Fog smothered Backlund's East Borough like a burial shroud, dulling the clangor of dawn. Factory whistles wailed somewhere beyond the tenement walls, their cries warped and distant, as if even sound struggled to escape the slum's grip.
Anthony rose before Liam.
The boy's soft snores formed a fragile rhythm beneath the groaning floorboards. Pale morning light slipped through cracked shutters, shrinking the room into something even smaller—an inventory of poverty laid bare. A scarred table with one leg shorter than the rest. A cold stove that reeked of old ash. A pallet bed where Liam lay curled beneath a threadbare blanket, white hair splayed like frost.
Routine.
Essential camouflage.
Anthony moved with deliberate efficiency. No wasted motion. No hesitation.
He swept the floor with a worn broom, erasing the last faint traces of last night—blood flecks invisible to careless eyes but screaming to trained ones. The bucket of stale water followed, tipped cleanly out the window into the alley below. Discreet. Untraceable.
Possessions were arranged next.
The glass jar—one solitary soli coin left—slid into a crevice beneath a loose floorboard.
The dagger vanished into the wardrobe's hidden compartment.
The vial of Midnight Oil was placed high on a shelf, well beyond Liam's reach.
Deviation draws eyes.
Routine dissolves into the gray.
If assassins came sniffing, they would find nothing but a poor family scraping by.
Not a resurrected threat.
Liam stirred.
"Brother…?" He blinked awake, voice thick with sleep. "Morning already?"
"Up." Anthony didn't look at him. "Routine today. No questions."
Liam sat up, rubbing his eyes. His white hair stuck out in unruly tufts—too similar to Anthony's for comfort, yet lacking the faint, ethereal sheen. His gaze drifted to the bandages wrapped around Anthony's chest, worry flickering.
"Your wound—"
"Healing."
The interruption was sharp enough to cut. Anthony turned.
"Fetch water from the pump on Elm Street. Back stairs only. Avoid the drunk on the second floor—Old Harlan. Return directly. No detours."
Liam hesitated, fingers twisting the blanket.
"But… what if the muggers—"
"They're gone." Anthony's tone hardened. "Obey."
The boy straightened.
Determination replaced fear—eager, almost desperate, to be useful. He nodded, dressed quickly in patched trousers and a faded shirt, then grabbed the bucket.
At the door, he paused.
"You'll be safe here… right?"
Anthony didn't soften.
"Go."
Liam slipped out. His footsteps faded down the creaking stairs.
Obedience test: passed.
Hesitation minimal—fear-based, manageable.
Conclusion: compliant under authority. Groom further.
Silence returned.
Window time.
Anthony positioned himself at the shutters, slats cracked just enough to observe without exposure.
The street below crawled with mid-morning life. A coal vendor pushed his barrow, barking prices in a voice like ground gravel. Factory women huddled together on break, shawls tight, gossip flowing freely. Children kicked a ragged ball through mud, laughter sharp and fleeting.
And near the alley mouth—
A man loitered. Broad shoulders. Scarred face. Wrong stillness.
Target.
Anthony focused.
Whispers stirred at the edge of thought.
…unease creeps like fog into the bone…
His will extended.
Nothing visible changed—yet the man stiffened. His eyes darted. A frown carved deeper lines into his scarred face as his hand twitched toward a hidden pocket.
Unease implanted. Subtle. Intimate. Like a bad premonition clawing from within.
The man cursed, spat, and hurried down the alley.
Success.
No backlash.
Drain negligible.
Next.
The gossiping women.
One glanced up toward the tenement, brow furrowing—attention drifting dangerously close.
Opportunity.
…memories fade like stars at dawn…
Anthony layered the suggestion lightly. Not erasure—just blur.
The woman shook her head mid-sentence, confusion flashing across her face. Her words trailed off. Moments later, the group dispersed, interest evaporated.
Range: twenty paces effective.
Duration: short-term unless reinforced.
Risk: none detected.
Applications logged: witness suppression, crowd dispersion.
Escalation.
A child chased the rag ball across the street—innocent, unguarded. Low stakes.
Anthony wove a harmless illusion.
…shadows dance in playful guise…
The boy's shadow detached.
It capered along the ground, jerking like a marionette. The child burst into laughter, pointing wildly. No fear. Only delight.
Anthony released the effect at once. The shadow snapped back into place.
Control improving.
Amusement variant viable—distraction, lures.
A faint headache pulsed behind his eyes—then ebbed faster than it had yesterday.
Spiritual recovery… accelerated.
Footsteps echoed on the stairs.
Anthony stepped away from the shutters.
Liam returned, bucket sloshing with fresh water. His grin was wide.
"Got it! No trouble. Old Harlan was snoring in the hall, but I snuck past."
Anthony inspected the water. Clear enough—for slums.
"Report," he said. "Any chatter?"
Liam thought. "Mrs. Greaves asked about you. Said she heard you got stabbed by thugs. Everyone's talking—'Goddess spared the Reid lad!' Mr. Potts said he'd pray for us at chapel."
Cover story propagating.
Nosy neighbors:
—Mrs. Greaves, landlady. Ears like a bat.
—Potts, pious drunkard.
—Others. Twenty families crammed into sagging brick.
Organic dissemination. Useful.
If hunters ask, it was muggers—not spears.
Risk: charity pests. Opportunists. Monitor.
"Good," Anthony said. "Let it spread. Say nothing extra."
Liam nodded vigorously.
Second errand. Reinforce habit.
"Buy salt and herbs from the stall on Tussock Corner. Exact change. Avoid crowds."
Liam went without protest—confidence boosted.
Alone again.
Anthony unwound the bandages fully.
The wound was already gone.
Only a faint pink line remained. No scab. No tenderness.
Healed in hours.
Realization crystallized.
Bloodline acceleration.
Low-sequence Beyonders recovered over weeks. His recovery curve was exponential—physical and spiritual alike.
Divine heritage confirmed.
Evernight influence from his mother?
Or his father's sealed legacy?
Advantages: faster digestion. Accelerated adaptation.
Drawbacks: increased consumption. Traceable anomalies.
Leverage cautiously.
Evening settled in.
Liam returned with coarse gray salt and dried herbs—thyme, suitable for masking potion residues. He chattered about a street performer he glimpsed.
Anthony allowed it—for data—then cut it short.
"Focus."
He checked a scrape on Liam's arm.
Gone.
Smooth skin. No mark.
Shared bloodline.
Potential awakening—subtle. Dangerous.
Train later.
Night deepened.
Anthony lit the candle stub. The flame held steady.
Liam ate thin gruel and bread remnants, then collapsed into sleep.
Solitude thickened.
Anthony drew out yellowed paper. Ink. Quill sharpened with the dagger.
Coded notes.
Poetic substitution. Midnight symbolism.
Unreadable to outsiders.
Entry One: Status
Transmigration confirmed.
Soul: Zhang Lu.
Body: Anthony Reid.
Sequence 8—Midnight Poet.
Bloodline:
Mother—Evernight Goddess (slumbering / apotheosized).
Father—Sergeant of the Dark Castle (sealed / absent).
Assassination attempt: shadow-spear.
Assailant: raven-haired woman—Evelyn?
Affiliation: Order-linked. Motive—purge bastard heir.
Entry Two: Power Log
Shadow manipulation—20p effective.
Mental induction—unease, forgetfulness.
Illusions—minor, controllable.
Cost: spiritual drain, headaches.
Recovery: accelerated x2–3.
Healing: exponential.
Entry Three: Conspiracy Fragments
Order of Silent Veil—splinter faction?
Fear: heir awakening Evernight prematurely.
Father—sealed contingency?
Sefirot wars implications.
Income plan: dream-poetry relief.
Clients: insomniacs.
Goal: rapid capital, ingredients for Sequence 7.
Whispers rose as he wrote—sweet, insistent.
He ignored them.
Shadows twitched.
Paranoia stirred.
One soli left.
Rent due in three days.
Food dwindling.
Vulnerability peak.
Decision locked in.
Tomorrow, the scheme begins.
Anthony snuffed the candle with shadowed will.
Darkness swallowed the room.
Far away—
In her castle, Evelyn Nightshade paced.
The pendant at her throat burned cold.
"He lives," she whispered. "And he grows."
A superior's voice echoed within her mind.
"Confirm. Eliminate contingencies."
She bowed to empty air.
The hunt had resumed.