I Was Not!

The air underground felt cold, laced with the scent of rust, sewage, and something older—the mineral tang of exposed stone. The cavern fell silent once more after the soundless shriek of the Essence creature vanished. The indigo mist that had formed its shape had receded, drawn back into the crack within the purplish stone. Residual energy still lingered in the air, hanging like fine dust.

Welt remained seated, steadying his shallow breath. His palm, where the unknown symbol had gleamed, felt numb. He didn't understand what had just happened. The word Trogool, had slipped from his mouth almost instinctively, a key that unlocked a power not his own. It wasn't part of the Bizarre Dao of the Outers. It was something else, something implanted in him by the star-eyed entity from his dreams.

The nadir circuit within his body, once in pain from the infiltration of Void Essence, now pulsed with a steady rhythm. The residual energy of the destroyed being hadn't dissipated—instead, his circuit absorbed it. The process was far from gentle. It felt like swallowing sand, each grain scraping its way down, yet ultimately merging to strengthen his foundation. The Bizarre Dao of the Outers was, at its core, predatory.

He knew he couldn't remain here. This place had granted him progress, but it had also revealed unforeseen dangers. His presence was no longer unnoticed.

With effort, Welt rose to his feet. His muscles protested, his body drained. He reignited his dim lantern and began retracing his path through the winding tunnels. The oppressive weight in the air had significantly lightened, as if he had devoured its source.

He reached the sealed iron gate just as dawn broke aboveground. Pale light seeped through the cracks, heralding morning in Clockthon. He slipped out, returning to the deserted streets of the Factory District. His body was filthy, his clothes in tatters, but his eyes were sharp.

The book wouldn't be enough. Cultivating alone in the sewers was too slow, and far too dangerous. He needed access to structured knowledge, stable resources, and most importantly, a disguise. An identity that wouldn't draw the wrong kind of attention.

An Academy. It was the only logical path. There, he could study this world systematically while hiding the true nature of his power in plain sight. He would need to construct a persona, an specialization rare enough to be valued, but not strange enough to be questioned. Oneiromancer, a dream-seer. It sounded fitting.

He began walking back toward the Docks District, his steps steady. A plan was forming. First, he needed to clean himself and get new clothes. Second, he had to determine which Academy best fit his goals. Third, he needed a way to forge a talent for Oneiromancy.

But as he turned a corner in the empty alley, he froze. Someone stood there, blocking his path. A girl, perhaps in her late teens, with long brown hair tied back. Her posture was straight and efficient, wearing a dark gray uniform adorned with slender bronze tubes running along her arms. In her hand was a revolver—intricately designed, its cylinder etched with strange symbols—aimed directly at Welt's chest.

"Don't move," the girl said flatly, her voice slightly hoarse. There was no emotion in it—only command. "Children don't play in quarantine zones."

Welt remained silent. His mind processed the situation with a cold clarity. Her uniform didn't match the City Police or the Order of Essence Wardens. The symbol etched on her weapon's grip—a toothed eye within a hexagon—was unfamiliar. A third faction, an organization he did not know.

"This area is closed," the girl continued, her sharp eyes scanning him from head to toe, noting the filth, the torn clothes, the exhaustion. "No entry or exit without authorization. Explain your presence."

Welt maintained the expression of a confused, frightened child—a mask he had perfected over the years. "I got lost. I was just looking for somewhere to sleep."

She didn't react to the story. "Unlikely. Alternate hypothesis: you're a low-grade artifact thief using a child disguise. Or, you're a Doppelkin."

Doppelkin. A new word. Welt filed it away. From context, likely a shapeshifter.

"I don't know what a Doppelkin is," Welt replied, his voice deliberately trembling. "I swear, I'm just human."

"Verification required," the girl said. She didn't lower the weapon. "Remain still. No sudden movements."

She approached cautiously, keeping a safe distance, her pistol still the axis between them. From a pouch on her belt, she retrieved a small device—a metal disc the size of a coin with a crystal lens at its center. She pointed it at Welt. The lens pulsed briefly with pale blue light before dimming.

"Thermal signature positive. Essence signature negative—with anomalous residue," she muttered to herself, as if reporting findings. "Subject most likely human. But the residue is abnormal."

The gun remained trained on him. "You will stay here until my captain arrives for secondary verification."

Welt simply nodded. Resistance was pointless. This girl was trained, and her organization clearly had the means to detect anomalies. A fight would reveal far more about his abilities than he could afford to show.

They waited in tense silence. Welt sat on the dirty ground, leaning against a brick wall. He didn't fidget or act nervous. He only observed. He watched the way she stood—balanced, ready to move at any moment. How her eyes constantly scanned the surroundings, never resting on a single point too long. She was a soldier, not a common guard.

After several minutes, Welt broke the silence. "Are you military?"

"We are the Division of Abnormal Phenomena Investigation," the girl replied curtly. "Fravikveidimadr."

A complicated name. Nordic, perhaps. This organization had jurisdiction over "abnormal phenomena," which meant they operated outside the scope of the Essence Wardens who typically handled Evolvers. They were a specialist unit. This was bad.

"Why are you interested in old sewers?" Welt asked, trying to bait information with childlike innocence.

"Unclassified Essence activity reports. That's enough questions." Her voice ended the conversation.

Welt fell silent again. He glanced at her uniform. "My parents used to work at the factory nearby." He said the lie flatly, as though stating an unimportant fact.

The girl glanced at him briefly. "Used to?"

"They're no longer relevant factors."

There was no apology or sympathy in her expression. She only gave a slight nod, accepting the information as new data, then resumed her watch. That reaction confirmed her professionalism. She wasn't interested in sob stories—only in facts and threats.

Ten minutes later, heavy footsteps approached. A tall man with green eyes and shoulder-length blond hair tied back appeared at the end of the alley. He looked to be in his mid-forties, his face sharp with a thin scar above his brow. He wore the same uniform as the girl, but with a captain's insignia on his collar. His aura was calm, controlled—but carried undeniable authority.

"Report, Lieutenant Rash," the man said, his eyes immediately locking onto Welt.

"Captain Verneth. Subject found exiting the quarantine zone. Male, estimated age ten. Preliminary test indicates subject is human, but with unidentifiable Essence residue. Subject claims to be lost."

Captain Verneth studied Welt, his gaze sharp and analytical—as though he could see through flesh and bone. "Name, boy?"

"Welt Rothes."

"Welt Rothes," the captain repeated quietly. He stepped forward. "I need to perform a tactile verification. Don't move."

He knelt before Welt. He didn't touch his hand or shoulder. Instead, he gently placed two fingers on Welt's forehead.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then Captain Verneth's eyes widened. Not from overt shock, but from a near-imperceptible shift that betrayed deep surprise. His body tensed slightly, and he withdrew his hand as if he'd touched live fire. He looked at Welt in a completely different way—no longer an unregistered variable. Something beyond that. Something that should not exist.

"Captain?" Grisa asked, sensing her superior's shift.

Dales Verneth didn't respond immediately. He stared at the empty air above Welt's head for a moment. "Lieutenant, secure the perimeter. No one comes within fifty meters."

"Yes, Captain." Though confused, Grisa obeyed without question. She moved swiftly to the alley's end, pulling out a small signal device.

Dales returned his focus to Welt. His voice was quieter now, more serious. "What I saw… wasn't potential. It wasn't a guardian spirit. It was a drumbeat. A silent void with a single, relentless drumbeat. Who are you really, Welt Rothes?"

"An orphan from the Slum District," Welt replied, maintaining his persona. He knew the captain had glimpsed a fragment of what had shaped him.

"A good lie," Dales said. "But still a lie." He stood. "You're coming with us. That's no longer a request."

Welt had no choice. Two more Fravikveidimadr agents arrived, forming a formation around them. They didn't shackle him—but their presence was a cage all the same. They led him to a steam-powered armored vehicle parked on the main street. Its interior was cold metal, with no windows in the rear compartment.

The journey was silent. Welt sat on a metal bench, Dales and Grisa across from him. No one spoke. Welt used the time to analyze the situation. He had been apprehended by a secretive organization seemingly more competent than the Order. Their leader had sensed something strange about him. His plan to enter the Academy had failed before it began.

The vehicle stopped inside a facility. The rear doors opened, revealing a spacious underground garage—pristine and sterile. The air smelled of ozone and polished metal. They escorted him through white corridors lit by unblinking Essence lamps. Each door was thick steel, and uniformed guards stood at every intersection. This was a secure facility—a fortress.

They brought him to a room resembling an interrogation chamber, but far more advanced. Only a metal table and two floor-anchored chairs. One wall was an observation mirror.

"Wait here," Dales said before he and Grisa exited, locking the door from the outside.

Welt was left alone. He sat, back straight. He didn't attempt escape. There was none. He knew he was being watched. This was the first test—a test of patience.

Nearly an hour passed. Silence reigned. For most, it would have been psychological torture. For Welt, it was an opportunity to think.

This organization, Fravikveidimadr, was an unforeseen variable. They were interested in what was "abnormal." And he, with his Bizarre Dao of the Outers and his mysterious connection to a star-eyed entity, was the definition of abnormal. They wouldn't let him go easily.

He had to control the narrative. He had to give them a satisfying explanation—one that fed their curiosity without revealing the truth. The Oneiromancer persona he'd planned might still work. It was a perfect explanation for the "drumbeat" Dales had seen. A child who accidentally brushed against the dream realm or an astral entity. Rare—but conceivable.

The door opened. Dales Verneth entered alone. He placed a thin, polished obsidian tablet on the table.

"We checked civil records," Dales said calmly. "No birth or residency record for 'Welt Rothes.' As expected, you're a ghost."

Welt said nothing.

"We also analyzed the Essence residue on your clothing," Dales continued. "It matches the energy signature of the 'Dweller Below'—an entity we've been tracking for three years. Corrosive, lethal. It's killed three of our teams. Yet this morning, its signature vanished. And we found you there. Connect the dots for me, Welt."

Dales sat across from him, eyes unwavering. "How does a boy with no records and no detectable Essence survive an encounter with that entity? How does he appear where the entity disappears?"

This was the crucial moment. Welt's answer would determine his fate here.

"It didn't attack me," Welt said quietly. "It spoke to me. It showed me things. Images."

"What images?" Dales asked, leaning in slightly.

"Dead stars. An empty throne. A crown made of darkness," Welt replied, weaving imagery from his dream. Mixing a little truth into the lie. "Then it vanished. I thought I was just dreaming."

Dales was silent for a long time, digesting the answer. The explanation was fantastical—but matched what he had sensed from Welt, echoes of something vast and void.

"An oneiric experience," Dales finally said, testing a theory. "You claim an affinity with the dream realm?"

"I don't know what that is," Welt answered. "I just… see things when I sleep. Sometimes, they're real."

Dales nodded slowly. "We have ways to test claims like that." He stood. "You'll stay here for now, Welt. We'll give you food and a bed. In return, you'll cooperate with our research. Consider it a mutually beneficial arrangement."

He walked to the door. "Welcome to the Raven's Nest, Welt Rothes. I hope you enjoy your stay."

The door shut and locked, leaving Welt alone once more in silence. He had not gained his freedom. Instead, he had traded one cage for another—from poverty in the Slum District to a sterile observation cell.

But there was a difference. Here, there were resources. There was knowledge. And there were enemies he could study.

The game had changed—from survival in the streets to infiltration and espionage within the heart of the kingdom's most secretive organization.