The silence doesn't return to normal.
It changes.
The street no longer feels frozen in anticipation, but it isn't relaxed either. The air vibrates faintly now, carrying a low, constant hum that I hadn't noticed before, like machinery running far beneath the stone.
I turn slowly, taking the city in again.
Now that the Unresolved Record is gone, details stand out more clearly. Metal piping runs along the sides of buildings, bolted crudely into ancient stone. Some pipes hiss softly, releasing thin trails of steam that vanish into the air without dispersing naturally.
So this place breathes.
Gears are embedded into walls as decoration—or reinforcement, I can't tell which. Large clockwork mechanisms sit exposed at intersections, turning slowly with a grinding patience that makes my teeth ache. Whatever powers this city doesn't care about aesthetics.
It cares about function.
I take a step forward, then another.
The deck of cards remains at my side, quieter now, its presence less oppressive but no less watchful. I get the distinct sense that what just happened wasn't a trial.
It was a demonstration.
The street widens as I move deeper into the city, opening into a broad avenue lined with tall lampposts. They glow with a dull amber light, fueled by pressurized gas lines that pulse faintly as if responding to my presence.
A sign hangs crookedly above the avenue.
The metal plate is old, its edges worn smooth, but the lettering remains sharp.
—VIRELIS—
The name settles into my mind without resistance.
That alone tells me something important.
I shouldn't understand this language.
Yet I do.
Not because it's familiar—but because the world has decided I'm allowed to.
"Virelis…" I murmur.
The sound doesn't vanish this time. It travels a short distance before dissolving into the hum of machinery, absorbed rather than rejected.
So cities accept sound.
Interesting.
As I walk, more signs come into view—district markers, directional plates, warnings etched directly into metal. Some are written in clean, angular script. Others are overlaid with annotations, scratched in later as if the city itself needed revisions.
I pause before one such marker.
Virelis – Lower Mechanized WardProperty of the Aurelion Crown
A kingdom, then.
The phrase Aurelion Crown carries weight, settling into my thoughts like an official seal. I don't know its history, its rulers, or its laws—but the name feels stable, recognized, enforced.
This world runs on authority.
And authority, here, seems tied to infrastructure rather than blood.
Steam vents hiss louder as I pass deeper into the ward. Massive pistons rise and fall behind iron grates, driving unseen systems beneath the city. The streets tremble faintly underfoot, synchronized with the rhythm of distant engines.
The realization dawns slowly.
This city is not ancient.
It's layered.
Stone foundations support metal reinforcements. Old symbols coexist with newer mechanical engravings. Whatever Virelis once was, it has been retrofitted—upgraded to survive something it wasn't originally built to endure.
Unfinished things.
I stop near a public square where a towering construct dominates the center—a massive clock tower fused with industrial machinery. Its gears are exposed, spinning openly, while thick cables snake from its base into the surrounding streets.
At its peak, a single clock face ticks forward.
The sound is loud.
Deliberate.
Each tick lands with enough force that I feel it in my chest.
Time matters here.
And not in the way I'm used to.
A presence stirs again, faint but unmistakable. Not hostile. Not focused on me directly. It feels… bureaucratic. Like attention that comes from an institution rather than an individual.
I'm being noticed.
Not as prey.
As a classification issue.
Footsteps echo from a side street.
I turn, tension coiling instinctively, but what emerges isn't another Unresolved Record. It's a person—or at least something far closer to one than before.
They wear a long coat reinforced with metal plating at the shoulders and elbows. Brass fittings line the seams, and a respirator mask hangs loosely at their neck, unused for now. A mechanical device ticks softly at their waist, its needles twitching as it rotates.
Their eyes meet mine.
Sharp. Human. Alert.
They freeze.
For a brief moment, neither of us moves. I watch their gaze flick briefly to the deck hovering at my side, then back to my face.
Recognition flickers across their expression.
Not of me.
Of what I am.
"Foreign," they mutter under their breath.
The word isn't hostile.
It's wary.
Behind them, more footsteps echo, joined by the clank of metal limbs and the hiss of steam valves opening. I sense attention spreading outward, rippling through the nearby streets.
I straighten unconsciously.
Whatever I just stabilized in Chapter 1 wasn't meant to be handled by someone like me. And now the city's systems—social, mechanical, and otherwise—are responding.
The figure takes a cautious step back.
"You shouldn't be here," they say quietly. "Not without clearance."
Clearance.
So even anomalies need paperwork.
I glance around the square again, at the clock tower, the pipes, the layered stone and steel. The city hums steadily, indifferent to my confusion.
Virelis doesn't care why I exist.
Only whether I can be processed.
And as more figures begin to emerge from the surrounding streets, one truth becomes painfully clear.
Surviving the Veil was only the beginning.
Surviving the world beyond it will be much harder.
The figures don't rush me.
That might be the most unsettling part.
They spread out instead, forming a loose semicircle around the square with practiced ease. None of them draw weapons, but I notice the details my eyes are drawn to—the reinforced gloves, the pressure gauges strapped to wrists, the subtle hum of compact machinery hidden beneath coats and cloaks.
They're trained.
Not soldiers in shining armor, but operators. People who deal with problems that don't fit neatly into categories.
Problems like me.
The one who spoke first lowers their voice, as if afraid the city itself might overhear. "If you're smart," they say, "you'll stop standing so close to the Chrono-Engine."
I glance back at the towering clockwork structure dominating the square. Up close, the thing is even more imposing. Thick cables pulse faintly as they feed power into the massive gears, and the clock face ticks forward with relentless precision.
Each tick feels heavier than the last.
"What happens if I don't?" I ask.
Several of them tense at the sound of my voice. Not because I spoke—but because the sound carries. It echoes lightly through the square, absorbed and redistributed by the machinery, as if the city itself is listening.
The speaker grimaces. "Then the system notices you faster."
That's not reassuring.
I take a small step away from the tower, careful not to make any sudden movements. The deck of cards drifts with me, maintaining its position just off my right side. I feel eyes flick toward it again, quick and uneasy.
One of the others—a woman with brass-lensed goggles perched atop her head—swears under her breath. "It's not bound," she mutters. "It's not even concealed."
"Because it doesn't belong to you," the first replies quietly. "Or to us."
Their attention shifts fully to me now. I'm being evaluated, measured against criteria I don't understand. Somewhere in the city, gears turn and valves open, and I can't shake the feeling that this isn't just a social interaction.
It's a process.
"Name," the speaker says after a moment. Not a demand—an entry field.
I hesitate.
For reasons I can't fully articulate, saying my name here feels heavier than it should. As if speaking it will anchor me more firmly to this place, sealing something that isn't finished yet.
Still, silence would only escalate things.
"Elias Crowe," I say.
The words settle into the air without resistance.
A device at the speaker's waist clicks sharply, its needles twitching. They glance down at it, then back at me, a frown creasing their brow.
"That's not a registered origin," they say. "No district. No Crown ledger. No guild imprint."
"I know," I reply.
The honesty surprises them.
They exchange glances, subtle but loaded. Whatever they expected—panic, denial, confusion—I haven't given it to them. That seems to unsettle them more than fear would have.
"Foreign Record," the woman with the goggles says quietly. "Unfinished."
The word passes through the group like a current. A few of them step back instinctively. One reaches up and activates the respirator at their neck, sealing it over their face with a soft hiss.
So even breathing can be dangerous here.
"You stabilized something you shouldn't have," the speaker says. "An Unresolved Record, inside city limits. Do you have any idea what kind of attention that draws?"
I think of the pressure behind my eyes. The way the city tightened around me. The sense of something older shifting its focus.
"Yes," I say slowly. "Enough."
That earns me another long look. Not hostile this time—assessing.
The speaker exhales. "Then you understand why you can't just wander around Virelis."
Virelis.
Hearing the city's name spoken aloud makes it feel more real, more anchored. This isn't some abstract place beyond the Veil anymore. It's a functioning city, with systems, authorities, and procedures for dealing with anomalies.
And I am very clearly an anomaly.
"We're going to escort you," the speaker continues. "Somewhere safer. Somewhere shielded."
"From what?" I ask.
They don't answer immediately.
"From attention," they say finally.
As if summoned by the word, the air shifts. Not violently—subtly. The hum beneath the streets deepens, and the Chrono-Engine's ticking grows louder for a brief, uncomfortable moment before settling back into its steady rhythm.
The woman with the goggles winces. "Too late," she mutters.
I feel it then.
Not the distant, impersonal observation from before, but something layered on top of it. Structured. Hierarchical. Like a report being escalated through channels that don't end anywhere human.
Text flickers at the edge of my vision.
[Foreign Record status updated.][Visibility: Increased.]
I don't need an explanation to know that's bad.
The deck of cards hums softly, its presence pressing more firmly against my awareness. One card grows heavier than the rest, its significance impossible to ignore.
The speaker notices my reaction. "You felt that," they say. "Didn't you?"
I nod once.
Their jaw tightens. "Then we're moving. Now."
They gesture sharply, and the group falls into motion. Two take point, scanning the surrounding streets. Another lingers behind me, eyes constantly flicking between me and the deck as if expecting it to do something sudden and catastrophic.
We move fast.
The streets twist and narrow, leading us away from the square and deeper into the Lower Mechanized Ward. Steam vents hiss louder here, and the air grows thick enough that my lungs start to ache. The buildings loom closer, their walls lined with pressure gauges, warning sigils, and hastily reinforced plates.
This part of Virelis feels defensive.
Like it's bracing against something.
As we pass beneath a heavy iron archway, I catch sight of a crest stamped into the metal—an ornate sunburst encircled by interlocking gears.
The Aurelion Crown.
"So," I say, breathless as we descend a set of metal stairs. "You work for the kingdom."
The speaker doesn't slow. "We work for stability."
That answer tells me everything.
The stairs open into a broad underground corridor reinforced with thick steel ribs. Massive conduits run along the ceiling, pulsing with dim light. At the far end, a heavy door slides open with a hydraulic hiss as we approach.
Beyond it lies a chamber filled with machinery and glass panels etched with complex symbols. The air here is cleaner, filtered, and blessedly quiet.
The door seals behind us.
For the first time since entering the city, the pressure eases.
The group relaxes slightly, though none of them fully lower their guard. The speaker turns to face me, studying my expression carefully.
"You're lucky," they say. "If you'd triggered that Record a few streets over, the Crown's response would've been… less patient."
"Lucky," I echo.
They nod toward the deck. "That thing with you—it makes you valuable. And dangerous. In Virelis, those two usually mean the same thing."
I lean back against the cool metal wall, exhaustion finally catching up to me. My head still throbs, and fragments of the Unresolved Record linger at the edges of my thoughts, refusing to settle completely.
"So what happens now?" I ask.
The speaker hesitates.
"Now," they say, "you get processed."
The word lands heavily.
Processed.
Not rescued.Not welcomed.
Cataloged.
Outside the sealed chamber, the city continues to breathe smoke and steam, its systems adjusting to my presence with cold efficiency. Somewhere above us, gears turn, records update, and attention continues to build.
Virelis has noticed me.
The Aurelion Crown will soon follow.
And whatever exists beyond both of them is already watching.