smoke grenades that released particles capable of disrupting Essence sensors temporarily. And most importantly, a perfect replica of Chronos Salvation, made from detailed descriptions in The Consortium's archives. The replica had no actual power but was visually indistinguishable.
One: I would infiltrate the old aqueduct, enter the wine cellar.
Two: I would use Timothee. I had arranged for Milverton to approach him through an intermediary, offering a rare "confidence‑boosting potion" in exchange for a "small task", placing a small box (containing my high‑frequency sound dampener) in the linen storage room on auction night.
Three: When the auction reached its peak, Milverton's disturbance in the garden would draw most guards away. At the same time, I would activate the sound‑dampener and ensure my operation underground remained unheard.
Four: I would use a small directional explosive charge to create a silent hole from the linen storage into Augustine's vault, which the blueprints placed immediately behind it. The vault itself was protected by magic. I wouldn't attempt to open it. I might force Void Essence to create a temporary spatial "wormhole."
Five: I would leave the replica inside the vault. Then, I would remotely activate my holographic projector. The 'W' illusion would appear in the auction hall and cause chaos.
Final result: Chronos Salvation would disappear, but the vault would remain locked from the outside, with a replica inside. The guards would at least believe the thief was a high‑tier spatial Archetype Evolver, not a common infiltrator.