The third day of the marine audit began with lowering clouds and a restless wind rolling off the West Blue. Villagers gathered in hushed knots near shop doors, eyeing the navy sloop bobbing against the pier. Rumor spread that the inspection might stretch into a week—long enough to fray every scholar's nerves.
Ash walked the shoreline with a wicker basket, pretending to collect sea glass for a "chemistry lesson." In truth he just wanted to feel the charge in the air. A storm, he knew, always hid new chances. The Codex echoed the idea:
Weather shift: barometric pressure falling fast.
Tactical note: Low visibility tonight may aid covert work.
He smiled into the gray surf.
Inside the Tree of Knowledge, navy boots clacked on stone like metronomes. Lieutenant Gallo skimmed shipping ledgers, but the real threat came from Agent Veyla. She drifted among the shelves like a dark wraith, asking small, precise questions that uncovered more than most marines would notice.
At mid‑morning she waved Ash over to a reading table. "Young Mr. Spectre," she said, voice smooth, "Professor Clover speaks highly of your curiosity. Tell me what you study."
"Balance of forces," Ash replied with a polite bow. "How opposing ideas keep the world steady."
"A lofty theme for a child," Veyla murmured. Her gaze slid to his bandaged hands. "Did you injure yourself copying scrolls?"
"Training in the garden," he said, making the lie gentle. "Slipped and scraped a stone."
Veyla's smile didn't reach her eyes. "Interesting. Most children prefer games."
"I learn through play."
She laughed softly, then leaned closer, lowering her voice. "Be careful what lessons you chase. Some doors close forever once opened." Her words felt like needle points, probing for a flinch.
Ash met her stare. "Every door teaches something, even when it closes."
The agent studied him a moment longer, then drifted away like a shadow melting into stacks.
The Codex pulsed a red border: Threat focus elevated. Suggest minimal exposure around CP‑4 agent.
During lunch break in the garden, Robin handed Ash a small book of star charts. "For when you finally look up," she joked.
He flipped a page and laughed. "I do glance up—just not as high as you."
Her smile faded as she lowered her voice. "Veyla asked if we've studied weapons hidden under the library."
Ash stiffened. "What did you say?"
"That we study words, not weapons." She paused. "Is there truly something dangerous down there?"
"Yes," he said, deciding half‑truth served best. "Something that belongs to my family line. Something others would misuse."
Robin nodded, accepting more than he spoke. "Then we keep it secret."
They were silent a moment. Birds chirped over the stone wall, unaware of human worry.
In the late afternoon, Ash snuck into the empty storage cellar—his private training spot. Removing his bandages, he inspected the cracks caused by the vault feed. Red lines still marked his palms.
The Codex offered a simple suggestion:
Convert 20 WRP into minor tissue repair? (Yes/No)
He agreed. Warm energy spread along the cuts, knitting skin. WRP dropped to 39.
A new message appeared:
Skill upgrade:Iron Vein Stage 1 → Stage 2
• Coverage possible up to shoulder for 8 seconds.
• Pain reduced.
Ash flexed. The grey coat now spread quicker and smoother—less like dragging metal, more like slipping on gloves. Confidence bloomed in his chest.
As sunset bled red behind the Tree, Professor Clover called Ash to his office. The old scholar looked tired but his eyes shone with trust.
"I found this key," Clover whispered, placing a small brass rod on the desk. "It was hidden among your father's papers. The etching matches symbols downstairs."
Ash's heart hammered. The rod bore miniature moons and scythes. "May I test it tonight?"
Clover hesitated, then nodded once. "Just promise to stay safe—and keep Nico out of trouble."
Ash thanked him, tucking the rod inside his sleeve.
Dark clouds finally cracked after dinner. Rain drummed the roof, thunder rumbled like distant guns. Lanterns flickered in hallways as wind howled through shutters.
Codex status:
Visibility outside: poor.
Vault corridor: unguarded (marines busy sealing windows).
Perfect.
Ash waited until footsteps quieted and lights dimmed. Robin met him at the stair landing, candle in hand.
"I'll watch the hall," she said.
"Thank you." He meant it deeply.
He stepped onto the alarm plates, letting Harmonic Blink blur time long enough to cross. At the door he set the brass rod into a fresh keyhole that had not existed yesterday. It clicked. Outer locks whirred open—gear wheels spinning behind the metal.
The Codex counted:
Door progress → 56 % → 63 % → 70 %.
A central panel slid up, revealing a hand‑shaped recess glowing faint blue. Words appeared in old script: "Commit thy flesh and fear."
Ash sighed. "Always more blood."
But he guessed what it wanted: full Armament feed. He rolled his shoulders, coated both arms to the elbow, drew a long breath, and pressed his hands into the recess.
Heat lanced through bone. Pain staggered him, but he poured will until sparks danced behind his eyes. The glow brightened, then snapped dark. He pulled free and collapsed to his knees.
WRP drop to 11.
Warning: risk of fainting.
The door, however, now showed 78 %. Only one big lock remained.
As Ash caught his breath, a muffled yell echoed through the stairwell. He jerked upright—Robin!
Bounding up the steps, he found her halfway down the corridor, back to a wall. Agent Veyla stood before her, sword‑stick drawn. Two marines lay stunned at her feet.
"What's happening?" Ash called.
Veyla didn't look away from Robin. "Your friend broke curfew and tampered with alarms," she said. "Care to explain why?"
"I asked her to look for a lost scroll," Ash lied, stepping closer. Iron Vein was impossible now—WRP too low—but he readied Micro‑Precognition for a dodge.
Veyla's eyes glimmered. "Let us search the basement together. If you're innocent, you have nothing to fear."
Robin's hand found Ash's. He squeezed. "Fine," he said. "Lead the way."
As they walked, Ash's mind raced. The door stood open to seventy‑eight percent, glowing runes obvious in darkness. Veyla would see at once. He needed a distraction.
Thunder cracked overhead; lights flickered. An idea sparked.
"Lieutenant!" Veyla shouted. No reply—marines were scattered sealing leaks.
They reached the final stair. Ash slowed. "I feel dizzy," he said, swaying.
Veyla frowned but gestured. "Sit."
He leaned on the rail. Robin stepped forward, voice soft, "Agent, may I get water?"
Veyla nodded once.
The moment Robin turned, Ash let himself slump, rolling down three steps with a groan. Veyla darted to catch him. As she knelt, he grabbed her wrist with surprising force.
She tried to pull free. "Let go—"
Ash whispered, "Check the main hall, not the basement. The professor needs you."
It was nonsense, but she blinked. A door upstairs banged in the wind. She stood, torn. In that second Robin returned, splashing water across the floor. Veyla slid on the slick marble, cursing. Robin dragged Ash upright. They scrambled down the opposite hall, hiding in a side archive.
Heart hammering, Ash whispered thanks. Robin just squeezed his arm.
Hiding among maps, Ash tried to catch his breath. The Codex beeped softly: Body and will: 3 / 3. Bond trial unlocked.
His dream returned—shards of the scythe, black light curling. He hissed as a new pain shot across his wrists. Dark marks, like faint tattoo lines of scythe blades, glowed under the skin.
The Codex spoke one line: "Skeyth stirs. Bonding window: 24 hours."
Robin touched his hand. "What's happening?"
Ash showed the marks. "My family's weapon—waking—needs me." He looked into her eyes. "Please trust I'll explain later."
She nodded. "Then survive first."
Marines regrouped; Agent Veyla ordered a head‑count and search pattern. Heavy wind rattled shutters. All power flickered out—pure blackout.
Ash took the chance. Guiding Robin to her dorm, he whispered, "Lock your door until sunrise." She squeezed his hand once and disappeared.
He slipped back toward the undercroft. Every candle was dark; only flashes of lightning lit the halls. He felt more than saw his path.
At the vault door the glowing recess still hummed. The Wraith Sigil pulsed gently. His wrists burned hotter; the dark markings spread. He pressed both hands once more.
Power flooded out—not raw will but something deeper, mixed with fear, hope, and steel. The final lock shattered with a boom like thunder. The door split open by a hand's width. Cold air smelling of night roses wafted out.
He collapsed, vision failing. The last thing he saw was a faint silhouette of a tall figure inside the dark room—a scythe resting across its shoulders, waiting.
Vault opened: 100 %.
Harvester's Accord – trial begins.
Pain vanished into numb fog. Ash floated in darkness. The dream hall appeared again, brighter. The scythe rose from the pedestal, blades dripping starlight. The calm voice spoke one last time:
"Prove yourself, and wield the Harvest."
Lightning flashed in the real world. In the undercroft, Agent Veyla stood at the corridor's mouth, sword‑stick glowing faint blue. She saw the open vault, the collapsed child, and the figure inside.
Her eyes widened. "What in the seas—?"
And the storm outside howled on.