William Salwors did not remember his birth in images or sounds, but rather as an event of data. The first time he opened his eyes, the world did not flood him with colors or warmth; instead, he saw a series of imaginary patterns. His first cry was not an emotional response; it was his way of testing vocal output against atmospheric pressure input in his lungs.
The doctor called him a quiet baby. His parents, merchant nobles from the well-respected Salwors family, considered him a blessing. But William knew, in the non-verbal understanding he possessed at the time, that he was different. His brain was designed to process information, not to feel emotion.
While other toddlers learned to walk by falling and standing up again, William observed his brother's center of gravity, calculated force vectors, and walked with nearly perfect steps on his third attempt. He didn't speak until the age of five, not because he couldn't, but because he was collecting sufficient linguistic samples to construct an efficient conversational model. His first sentence wasn't "mama" or "papa," but rather, "If the probability of rain tomorrow is 34%, then hanging clothes outside is an action with an unacceptable failure rate."
His parents took him to various physicians and psychiatrists. The term "autism" was thrown around, but it was an inadequate label. William didn't struggle to understand emotions, but he saw them as an inefficient and often illogical variable system. Joy, sadness, anger, all of them were noise. In his mind, they were things that obscured pure cause-and-effect patterns. Social interaction, to him, was a series of complex algorithms that had to be solved. A smile could mean seventeen different things depending on the angle of the lips, the wrinkles around the eyes, and the situational context. It was exhausting.
So, he chose to observe. From behind books, from the corners of rooms, from his bedroom window. He didn't feel lonely, because loneliness was an emotion. He was simply alone. In his mind, he built an archive. Every person he met became a file, containing lists of habits, tendencies, behavioral probabilities, and abnormalities.
And then, Welt Rothes arrived at the academy.
From the first day, the file "W-01" became the most active in William's mind. This child was a statistical impossibility. Background: gifted orphan. Initial test results: extraordinary Essence potential. Behavior in practical class: consistent and calculated failure. Everything was wrong. His failures were too perfect. His silence too heavy. His gaze wasn't that of a ten-year-old child at all.
William opened his black leather notebook, even though all the important information was already neatly stored in his mental archive. Writing helped him structure hypotheses.
Observation Day 52: Subject W-01 (Welt Rothes).
Post-West Wing incident behavior remains consistent with initial profile: deliberate isolation, low academic performance. However, there is a new variable: increased frequency of environmental scanning (average interval 3.7 minutes) and the formation of asymmetric relationships with Subject F-03 (Finnian O'Connell) and Subject I-08 (Irene Cheva).
Hypothesis: The subject is entering phase two of his plan. Phase one (incident engineering) successfully granted him access and 'medical anomaly' status, effectively lowering suspicion levels from academy authorities. Phase two appears to focus on forming a small social cell. Finnian O'Connell functions as a 'social shield,' a harmless follower who normalizes the subject's presence. Irene Cheva is a 'target variable.' Interaction with her is indirect and mediated by intellectual triggers, not conventional social invitation.
William paused, his pen hovering above the page. He had observed the three of them in the library yesterday. Welt didn't ask Irene to come. He created a condition in which refusing to join would be a less logical choice for Irene's psychological profile.
Preliminary conclusion: W-01 is not merely a strategist, he is highly proficient in both planning and emotional reading. He lets others dance freely across his chessboard. His goal is still unknown, but his threat level must be raised from 'watchful' to 'top priority.'
William closed his notebook. He did not feel fear. He did not feel anxiety. What William felt at that moment was intellectual satisfaction. Finally, after years of observing boring and predictable patterns, he had found an anomaly worthy of his processor capacity.
And he would solve this puzzle, whatever the cost.
...…
Emptiness has a taste. In my past life, it tasted like dust drifting between ever-expanding universes. In this world, it tastes like the bland bread and distilled water provided by the academy. My soul, or whatever remains of it, longs for an anchor. I need something to remind me, because I'm clearly not someone pretending to be a devil just to reach something greater.
I need mushroom noodles.
And I don't mean the fancy dish served in noble dining halls. I need a steaming bowl of noodles from a dingy stall in the Old District of Cledestine, where gas lamps hiss against the fog and the smell of charcoal mixes with the stench of the sewers. That food was my favorite in the life I left behind.
Leaving the academy for one night wasn't a problem. My status as a "fragile patient" gave me certain liberties, as long as Grisa Rash didn't report any major deviations. Step one: recruit a social shield.
I found Finnian in his room, staring at a calculus book with the expression of someone who'd just been insulted by it.
"Finnian," I said. My tone was deliberately flat. "I'm heading out for dinner. Your face looks like underproofed dough. Fresh air and warm broth might improve blood circulation in your brain."
He jolted. "Out? But… we're not allowed to…"
"We're allowed if we have medical reasons. I 'have no appetite' for dormitory meals. You're 'stressed from studying.' This is a proactive act of maintaining our health." I gave him logic he couldn't argue with. He nodded slowly, too tired to protest. One piece moved.
The second piece was trickier. Irene Cheva. Asking her directly would trigger a series of social protocols I didn't want. It would be seen as interest, a romantic maneuver. I didn't have time for such drama. I needed bait of an intellectual kind.
I found her in the library, in the dark folklore section. She was reading a book titled "Things About Something in the Corners and Essence in Inanimate Objects", clearly a text deemed heretical for claiming that Essence could be found in non-biological life forms. I approached, not her, but the shelf beside her, as if looking for a different book.
After a moment, I murmured, loud enough to be heard, "A common interpretive error. The author misinterprets 'consciousness' as 'resonance trace.' Stones don't have Essence; they merely capture and store traces of Essence that once passed through them."
I felt her gaze shift from the book to me. I did not return it.
"Resonance traces are supposed to fade over time," she replied, her voice calm and clear. "This text records resonances lasting for thousands of years. Clearly, that's abnormal."
"Not if the storage medium has a perfect crystalline structure and is shielded from external Essence fluctuations," I answered, finally pulling a random book from the shelf. "Like black salt found in the deepest caves." I turned, meeting her eyes for the first time. "But that's just a theory, of course."
I turned to leave. As I passed Finnian, who waited awkwardly by the door, I said at a normal volume, "The noodle stall in the Old District reportedly uses a rare mushroom called 'Glimmer Cap.' According to some apocryphal texts, the mushroom only grows atop ruins contaminated by long-lingering Essence residue. Perhaps that explains its faint luminescence."
I didn't wait. I walked out with Finnian. I didn't need to turn around to know that a few seconds later, a third set of light and steady footsteps followed us from behind. The bait had been taken.
The streets of the Old District were a time machine. Uneven cobblestones wet with drizzle reflected the orange glow of gas lamps hissing like tired snakes. A thin mist crept through narrow alleys, swallowing sound and giving the world a soft, mysterious texture. No crystal screens, no silent Essence vehicles. Just footsteps, the creak of wagon wheels in the distance, and the raspy laughter from a pub across the street. This was a world that demanded its people to think and feel, not just passively consume information.
Finnian looked nervous, his eyes darting as if expecting a mugger to leap from every shadow. Irene, by contrast, walked with a strange composure. Her green eyes scanned her surroundings with focus, she was surely aware of the rotting architecture, and she studied the faces of passersby and their habits.
"Aren't you scared?" Finnian asked Irene, his voice slightly trembling.
Irene turned to him, her head tilted slightly. "Scared of what? Poverty? Disease? Or the statistical uncertainty that we might not return to the academy tonight? Fear is an unproductive emotion without clear threat data."
Finnian could only fall silent, unsure how to respond. I almost found humor in the exchange.
The noodle stall was exactly as I remembered it from my first walk after arriving in Clockthon. A wooden cart with a weathered tarp, pushed into an alcove between two buildings. An old man with a face full of wrinkles and calloused hands stirred a massive cauldron of fragrant steaming broth.
We sat on rickety wooden stools. I ordered three bowls.
When a bowl of mushroom noodles was placed in front of me, the world seemed to narrow. The rich aroma of the broth, mingling with the earthy scent of Glimmer Cap mushrooms, still faintly glowing with pale blue light, was a key unlocking a sealed room in my memory. The first bite was an explosion of flavor. Savory, slightly umami, with the chewy texture of handmade noodles and the tenderness of mushrooms melting on the tongue.
I ate this not just because I was hungry, I was proving I was still truly conscious and present.
I ate in silence, ignoring the awkward conversation between Finnian and Irene. I reflected that human civilization, in any world, is always the same. They build towering monuments and intricate legal systems, but at their core, they are driven by the same things, hunger, fear, and the desire to believe in something greater than themselves. Their light and dark sides are not opposites, merely two faces of the same coin spinning so fast it blurs. I didn't survive because I wanted to save or destroy them. I survived because I had a purpose. The Grand Plan of Hundreds I created was not about revenge or power. I needed it for calibration. To dismantle the existing system and rebuild it according to more logical parameters, in a world where cause and effect are no longer obscured by sentimentality and stupidity.
"Seven grior total," the old man said once we were done.
An outrageous price for street food. Likely due to the rarity of the mushrooms. Finnian choked on his own saliva, eyes wide. That was a month's allowance for most students!
I pulled out a small leather pouch and calmly counted seven large silver coins, placing them in the old man's wrinkled hand. He nodded, unsurprised.
As we walked back through the fog, Finnian couldn't hold back. "Seven grior, Welt! Where did you get that much money?"
I didn't answer. I just kept walking, staring straight ahead. In my mind, I recalled a lavish room, months before I entered the academy. A fat, sweaty Viscount, overly confident in his intelligence, laughed as I, a mere child, challenged him to a "logic duel" with financial stakes. He didn't know the game had been rigged from the start. Every argument, every response, had been predicted. I didn't defeat him outright, well, perhaps I guided him to a conclusion I had predetermined, a conclusion that legally bound him to transfer three dryn coins, equivalent to sixty grior, to an anonymous account I had set up using credentials I'd stolen long before I ever arrived in this world.
I didn't rob him, because it was a transaction. He traded his arrogance for an expensive lesson. And I, I got my startup capital. The money I spent tonight wasn't even a memorable expense. That money was an investment to preserve my sanity. A very small price to pay for an anchor in the midst of this dark sea.