The first thing Tristan Silverbrook noticed upon regaining consciousness was that the world no longer smelled like trash and damp brick.
Instead, it smelled of lavender, old parchment, and a sharp, medicinal tang that reminded him of the peppermint candies his grandmother used to keep in a tin.
The second thing he noticed was the pain.
It wasn't the screaming, white-hot agony of the alleyway, but a dull, throbbing rhythm that pulsed in his ribs with every heartbeat.
He groaned, the sound catching in his throat, and tried to shift his weight.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," a voice said.
It was the same melodic, bell-like voice from the darkness.
"Garrick had to set two of your ribs. You're lucky they didn't puncture a lung."
Tristan forced his eyes open.
He was lying in a four-poster bed with heavy cream-colored linens.
The room was spacious, paneled in dark, polished wood, with a large window that let in the soft, golden light of the late morning.
Sitting in a high-backed velvet chair next to the bed was the elf.
Up close, and in the full light of day, she was even more devastatingly beautiful.
Her pale green hair was braided loosely over one shoulder, and she had changed from her scouting leathers into a simple but elegant white tunic.
She was reading a thick leather-bound book, but as Tristan stirred, she set it aside, her amber eyes fixing on him with a mixture of relief and professional curiosity.
"You're awake," she said, a small, guarded smile touching her lips.
"I'm glad. It would have been a stain on the Moonveil Guild's reputation if a Silverbrook literally died in a gutter on our watch."
Tristan blinked, his brain trying to process the '16K' reality of her skin texture.
God, she's so high-res it actually hurts to look at her, he thought, his inner shut-in screaming in a mix of terror and awe.
He looked down at his chest, seeing the white linen bandages wrapped tightly around his torso.
"I... thank you," he managed to rasp. His voice was dry, like he'd been swallowing sawdust. "I think... I think I owe you my life."
"You owe Garrick," she corrected.
"He was the one who carried you back. I just provided the stabilization."
She sighed, leaning forward, her expression turning slightly puzzled.
"Though, I must admit, it was a difficult task. I've never seen a nobleman—especially one of your lineage—with such... abysmal mana reserves. My healing spells usually knit bone in minutes, but your body barely has enough internal energy to accept the weave. It was like trying to fill a bucket with a hole in the bottom."
Tristan felt a hot flush of embarrassment creep up his neck.
Great. Even my magic-immune system is a loser, he thought bitterly.
In his mind, he could see that mocking blue screen with the big, fat '1' next to Mana.
He wanted to scream at the System. Give me a break! I'm new here! I'm still installing the drivers!
"I'm sorry," he muttered, looking at the ceiling. "I'm not... exactly at my peak performance."
The elf's expression softened, perhaps mistaking his embarrassment for trauma.
"Forgive me. That was insensitive. You've clearly had a rough night. I haven't properly introduced myself. I am Sylvara Starbloom, Vice Captain of the Moonveil Guild."
She paused, as if expecting a reaction, then added, "And a 7th Circle Mage."
Tristan's jaw nearly hit the duvet. Seventh Circle?
He did the math in his head instantly.
She was an elite. A boss-level NPC. And here he was, a '1st Circle' embarrassment who had just had his magic sword shatter on a leather vest.
"Seven," he whispered, feeling smaller than he ever had at 181 kilograms. "That's... impressive."
"It is standard for my position," Sylvara said modestly, though there was a hint of pride in the tilt of her head.
Then, her amber eyes sharpened.
"Now, tell me, Tristan. What was a scion of the Silverbrook family doing in the Low Ring without a guard? And why were you dressed like a commoner's idea of a prince?"
Tristan froze. The 'Silverbrook' thing again. He needed to play this carefully. "How do you... how do you know my name?"
Sylvara let out a soft, musical laugh.
"Please. Look in a mirror, boy. Silver hair is the divine mark of the Silverbrook line. The royal family's most trusted advisors and the most legendary mages in Valdorian history. You could be wearing rags and covered in soot, and any citizen with half a brain would recognize those locks. The question isn't who you are, but why you were being used as a footstool by three-copper thugs."
Tristan took a deep breath. It was time for the oldest trick in the book.
The Isekai Get-Out-Of-Lore-Free card.
"I... I don't know," he said, putting a hand to his head and groaning for dramatic effect.
"I remember my name. Tristan Silverbrook. But everything else... it's like a fog. I remember falling... or something heavy hitting me... and then I woke up in that alley. I don't know why I was there. I don't remember my family. I don't even remember how to use my magic."
He watched her closely. Sylvara's brow furrowed.
She stood up, walking to the bedside and placing a cool hand on his forehead.
Tristan's heart hammered against his ribs—not from love, but from the sheer, paralyzing anxiety of a man who hadn't been within five feet of a woman in three years.
"Your pulse is erratic," she murmured.
"Memory loss? It's possible. Trauma to the cranium can do strange things to the flow of mana to the brain. If your 'Circle' has regressed to such a state, it's no wonder your mind is fractured."
She pulled her hand away, much to Tristan's relief.
"Rest," she commanded.
"Garrick is downstairs if you have questions about the city, but don't push yourself. The Moonveil Guild doesn't cast out guests in need, but the Silverbrooks are a powerful family. Once word gets out that we have one of their own, things will get... complicated."
She turned and glided toward the door, her movements so graceful it looked like she was sliding on ice.
"I have reports to file. Try not to break any more ribs while I'm gone."
With a soft click, the door closed.
Tristan collapsed back into the pillows, letting out a breath he didn't know he was holding.
"Okay. Okay. I survived the interrogation. Phase one complete."
He looked around to make sure he was truly alone, then whispered, "System. Open."
The blue screen shimmered into existence.
[ STATUS: RECOVERING ]
[ STRENGTH: 1 ]
[ MANA: 1 ]
[ IQ: 1 ]
[ DURABILITY: 1 ]
[ ESCHATON LEVEL: 1 ]
"Still trash," he sighed. But then he noticed a new, blinking tab at the top of the menu.
It looked like a silhouette of two people. He tapped it.
[ TARGET RECOGNITION / POTENTIAL TAB ]
The screen changed, displaying two high-definition portraits that looked like character cards from a high-end gacha game.
[ TARGET 01: ROSALIND EMBERFALL ]
Status: Princess of Valdoria / 5th Circle Mage
Social Standing: Royalty (SSS)
Potential Stat Points: 1,200
Relationship Level: Hostile / Insane
Tristan stared at the number. Twelve hundred points?
If he got those points, he could put 240 points into every single category.
He'd go from a level-1 peasant to a god-tier warrior in a single night.
He could probably bench-press a horse and have the IQ of Einstein.
"Yeah, right," he muttered.
"The only way Rosalind is having a 'sexual encounter' with me is if she's using my severed head as a bedside ornament. She thinks I'm a lunatic."
He swiped to the next card.
[ TARGET 02: SYLVARA STARBLOOM ]
Status: Vice Captain of Moonveil / 7th Circle Mage
Social Standing: High Noble / Elite (A+)
Potential Stat Points: 500
Relationship Level: Pity / Curious
"Five hundred," Tristan whispered.
"Five hundred points.
That's still a hundred points for every stat. I'd be... I'd be stronger than the guards. I'd actually be able to use that light-dagger without it turning into glitter."
He looked at the door Sylvara had just walked through.
The math was simple. The reward was astronomical. But the reality was a nightmare.
In his old life, Masaru had struggled to order a pizza over the phone.
He had practiced his "hello" in the mirror for ten minutes before joining a Discord voice channel.
Now, the "System" was telling him that the only way to not die in the next alleyway was to seduce a 7th-circle elven war-mage who looked like she was carved out of moonlight.
"This isn't a power fantasy," Tristan groaned, pulling the blanket over his face.
"This is a psychological horror game. How am I supposed to 'encounter' anyone when I can't even look her in the eye without smelling my own sweat?"
He lay there for a long time, the weight of his silver hair feeling like a lead crown.
He was Tristan Silverbrook, a name that apparently commanded the world's respect, trapped in the mind of a man who still felt like he had cheese-puff dust on his fingers.
Downstairs, in the main hall of the Moonveil Guild, the atmosphere was a bustling mix of 18th-century coffee house and military headquarters.
Mages in long coats debated over maps, and messengers hurried in and out with scrolls sealed in wax.
Sylvara Starbloom walked through the hall, her presence causing a ripple of respectful nods.
She stopped at a long oak table where a younger woman was meticulously cleaning a set of glass focus-lenses.
The woman had short, bobbed brown hair and bright, inquisitive eyes.
She wore the green-trimmed robes of a 3rd Circle Mage.
"Selene," Sylvara said, leaning against the table.
The younger woman, Selene Brightwood, looked up and smiled.
"Vice Captain! Back from the Low Ring? I heard Garrick had to haul back some luggage."
Sylvara's expression remained neutral, but there was a flicker of something—intrigue, perhaps—in her amber eyes.
"Not luggage, Selene. A guest. We found a man being beaten in the alley behind the Black Goose."
Selene tutted, returning to her lenses.
"The Low Ring is a pit. Why do we bother? Was he a merchant who took a wrong turn?"
"He has silver hair, Selene," Sylvara said quietly.
The glass lens in Selene's hand slipped, clattering onto the table.
She looked up, her eyes wide. "Silver? You mean... like, actually silver? Not just grey?"
"Pure, shimmering silver," Sylvara confirmed.
"He calls himself Tristan Silverbrook. But there's a problem. His mana is almost non-existent. He's at the 1st Circle—barely even that. And he claims to have lost his memory."
Selene leaned in, her voice dropping to a theatrical whisper.
"A Silverbrook in the Low Ring? With no mana? Sylvara, the Silverbrooks are the pillars of the Arcane Council. If one of them has been... 'reduced' like that, it's a scandal. Or a conspiracy."
Sylvara looked toward the stairs leading to the infirmary.
"He's strange, Selene. He looks like a hero from the old tapestries, but he talks like he's never seen the sun. He looks at me as if I'm a ghost."
Selene grinned, a mischievous glint in her eyes.
"Well, if he's a Silverbrook, he's probably handsome, memory or no memory. Maybe I should go offer some 'healing assistance'?"
"He's fragile," Sylvara warned, though a small smile played on her lips.
"Don't scare him. He's already convinced the world is out to get him."
"A handsome, mysterious Noble with amnesia and a tragic fall from grace?"
Selene laughed, picking up her lens again.
"Vice Captain, that's not a guest. That's a plot line. I think I'm going to like having him around."
Sylvara nodded, but her mind remained on the boy upstairs.
Tristan Silverbrook.
A name of power, in a body of weakness.
She wondered what kind of storm he had brought into her guild, and whether the silver-haired boy was a victim of fate—or something much more dangerous.