He finished the coffee, the bitterness coating his tongue. He needed a different approach. He needed to see her fate indirectly, through a less aggressive lens. He stood, nodding curtly to Samuel as he paid. Stepping back onto the gas-lit street, the air was sharp and cold. He pulled his collar higher, letting the Woven Concealment settle around him like a cloak. he went home and re-equipped himself and brough down some items from his sefirot, then headed towards North Borough, looping around the financial district.
He focused his mind, activating Fate Scrying, not on Elara directly, but on the *firm* itself—Harding & Sons. The vision shimmered: ledgers stacked high, the smell of dust, the repetitive *scratch-scratch* of pens.
Then, the thread associated with Elara Vance appeared, thick and vibrant, pulling taut. It was anchored not just to the accounting firm, but to a powerful, distant entity—a glowing, silver symbol that pulsed with authority, like a high-ranking badge. The symbol was unfamiliar, but its resonance suggested a governmental or ecclesiastical organization.
*A Beyonder from a sanctioned organization?* Kevin thought, letting the vision snap shut. *Or perhaps a spy.* Either way, she was dangerous, likely Sequence seven or higher, and actively seeking something in Backlund. He realized his opportunity lay in the chaos of the killings. If he could draw the killer out, he could use the resulting fate entanglement as a shield for his own actions.
He moved quickly now, his Storm-Step ability giving him short, controlled bursts of acceleration that left the sensation of static electricity crackling in his wake. He arrived back in East Borough, the shadows deeper now, the air heavier with coal dust and damp decay. He followed the faint, lingering traces of the previous night's supernatural meeting, searching for any disturbance in the fate threads that might suggest a recent attack. He found it three blocks past the dilapidated warehouse: a freshly snapped thread, violent and ragged, clinging to the corner of a narrow alley.
It reeked of terror and primal fear things he could now sense through the threads due to his advancement . He stepped into the alley. The cold was immediate and penetrating. The air vibrated with recent violence. He didn't need Fate Scrying to know something terrible had happened moments ago. Then, from the darkness ahead, a sound reached him—a wet, guttural *moan*, followed by a sound like tearing fabric, and a sharp, high-pitched *screeech!* Kevin froze, his hand instinctively gripping the Reaper's Dagger beneath his coat.
The threads of fate ahead were thrashing wildly, like fishing lines caught in a storm. "Who's there?" Kevin called out, his voice low and steady. He activated Fate Drip, subtly drawing on the luck of the unseen combatants ahead, hoping to tilt the balance in his favor, regardless of who they were. A figure stumbled out of the darkness, clutching its side. It was a man, middle-aged, dressed in laborer's clothes, his face slick with sweat and terror. He looked at Kevin, his eyes wide and unseeing. "H-help me!" the man gasped, collapsing against the damp brick wall.
"It's in there! Oh, god, the *claws!*" From the alley's depths came a low, rumbling *growl*, a sound that vibrated deep in Kevin's chest. A massive shadow detached itself from the wall, its form shifting. It was tall, impossibly muscled, and covered in thick, coarse hair. Its eyes were twin embers of crimson light.
"You shouldn't have come here," the creature rumbled, its voice a horrific blend of human speech and animalistic snarl. "I seem to be interrupting a meal," Kevin observed calmly, though every muscle was coiled. He recognized the transformation. Sequence Seven, Mutant Pathway. A Werewolf. The Werewolf let out a soundless *HA-HA-HA* of mocking laughter that was more a vibration of pure malice than actual joy.
"You look tasty, little man. what do you think about the misfortune of meeting me here tonight?" "come and see if you may," Kevin countered, drawing the Reaper's Dagger. The silver blade caught the faint lamplight. The Werewolf the werewolf was shocked for a moment before it lunged.
The sound was a deafening *THWOOMP* as its massive paws hit the cobblestones. Kevin didn't dodge; he used Disruptive Glitch. The Werewolf's eyes flickered, its momentum momentarily stuttering, its perfect trajectory ruined by a microsecond of doubt. "Wha—?" the creature muttered, its head tilting in confusion.
That single hesitation was all Kevin needed. He created a wall of "fate severance" to separate then from them from much of the influence of the world then used Storm-Step, blurring past the Werewolf's shoulder, the silver dagger slicing across the creature's flank making it a "weak spot". A howl of agony—a true, raw *A-WOOOOOO!*—tore through the night. The Werewolf spun, its claws extended, leaving deep *CRACK* marks in the brick where Kevin had been standing a moment before.
"You cheat!" the beast roared, its voice dissolving into a frantic *pant-pant-pant* of exertion.
"I merely observe the true possibilities," Kevin said, stepping back, assessing the damage. The cut was deep, but already beginning to mend, smoking faintly. He needed to bind their fates, quickly. "Tell me," Kevin pressed, dodging a sweeping claw, "did Elara send you?" The Werewolf paused, its crimson eyes narrowing.
"That name… I know that name. She hunts us all. She is an annoyance." *So, she is a either a bounty hunter or a official beyonder but going of the word Hunt it is most likely she is not an official beyonder,* Kevin realized, leaping onto an overturned barrel. *Good. That means she's another potential cover or even a tool which may allow me to enact my second step of high sequence advancement earlier than expected.*
"Then you should be grateful for the distraction," Kevin said, making a feint. He didn't want to kill the Werewolf yet; he wanted to link their destinies. He needed the ongoing threat. He activated Parasitic Link, focusing the invisible thread of his power onto the Werewolf's thick, chaotic fate.
He felt a profound, unsettling connection take hold—a shared destiny, momentarily woven he focused letting it sink deeper having the connect not only connect their basic fated but to a certain level their sprit and astral body but to a degree within his control. "Goodbye for now," Kevin whispered, knowing the link was fragile. He launched a throwing knife, not at the Werewolf, but at the gas lamp above.
*SHING!* The glass shattered, plunging the alley into absolute darkness. Kevin used the ensuing chaos to disappear, letting the Werewolf's furious *ROAR* and the distant *CLATTER* of the laborer running away cover his retreat. He had the link. Now, he could advance to Sequence Seven, protected by the very chaos Elara Vance was hunting.
The Werewolf's roar—a sound that started as a choked, furious *ROAR* and ended in a pathetic, winded *gasp*—was the last thing Kevin heard as he vanished into the night. His Storm-Step wasn't a teleportation, but a momentary acceleration that twisted the fabric of localized fate, allowing him to bypass the limitations of space for a few crucial seconds. He emerged three streets away, leaning against the damp brick of a bakery, his heart hammering a frantic *WHUMP-WHUMP-WHUMP* against his ribs.
He didn't run. He walked, slowly, letting the Woven Concealment settle, dissolving his presence from the minds of the few late-night strollers. The Werewolf was furious, wounded, and now, inextricably linked to Kevin. The Parasitic Link felt like a fine, cold wire connecting his spirit body to the beast's chaotic aura. It wasn't a draining ability, but a synchronization. The Werewolf's fate, currently a mess of violence, pursuit, and imminent danger, was now partially superimposed over Kevin's own.
If anyone tried to divine Kevin's actions or intentions, they would be met with the overwhelming, bloody noise of a Sequence Seven monster running loose. *A perfect shield,* Kevin thought, a grim satisfaction settling in his gut. *Thank you for the cover, you hairy buffoon.* He reached his residence, performing his usual complex series of anti-tracking maneuvers: walking backward for three steps, stepping over a puddle to break a line of sight, and ensuring no loose threads of his own fate snagged on the environment.
Inside, the room was quiet. He checked the Reaper's Dagger—the silver had drawn blood, confirming the strike, but the wound was already closing.
The Werewolf, in its frenzy, had likely mistaken the temporary stutter caused by Disruptive Glitch for a magical trap. Kevin stripped off his coat, the adrenaline beginning its slow, draining descent. He needed to advance, and he needed to do it *now* while the Werewolf's fate was at its most turbulent, providing maximum distraction. He pulled out the briefcase.
The representation of a characteristics for Sequence Seven, Veil Weaver, had been prepared in advance before the fight—. The characteristic itself was a small, perfectly preserved human eyeball, milky white and unnervingly placid, suspended in a solution of pale, crystalline fluid. *Sequence Seven: Veil Weaver
.* The ritual for Sequence Seven was complex and highly personal. It required not just the characteristic, but an anchoring point—a representation of destiny made manifest. Kevin retrieved a small, antique spool of silver thread from a hidden compartment. He placed it carefully on the center of the eight-spoked wheel he had scrubbed clean just hours before. Next, he pricked his finger, letting three drops of blood fall onto the spool, staining the silver thread crimson.
He then uncorked the vial containing the characteristic. The fluid smelled like old copper and moonlight. He placed the spool of blood-stained thread and the vial side-by-side. He looked at the eyeball. It seemed to stare back, utterly devoid of fear or emotion.
"Well," Kevin sighed, running a hand through his hair. "It's going to be a rough night,but fortunately not for me." He tilted his head back, pouring the crystalline fluid and the characteristic into his mouth. The taste was instantly revolting—a searing mix of formaldehyde, brine, and the profound, cold despair of something that had witnessed its own end. He gagged, a deep, involuntary *ACK-ACK-ACK* escaping his throat.
Though the taste was unpleasant he could only pity the little "dog" due to the fact that he had not fully realized the potion and calmed his spirituality the physical sensation was even worse than the Sequence Eight advancement all of this unfortunately went to that pup in a well. The eyeball dissolved quickly, but the characteristic's power was a shockwave. It didn't burn; it *unraveled*.
He felt his spirit body being separated and reassembled, thread by invisible thread. The Parasitic Link, which had been a thin wire, suddenly became a roaring conduit. He wasn't just shielded by the Werewolf's chaos; he was *experiencing* it. *—A flash of crimson fur, the smell of fresh blood, the agonizing pain of a silver blade slicing through muscle—* Kevin let out a choked *SCREAM*, not his own, but the Werewolf's primal anguish he was feeling the werewolf madness as pain as the werewolf felt his pain, muffled and distorted as it passed through the link.
His mind was a tempest. He wasn't seeing *his* past fates anymore. He was seeing *all* fates. He saw the future of the laborer who had fled the alley—a life of poverty, followed by a sudden death from a falling chimney.
He saw the long, intricate fate of Elara Vance—a thread of cold, calculated destiny, interwoven with the silver symbol he had seen, and occasionally, brushing against the golden river of the Sefirot, though she seemed unaware of the connection. The sheer volume of possibilities was overwhelming, threatening to drown his sanity in an ocean of 'what-ifs.' He felt the silent, cosmic *MOAN* of the universe as billions of potential futures died every second.
He fought for control, gripping the cold floorboards. He focused on the silver thread on the floor, the blood-stained spool. It was his anchor. He forced the raw, chaotic energy of the characteristic to flow through that anchor, transforming the wild energy into structured power. *KLANG!* A sound like a massive, unseen loom snapping into place resonated through his spirit body.
The agony subsided, replaced by an intoxicating sense of order. He was no longer observing the threads; he was *holding* them. He could feel the tension, the slack, the subtle vibrations of every destiny connected to his immediate location. Kevin slowly rose, breathing heavily, the remnants of the Werewolf's madness receding like a tide. He was Sequence Seven: Veil Weaver. His Woven Concealment was now almost perfect, a true gap in perception.
his abelites evolved once more
Abilities:
Fate Detachment: Can fully detach from fate for short periods, becoming "invisible" to divination.
Illusory Destiny: Can weave false fate threads, making people believe fabricated truths to a certain extent.
Veil of the Forgotten: Gains partial immunity to memory-related abilities, making it harder to recall or record their actions.
Tyrant's Command: Can emit an authoritative aura, subtly influencing the emotions of others toward submission.
Shattered Reflection: Can create momentary, imperfect clones of themselves, disrupting enemies' perception of reality.
Strengthened Abilities from Previous Sequence:
Fate Drip → Fate Bleed: Can now drain fate more aggressively, causing stronger misfortune.
Fate Scrying → Fate Misalignment: Can distort perceived futures, making divinations unreliable.
Echoing Discord → Reality Fracture: Disturbances now ripple outward, creating lasting instability.
Woven Concealment → False Presence: Can momentarily rewrite how others perceive them, appearing as a different person.
He was safely shielded. "Right," Kevin muttered, his voice raspy. "Now, to deal with the collateral damage." He spent the next hour cleaning the room, scrubbing the floorboards, and airing out the metallic, ozone scent of the ritual. The physical cleanup, after such a profound spiritual event, was always a deeply grounding, if profoundly annoying, exercise in the mundane.
***************
in a alleyway in North Borough the werewolf who had turned back into his human form was coved in blood as it permeated from his mouth and nose due to their fates being so deeply linked the werewolf had suffered greatly due to Kevin's early advancement the he kept walking as he held a artifact that mostly covered but one could still see glass
***************
The next morning, Kevin Adams looked exactly the same: modest gray suit, perfectly pressed trousers, and an air of quiet, professional boredom. But inside, he was a labyrinth of woven destiny. He entered Harding & Sons. The air still smelled of old paper and tannery chemicals. He settled into his desk, pulling out a ledger detailing the import duties on Backlund's tea supply.
He didn't have to wait long. Elara Vance arrived precisely on time, her navy-blue dress immaculate. She crossed the room with that same economical grace, her grey eyes scanning the room, lingering just a fraction of a second too long on the empty space where Kevin sat. She stopped at her desk, which was directly across from his.
"Good morning, Mr. Adams," she said, her voice smooth and neutral. "Miss Vance," Kevin replied, not looking up from his ledger. His voice was flat. He subtly activated Fate Scrying, focusing not on her fate, but on the fate of the *room* around her. Her thread was still vibrant, anchored to that mysterious silver authority symbol. But now, he noticed something else: a subtle, almost invisible knot in the fate of the two clerks near the window. *She's been busy,* Kevin realized. *She's using her own abilities, likely to gather information or ensure silence.* Elara set down a small leather satchel. The subtle *thud* was the only sound in the office for a moment.
"I trust your evening was quiet?" she asked, her tone conversational, but her eyes were fixed on him. Kevin finally looked up, meeting her gaze with an expression of mild fatigue. "As quiet as Backlund ever is, Miss Vance. I spent it reviewing the complexities of the new municipal tax code. A truly riveting read." He allowed a small, weary *humph* of exhaustion to escape him. He knew she was probing, looking for any sign of the chaos from the night before. "Ah, the tax code," she said, a polite, cold smile touching her lips.
"I find that the most interesting things in this city are often hidden not in the shadows, but in the paperwork. The things people try to conceal with numbers." "Indeed," Kevin agreed. "Numbers are the easiest way to lie convincingly. Though I prefer to deal with facts, not conjecture." He decided to test her. He subtly extended a thread of his new power, focusing on the ledger in front of her.
He performed a minor Destiny Knot, binding the fate of her pen to the fate of the inkwell. *Knot: If she touches the pen in the next five minutes, the inkwell will spill.* It was a small, petty act of disruption, but it was a test of both his control and her reaction. Elara picked up her pen, preparing to make a note. Just as her fingers brushed the wood, the inkwell—which had been perfectly stable—suddenly tipped over. *SPLASH!* A blot of thick black ink spread across the pristine white surface of the ledger, narrowly missing her navy dress. A few clerks gasped.
"Oh, dear," Elara said, her voice still perfectly calm, but her grey eyes flashed with a sudden, intense focus. She didn't look at the inkwell; she looked at Kevin. He met her gaze, his expression one of mild, detached sympathy. " Miss Vance. You see? Even the mundane world resists order sometimes." He activated Woven Concealment, making himself feel even more distant, more forgettable. Elara stared at him for a long, unsettling moment. She didn't *know* he did it, but her Beyonder intuition was clearly screaming.
She was analyzing the probability of the spill, and the numbers didn't add up. She sighed, reaching for a rag. "A messy business. Thank you, Mr. Adams." "My pleasure," Kevin replied, returning to his tea ledger, his heart *thrumming* with triumph. He was Sequence Seven, and she hadn't detected him. The Werewolf's chaotic fate was working perfectly as a smokescreen.
The rest of the morning passed in strained silence, broken only by the rhythmic *TICK-TOCK* of the wall clock. *** During lunch break, Kevin walked to a quiet, deserted park bench overlooking a smog-choked fountain.
He pulled out the day's newspaper. The front page screamed about the rising coal prices and the ongoing pollution crisis. Buried on page three was a follow-up to the East Borough incidents. *Another Brutal Attack in East Borough – Witnesses Report Primal Screams.* The article detailed the attack on the laborer, mentioning "deep gouges in the brickwork" and "unnatural strength."
It didn't mention the Werewolf, but the description was clear enough. Kevin focused his Fate Scrying on the article. He wanted to see how the Werewolf's thread was doing. The vision came quickly: the Werewolf's thread was thick and bloody, but it was also being pulled taut—not by Kevin, but by *other* hunters. He saw flashes of silver weaponry, the glint of specialized bullets, and a recurring image of a man in a long trench coat, whose fate thread pulsed with the power of the Hunter Pathway. *Excellent. Let the Hunters and the Werewolf occupy each other.
* He focused on the Parasitic Link. It was still strong, but the Werewolf was in pain. Kevin could feel a faint, metallic *pang* of shared discomfort whenever the beast moved too quickly. He decided to use his new power to subtly stabilize the Werewolf, ensuring his shield didn't die prematurely. He didn't want the Werewolf to win, but he needed it to survive for a few more days. He extended his power through the Link, performing a minor Fate Drip, stealing a tiny amount of luck from a random, wealthy merchant in North Borough and rerouting it to the Werewolf. The thread shimmered. He felt the Werewolf's agony momentarily ease, replaced by a surge of animalistic vigor. The beast would find a better hiding spot, a place to lick its wounds. *There. Now, back to the hunter.
* He focused on Elara Vance's thread again, specifically looking at the silver symbol of authority. He used a deeper level of Fate Scrying, pushing the limits of his new sequence. The symbol resolved into the stylized image of a pair of interlocking gears and a key—the insignia of the Machinery Hivemind, one of the seven orthodox churches, dedicated to the God of Steam and Machinery. *A priestess? An agent?* Kevin thought, chewing the inside of his cheek. The Machinery Hivemind was known for its meticulous record-keeping and its highly effective agents, often operating in the guise of engineers, clerks, or accountants. They were not typically involved in hunting Werewolves, which was usually the domain of the Church of the Evernight Goddess or the Storms.
*Unless… the Werewolf is stealing something related to them.* He needed to confirm his theory. He couldn't ask Elara directly, but he could use Destiny Knot again, this time with a specific query in mind.
He returned to the office, the afternoon quiet settling in. Elara was still meticulously cleaning her spilled ledger, her face a picture of intense concentration. Kevin opened a new set of accounts—the records of a local factory specializing in precision clockwork components. He focused a Destiny Knot on the fate of the factory ledger and the fate of Elara's conversation with Mr. Harding later that afternoon. *Knot: If Elara Vance speaks to Mr. Harding about the East Borough killings, she will mention the factory's name.* He waited.
The afternoon dragged on, filled with the *tap-tap-tap* of abacus beads and the dull, repetitive *scratch-scratch* of pens. Around three o'clock, Mr. Harding waddled over to Elara's desk. "Miss Vance," he wheezed, adjusting his strained waistcoat. "How are the ledgers coming along? And are you settling in?" "Quite well, Mr. Harding," Elara replied, her voice soft. "Though, if I may, I've noticed a peculiar discrepancy in the records for the East Borough factory, 'Precision Gears of Backlund.' Their inventory doesn't quite match their output, even accounting for waste." Kevin's internal tension snapped. *Precision Gears of Backlund.* Destiny Knot successful. "Ah, yes, that old factory," Mr. Harding chuckled dismissively. "Been running for decades. Bit messy, their books. Don't worry about it, Miss Vance.
Just make sure the final figures balance." "Of course," Elara said, but her eyes held a deeper intensity. Kevin knew everything he needed to know. The Werewolf was connected to the factory. Elara was investigating stolen goods or technology important to the Machinery Hivemind. This wasn't a random monster hunt; it was an organized recovery mission. The stakes had just risen from surviving a monster to surviving a Church agent.
***
The end of the workday felt like the release of a massive, coiled spring. Kevin packed his things with practiced slowness, ensuring he was one of the last to leave. Elara was waiting for him outside the building, leaning against the damp brick, the gaslight casting her features in sharp relief.
"Mr. Adams,"
she said, pushing off the wall. "A moment of your time?" Kevin stopped, adopting his most bland, accountant-like demeanor.
"If it's about the quarterly projections, Miss Vance, I'm afraid I've already filed them." She offered that cool, unsettling smile.
"It's about the nature of coincidence, Mr. Adams." "A fascinating philosophical topic, but I prefer the concrete reality of double-entry bookkeeping."
"Indeed. But you see, I find it a massive coincidence that the only individual in this office who did not react with surprise to the sudden, improbable spilling of an inkwell is also the only individual who seems entirely unconcerned with the rash of brutal killings in East Borough."
Kevin let out a soft, dry *chuckle*. "Unconcerned? Not at all. Merely pragmatic. Worrying about things outside one's control is a waste of energy. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a long walk home."
He started to move, but Elara's voice stopped him, the tone dropping from polite observation to something sharp and dangerous. "The beast that attacked the laborer last night was a Werewolf, Mr. Adams. . They are fast, they are strong, and they leave a very distinct, chaotic aura. Any Beyonder in the vicinity would have noticed it."
Kevin turned back, his face neutral. He allowed his Woven Concealment to drop slightly, letting her sense the faintest *pulse* of the Parasitic Link—the lingering chaos of the Werewolf's fate. "I confess, Miss Vance," Kevin said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, leaning in slightly.
"I did notice a strange smell of wet dog and ozone last night. Perhaps the tannery next door is having issues and perhaps you should stop reading children books."
Elara's grey eyes narrowed. She was searching his aura, trying to place the chaotic energy she sensed. She was mistaking the Werewolf's fate for his own lingering residue. "You are… an odd man, Mr. Adams. You possess an unnatural stillness."
"It's the ledgers," Kevin said, shrugging. "They demand patience." He decided to push the interaction, testing her limits and his new ability to weave complex knots. He performed a quick, complex Destiny Knot: *Bind Elara Vance's next action to the need for a cup of tea, and if she accepts the tea, she will reveal one minor piece of information about the stolen item or have a great influx for his fate.
* "Tell you what, Miss Vance," Kevin offered, softening his tone slightly. "It's been a taxing day. Let me buy you a cup of tea at 'The Grumbling Bean.' Perhaps we can discuss the financial irregularities of the local clockwork industry."
Elara hesitated. Her thread of fate momentarily tightened, pulled by the Destiny Knot. Her expression shifted from suspicion to a sudden, almost overwhelming desire for a warm drink.
"Tea sounds… like a good idea for the moment mr Adams," she admitted, her professional façade cracking slightly. "Very well, Mr. Adams. But I am buying."
******
"A fine compromise," Kevin agreed. *Got her.* They walked in silence to the café, the tension between them thick enough to cut with a dull spoon. Inside 'The Grumbling Bean,' Samuel, the tired waiter, looked surprised to see Kevin with a companion, especially one so impeccably dressed. He quickly brought them two steaming mugs of black tea.
"so..mr Adams" Elara said her voice gentle yet autorotative " do you believe in the supernatural" she said to that he gave a practiced nod "before my parents passed they told me about things in this world which could not be explained, though most do not believe them i do to a certain extent"
Elara listened before nodding for a few moments then getting up "what you are saying is the truth" after work tomorrow we shall meet at the church of steam and machinery for a longer conversation.
after saying this she left before Kevin even responded, after she left he let out a sight of relief before drinking his tea then hers not wonting to waste money after doing this he returned home.
[END OF CHAPTER]
Q&A-PUT QUESTIONS HERE
hi writer here some of you may be put of due to his extremely fast advancement but note its needed as the true story has not stated yet and due to a major plot point for future progression he needs to be sequence 5 attest before Klein arrives in two years hope you enjoyed the chapter.