# Scene 1 - from Viewpoint Character: Corin Faelwyn's point of view
He studies the guard post for a full hour before he even moves. The Graymist militia headquarters is a block of grim stone, three stories tall, hunched on the northern edge of the plaza like a bad tooth. The front is a killbox: no windows, just arrow slits and a door thick enough to shrug off a battering ram. The walls shimmer faintly in the daylight, alive with runes that crawl just beneath the mortar. Corin's eyes refuse to rest on them for long. It's like staring at a line of ants that, every so often, rearrange themselves into a word he almost recognizes—before dissolving back into noise.
The guardhouse garrison is a dozen strong, all told. He's watched five come and go since sunrise, none of them subtle. The uniforms are mismatched, some with armor, most with just the armband and a weapon at the hip. He counts two crossbowmen, one drunk enough to piss on his own boots by 10 a.m. A Level 8 Sentinel, though, is another matter.
She makes her rounds every twenty minutes: lean, brittle, her skull shaved smooth except for a black stripe of hair at the crown. The System tags her instantly, a blue wireframe avatar flickering to life when she steps into his line of sight. [L8: Sentinel—V. Doss]. The [Basic Perception] skill had unlocked the night before, and it's been vomiting information into his vision ever since. For every living thing he stares at long enough, a floating pane pops up, packed with data: level, status, mood, even an "estimated threat" bar. Corin is a [Level 0 Commoner]. His bar is the System equivalent of a DNR order.
He shuffles along the alley's edge, face buried in a patchwork scarf, and practices the trick he learned from Lyra: move with intent, but never in a straight line. If you cross a courtyard, zig. If you wait, fidget, but only when someone's watching. Be forgettable, but not invisible. He blends with the loiterers and beggars at the market's fringe, and every minute, he harvests data.
The [Basic Perception] pings each guard. Most hover between Level 3 and 5, none close to Doss's 8. Each wears a small, bone-white token at the belt—he clocks them as low-level access runes, probably keyed to the front door and the internal locks. The interior is harder to see, but through a brief glance at the supply wagons, he spies the topography: a square atrium, a staircase at the rear, the restrooms and mess hall down a flight. The vault is in the basement. Of course it is.
By noon, he's mapped the guard change. Doss is back in the office, the crossbowmen at their posts. The two ground-level guards argue over dice, watching the street with only half a brain each. Corin shuffles closer, keeping to the shadow beneath a slumped row of laundry.
He needs inside, and he needs a distraction. He considers the options: arson, a dead rat in the water barrel, a rumor about a brawl at the edge of town. But then his eye catches a maintenance door on the east side, set flush to the wall, camouflaged by a layer of tar and dust. No one goes near it. No one even looks at it.
He waits for the shift change, then circles the building, sidling up to the maintenance door in the lee of a trash pile. [Basic Perception] lights up the handle in red: [Mag-locked: L3 Security]. Not impossible, if you know how to break a lock. He thumbs the latch, then applies a slow, constant torque—deliveryman's trick, learned from years jimmying building access when tenants were too hungover to answer their buzzers.
On the third attempt, the System offers a new window: [Manual Override Possible: 9% Success]. Corin grins, then applies a little more force. The lock pops, quieter than a knuckle crack.
Inside, the temperature plummets. It's all raw stone and the reek of ammonia. The door opens onto a cramped stairwell that runs straight down, unlit, the air cooler and damper with each step. The concrete sweats, every inch beaded with cold water. He slides his hand along the wall to steady himself, fingertips grazing the slick surface, and nearly slips on the first landing.
The System throws up a health alert: [Infection Risk: Minor]. He ignores it. Nothing in this world will kill him as fast as being caught.
He pauses at the bottom of the stairs. The corridor beyond is short, with a right turn at the end and a heavy iron hatch set into the wall on the left. A blue rune glows above the hatch, brighter than anything else down here. It's sealed tight, but through the grille Corin smells the coppery tang of running water.
He leans in, listens. Beyond the hatch, a faint gurgle, then the click of a relay or switch, then nothing. It's some kind of utility access—a water main, or maybe a runoff for sewage and overflow. The door is mag-locked again, but the System chirps: [Key Required: Maintenance Token]. The guards above wear them at the belt. Corin does not.
He crouches, fingers brushing the seam between hatch and frame. The lock is clumsy, a flat wafer of steel pressed against the catch. He works the seam with his blade, flexing the metal just so, then improvises a shim with a folded bit of copper wire he'd plucked from the gutter that morning. He's gentle, slow, working the mechanism with careful, breathless pressure. On the third try, the catch slips and the hatch swings open.
The rush of cold air slaps him in the face. The tunnel beyond is a ribbed arc, the floor a trench of slow, ankle-deep water. It's barely wide enough to crouch, and the walls are alive with the tick and tremor of distant machinery. Conduits run overhead, arm-thick, each one labeled with a strip of luminous script that hurts his eyes to read.
He moves slow. Water soaks his boots and clings to his jeans, and the chill creeps up through skin and bone. Every two meters, he stops and listens. Once, a pressure valve hisses and releases a cloud of reeking steam, forcing him to flatten against the slime-slick wall.
At the third junction, he finds the main: a fat, black pipe banded in red and gold, vibrating with pressure. There's a control wheel set into the base, old and stained, and an access panel covered by a grid of small screws. He checks the wheel—locked in place with a pin. He could force it, but the torque would send an alarm upstairs.
He inspects the access panel, then pops it open with the knife. Inside, a tangle of glass vials and wire loops, each one fragile as a breath. He studies the array, then pulls a single wire, careful not to jostle the vials. The System shudders: [Sabotage Opportunity—Success Rate 62%].
He feels the option more than he reads it. Instinct, muscle memory. He pinches the wire, threads it back, then unseats the vial with a tiny twist. A single drop of blue liquid beads at the tip, quivers, then drops into the mess of copper below. The panel hisses, then quiets.
He reassembles the cover and steps back, heart stuttering in his chest. The water in the trench below the pipe is already changing, a faint iridescent shimmer curling through the surface.
He shivers, but not from the cold. The sabotage is invisible to a casual check, but the next time someone runs the maintenance, the pressure will spike and the whole line will rupture. Water, sewage, and whatever else they pipe down here will flood the basement in minutes.
He backs down the tunnel, careful not to splash, then takes the side corridor. It's narrower, the air growing stale and hot. At the end is a hatch leading up—a ladder, and then a trapdoor set into the floor of what must be the captain's office, or close to it.
Corin stops and checks the System for a pulse on the other side. Nothing—no living signatures within five meters. He climbs the ladder, slow, and presses an ear to the hatch.
Muffled voices, faint and distant, coming from the hall above. Not in the room, not close. He cracks the hatch, letting just enough light leak in.
The office is small, cluttered. A desk, a safe, two chairs, and a rack of ledger books along the far wall. There's a half-eaten meal on the desk, and a mug of something that smells faintly of whiskey and berries. A satchel sits atop the safe, its flap askew.
Corin waits another minute, then slips up into the room. He moves like a rumor: quick, silent, always with one eye on the door. He checks the satchel—inside, a pouch of coins, a clutch of wax-sealed documents, and a small, heavy object wrapped in velvet.
He unwraps it. The crystal key is the size of his thumb, banded in dull iron, with a cap at the top and a blade at the bottom like a broken arrowhead. The System pulses so hard it nearly blinds him:
[Artifact Acquired: Crystal Key]
[Effect: System Integration—Potential Unknown]
He wraps the key and pockets it, then takes one document for good measure—a map, hastily annotated with shift schedules and supply runs.
He is back in the tunnel before his nerves can register what he's done. He retraces his steps, wipes down every surface he touched, and closes the hatches behind him. At the bottom of the stairs, he pauses, listens, and hears the first hint of trouble: the groan of a pipe under stress, then the faraway shouts of men above, voices tinged with confusion.
He tucks his chin, slips out the maintenance door, and is gone before the alarm has even begun to ring.
On the street, the world is unchanged. Sunlight, the stink of people and animals, the background noise of a city pretending it isn't dying. Corin moves with the flow, head down, hands tucked, every step closer to the bunker.
The System pings him with a final report:
[Sabotage: Success. Pursuit Probability: Low.]
[Quest Progress: 60%—Return to Thorne.]
He lets out a slow breath and lets himself smile, teeth tight and white in the dirty light.
First real job, first real score.
He wonders how long the luck will hold.
# Scene 2 - from Viewpoint Character: Corin Faelwyn's point of view
He's three blocks from the guardhouse before he lets himself slow, ducking into a narrow slot between two abutting shops. The haze of the plaza is gone here—no sound but the drip of condensation and the tick of his own pulse. He presses his back to the cold wall, eyes on the mouth of the alley, waiting for the first sign of pursuit.
Instead, the shadow at the far end bends, then resolves into a shape that is not a shadow at all.
The System doesn't even bother with a subtle warning:
[UNKNOWN—Level 15. Class: Shadow Weaver.]
[Threat Estimate: Lethal.]
She glides forward, a smear of matte black against the wet stone, and for a moment Corin's brain can't process her as entirely human. The level 15 floats over her head in a bold, sickly violet, so saturated it leaves an afterimage on his vision. He's still parsing her outfit—formless, almost liquid, hooded and banded with strips of dark metal—when her face appears, sharp as glass, pale and angular, with lips like a razor cut.
"Congratulations," she says. The voice is quiet, almost amused. "Not many rats make it out alive. Fewer make it out with the package still in hand."
Corin freezes, inventory check flicking in his head. The artifact is still in his pocket, wrapped in cloth. He tries to think: who the hell is this, and what does she want?
He keeps his voice level. "You always stalk the alleys, or is this a special occasion?"
Her smile is nothing but teeth. "Sometimes I look for trouble. Sometimes I find it."
She closes half the distance without seeming to move. Corin forces himself not to flinch. The System is hammering a warning at the top of his vision, every stat line for her screaming in red: [AGILITY: 14], [INTELLIGENCE: 17], [MAGIC: 19]. Even at her most casual, she radiates potential violence.
She stops three meters away, head cocked. "You're an Outsider."
Corin considers denying it, but the way she says it makes lying irrelevant. "And you're a—what, tour guide?"
This time the smile reaches her eyes, but it's not friendly. "I'm an old hand. Been here long enough to know the best places to dig a grave, or disappear a body. You're new, which makes you interesting for about another minute."
He feels the microtremors in his fingers, the old adrenaline rush. In a situation like this, back home, the play would be to laugh, de-escalate, act stupid enough to not be a threat. But in Astrayis, weakness is chum in the water. He holds her gaze and asks, "If you're going to kill me, do it. Otherwise, I have a delivery to make."
She rolls the words on her tongue. "You're efficient. I like that." She steps closer, and the ambient mana in the air thickens, the runes on her bracers pulsing in sync with her heartbeat. "But efficient doesn't mean safe. Do you know what you're carrying?"
He shrugs, careful. "Not really. Didn't ask."
She studies him, looking for the tells. "Don't play dumb. The last Outsider who got his hands on one of those ended up as fertilizer, and not the good kind."
A beat. He thinks about the stories Thorne told him—how new arrivals either broke bad or went mad, and neither had a long shelf life. This woman is the living proof of the third path: adapt, survive, weaponize yourself.
He tries to read her as she's reading him. "You want it? Is that what this is?"
The woman shakes her head, a tiny arc of movement. "If I wanted it, you wouldn't see me. You'd just wake up dead." She leans against the wall, inspecting her own nails as if bored. "I'm here to give you advice. Because you're about to paint a target on your own back, and it'd be a shame if you didn't know why."
He waits, curiosity spiking despite himself.
"There are things in this world," she says, "that hunt System signatures. Like bloodhounds, but smarter. They don't care about power, only about anomaly. You run around with a System item, and you light up like a bonfire to anyone tuned to look."
Corin remembers the way Lyra talked about the Order, the implied capital letter. But this is worse. "You saying the guards are the least of my problems?"
She nods. "The guards are children. The real threat is higher up." Her eyes flick to the artifact bulging at his hip. "That key is bait, whether you know it or not."
He weighs the new threat vectors. If what she says is true, Thorne sent him in knowing the risk. Maybe the whole point was to flush out bigger prey.
"Why warn me?" Corin asks.
Her smile is pure venom. "Because not all of us are friends just because we died in the same world." She straightens, moving closer. The temperature drops; the damp air feels like it's turning to ice. "Some of us get to enjoy the show. And if you last, maybe you're worth recruiting."
She turns to go, but pauses at the mouth of the alley. "Watch yourself, rookie. They'll find you eventually. They always do."
He almost asks for her name, but the System flashes it for him, a brief, shuddering overlay:
[Vera—Shadow Weaver—Classified: Hostile/Unknown Alignment.]
He watches her vanish, literally—her body dissolving into a crease in the brickwork, a trick of light and physics that leaves him blinking and alone.
The adrenaline lingers, but so does the data. He files it away: System Hunters, bait, the art of not being noticed.
He exhales, and for a moment feels like he's won nothing at all.
The paranoia settles in for good, and Corin wipes his hands on his jeans, ready to play the game a little smarter.
He moves out, into the narrow alleys, and does not look back.
# Scene 3 - from Viewpoint Character: Corin Faelwyn's point of view
He's two streets away when the first alarm goes up—a hard, metallic clang that rattles window glass all the way down the block. Corin doesn't look back, but he can picture the scene: water spewing up from the basement, guards shouting over the roar as every conduit in the building goes critical. He moves with the early lunch crowd, slipping past a wagon stacked with rotting fruit, the smell of fermentation thick enough to hide the wet stink of sewage now leaking from the storm drains.
[Sabotage: Successful. Guardhouse Infrastructure Compromised.]
He almost laughs—if he had time to appreciate the System's snark. But the second phase of the job is the most dangerous, and his nerves tingle as he circles back toward the plaza, counting on confusion to thin out the defenders.
He hits the edge of the market just as the first guards spill into the street. They're in full panic mode: one is soaked to the waist, another is white-faced and clutching a bleeding hand, the rest clustered around a red-faced officer bellowing at the top of his lungs.
Corin slows, tucks his scarf higher on his face, and switches posture—slouching, feet dragging, eyes wide like he's just another curious onlooker. The System pings him with a new window:
[Disguise: Civilian. Threat Assessment: Negligible.]
He sidles closer, gets lost in the crowd, and pretends to be interested in the commotion as the officer marshals his men. One of them—probably the maintenance guy, given the oil under his nails—is holding a bundle of broken tools and muttering to himself. Corin edges over and lets a few words drift his way.
"… main valve's jammed … never seen pressure like that … someone must've switched the feeds, but how?"
Corin frowns, tries to look both dumb and helpful. "You got a water leak?" he asks, putting just enough concern into his voice.
The maintenance guy shoots him a look, instantly annoyed. "Not a leak, a goddamn flood. The sublevel's drowning, and I can't get the damn shutoff to—"
He stops, giving Corin a hard, assessing look. "You good with pipes?"
Corin shrugs. "Ran deliveries for a plumber once. Used to fix 'em when my boss got too drunk."
The guy grunts, then grabs Corin by the arm. "Come on, then. You can hold a wrench?"
He's dragged past the checkpoint with barely a glance from the guards—panic does wonders for protocol. Inside, the floor is already awash in ankle-deep water, and the shouts echo like thunder in the tight space. The maintenance guy hustles him down a stairwell, barely pausing at the slick steps.
In the utility corridor, the damage is worse than Corin expected. The main pipe is vibrating hard enough to buzz the handrails, and a spiderweb of fine cracks races along the length of the conduit. Water sprays from half a dozen seams, and two workers are frantically trying to patch the leaks with strips of oiled cloth.
"Valve's over there," Maintenance shouts, shoving Corin toward a rusted wheel. "See if you can get it loose—took two of us last time."
He throws his weight behind the valve, feeling the ancient metal give a little, then jam. He angles his body, uses the extra torque, and finally feels it break loose. There's a huge, wet cough from somewhere deeper in the line, and the spray turns from a fine mist to a high-pressure jet that slaps against the far wall and ricochets down the hall.
For a second, everyone freezes, eyes on the pipe as it begins to buckle, the hissing louder and sharper.
Corin pulls out, wipes his hands, and steps back as the maintenance guy scrambles to apply more pressure. He waits for the perfect moment—when every eye is fixed on the pipe—and then slips away, silent and small.
He ducks into a side hall, retracing the path he'd scouted the night before. With the guardhouse in chaos, the upper levels are practically deserted. He moves fast, boots squelching with every step, and finds the captain's office unlocked and empty. The satchel is right where he left it. He snatches it, takes the time to pocket a few extra documents from the desk, and then makes his way to the nearest window.
The drop is short—one floor, onto a stack of crates. He lands hard, rolls, and comes up running.
In the street, no one is looking for him. They're all watching the guardhouse as water bursts through the front doors, flooding the cobbles and sending children screaming in delight or fear.
Corin joins the exodus, blending into a group of market workers who are already making bets on how long it'll take the guards to fix the mess. He keeps his head down, working his way around the perimeter, and doubles back toward the Foundry when he's sure he isn't followed.
The tunnels under Graymist are familiar now, and his feet find the route without thought. He knocks at the vault door, three quick, sharp raps, and waits.
Lyra opens the door, her face impassive, eyes scanning him for blood or wounds. She steps aside, and Corin enters, the satchel clutched tight to his ribs.
Thorne is in his usual spot, slumped over a spread of papers, pipe clamped in his teeth. He doesn't look up as Corin drops the satchel onto the table, but he reaches out and opens it, hands quick and steady.
He lifts out the velvet-wrapped key, turning it over in the light, then unwraps it and holds it up. The artifact hums, a soft, almost inaudible whine, and the glass inside catches the firelight, scattering it in a spray of fractal color.
"Nice work," Thorne says, almost as an afterthought.
Corin drops into a chair, bracing himself against the backrest. "Your little plumbing job was a piece of shit, by the way. Nearly got me drowned."
Thorne grins, teeth yellowed. "Consider it a test. Graymist runs on disaster. If you can't swim, you sink." He tucks the key away and shuffles the papers back into a stack.
Lyra hovers near the door, eyes darting between the two men. Corin notices her hands are trembling, just a little, as she fidgets with the string at her waist.
"Anything else?" Thorne asks, almost too casual.
Corin hesitates, the encounter with Vera still fresh in his mind. He wonders if Thorne knows about her, if the warning was genuine or part of another layer of the game. He files the thought away, then shakes his head. "Nothing worth mentioning."
Thorne's gaze sharpens, but he doesn't press. Instead, he slides a slip of paper across the table. "You did what I asked. You get your cut. It's not much, but you've earned it." The paper lists a few safehouses, some ration tokens, and—most importantly—a note of introduction to a place called The Spire.
Corin pockets the paper, trying not to look desperate. "What now?"
Thorne shrugs, pipe smoke curling around his head. "Now, you rest. The Order will be in chaos for days. When things settle, come back. I might have another job, if you're still alive."
He gives Lyra a dismissive nod. "Show him out."
They walk the corridor in silence, Corin trailing, watching Lyra's silhouette flicker in and out of the light. When they reach the ladder, she finally turns.
"You saw one, didn't you?"
Corin blinks. "Saw what?"
She frowns, reading him. "A System Hunter."
He shrugs. "Maybe. Maybe just another survivor."
Lyra considers, then nods. "Be careful. Some are worse than the guards."
He gives her a wry grin. "Noted."
She lets him climb first, and he emerges into the cold, wet air with a sense of accomplishment and dread. The System waits for him just outside the entrance, hovering in his vision, urgent and bright:
[Quest Complete: Retrieve the Artifact.]
[Level Up—Commoner 0 Commoner 1.]
[Attribute Points Available: 1.]
He almost laughs. One point. What the hell was he supposed to do with that?
The System offers three choices, each highlighted and impossible to miss:
[Strength—Endurance—Intelligence]
He thinks about the day—the sabotage, the bluff, the way he'd talked his way through a panic with nothing but instinct and a few well-timed words. He thinks about Vera, about Lyra, about Thorne and the web of lies closing around them all.
Intelligence, he thinks. There's no muscle in the world that beats a well-tuned mind.
He taps the choice, and the System rewards him with a subtle, clean wash of clarity. The world snaps into sharper focus; colors are brighter, sounds are more distinct. For the first time since waking in Astrayis, Corin feels like he might have a chance.
He heads for the river, the moon bright overhead, and lets himself feel the smallest flicker of satisfaction.
One point. It was a start.
Tomorrow, he'd need a hell of a lot more.