POV: First Person
The transition from a life governed by computational constraint to one defined by raw physical capability was instantaneous and jarring. My mind, now boosted by an anomalous Wisdom of 20, processed the decision to join this bizarre, un-affiliated trio—Tro, Pryme, and Astendax—as a net positive. It was the quickest route to both temporal data acquisition and combat-level stat normalization.
The Ramdulus disciple, Tro, was still roaring his approval, his voice carrying through the muddy street, making the few passersby flatten themselves against the walls. Pryme, the Caliber, maintained his rigid posture, though a slight tension around his mouth suggested he was calculating the liability I represented. Astendax simply watched, his deep blue eyes unreadable, the scars across his face appearing less like injuries and more like lines of pure geometric certainty.
"A job, then," I stated, pulling my shoulder out from under Tro's heavy, bone-crushing arm. "If you operate outside official channels, you must have an immediate task that requires discretion and force."
Astendax nodded slowly. "We were on our way to consult the perimeter patrol at the South Gate. The trouble isn't inside the walls, Lee Koyanagi. It's in the fields."
We began walking south, navigating the chaotic, half-built lanes of Last Hope. The city felt less like a place to live and more like a massive, constantly leaking engine barely holding itself together. Every corner had stacked lumber, discarded stone blocks, or shallow pits that required a focused Dexterity 15 just to avoid.
As we moved, I felt the unsettling thrum of my obsidian Guild Card in my inner robe pocket. The card was a beacon of the future, a static object of high-level temporal contradiction. Keeping it on my person was a constant risk of localized temporal distortion, or, worse, attracting the attention of whatever anti-temporal force the 'Guardian' represented.
I slowed slightly, letting the others pull ahead by a few paces. "I need a moment to secure something," I said, my voice barely above a murmur.
I found a dark, abandoned niche between two enormous water barrels outside a smoky blacksmith's shop. In that moment of privacy, I pulled out the shimmering, corrupted card. My fingers grazed the chaotic, garbled text of my augmented stats.
Goal: Temporarily nullify temporal signature.
I reached inside the lining of my coat, where the fabric had always been triple-stitched—a habit of a meticulous data processor. I used the sharpened end of my cane to gently peel back the internal seam near the shoulder. It was a perfect, deep, hidden pocket, structurally separated from the main garment.
I slipped the Guild Card into this void, then pressed the fabric together. The material was thick enough, woven with some kind of natural lycrama-resistant fiber common in the game's higher-end assets, that it acted as a rudimentary electromagnetic and temporal dampener.
The frantic hum instantly subsided to a low, stable thrum—a vibration I could feel, but that was no longer screaming an error code to the universe.
Status: Temporal signature masked. Risk of immediate catastrophic contradiction reduced from High to Low.
I rejoined the trio, adjusting the collar of my robe. It was Pryme, walking with military precision, who addressed the next most pressing issue.
"That card is a mess," Pryme noted, his eyes scanning the streets but his mind clearly focused on me. "It flickers, Lee. And your claim of temporal displacement, while wildly improbable, cannot be ignored. The Sundering created enough instability without adding a contradiction from the future."
He stopped and looked directly at me. His gaze was intense, and I felt the scrutiny of his Caliber discipline—a force that relied on adherence to rigid protocol.
"If you are from the future," Pryme continued, "your very existence here is a potential trigger for an anomaly. You must shed that name immediately. The historical record cannot contain the same name twice."
Tro snorted. "Creating new problems just by existing! You're already legendary, kid."
Astendax remained silent, observing the exchange, likely agreeing with the cold logic of Pryme's temporal risk assessment.
Pryme turned to me, demanding. "You need a placeholder identity. Something common, innocuous, and completely unlinked to any future record."
I leaned on my cane, considering. My Wisdom of 20 kicked in, not with immediate data, but with a highly refined search pattern through my stored real-world knowledge—the vast archives of Earth fiction that constituted my real identity.
"A pseudonym, then," I conceded. "Something... functional, yet memorable to me. Something that grounds my actual identity while simultaneously concealing it."
I thought of my favorite Victorian fiction, the master detective whose every observation was a mathematical calculation. His real, literary first name was William. And Koyanagi, in its loose, Japanese-to-English translation, contained the character for Willow.
"Call me William Willow," I announced, the name feeling satisfyingly solid on my tongue. "Or Will, for short. It is a name without consequence in this era. A simple name for a simple adventurer."
Pryme nodded, accepting the choice instantly. "Will Willow. Good. A common structure. Let us proceed, Will."
Tro, however, had to put his own spin on it. He paused, rubbing his chin, his insane right eye gleaming with amusement.
"William Willow," he mused. "Two W's. That's weak. Too delicate. You're from the future, right? You need something more... futuristic. From now on, I'm calling you 2W. Two Double You. Sounds like a machine code. You got that, 2W?"
I simply sighed. "As long as it expedites the process, Tro, you can call me whatever you like. It seems I am trading one form of computational anarchy for another."
Astendax, walking beside me, finally offered a small, almost invisible smirk. "I will use Will. It is simple, and your reasoning is sound."
Thus, Lee Koyanagi, the gentleman fighter, was temporarily overwritten by Will Willow, the mysterious temporal exile, known only to one man as "2W."
The walk to the South Gate was a lesson in the city's precarious state. There were no smooth roads, only trails worn into the mud and gravel. The air was thick with the dust of construction and the smell of woodsmoke and refuse.
The South Gate was the original entry point, a massive stone archway, currently reinforced with crude wooden palisades and bristling with guards. It was the city's main artery, and every person, carriage, and supply wagon had to pass through its single, narrow choke point.
We found Pryme's contacts near a large, half-shattered guard post to the side of the main thoroughfare. They stood slightly apart from the main, weary-looking Caliber contingent managing the traffic flow.
The senior guard, Cliff, was exactly as described—a Caliber soldier with a clean, if balding, pate, and the weary eyes of a man who had seen too much. He leaned against the stone wall, his armor clean but scuffed.
His partner, Taggert, was the antithesis of Cliff—young, slightly too eager, his uniform still crisp, suggesting he was either new or simply uninitiated into the true weariness of the job.
"Pryme," Cliff greeted, giving a short, tired nod. "And Tro. Astendax. I see you've brought... another." His eyes, sharp and practiced, sized me up instantly—the cane-sword, the meticulously clean but slightly archaic robe, the youth.
"This is Will Willow," Pryme stated simply. "A temporary addition to the group. He's here to assist with the field problem."
"Will," I said, offering a polite, practiced nod.
"Right," Cliff grunted, not bothering to offer his own hand. "Let's get to it. People are coming in hurt. Not badly, just... surprised. And they're talking about the Goblins."
Cliff pushed off the wall and dropped his voice lower, gesturing us into a tighter circle near the broken post.
"The farmers and travelers are claiming there's been a massive surge in Field Goblin activity near the wild fields, about four to five kilometers south. It's early for this sort of territorial expansion, and they're being unusually aggressive. Last Hope can't afford a supply disruption right now, not with the main Citadel still under construction."
Cliff ran a hand over his balding head. "It's not just the violence; it's the fact they aren't seeing them until they're right on top of them. A Caliber patrol went out two days ago. They came back with two men needing stitches and a confused report."
Suddenly, the young guard, Taggert, leaned forward, his eyes bright with the excitement of sharing knowledge.
"That's because they're Field Goblins, sir!" Taggert announced, sounding like a proud Academy student. "It's fascinating! Not your standard forest or swamp greens. They are an evolutionary strain that's been adapting to the wild fields for generations. Their primary defense is their pelage."
Cliff gave a weary sigh. "Taggert, stick to the briefing."
"Right, sorry, sir," Taggert said quickly, but the momentum was too strong. He continued, his voice dropping slightly but still carrying enthusiasm.
"Field Goblins are exactly the same size as regular green goblins—about the height of your knee and slightly wider. The difference is their fur. They have a sophisticated, cellular-level chromatophore control over their thick, wiry pelage. They can change the color of their fur to precisely match their habitat. Out here, with the fields mostly golden with dry, late-autumn grass, their coat will be the exact color of sun-bleached gold."
Taggert raised a finger dramatically. "But here's the key for you, the hunters! They're seasonal breeders. The chromatophore maturation is a gradual process. Around this time of year, as they approach their second winter, they are not yet fully camouflaged. While their body fur is fully golden, the pigment control around their faces, hands, and feet lags behind. You'll see white or tan around the eyes, ears, mouth, hands, and feet! That's how you spot a young one!"
"In summary," Cliff cut in dryly, pulling Taggert back by the shoulder of his crisp uniform. "They are small, annoying, and blend into the grass. Pryme, Tro, Astendax—get out there, thin the herd, and establish a perimeter. We need those supply lines open."
"You heard the man," Tro grunted, already flexing his massive arms. "Let's go smash some camouflaged little bastards."
Leaving the gate was like stepping from a crowded, dirty chamber into a massive, open lung. The land outside the walls was initially bare—a kilometer of scorched earth meant to deny cover to any attacking force—but beyond that, the topography shifted abruptly.
The fields began. Not cultivated farms initially, but wild, sprawling grasslands, the stalks of dry grass reaching waist-high, creating endless ripples of golden light under the bruised, late-afternoon sky. The wind here was steady, carrying the scent of dry earth and distant marsh.
Our party of four—the brute, the legalist, the demon's son, and the temporal ghost—began marching south.
The first few kilometers involved crossing small, struggling farms, where families were desperately trying to salvage late harvests. Pryme, with his Caliber authority and rigid sense of order, did most of the talking. Astendax was silent, his unsettling blue eyes constantly scanning the horizon.
I used my Charisma 17 for the first time. It wasn't about manipulation, but presence—a calm, assured demeanor that commanded trust.
"The patrols will be increased," I assured a distraught farm wife whose barn door had been clawed open. "The Caliber and their associates are addressing the incursion immediately. Do you have any specific temporal data on the last attack?"
The word "temporal" was automatic, but the calm confidence of my delivery helped. The woman simply shook her head. "Just that they were fast, quiet, and yellow as the grass. Took two of our sheep before we could raise an alarm."
After stopping at a third, more remote homestead that showed clear signs of recent minor vandalism, we gathered enough data: the attacks were happening at dusk, the Goblins were avoiding direct confrontation with armed men, and their numbers were clearly increasing.
We reached the practical edge of civilization—the last thin line of fence posts before the wild fields took over entirely. This was the hunting ground.
"Alright," Pryme announced, pulling his sheathed longsword slightly forward, ready to draw. "The area is too wide for us to sweep as a unit without risking encirclement. We split up. Tro, you take the right flank toward the dry riverbed. Will, you go with him."
Tro grinned, slapping me hard on the shoulder—a gesture I absorbed easily with my Constitution 12. "2W and the Ramdulus! Let's go, kid. See if those cane tricks work on something that isn't a drunk Dwarf."
Astendax nodded to Pryme. "We will take the left, covering the ridge line. We need to focus on finding the nesting ground, not just individual skirmishes."
The teams were functional: Tro and I, combining raw, unpredictable force with enhanced analytical ability. Pryme and Astendax, combining military discipline with dark, specialized combat knowledge.
Tro and I immediately plunged into the tall, dry grass. The stalks towered around us, reaching up to my chest, turning the world into a claustrophobic maze of rustling, golden-yellow foliage. The sun was now low, throwing long, deceptive shadows.
Tro moved like a massive, well-oiled machine. He didn't bother being quiet; he simply pushed through the thick grass, his powerful legs driving him forward, his enormous arms occasionally sweeping the stalks aside. He relied on noise, scent, and pure, intimidating presence.
"Keep your head down, 2W," Tro grunted, not looking back. "The big ones are smart. They wait for you to get tired. They listen for the metal of that fancy stick of yours."
I ignored the advice on the cane. My walking stick was not just a prop; it was the foundation of my fighting style. I moved with a different rhythm than Tro—a low, gliding step taught by years of Bartitsu training in the mental dojo I created myself. My Dexterity 15 allowed me to weave between the grass stalks, moving the minimum amount necessary to avoid resistance, conserving energy.
My Wisdom 20, combined with my enhanced sight due to the statistical augmentation, worked overtime. It wasn't just seeing; it was processing.
I didn't look for movement in the golden grass. I looked for imperfection. I looked for the places where the light didn't catch the stalks correctly, where the color wasn't a perfect, uniform gold. I was looking for the flaw in the camouflage algorithm.
"Stop," I whispered, holding up a hand.
Tro halted instantly. The man was a brute, but his discipline was absolute when he was focused on a hunt. The quiet settled around us, broken only by the gentle shhh of the wind.
"I see a discoloration," I murmured, pointing my cane a few meters ahead, towards a slight rise in the terrain. "The color absorption is incomplete. Too much shadow, too close to the ground."
"Show me," Tro demanded, crouching slightly.
I pointed my cane precisely at a spot that looks indistinguishable from the surrounding grass. It was a faint, almost illusory patch of denser shadow where no shadow should have been.
"The chlorophyll index is still high in the fur patch there," I explained, relying on technical terms that meant nothing to Tro, but explained the flaw in the Goblins' organic programming. "The camouflage is a spectrum shift, not a perfect match. Young, perhaps."
Just as I finished the thought, a flash of dull tan appeared—a face, peering out of the golden stalks. It was small, hideous, with pointed ears and enormous, predatory yellow eyes. Taggert's description was spot on: the body was perfectly, invisibly golden, but the face had not yet fully matured, leaving a tell-tale smudge of tan or white around the jaw and eye sockets.
"Gods above, you're right," Tro whispered, a genuine note of surprise in his voice. "They're young ones. Coming up on their second winter, just like Taggert said."
Tro grinned, pulling a pair of enormous knuckle dusters from his belt. "Let's teach these babies a lesson in camouflage failure."
The first wave was perhaps a dozen Goblins. As soon as we were spotted, they burst from the cover with terrifying speed, moving in a low, erratic zig-zag that made them almost impossible to track against the moving golden backdrop.
The attack was a blur of golden light and tiny tan faces.
Tro met the charge head-on. He didn't dodge or parry; he simply became a devastating force of nature. His knuckle dusters, heavy steel rings designed to transfer crushing force, became a blur of motion.
CRACK. CRUNCH. THUD.
Each strike was definitive. Tro aimed for the ground, using devastating low hooks and crushing downward hammer fists to clear a semi-circle around us. The Goblins that survived the initial sweep were immediately driven back by the sheer force field he created.
I moved into position beside him, relying on my new stats and the technical precision of my style. Tro was the blunt force trauma; I was the surgical strike.
A small, unbelievably fast Goblin darted low, aiming for Tro's exposed ankle. Tro didn't see it; his focus was on the horizon.
My Dexterity 15 and Strength 16 kicked in. I didn't move my feet. I simply leaned low from the waist—a movement that would have strained my old Constitution 10—and drove the end of my cane-sword straight down.
THWACK.
The hollow thud confirmed the strike. The Goblin squealed, its attack diverted, but the impact was merely a painful blunt strike, not a killing blow. I had to follow up.
I snapped the cane back up, and with a swift, two-handed twist that relied on precise torque, I separated the outer sheath from the hidden rapier inside. The thin, needle-sharp blade was suddenly in my hand.
I plunged the rapier through the air, aimed not at the Goblin's chest—too tough—but at the soft joint beneath its knee. The precision of the movement was astounding, the culmination of years of calculated practice.
SHNNK.
The rapier found its mark. The Goblin crumpled, effectively disabled. The fight lasted less than forty-five seconds.
I sheathed the rapier back into the cane, my breathing barely labored, thanks to my enhanced Constitution 12.
Tro stood over the scattered, groaning Goblins, his heavily gloved fists resting at his sides. "Not bad, 2W," he admitted, wiping sweat from his brow. "You hit like a lawyer with a point to prove. Why didn't you use the sword straight away?"
"The cane is a tool of misdirection," I explained, scanning the fields again, my high Wisdom suggesting the fight was merely a territorial skirmish, not the main event. "Its primary function is to draw the opponent in, to make them miscalculate the distance. I prefer the clean geometry of a blunt weapon if possible."
We surveyed the scene. The young Goblins were mostly stunned or disabled. They were indeed manageable.
"We need to keep pushing," I urged. "Taggert said the age determines the difficulty. If there are young ones, there are established territories, and thus, mature Goblins."
We pushed deeper into the wild fields for another half hour. The sun was now touching the horizon, bathing the entire landscape in a deceptive, flat, golden-orange light. The wind picked up, making the tall grass dance and shimmer.
"Something's wrong," Tro muttered, his aggressive stance giving way to a more predatory tension. "Too quiet. The young ones should have scattered and alerted the others. We should be getting hit."
"They're not scattering," I corrected, my Wisdom 20 screaming an analytical warning. "They're waiting. The mature ones don't need to move; they have achieved perfect camouflage."
I stopped dead in my tracks. The entire field, meters deep in dry grass, looked exactly the same. But my analytical mind was picking up patterns of wind shear, miniscule displacements of pollen, and a subtle shift in the sound of the air.
"Tro," I whispered, "we are surrounded. Do not move. Do not look directly at the grass. They are waiting for us to target them."
The mature Field Goblins were invisible. Their chromatophore system was complete, their skin and fur matching the golden grass with flawless biological fidelity. If you looked at a patch of grass, it was just grass. But the analytical data in my brain suggested that several patches of grass were approximately knee-high, had a center of mass, and were occasionally swaying against the wind in a rhythm that wasn't purely natural.
Tro grunted, his grip tightening on his knuckle dusters. "Fine. If I can't see 'em, I hit everything."
He was about to swing wildly when the air in front of me shimmered—a slight distortion, like heat rising from the ground.
Warning: Target acquiring. High velocity.
I didn't see the attack. I processed the distortion of light and air. My Dexterity 15 reacted by throwing me sideways, dropping my center of gravity instantly into a low crouch, a movement requiring immense physical control.
SLASH.
A razor-sharp claw, invisible and silent, ripped through the air where my head had been a millisecond before. I felt a sharp, searing pain across my left shoulder.
My Constitution 12 kicked in. The pain was severe, but localized. I was cut, but not disabled.
I glanced at the damage—a long, shallow laceration tearing through my robe and cutting the skin beneath. It was the first time I had been truly injured in the game, and the sting of reality was immediate.
"They're fast!" I hissed, clutching my shoulder.
"They're nowhere!" Tro roared, finally losing his cool. He spun and delivering thunderous backfists at suspected areas of the grass. "We can't fight what we can't see!"
WHUMP.
The impact struck something solid, causing a flash of yellow fur to briefly appear and then instantly disappear as a painful squeal was heard. The Goblin hit the ground and vanished again, its perfect camouflage reasserting itself mid-tumble.
The field erupted. The sound was not of movement, but of simultaneous, silent assaults. They were attacking in coordinated strikes, relying on their invisibility to confuse and overwhelm.
A second Goblin struck Tro's side, a rapid, brutal tear. Tro grunted, barely registering the hit, but the attack was deep enough to bleed.
I scanned frantically. My Wisdom 20 was giving me conflicting data: high probability of threat at positions Alpha, Beta, and Gamma, but no visual confirmation. I needed a way to break their camouflage, a systematic way to expose the flaw in their programming.
"The head! Only the face, hands, and feet fail!" I yelled over the wind. "We need to force them to stand up and expose the last failure point!"
A Goblin struck my side, a lightning-fast scratch that tore another section of my robe. My Constitution 12 minimized the pain and blood loss, but I was taking damage too quickly. I couldn't keep this up. Tro was taking heavier hits, but his immense Constitution and Ramdulus training meant he was shrugging them off like heavy rain.
I drew my rapier again, holding it vertically. It was a defensive posture—a shield for my left side.
The light. The angle of the sun.
I realized the critical error in their tactic. They relied on blending with the environment, but that camouflage relied on absorbing ambient light. They had to move. When they moved, they would cast a shadow on the grass, or displace the grass enough to cast a shadow on themselves.
I started running in a tight, controlled circle around Tro, my Dex 15 allowing me to move with impossible fluidity through the dense grass. I was bait.
Look for the shadow. Look for the disruption.
There! A patch of grass directly behind Tro showed a sudden, tight disruption—a rapid compression of the stalks as a Goblin prepared to leap.
"Behind you, Tro! Low, charging!"
Tro dropped his defensive posture and kicked backward with a powerful, crushing heel.
SPLAT.
The sound was sickening. The kick connected perfectly, launching the unseen Goblin twenty meters away, where it landed and finally became visible—a twisted, broken mass of yellow fur and tan skin.
The momentary victory was paid for with a flash of pain as an invisible attacker struck my calf, drawing blood through my trousers. I staggered, leaning hard on my cane.
We were losing the battle of attrition. The Goblins were disciplined, unseen, and numerous.
Just as Tro and I were establishing a tight, defensive circle, the sound of organized combat erupted from our left flank—the area Pryme and Astendax were covering.
It wasn't the wild punching of Tro, or the precise parrying of a gentleman fighter. It was the rhythmic, brutal efficiency of trained killers.
A wave of golden Goblins, distracted by the new source of noise, started moving rapidly through the fields toward the left.
"They found the nest!" Tro roared, realizing the tactical shift.
A moment later, Pryme burst through the tall grass, his Caliber longsword a gleaming blur of silver. He wasn't aiming for the Goblins; he was simply cutting the grass with wide, sweeping movements, creating a rapidly expanding clearing.
Astendax followed, moving with a dark, economical grace I had only read about in the highest-level combat manuals. He moved with a speed that exceeded my own Dex 15, seeming to anticipate the exact location of the invisible threat.
His ceremonial sword, with its tearing quillons, was lethal. It was not a cutting weapon; it was a slicing and crushing weapon. He didn't waste time on defense. He moved directly into the path of the retreating Goblins.
Flick. Slice. Crush.
His sword found the Goblins with terrifying accuracy, tearing them apart or pinning them to the ground, disabling the camouflage with the sudden, violent death.
Pryme, having cleared a sizable area, used the exposed ground as his zone of control. Any Goblin entering the open space was instantly visible against the brown soil and was met with a precise, military strike from his sword.
"Focus on clearing the flanks, Will!" Pryme commanded, his voice sharp but controlled. "Astendax and I will manage the center push."
I nodded, gripping my cane-sword. My enhanced Wisdom suggested an immediate tactical shift. We had the initiative now.
Tro and I charged forward into the field, pushing toward the center where Astendax was operating. The goal was no longer defense, but a focused, coordinated assault on the main nesting area.
I focused my vision—my Wisdom was filtering the visual data—on Astendax's wake. He was creating temporary voids in the camouflage where Goblins were visible.
I used my rapier to finish the Goblins Astendax had pinned or wounded. Tro, seeing the clearing, moved with renewed vigor, delivering bone-jarring punches relentlessly.
The fighting was over in another two minutes. The sound of metal, crushing blows, and squealing Goblins was replaced by the low rustle of the wind and the heavy breathing of the four of us.
We stood in a small clearing, surrounded by a carpet of fallen golden grass and the defeated Goblins. Pryme wiped a thin line of blood from his cheek. Tro had two shallow, bleeding scratches on his chest and arm. I felt the stinging of the cuts on my shoulder and calf. Astendax was untouched, his breathing even.
"They were fully mature," Astendax observed, sheathing his sword. "Too smart to take us on in a direct fight. They were waiting for us to panic and retreat."
"The camouflage is terrifying," I admitted, looking at the remnants of a powerful, invisible threat.
We spent the next half hour ensuring the area was clear and tracking the retreat paths of any survivors, marking the deepest trail heading south toward the marshlands.
We then returned to the farms, finding the families huddled anxiously inside. Pryme delivered the official report: "The incursion has been successfully repelled. We have thinned the population, and the threat level has been temporarily neutralized. The path to the city is clear for now."
The sight of the four of us—three men covered in minor wounds and dirt, standing beside the imposing, silent figure of Astendax—was enough to reassure them. My Charisma 17 worked as intended, lending authority and trust to the message.
As we walked back to the city gate, Tro could not resist taunting me.
"You should have seen 2W, Pryme," Tro laughed, throwing his arm around my shoulder again. "He was all scientific, 'The chromatophore index is too high! The displacement of the light absorption!' And then he just got sliced up! You looked like a scared pigeon, 2W!"
"I was running an advanced comparative analysis under duress, Tro," I countered, adjusting my torn robe. "I processed a previously unencountered camouflage mechanism while simultaneously managing incoming threat vectors. I performed optimally."
"You freaked out," Tro concluded happily. "Good. You're human. Now go patch that fancy silk robe."
We reached the South Gate as the last vestiges of daylight disappeared. The Caliber guards were lighting the perimeter braziers, throwing long, flickering shadows.
Cliff was still standing near the broken post, managing the evening traffic.
"Status report?" he asked Pryme.
"Threat neutralized," Pryme reported formally. "Field Goblins thinned significantly. Supply route secure for the week, perhaps two. We tracked their retreat to the southern marsh. Recommend follow-up patrol."
Cliff nodded, satisfied. He looked at the chaos of the gate traffic—wagons, people, and guards arguing over papers.
"This gate," Cliff sighed, rubbing his tired eyes. "It's going to be the death of us. Too much traffic, too little control. Every ten seconds we have to pull out dusty documentation to confirm identity and origin."
I saw the opportunity. This was the moment I could introduce a crucial piece of future infrastructure, a minor temporal change that would have massive consequences in the future—the genesis of the Guild Card system.
"It's inefficient," I noted, stepping forward. "You are verifying identity against a centralized log that is paper-based and requires manual cross-referencing. Why not issue a standardized, non-forgeable identity marker?"
Cliff frowned at me. "What kind of marker, Will?"
"A card," I explained, relying on my Wisdom 20 to articulate the concept clearly. "A small, standardized piece of obsidian or metal, issued only by the nascent governing body—the Clan heads—containing an encrypted, tamper-proof ID code. Every legitimate resident, every merchant, every traveler authorized to pass through the city walls carries one."
"The marker is presented to the guard, who uses a localized scanning device to confirm identity and current access permissions," I elaborated. "Instant verification. The flow rate through this gate would increase by a factor of ten, and your security risk would plummet."
Cliff stared at me, dumbfounded. Tro was silently laughing into his shoulder. Astendax looked slightly intrigued.
Pryme, however, snapped his fingers. His face, usually rigid with rule-following, softened with the dawning realization of pure, undeniable logic.
"A standardized data key," Pryme murmured. "It completely bypasses the need for manual record-keeping at the entry point. It would bring order to the chaos of the gates."
Pryme looked at Cliff. "Cliff, this... this is a brilliant idea. If we can standardize the identity registry and decentralize the verification process, it solves half the resource allocation issues on the perimeter."
"I... I suppose it would," Cliff stammered, overwhelmed by the sudden efficiency. "It's far too complex for me to implement."
Pryme looked at me with grudging respect. "Will, you have the analytical mind of a Caliber Master. I will draft a formal proposal immediately and present it at the next Clan Council meeting. The security and efficiency benefits are irrefutable. You may have inadvertently invented the solution to the city's most critical infrastructure bottleneck."
Temporal change initiated. The Guild Card, the very object of my temporal instability, has now been seeded into the past by my own hand, confirming its creation in the future. The circle is complete.
With the mission complete and the future Guild Card concept planted firmly in Pryme's Caliber-trained mind, the final piece of the puzzle was stability. I needed a secure base of operations.
Tro immediately grabbed me in a headlock. "Right, 2W! Time for a celebratory drink! You're staying with me! My room is right above the tavern where we met. The 'Two-Headed Dwarf'! It's centrally located and always got action!"
"A tavern," I noted dryly. "The one where Grizak was recently introduced to gravity. I anticipate high levels of noise, low levels of hygiene, and severe risk of nightly brawls that could compromise my analytical state. I decline, Tro."
"Nonsense!" Tro protested, releasing me. "It's atmosphere! It's life! You get used to the yelling and the smell of old beer!"
Pryme stepped in, his voice formal. "Tro, that is unacceptable. Will requires a stable environment for processing. Astendax currently utilizes a small, private barracks on Caliber Island, near the main training centers. I can offer you a similar, small annex adjacent to his quarters. It is quiet, secure, and regulated. It has the best strategic security in the city."
"The Caliber Island is where the city is managed," Astendax added, his voice quiet. "It is boring, Will, but safe. And if Pryme is moving forward with your proposed identity system, you will need access to their data and resources."
I weighed the options.
Option 1: The Two-Headed Dwarf (Tro's place)
Pros (Charisma 17): Immediate immersion into the city's underbelly, access to gossip, political connections via the Ramdulus network.
Cons (Wisdom 20): Zero security, constant noise, high risk of surveillance, and severe disruption to sleep/analysis cycles. A recipe for failure.
Option 2: Caliber Island (Pryme's offer)
Pros (Wisdom 20): Absolute security, quiet, reliable structure, access to the nascent official Caliber data and resources, proximity to Astendax's knowledge.
Cons (Charisma 17): Isolation from street life, risk of Caliber scrutiny, inherently boring.
The choice was obvious. The Hard Mode player must always choose the path that maximizes data flow and minimizes entropy.
"Pryme," I said, offering a small, grateful nod. "I accept your generous offer. Given the demands of our... un-affiliated work, the quiet stability of the Island is preferable."
Tro grumbled, but accepted the decision instantly. "Fine. Boring. But I'll visit you, 2W. And I'll bring the noise."
Astendax simply nodded, a slight confirmation in his eyes. He understood the need for isolation and control.
"Very well," Pryme said. "The bridge to Caliber Island is the only way across the channel. We will escort you to the security perimeter."
We walked the last hundred meters toward the imposing stone causeway that spanned the murky channel, leading to the small, fortified island where the Caliber held court. The air became noticeably cooler, cleaner, and the noise of the city retreated.
The bridge was a narrow, heavily guarded choke point, flanked by stone towers. It was the entry point to the most secure, rigid, and disciplined part of Last Hope.
I paused just before the start of the bridge, looking back at the chaotic, living city of Last Hope—a city that would one day become the rigid, controlling First and Lasting.
I had a new name, a new purpose, a temporary team, and a ridiculous set of stats. I had successfully cheated the Hard Mode system. Now, it was time to move into the heart of the future Caliber's headquarters and begin the work of reversing the time jump.
I gripped my cane. The faint, dampening thrum of my hidden Guild Card was a constant reminder: Will Willow was a disguise. Lee Koyanagi was the agent of change.