# Chapter 9: First Venture Out
The carriage wheel had a rhythm. *Thump, creek, grind. Thump, creek, grind.*
Sylas Vane sat on the backward-facing bench, his small legs sticking straight out, vibrating with every revolution of the iron-rimmed wheel. He wasn't looking at the scenery. He was looking at the floorboards beneath his father's boots.
**[ STRUCTURAL ALERT: AXLE FRACTURE IMMINENT. ]**
**[ ESTIMATED LIFESPAN: 14 MILES. ]**
**[ CURRENT DISTANCE TO OAKHAVEN: 6 MILES. ]**
It was a math problem. If the pot-hole density of the King's Road remained constant, and the load distribution—heavy on Arthur's side—didn't shift, they would make it to town. The return trip, however, was a variable he didn't like.
"Look at that sky," Arthur said, pointing out the window. "Clear as a bell. The gods are smiling on us today."
Arthur was wearing his best coat. It was a velvet affair that had been blue ten years ago but was now a vague, dusty gray. He had brushed it vigorously, but the System highlighted the threadbare patches on the elbows in neon orange.
"It's blue," Elara said. She was practically vibrating. She sat next to Sylas, kicking her feet, wearing a dress that had clearly been let out three times. "Is there really a juggler? A man who eats fire?"
"And a woman with a beard," Arthur promised. "Though I suspect that's just glue and goat hair."
Lilliana smoothed Elara's hair. Her hand shook slightly.
**[ SUBJECT: LILLIANA VANE ]**
**[ STATUS: FATIGUE LEVEL 6. RESPIRATORY STRESS. ]**
She shouldn't be traveling. The cold air was poison for her lungs. But the Baroness wouldn't stay behind while her family went to the harvest festival. It was a performance. The Vanes had to be seen. They had to exist.
Sylas shifted his weight. The wool of his breeches itched.
He wasn't interested in jugglers. He wasn't interested in bearded women.
He needed data.
For five years, his world had been the estate. Vane Manor. The barn. The library. He had mapped every inch of it, fixed every draft he could reach, and analyzed the structural integrity of every spoon in the kitchen.
He was operating in a sandbox. Today, he was finally connecting to the internet.
"We're almost there," Arthur said, leaning forward. "There's the smoke."
Sylas turned his head.
Oakhaven wasn't a city. It was a tumor growing on the side of the trade road.
From a distance, it looked quaint. Thatch roofs, stone walls, curls of woodsmoke rising into the crisp autumn air.
As they drew closer, the resolution sharpened.
**[ SCANNING REGION: OAKHAVEN TOWNSHIP ]**
**[ POPULATION DENSITY: HIGH. ]**
**[ SANITATION: CRITICAL FAILURE. ]**
The smell hit them first. It wasn't the romantic scent of woodsmoke Arthur had promised. It was unwashed bodies, rotting cabbage, tanned leather, and the distinct, copper tang of animal blood.
The carriage rolled under a wooden archway festooned with dried corn stalks and faded ribbons.
The noise was a physical wall. Shouts, barking dogs, the clatter of carts, the squeal of a pig being dragged somewhere against its will.
"Stay close," Lilliana said, her voice tight. She grabbed Sylas's hand. Her grip was damp.
They dismounted near the town square. Arthur paid the stable boy a copper to watch the carriage. The boy looked at the coin, then at the rickety carriage, and spat on the ground.
Sylas cataloged the spit.
**[ SALIVA ANALYSIS: TUBERCULOSIS MARKERS DETECTED. ]**
**[ REJECTED. ]**
He wiped his hand on his tunic after the boy brushed past him.
"Come on!" Elara grabbed his other hand. She was strong. The training was working. "I hear music!"
She dragged him into the crush.
It was a sensory assault. The festival was in full swing. Stalls lined the muddy streets, selling roasted nuts, questionable meat on sticks, and cheap amulets made of polished glass.
To a normal child, it was magic.
To Sylas, it was a spreadsheet of misery painted in bright colors.
He looked at the merchant selling 'Magic Tonics.'
**[ OBJECT: VITALITY POTION ]**
**[ CONTENTS: BEET JUICE, ETHANOL, RAINWATER. ]**
**[ VALUE: 0. ]**
He looked at the laughing man stumbling out of a tavern.
**[ SUBJECT: HUMAN MALE (30s) ]**
**[ LIVER FUNCTION: 40%. ]**
He looked at the guards patrolling the crowd. They wore the crest of the local Count—a boar on a green field. Their armor was polished, but their eyes were hungry.
One of them stopped a farmer pushing a cart of pumpkins.
Sylas slowed down, dragging his heels so Elara had to pause.
"What is it, Potato? The music is that way!"
"Shoelaces," Sylas mumbled, crouching down to fiddle with his boots.
He watched through the gap in the crowd.
The guard didn't ask for a permit. He simply leaned against the cart. He picked up a pumpkin, weighed it in one hand, and then dropped it.
*Splat.*
Orange pulp exploded onto the mud.
"Oops," the guard said. He grinned. It was a wet, ugly expression. "Clumsy hands today. slippery. Might drop the whole cart if I don't get some... traction."
The farmer didn't argue. He didn't shout. He looked tired. He reached into his tunic and pulled out a small pouch. He handed it over.
The guard weighed the pouch. He nodded. "Drive safe, citizen."
**[ EVENT LOGGED: EXTORTION. ]**
**[ SYSTEM ERROR: CIVIC ROT. ]**
Sylas stood up.
This wasn't just poverty. Poverty was a lack of resources. This was *decay*. The infrastructure of society here was rusted through. The strong ate the weak, and the weak thanked them for not eating everything.
"Sylas!" Arthur called out, waving from a stall selling woolen scarves. "Come see this!"
Sylas walked over.
The smile on his face was perfect. It was the Vacant Smile #4: Mild Interest mixed with confusion.
"Pretty colors," Sylas said, touching a red scarf.
"Thinking of getting one for your mother," Arthur whispered, checking the price tag. He winced.
"I'm hungry," Sylas announced.
It was the ultimate trump card.
"We just got here," Elara groaned.
"Hungry," Sylas repeated. He pointed a small finger toward a stall on the far side of the square. A fat man was spinning sugar onto sticks. "Cloud candy."
Lilliana looked at Arthur. Arthur patted his pocket.
"One," Arthur said. "You share with your sister."
He handed Sylas two copper coins.
"I can go alone," Sylas said. "I'm big."
"I'll take him," Elara offered.
"No," Sylas said. "Elara wants to see the fire man. I saw him. Over there." He pointed in the opposite direction.
Elara's head snapped around like a dog spotting a squirrel. "Where?"
"Behind the tent. He was breathing smoke."
"Go," Lilliana said, laughing softly. "But stay where we can see you, Sylas. Straight to the stall and back."
Sylas nodded. He clutched the coins.
He walked into the crowd.
He kept his head down, weaving through the forest of legs. He made it to the sugar stall. He bought the candy. It was pink, sticky, and smelled of burnt caramel.
He didn't turn back to his parents.
He needed to see the cracks in the foundation.
He slipped between two tents.
The noise of the festival faded instantly, muffled by heavy canvas and stone walls. The light changed from the golden afternoon sun to a bruised gray shadow.
He was in an alleyway.
It was narrow, slick with damp moss. The buildings leaned in over him, blocking out the sky.
Sylas took a bite of the sugar cloud.
**[ GLUCOSE INTAKE: SPIKING. ]**
**[ SYSTEM MODE: RECONNAISSANCE. ]**
He walked deeper.
The mud here was different. In the square, it was churned by boots. Here, it was stagnant. Dark.
He saw things the festival tried to hide.
A door hung off its hinges. Inside, a woman was coughing, the sound wet and rattling—the same sound his mother made, but worse.
**[ DIAGNOSIS: PNEUMONIA (TERMINAL STAGE). ]**
He kept walking.
He wasn't afraid. Fear was a reaction to the unknown. Sylas knew exactly what this was. This was the basement of the world, where the pipes leaked and the rats lived.
He reached a junction.
To the left, the alley widened into a small courtyard filled with refuse.
To the right, a dead end.
He stopped.
In the courtyard, sitting on crates, were three men. They weren't beggars. Beggars had a certain humility to their posture. These men sat with the arrogance of predators in a petting zoo.
They were playing dice.
Behind them, chained to a heavy iron ring in the wall, was a dog. It was a massive mastiff, ribs showing through its mange-ridden coat.
And next to the dog...
Sylas froze.
Sitting in the mud, hugging her knees, was a girl.
She couldn't have been more than six. Her ears were pointed—long, tapered points that poked through greasy, matted hair.
*Elf.*
Or half-elf.
She was wearing a sack. A literal burlap sack with holes cut for the arms. There was a bruise blooming on her cheek, purple and yellow like a grotesque flower.
The System grid snapped over her.
**[ SUBJECT: UNIDENTIFIED FEMALE ]**
**[ RACE: HALF-ELF / HUMAN HYBRID ]**
**[ STATUS: MALNOURISHED. DEHYDRATED. PHYSICAL TRAUMA DETECTED. ]**
**[ MANA POTENTIAL: ...CALCULATING... ]**
The numbers scrolled rapidly.
**[ MANA POTENTIAL: S-RANK (DORMANT). ]**
Sylas stopped chewing his candy.
S-Rank.
His sister, Elara, was a B-Rank potential, and she could already crack wood with her frustration. An S-Rank was a tactical nuclear weapon waiting for a trigger.
And she was sitting in the mud, staring at nothing. Her eyes were dead. The light had gone out of them a long time ago.
One of the men looked up. He had a scar running through his eyebrow and teeth that looked like broken tombstones.
"Lost, little lord?"
The other two men turned. They saw the velvet coat (dusty, but velvet). They saw the sugar candy. They saw a payday.
Sylas didn't move.
He analyzed the geometry of the alley.
**[ THREAT ASSESSMENT ]**
**[ HOSTILES: 3 ]**
**[ WEAPONS: KNIVES (CONCEALED). BLUNT OBJECTS. ]**
**[ SYLAS VANE COMBAT CAPABILITY: 0.2% ]**
**[ SURVIVAL PROBABILITY (DIRECT CONFRONTATION): 0% ]**
He couldn't fight them. He was a five-year-old boy with weak bones and a half-eaten stick of sugar. If he tried to channel mana to attack, his arm would explode before he scratched them.
"Cat got your tongue?" Scar-face stood up. He moved with a lazy, heavy grace.
Sylas looked at the girl. She hadn't moved. She hadn't blinked.
*Waste,* he thought. *Such a waste of materials.*
He took another bite of candy.
"I'm looking for the bathroom," Sylas said. His voice was high, trembling just the right amount.
The men laughed. It was a cruel, scraping sound.
"Bathroom's right here," Scar-face said, gesturing to the mud. "Cost you a silver to use it, though."
He took a step forward.
Sylas calculated the distance. Six meters.
He looked up at the building to his left. A drainpipe ran down the side. Rusted.
**[ STRUCTURAL INTEGRITY: 12% ]**
**[ LOAD BEARING: NEGLIGIBLE. ]**
"I don't have a silver," Sylas whispered. He stepped back.
"Then we'll take the coat," the man said. "And the boots. Nice leather."
He lunged.
Sylas didn't run away. He dropped to the ground.
Not in fear. In calculation.
He fell flat on his stomach in the mud, curling into a ball.
The man, expecting a fleeing child, swiped at the air where Sylas's head had been a second ago. His momentum carried him forward.
His boot hit the slick patch of moss Sylas had noted thirty seconds ago.
*Friction coefficient: Zero.*
The man's feet went out from under him. He flailed, heavy arms windmilling.
He crashed into the wall. specifically, he crashed into the rusted bracket holding the drainpipe.
*Crunch.*
The bracket snapped.
The heavy iron pipe, freed from its anchor, swung down like a pendulum of justice.
*Clang.*
It struck the second man—who had been rising to join the fun—squarely across the bridge of the nose.
He went down without a sound.
The first man groaned, clutching his shoulder.
The third man, the one closest to the girl, jumped up, pulling a knife.
"You little rat!"
Sylas scrambled backward, crab-walking through the muck.
This was bad. The physics engine had worked for the first two, but the third variable was active and armed.
The man raised the knife.
Sylas reached for his mana. He would have to blow his own hand off. He would have to detonate a pure blast of energy and hope the recoil didn't kill him.
He focused on his palm. The heat built up.
*Do it.*
Suddenly, a shadow fell over him.
It wasn't the man.
Something flew past Sylas's ear. A blur of brown and gray.
*Thwack.*
A rock. A simple, jagged river stone, the size of a fist.
It hit the knife-man in the temple with the precision of a sniper shot.
The man's eyes rolled back. He crumpled, the knife splashing into a puddle.
Sylas turned.
Elara stood at the mouth of the alley.
She wasn't wearing her coat anymore. Her dress was torn at the hem. Her chest was heaving.
In her hand, she held another rock. Her knuckles were white.
Her eyes were glowing.
Not metaphorically. A faint, violet haze leaked from her irises, evaporating into the cold air.
"Get away from him," she said.
Her voice wasn't loud. It was absolute. It was the voice of a natural disaster deciding where to land.
The first man, Scar-face, managed to scramble to his feet. He looked at his two unconscious friends. He looked at the girl with the glowing eyes.
"Crazy nobles," he spat. He looked at the knife on the ground, then back at Elara.
She took a step forward. The mud under her boot froze instantly, crunching with a sound like breaking glass.
The man turned and ran. He scrambled over a crate and disappeared down a side passage.
Silence returned to the alley.
Elara dropped the rock. The glow faded from her eyes, leaving her looking small and scared.
She ran to Sylas. She fell to her knees in the mud, ignoring the filth ruining her dress.
"Potato! Are you okay? Did they hurt you?"
She grabbed his face, turning it side to side, checking for bruises. Her hands were freezing.
"I'm fine," Sylas said. He wiped mud off his cheek. "I slipped."
"I told you not to go alone," she scolded, her voice cracking. "I told you!"
She hugged him. Tightly. He could feel her heart hammering against his chest like a trapped bird.
Sylas looked over her shoulder.
The elf girl was watching them.
She hadn't moved when the fight happened. She hadn't flinched when the pipe fell.
But now, she was looking at Elara.
There was a flicker of something in those dead eyes. Curiosity?
Sylas extricated himself from his sister's grip.
"Elara," he said.
"We have to go. Papa will be worried."
"Wait."
Sylas walked over to the elf girl.
The chain around the dog's neck was tangled with the girl's ankle shackle. They were bound together.
Sylas knelt.
The smell was atrocious. But underneath the filth, he saw the bone structure. High cheekbones. Aerodynamic jaw.
**[ ANALYSIS: SUBJECT IS COMPATIBLE WITH ROGUE CLASS ARCHETYPES. ]**
He held out the half-eaten sugar cloud.
The girl stared at it.
"Eat," Sylas said.
She hesitated. Then, with a speed that startled him—a blur of motion almost too fast for his eye to track—she snatched the candy.
She shoved the whole thing into her mouth, stick and all. She chewed ferociously.
Sylas watched her.
"What is your name?" he asked.
She swallowed. She didn't speak. She just looked at the sticky sweetness on her fingers.
"She's a slave, Sylas," Elara whispered, coming up behind him. She sounded horrified. "Look at the collar."
Sylas looked at the iron collar. It was cold-forged. Rudimentary.
He reached out and touched it.
**[ LOCK MECHANISM: TUMBLER (SIMPLE). ]**
**[ BYPASS: INSERT PIN AT 45 DEGREES. APPLY TORQUE. ]**
He didn't unlock it. Not yet. He couldn't walk into the town square leading a slave girl. Questions would be asked.
But he had data now.
"We can't leave her," Elara said.
"We have to," Sylas said.
"But—"
"If we take her, the guards will come. They work with the bad men."
Elara looked at him, shocked. "The guards are good guys."
"Not here," Sylas said. "Here, the guards are just bandits with shiny shirts."
He stood up. He looked the elf girl in the eye.
"Wait," he said to her.
It wasn't a suggestion. It was a command.
"Wait. I will come back."
He didn't know if she understood. But she stopped licking her fingers. She looked at him.
Sylas grabbed Elara's hand.
"Come on. Before the man wakes up."
They ran.
They scrambled out of the alley, back into the noise and the light of the festival.
The transition was jarring. One second, mud and blood. The next, lute music and laughter.
They found their parents near the fire-eater. Arthur was cheering, holding a half-empty bag of nuts. Lilliana was smiling, though she looked pale.
"There you are!" Arthur beamed. "Did you find the sweets?"
Sylas held up the empty stick.
"All gone," he said.
Elara didn't say anything. She was holding Sylas's hand so tight her knuckles were white. She looked at the happy crowd, at the guards laughing near a barrel of ale.
For the first time, Sylas saw the disillusionment in her eyes. She was seeing the overlay. She was seeing the lie.
"Let's go home," Sylas said. "I'm tired."
Arthur laughed. "Always tired, my boy. Alright. The carriage awaits."
As they walked back to the wagon, Sylas looked back at the alley entrance. It was just a black slit between two buildings.
He thought of the S-Rank potential rotting in the mud.
He thought of the crumbling infrastructure. The disease in the spit. The corruption in the guard's smile.
The "Sovereign Architect System" hummed in the back of his mind.
**[ NEW PROJECT DETECTED: THE FOUNDATION. ]**
**[ OBJECTIVE: ACQUIRE ASSETS. CLEANSE THE ROT. ]**
**[ REQUIRED RESOURCES: GOLD, LOYALTY, SHADOWS. ]**
Sylas climbed into the carriage.
He sat on the backward-facing bench again.
He closed his eyes.
He wasn't going to fix this world with laws. He wasn't going to fix it with heroics.
He was going to tear it down, brick by rotten brick, and build something else in the dark.
"Did you like the festival, Sylas?" his mother asked, tucking a blanket around his legs.
Sylas opened his eyes. They were dark, deep, and far too old for a five-year-old face.
"Yes, Mama," he said softly. "I learned a lot."
The carriage lurched forward. The wheel groaned.
*Thump, creek, grind.*
It held together. For now.