The wreck of the Sky-Cutter was a tomb of dead technology. It lay half-buried in a scree-filled gully high in the crags west of Hearth's Watch, a leviathan of corroded, non-ferrous metal, its lines sharp and alien even in decay. No vines grew on it. Birds avoided it. The local mana flowed around it in warped, uncomfortable patterns. It was a scar from an older age, a piece of the sci-fi past that sometimes intruded upon this cultivation world.
According to Lilith's whispered hint, a survivor of that age lived within: Tock, a Gnome Artificer.
Gnomes were not common here. They were tinkerers, theorists, and spiritual mechanics who saw the universe as a grand, malfunctioning clockwork. They were obsessed with binding magic to mechanism, soul to schematic.
Damien approached the main rent in the hull. The air smelled of ozone, hot oil, and something sweetly chemical. His Mana-Vision showed a riot of trapped, structured energies behind the metal walls—pockets of stagnant lightning, bottled kinetic force, and the gentle glow of countless spirit-batteries.
A high, reedy voice echoed from within before he could announce himself. "Hold! Identify! Aura scan inconsistent! Registering as localized entropy field with a paradoxical will-core! Fascinating! Are you a walking glitch or a new model?"
Damien stopped. "I am a client. Lilith sent me."
"The succubus! Of course! Transactional intermediary! Enter, walking glitch! Mind the Phase-Sifter, it's calibrating!"
Damien stepped inside. The interior was a claustrophobic wonderland. Workbenches groaned under disassembled artifacts—crystal orreries whirring next to steam-piston assemblies, soul-capture gems wired to arcane logic-boards. In the center, standing on a stack of books to reach a massive brass console, was Tock.
He was three feet tall, with large, luminous eyes behind magnifying goggles, skin the color of tarnished copper, and wild white hair that stood on end as if perpetually electrocuted. His aura was a buzzing, intricate gold—the color of active intellect and spiritual engineering. His cultivation was unorthodox, but the System placed him at the equivalent of a 2nd Order, 7th Rank, his power vested not in his body, but in his creations and his formidable mental fortitude.
"You need something made," Tock stated, hopping down and circling Damien, a handheld device clicking and whirring as it scanned him. "Something to interface with your anomalous perception suite. You 'see' non-standard spectra. You wish to augment, focus, perhaps record?"
"Yes," Damien said, impressed. "A lens. To focus my spiritual sight. To see truth, lies, and the flow of power more clearly." He placed three large shards of Glacial Silverite on a cleared bench. "Primary material."
Tock snatched a shard, peering through it. "Oho! Cryo-active spiritual conductive lattice! Impure but vibrant! Self-sustaining mana loop! You grew this? You're a walking geo-magical refinery!" He scurried to a wall covered in schematics. "A lens… not optical. A psycho-spiritual focal array. We'll need a housing of neutral density—Void-Touched Obsidian. I have some. A stabilizing matrix of Elven Moon-Silver for clarity. And a drop of your own soul-essence to key it. This is high-precision work! The cost will be… significant."
"Name it," Damien said.
"The leftover Silverite. And," Tock's goggled eyes fixed on him, "permission to take non-invasive spiritual readings during the process. Your paradox is a data-set I must have!"
Damien considered. Letting this genius tinker scan his soul was a risk. But the potential reward—a custom artifact to unlock the next stage of his perception—was greater. The System calculated a 68% probability that Tock was merely curious, not malicious.
"Agreed. Non-invasive only. One attempt to probe deeper, and our business ends."
"Fair! Ethical parameters accepted!" Tock clapped his hands. "The process will take six weeks! You will assist! Manual labor and precise mana infusion! We begin now!"
The next weeks were a unique form of cultivation. Damien's life fell into a new rhythm: mornings managing the mine via icy missives, afternoons and nights in the Sky-Cutter with Tock.
The work was meticulous. Tock taught him to use delicate tools to etch microscopic frost-runes onto the Silverite shards, a task his perfect control over ice made him unnaturally suited for. He infused the molten Moon-Silver with his intent for "clarity" and "discernment." He learned about mana-channel geometries and spiritual resonant frequencies.
And Tock scanned him. Waves of harmless, inquisitive energy mapped the surface of his aura, his meridian structure, the edges of his Avatar. The Gnome chattered constantly, his commentary a stream of consciousness.
"Fascinating! Meridians are not opened, they are frozen open! Permanent state of optimal flow! Terribly uncomfortable, I imagine, but efficient! Avatar is not an emanation, it's a separate processing unit! Symbiotic, not summoned! And this… this deep-core signature…" His device buzzed in alarm as it brushed the buried splinter of the Fell-Wyrm's will. "Cataclysmic-grade foreign data! Read-only! Do not attempt to access! Marvelous! You are not a cultivator, boy, you are a host organism for a cosmic conflict!"
Damien said nothing, focusing on aligning the third Silverite prism.
During this time, his own cultivation progressed. The constant, fine mana manipulation was perfect training for Sensory Synchronization. His Soul-Sight grew sharper. He could now see the faint "threads" of intention connecting people—the green thread of Borin's cautious loyalty to him, the silver thread of Jaxom's manipulative planning. He began to see flaws in spiritual constructs, weak points in armor auras.
He also felt other presences observing Hearth's Watch from afar. Once, a sleek, predatory shape circled high above on leathery wings—a Vampire Scion on a scouting run for its coven. Another time, the earth trembled with the passing of a Stone-Giant trade caravan far to the east. The world was vast, populated, and busy.
Finally, the day came. Tock, grimy and triumphant, presented the finished artifact.
It was a diadem, not a crown. The band was seamless Void-Touched Obsidian, dark enough to drink light. Set within it was the Soul-Lens: a complex polygon of fused Glacial Silverite and Moon-Silver, its interior a swirling nebula of frozen blue and cool silver light. It hummed with a quiet, intelligent cold.
"The Oculus of the Frozen Truth," Tock announced grandly. "Wear it on your brow. It will sync with your Soul-Sight. Functions: Truth-Sense (lies manifest as thermal cracks in the speaker's aura), Spiritual Flaw Detection, Mana-Flow Prediction (short-range), and a passive Mental Ward against low-grade psychic intrusion. It draws power from your own core. It is, effectively, a part of you now."
Damien took it. The moment it touched his skin, a jolt of perfect synergy ran through him. The lens activated. His perception exploded.
The world wasn't just energy and intent anymore. He could see the history in objects—the faded grief in the wood of Tock's workbench, the residual pride in the Sky-Cutter's hull. He looked at Tock and saw not just his buzzing gold intellect, but the deep, hidden sorrow of a lost homeland, a loneliness millennia old.
He could see the future, too—not clearly, but as probabilistic branches. He saw three possible outcomes for his next step out the door, weighted by percentage.
It was overwhelming. He staggered, his Avatar surging to process the influx.
"Sensory overload!" Tock chirped. "You'll adapt! The brain is a plastic instrument! Now, my payment!"
Damien handed over the remaining Silverite and submitted to a final, comprehensive scan. Tock giggled with delight as data streamed into his consoles.
As Damien left the wreck, the Oculus settled into his perception, filtering and focusing it. He was now 2nd Order, 2nd Rank. His display piece for the Conclave was not a weapon, but a tool of unmatchable insight. A statement: I do not bludgeon with power; I dissect with understanding.
He looked south, toward Ferros Keep. One month remained.
That night, a new signature arrived in Hearth's Watch. It was not subtle. It was a crashing chord of arrogant, devouring power. Star-Swallowing Tower disciples, three of them, their auras hungry voids edged with arrogant silver. They were here for the "new geomantic anomaly." They were here for him.
Jaxom's treaty was about to be tested. The Conclave had come early.