It's early morning. I'm on my way to Market Port, two bags of rocks in hand. The road is smooth, transitioning from the heavy industrial smog of the Northern Outskirt to the salty air of the Western Outskirt. The shift is almost refreshing.
The carriage stops in front of the market. I step into the crowd. The weight of the bags draws eyes—hesitation in their gaze—but no one dares interfere.
I head straight to Rehanza's office. He greets me, and we sit across from each other at the table, bags between us.
"Here." I tap each bag once. "For the investment."
He pulls both bags toward him and opens them. Some rocks spill onto the table with thud sound.
"These are enough to buy all three failing companies you mentioned last Sunday," I say.
"Oh!" He stops counting, eyes widening. "That's great." He returns some rocks to the bags, closes them, and sets them aside.
He rises and walks to a shelf, pulling something out: a wooden box held at his waist, papers stacked on top.
"What are they?" I ask.
Back at the table, he sets them side by side. Hand on the papers: "Here is a list of houses in Duenchester you can buy."
"And here…" His hand moves to the box. "The sarvines you requested."
I rub my hand once, then point to the papers. "House first."
He slides the stack toward me. I flip through, reading each description carefully, searching for a house with immediate access to port or train routes.
One stands out: a house in the Suburb of Duenchester City, perched atop a hill overlooking the port. Not far from the major train station, controlled by the Republic.
"This one will do." I slide the paper back across the table.
He reads it, nods. "Fine choice, Monsieur." Approval in his smile.
I reach for the box of sarvines and lift the lid. Instantly, the carnivorous plants jolt toward my face, snapping. Their stems are too short to reach me.
"Woah, that's dangerous," Rehanza says, eyes wide.
We turn to each other. First we pause. Then the silence to echoes of laughter.
"What a crazy plant," I say, closing the lid.
I rise, holding the box against my waist. "I guess that's all."
"Wait, Monsieur." He rises as well. "You haven't decided on the name for the new Distribution company."
"Oh, right." I stop, head down, eyes closed. Nothing comes to mind.
I glance at Rehanza. He waits, patient.
"Monsieur?" he prompts.
I make up my mind. Our eyes meet again. "Rehanza Trading Company."
"Re-re-Rehanza?" He steps closer. "My name? Why?"
I shrug. "You're trustworthy enough to be its President."
"You're giving me such a position…" he pauses. "…just like that?"
I nod. "Also, register it under Owright Firm."
"Understood, Monsieur."
He steps aside, letting me walk past.
From his office, I head to Bellingham Workshop.
"Good Wednesday," I greet Charlo, who's inspecting a carriage.
He turns, surprised but welcoming. "Monsieur Len, good Wednesday."
My eyes drift over the workshop, nodding at each activity. "Business is doing well, yeah?"
He laughs, gesturing toward his workers. "Thanks to your investment. Honestly, you saved us all. Without you, they wouldn't be able to feed their families."
I smile.
After I say goodbye, I step into a carriage that carries me from the Western Outskirt back to the Northern Outskirt.
The carriage rolls to a stop in an alley between florist shops. The air smells faintly sweet.
I step down and walk into the alley. To my warehouse.
Inside, I set the wooden box on the heavy table at the center of the room and lift the lid. The sarvines remain calm, their mouths slightly open, patient.
Waiting for a mistake.
I step outside again and search along the wall until I find a stick about the length of my arm.
Back inside, I use the stick to lift one sarvine slowly from the box. It does not struggle.
That does not make it harmless.
I carry it toward the eastern wall where my steel chests are stacked. I slide the stem beneath the edge of the top chest.
Then I push.
Bam.
The metal drops. The plant convulses once and collapses under the weight.
Now it is safe.
I remove the crushed remains with my bare hand and carry them to the western wall. I take a flask from a shelf and drop the pulp inside.
The flask goes onto the retort.
Click.
The Termorik ignites. Heat rises steadily.
Inside the glass, the sarvine begins to liquefy. Bubbles gather along the inner surface. Steam coils upward as the plant breaks itself apart from within.
I leave it to cook and step back outside, heading toward the market.
The streets are crowded. Voices overlap as I pass.
"Twilight Wraith? He's probably an imperial assassin."
"A cultist? No… I think he's a hero. After all, he kills the rich."
"It doesn't matter who he is. He's not making me rich."
I continue walking.
Chisel.
Hammer.
Syringes.
Vinegar.
After securing what I need, I return to the warehouse.
The sarvine extract is finished.
I tidy the space before proceeding.
The box of living sarvines is moved beside the entrance.
The flask of extract sits at the center of the heavy table, beside a flask of black kuor.
The gold bar hidden inside the support beam is placed near the table's edge.
My diary lies open before me.
I begin with the gold.
Hammer in hand, I carve a star. A hexagram. The pattern must be exact. Around it, I engrave small writings following the principle drawn in the diary.
Slow work.
There is no room for error.
Each strike is measured. Each line deliberate.
When I finish, I inspect it again.
Good. No mistakes.
I lower the gold bar into the sarvine extract. It sinks to the center of the flask.
Next, I pour a small amount of black kuor into the mixture.
The liquid darkens instantly.
Then it reacts.
Bubbles surge upward. The flask trembles. A hiss builds into a low roar, as if something inside is trying to claw its way out.
I add vinegar.
The reaction screams and then falters. The acid forces it down. The mixture still bubbles, but the violence fades.
Finally, I return the flask to the retort.
Heat builds.
The contents churn, then thicken, then bind.
The liquid grows dense and heavy.
Gradually, the movement fades into stillness.
It is complete.
Perfect Grade. Umbral Vial.
I draw the mixture into a syringe.
The gold remains at the bottom of the flask, intact. The hexagram carved into it is now filled with black residue, faintly pulsing.
It was never meant to dissolve.
It was meant to guide.
The extract responds to structure. With the proper inscription, it can be shaped.
Tentacles.
Or wings.
Or anything the principle allows.
Testing it on myself would be reckless.
I take the dual-expression mask from the shelf and slip it beneath my coat alongside the syringe. Then I leave the warehouse and lock it.
I walk until the market noise fades behind me. At a quiet stretch of street, I stop beside a manhole.
No one is watching.
I put on the mask and descend into the sewer.
The air is damp. Rot clings to the walls.
Bodies lie near the channel. Some still breathe. Too weak. Too old. Too young.
Not suitable.
I move deeper. Voices echo ahead.
"I think we lost him," a man says between gasps.
I approach from behind.
"Lost who?" I ask.
They flinch and spin around.
"Wha—who are you?" one asks.
"Nico, wait… I think I know him," the other says.
"Jay, you know him?"
"He's the Twilight Wraith."
Nico snorts. "Look at his mask," Jay insists.
"No. He can't be."
I chuckle. They stiffen.
"Is there a problem?" they ask, stepping closer.
I close the distance first.
The syringe drives into Nico's arm.
He collapses from the force, screaming.
"What are you doing?!" Jay drops beside him, grabbing his arm.
"A gift," I say, tossing the half empty syringe toward Jay.
He catches it on reflex.
Blood spills from the puncture wound. Then it changes. It darkens. Thickens.
The bleeding slows as something pushes outward from beneath the skin.
The flesh splits.
A black tentacle tears free, slick and trembling, stretching toward the sewer floor.
"What is this?!" Nico screams.
His voice echoes. The people along the channel turn their heads.
"What did you do?" Jay demands.
"You were running from someone," I say calmly. "I gave you a way to stop running."
Before he can respond, I turn and walk.
I step into shadow and keep my distance.
They don't see me.
I see everything.
Jay helps Nico stand. The new tentacle coils uncertainly beside him, responding to his panic, twitching when he struggles.
The sewer dwellers watch without rising.
Then—
Heavy footsteps.
A tall man steps into view. Nearly two meters. Long dark coat. The Gilded Ledger Order emblem glints on his chest. A taxman.
Just in time for experimentation.
Nico panics and charges.
The new limb lashes forward, jerking and uneven. He tries to control it, but fear makes it wild.
The taxman steps aside.
Clean. Minimal movement.
Bang.
The shot lands on the tentacle. The bullet detonates on impact. The tip bursts apart, splattering against the brick before dissolving into black liquid.
I watch closely.
Nico does not scream.
Good.
He roars and rushes again.
Bang.
The second shot takes his head mid-stride. Bone and blood scatter across the sewer wall. His body collapses, the remaining tentacle slackening into fluid.
Jay stares for half a breath.
Then he drinks the liquid left in the syringe.
It works faster.
His throat bulges.
Black mass forces its way out of his mouth, spilling downward in writhing strands. Not choking him. Not hijacking him. Forming.
Bang.
The taxman doesn't hesitate.
The bullet punches through Jay's abdomen. The explosive round tears him open from the inside. The forming appendages collapse into sludge.
Silence returns to the sewer.
The taxman lowers his weapon and scans the darkness.
I remain where I am.
Unseen.
Observed results:
No pain response from limb destruction.
No cognitive override.
Transformation latency acceptable.
Structural instability under high-impact munitions.
The Umbral Vial functions as intended.
Perfect Grade.