Chapter 28

In the Azure Province, the name Sterling had become synonymous with alchemy. For centuries, they had been the undisputed masters of potion-making and elixir refinement.

Their Traits were intrinsically linked to this legacy—affinities for Fire to heat the cauldrons, Wood to nurture rare herbs, or Utility Traits that manifested as tools for alchemy.

So, when the patriarch, Anya's grandfather, announced that the family's most treasured heirloom—the 'Pathseeker's' profession core—would be granted to her, the youngest heir, the province descended into chaos.

The decision was a baffling departure from tradition. It would not have been odd if the older heirs were untalented, but that was not the case.

So, why did the patriarch skip them in her favour?

The patriarch of the Sterling family was a shrewd man who never made a move without calculating every possible outcome.

The whispers began immediately, speculating about the nature of her Trait and the hidden reason for this unprecedented favour.

Her parents remained silent, for they did not know the truth either. Everyone assumed her Trait was simply a more potent version of what had come before.

They were wrong.

Anya's Trait was the 'Eye of Veridian Insight'.

It was not elemental or material like the traits known to cultivators in the province. It was a body Trait, which had mutated her eyes and allowed her to perceive the world as cause and effect.

She could gaze upon an object or a location and perceive the chaotic, residual energies clinging to it.

From these faint energies, she could reconstruct the past. It was not the perfect, all-seeing power of a Seer.

The visions were fragmented, built from complex calculations her mind ran instinctively. There were probabilities and, therefore, margins of error.

The more chaotic the event, the more blurred the reconstruction, but it always gave her a rough idea of the truth.

But this was not the only reason the patriarch had granted her the profession core.

The Eye of Veridian Insight held a second, far more secret property: it could analyse the future.

By comparing the probabilities of countless 'cause' threads converging on her position, it could construct a vision of what was most likely to happen.

The accuracy of this foresight was not absolute; its timing could shift, dependent on the speed of the approaching cause and her own ability to process the vision before that cause arrived.

It was this terrifying, precognitive potential that truly set her apart.

Anya stood on the ash plains, staring at the aftermath of a brutal fight. To her normal vision, it was just a patch of disturbed dust.

But as she activated her Trait, the world fractured. Countless threads of faint, green light shot out from every particle of ash, weaving together in her mind's eye.

They formed a ghostly image of the battlefield as it was moments before the conflict.

This was the easy part.

She deepened her focus, pushing her will into the Trait, demanding to see the event itself. A sharp pain lanced through her eyes, and she felt the familiar sting of hot tears streaming down her cheeks.

The vision shifted.

The ghostly image of the intact ground shattered, replaced by the violent memory of a wolf, its body dissolving into a cloud of purple light.

Standing over the spot where it died was a man. He was caked in so much grime and dried blood that he was little more than a silhouette of violence.

A wild, terrifying grin was etched onto his face as he bent to collect the glowing crystal left behind by the beast.

It was him.

The hunter. The ghost of the Ashen Courtyard.

An involuntary shiver traced its way down her spine. This was the monster who had single-handedly cleared this entire region.

She had to see his face.

She poured more of her will into the vision, ignoring the searing pain in her eyes and the warm trickle of blood that now replaced the tears. She had to know who he was.

The vision twisted again, collapsing into a new shape. It was not the past. The threads were more unstable.

She had to focus intensely to complete her analysis, as a single lapse in concentration could ruin it.

This was the future.

In the vision, Anya stood in this exact spot. Her group surrounded her, their forms hazy and indistinct, all of them coated in the ceaseless rain of grey ash.

The world was utterly silent.

The normal sounds of her companions—their breathing, the clank of their armour—had vanished.

It was an oppressive, absolute silence, the kind that signals the presence of a predator far stronger than anything in its territory.

Her visionary self gulped, the hairs on her arms standing on end.

A shadow detached itself from the gloom, flowing between the frozen figures of her companions.

No one noticed. No one reacted.

A cold dread, sharp and piercing, crept up her spine. The ash directly in front of her stirred.

A pair of hands, coated in the same grey dust, reached for her chest.

She braced for the cold steel of a blade, for the searing pain of an attack, for the overwhelming wave of bloodthirsty killing intent.

But there was nothing. No intent or presence.

It was as if the air itself had taken human form.

Suddenly, a grotesque mask, caked in ash and blood, materialised through the dust veil, stopping mere inches from her face. Then, it leaned closer.

Sniff.

The sound was soft, inquisitive.

Is he going to eat me? The thought was so absurd. She tried to move, to scream, to activate the defensive talisman woven into her robes.

That was when the vision shattered, and cold, stark reality slammed into her with the force of a physical blow.

The threads of the future had not just been a possibility; they had been an imminent certainty. Her eyes widened in horror.

This isn't the future. The cause reached me before I could finish analysing it.

Her mouth opened to scream, but the air was stolen from her lungs. The grotesque mask vanished from her sight.

In the same instant, she felt the unmistakable press of cold metal against the side of her neck. A faint, coppery smell of old blood reached her nose.

A warm breath brushed against her ear, followed by a single, low whisper that was not a request, but a command.

"Silence."

She did as she was told. She froze, every muscle in her body locked in place by a terror so profound it felt like she had been encased in ice.

She did not know how much time passed. It could have been seconds or an eternity. The knife disappeared from her neck, but she did not move.

She could not.

Her mind was still trapped in that horrifying moment, replaying the feeling of the blade, the sound of that whisper.

Anya stood there, like a statue in a world of ash, until one of the Thorne disciples finally noticed her strange stillness.

"Lady Anya," he called out, his voice loud and jarring in the silence she had become accustomed to.

"Why are you standing so stiff? Are you cold?"