The air inside the hut was stale. Welt opened his eyes to a rotting ceiling, his small body feeling foreign. The ritual had succeeded. He could sense the newly formed, invisible circuits within him, a rarefied network pulsing in harmony with something far greater than the confines of the room. Outside, the forest was no longer just a collection of trees and dirt. Every leaf, every blade of grass shimmered faintly with energy, World Essence. A new layer of reality had revealed itself.
He rose, his joints stiff. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, but his mind was sharp. He stepped out of the hut. The world looked the same, yet fundamentally different. He was now part of it, connected in a way no ordinary human could comprehend.
This power was raw, unshaped. He may have become an Evolver, but his level remained at zero. He needed to train, to deepen his understanding of the Bizarre Dao of the Outers, and most importantly, survive. A cold resolve hardened within him. This was the first step on an infinite journey. This new world, with all its threats and mysteries, had to be conquered.
The exhaustion from the ritual and the hunger finally overtook him. He found a hidden nook among the roots of a great tree and slipped into a heavy, dreamless sleep.
Or so he thought.
His consciousness was pulled into a void. Before him sat a colossal entity, its face distorted, censored by reality itself. Its dark green robe swallowed the light, and above its head hovered a crown made of black stars. The entity flipped through the pages of a massive tome bound in unknown material.
A voice echoed, not through the air, but directly within his mind. Heavy and ancient.
"You who come from beyond,
You who bear a god's burden,
You who mourn fate,
You who choose the path, ████."
His awareness snapped back to his body. He awoke with ragged breath, lying on the damp forest floor. Three words echoed in his head, over and over like a broken recording: "Trogool, Skarl, ████-████-██████." The whisper faded as he managed to move his fingers, leaving a lingering, unnerving echo. His clothes were drenched in cold sweat.
He couldn't keep hiding in the woods or stealing from small towns. The risk of capture was too high, and his progress would stagnate. He needed a more complex environment, richer in information and resources.
The Eastern Cledestine Kingdom's Capital: Clockthon.
Welt packed his only possessions, the Throne of Nothing book and a few leftover coins. The journey to Clockthon required money he didn't have. He'd have to earn it without drawing the attention of the Essence Keeper Order.
He made his way to the nearest settlement, District Nine of Cruches. At the horse-drawn carriage terminal, he approached a resting driver.
"How much to Clockthon?" Welt asked.
The driver eyed him up and down, a child in worn clothes. "Two dryn. Pay upfront."
Welt had only one dryn and ten grior, half a dryn short. "I'll pay one and a half dryn now. I'll settle the rest when we arrive."
The driver narrowed his eyes, hesitant. "Get in. But if you can't pay the rest, I'll throw you out midway."
Welt handed over his coins and climbed aboard. The cabin smelled of stale wood and sweat. He sat in a corner, keeping a low profile. The journey would take five days. Five days to plan how to get the remaining fare, and his next move.
The trip passed in monotonous silence, broken only by the creaking of wooden wheels over uneven dirt roads. Welt didn't speak to the other passengers, a fat cloth merchant and two weary farm women. He spent his time observing the landscape as it shifted from dense forests to sprawling farmland, occasionally interrupted by small villages.
On the second day, the carriage stopped in a waystation town called Romen, under the jurisdiction of Sydney Barony. The place felt desolate. The wooden buildings leaned crookedly, the roads were muddy, and the air carried the scent of stagnation. The driver announced a two-hour break. This was his chance.
Welt stepped down. He wasn't looking for food; his priorities were different. His eyes scanned the surroundings, seeking materials. He collected leftover wood scraps from behind a workshop, grabbed a handful of charcoal from an abandoned forge, and bought a small piece of chalk from an old peddler with the last of his petty coins. With a small knife he always carried, he got to work in a quiet alley.
For the next hour, he carved wood with a precision uncanny for a child. He crafted thirty-two chess pieces: king, queen, bishop, knight, rook, and pawn. His hands moved with muscle memory from a previous life, shaping each piece with a clear purpose. He drew a 64-tile board on a flat slab of wood, darkening half the squares with a mixture of charcoal and water. A crude but functional chess set was born.
He didn't offer it at the market. His target was higher. He asked a guard where Baron Sydney's residence was. The guard pointed to a slightly larger, but equally dreary manor, with peeling paint and an overgrown garden.
A servant, looking just as tired as the manor, opened the door. Welt simply said, "I have a proposal for the Baron."
He was led into a dim, dusty study. Baron Sydney was thinner than expected. The middle-aged man sat behind a massive mahogany desk, the only well-kept furniture in the room. His graying hair was neatly combed, and his hazel eyes were sharp and calculating.
"A child brings a proposal?" the Baron's voice was hoarse. "What kind of entertainment is this?"
Welt didn't answer. He placed the chessboard on the desk and began arranging the pieces. "This isn't entertainment, Your Lordship. It's a simulation of war."
The Baron's interest stirred. He leaned forward. "Explain."
"Two kingdoms," Welt began, his voice flat. "Two armies. Each piece moves according to different rules, reflecting their roles on the battlefield. Pawns are infantry, knights are cavalry that can leap over lines, rooks are siege engines, and the queen is your strongest… commander."
He explained the rules concisely, with no childish excitement. He showed how the pieces threatened and protected one another, how control of the board was akin to territory, and how ultimate victory could only be achieved by toppling the enemy king.
Baron Sydney listened in silence, his eyes never leaving the board. He was a minor noble in a poor province, his status eroded by time and lack of resources. This game spoke to him, a miniature world where strategy and wit could overcome raw power.
"Play one match with me," the Baron ordered.
They played. Welt let the Baron learn the flow, offering enough resistance to make it engaging, but ultimately allowing him a narrow victory. A flicker of passion appeared on the Baron's usually dour face.
"How much for this thing?" the Baron asked, his finger tracing the king piece he'd just saved.
"Five grior," Welt replied.
The Baron chuckled dryly. "You come to my house, show me a game I've never seen, and ask for five grior? Are you stupid or naïve, boy?"
"I just need the fare to continue my journey. The real value isn't in the wood, but in the exclusivity."
The Baron's eyes narrowed. "Exclusivity. I like that word." He paused to think. "I'll give you ten dryn. Not for this set, but for exclusive rights to the game within all of Sydney Barony. And you'll supply me ten more sets within the next month."
A trap. A long-term contract would bind him here. "That offer isn't worth monopoly rights, My Lord. For just your province, the price is fifty dryn, paid upfront."
"Absurd!" the Baron snapped, his noble façade cracking.
"Business is business," Welt replied calmly. "I don't have time for long negotiations." He began packing the pieces. "Five grior for this set is enough."
"Wait," said the Baron, quicker than expected. He saw the addictive strategy game for what it was, an intellectual luxury to flaunt before other nobles, a new potential source of income. Losing this opportunity to greed would be foolish. "Two dryn. For this set only. Take it or leave it."
"I'll take it." Welt stopped moving.
The Baron instructed his servant to fetch the coins. Two gleaming gold dryn were placed on the desk. Welt pocketed them wordlessly, turned, and left the manor without looking back. He had what he needed.
He returned to the carriage just in time, handed over the remaining half-dryn fare, and tucked away the remaining one and a half dryn. The carriage resumed its journey, leaving Romen behind.
For the next three days, Welt did nothing but observe and think. He now had starting capital. In Clockthon, he wouldn't make chess sets. That was a one-time trick. He needed something more sustainable.
His thoughts drifted back to the whispers from his dream: Trogool, Skarl, ████-████-██████. Names or passwords? Commands or curses? And that entity with the crown of black stars… was it the source of the Bizarre Dao of the Outers? The book mentioned no gods or patrons. This cultivation path felt foreign, grafted onto this world from somewhere else.
As the carriage neared the capital, the landscape changed dramatically. Roads widened and were paved with stone. Mounted patrols in Essence Keeper Order uniforms became a regular sight. They moved with cold efficiency, their eyes scanning crowds for anomalies. Welt could feel faint pulses of Essence from some guards—low-tier Evolvers, but far more disciplined than the bank guards back in Cruches Nine.
Clockthon loomed on the horizon like a mechanical titan. Giant smokestacks belched steam into the gray sky, towering over Gothic cathedral spires and imposing government buildings. The sounds of steam engines, factory whistles, and tram bells formed a deafening industrial symphony. The city lived and breathed ambition. Even the air felt denser, saturated with Essence from thousands of Evolvers who lived and competed within.
The carriage stopped at a bustling central terminal. Welt disembarked and melted into the crowd. He was a single drop in a sea. He wandered aimlessly, absorbing information. The architecture blended Victorian grandeur with strange steam tech. Bronze pipes coiled along brick buildings, hissing vapor intermittently. Steam-powered trams zipped along tracks, sparking with electricity. People here walked faster, dressed better, with sharper expressions.
He knew he couldn't wander forever. He needed a base of operations—somewhere cheap, anonymous, and strategic. Avoiding the luxury and administrative districts, he made his way toward the rougher Docks District. Among fish-scented warehouses and cheap inns for sailors, he would be harder to track.
He found a place called "The Rusted Anchor." It was falling apart, but busy—which meant the owner wouldn't question one more kid. He paid for a tiny upstairs room for a week. It was cramped, containing only a thin bed and a desk. The window faced a dark alley filled with crates and trash. Perfect.
Once he locked the door, he was finally alone. He pulled out the Throne of Nothing. The ritual had unlocked its first section: Bizarre Dao of the Outers. But many pages were still blurred and unreadable. He had to raise his cultivation level to access more knowledge.
His method required more than meditation. He had to absorb a specific type of Essence. The book called it the "Echo of the Drum of the Gods" or "The Fall of Antares." Essence rarely found in normal environments. But there were places where this Essence leaked into the world. These places were often deemed cursed or haunted, avoided by ordinary Evolvers due to their corrosive and unstable nature.
Finding such a place in a city as large as Clockthon was now his top priority. He needed maps, rumors, or information from the underworld.
The next morning, Welt left the inn. He wasn't looking for work, but for information. He spent the day in the public library, not reading state-approved books, but digging through old newspaper archives, city records, and reports of unusual incidents. He hunted for patterns: mentions of "haunted houses," "mysterious plague zones," or "industrial accidents with strange side effects."
After hours of searching, he found a small article from five years ago. A report of a partial collapse in the old sewer system beneath the Factory District. The incident was blamed on aging infrastructure, but one detail caught his eye: some rescue workers reported auditory hallucinations and a sensation of being "pressed upon by an unseen presence." The area had been permanently sealed by city authorities, citing structural danger.
That was it. A lead. A forsaken place, likely saturated with the Essence he needed.
That night, dressed in dark clothes, Welt headed to the Factory District. The area was a maze of narrow streets flanked by towering brick factories, most inactive at night. He found the sewer entrance, a massive iron gate sealed with thick chains and a warning plaque from City Hall.
The seal was a physical barrier, not an Essence one. With his small frame, he found a gap between the slightly bent bars. Just enough for him to slip through.
The air underground was cold and foul, a mix of sewage, rust, and something else. Something mineral and alien. He lit a small oil lantern he'd bought, its dim glow revealing an endless brick tunnel.
He walked for nearly an hour, following a rough map he had memorized from the archives. The deeper he went, the stronger the pressure became. This was the Essence he sought. The nadir circuits in his body began to hum softly, resonating with the environment like tuning forks.
Finally, he reached the collapsed area. The tunnel opened into a massive cavern where the ceiling had fallen away, exposing strange rock layers beneath the city's foundation. The stone was black with a purplish hue and pulsed faintly with internal light. In the center of the cavern, a small fissure emitted a thin, indigo mist. The source.
Welt extinguished his lantern. In total darkness, the mist glowed brighter. He sat cross-legged a few meters from the fissure, not too close. He knew how dangerous this Essence could be if absorbed too quickly.
He closed his eyes and began to meditate, following the Throne of Nothing's instructions. He did not forcibly draw in the Essence. Instead, he opened his nadir circuits, letting the ambient Essence seep into him naturally, like a sponge soaking up water.
The process was slow and painful.