A few hours before the cold stone of the castle was painted with the scarlet of betrayal, the sun still hung high and indifferent over Border Town. But for William, the world had assumed a new, terrifying density. Every step he took through the muddy training grounds echoed with a different weight; his muscles, now overloaded by the seven attribute points he had "purchased," felt like tensioned steel cables vibrating under a heavy load. When he clenched his fist, he could feel the resistance of the air itself, as if he were a titan walking through a world made of thin glass.
However, this newfound physical godhood didn't fill the gaps in his memory. He stopped in front of the stables, the smell of damp hay and horse sweat filling his nostrils, and scratched the back of his neck in a fit of growing frustration.
— "Damn it... I know people are going to die today. I know it happens on the same day Tyre threw herself off," William whispered to himself, his eyes scanning the chaotic maze of stone, wood, and mud that formed the castle foundations. — "But where the hell is that underground passage? Reading about a 'secret tunnel' is one thing; finding it amidst a jumble of poorly planned medieval architecture is quite another."
He knew he couldn't turn to Arthur. His friend's wounded pride and cold, clinical logic were a barrier he didn't have the patience to scale right now. Arthur would demand a three-step plan and a risk assessment report. Brian and the other guards would simply think the "noble scholar" had finally lost his mind if he started raving about treason without a single piece of concrete proof. He needed someone who didn't care about the "how" or the "why." He needed someone who lived in the margins.
William walked toward an isolated alleyway—a narrow, dark corridor squeezed between two massive stone warehouses, where the wind whistled with a melancholy, hollow sound. He stopped in the middle of the gloom, stared into the empty space in front of him, and spoke with a voice that brooked no argument.
— "Vero—Nightingale... I know you're there. I can feel the air growing colder. I need your help, and I need it right now."
The silence that followed was absolute for several long seconds, broken only by the distant, rhythmic clinking of a blacksmith's hammer. Then, the reality before him began to ripple and tear like wet silk. The slender, hooded figure of the witch materialized from the gray mist, her eyes shining with a mixture of profound shock and razor-sharp caution.
— "How did you know I was here?" she asked, her voice husky and melodic. — "Even with this 'system' you claim to possess, it should be fundamentally impossible for an ordinary human to detect my presence in the Mist."
William let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, his shoulders finally relaxing. A wry smile appeared on his lips, but without its usual arrogance; it was the look of a man who had just bet his life on a single card and won.
— "To be honest? I didn't know for sure," William admitted, shrugging. — "But I took a gamble. You're a professional, Nightingale. After the bombshells Art and I dropped in the office, there was no way you'd let us wander around this mud pit without an invisible leash. I simply walked into the most suspicious place I could find and planted a seed to see if you'd harvest it."
Nightingale narrowed her eyes, genuinely impressed by the man's audacity. — "You are a dangerous anomaly, William. You tell me my life's mission is a lie, trick me into revealing myself, and then say you need me. What is so urgent that you would risk my blade again?"
William took a step forward, his new physical presence making him seem almost unshakeable, though his gaze revealed a desperate sincerity.
— "I want to stop people from dying. Nightingale, listen to me: there is corruption in the guard. Men bought and paid for by Duke Ryan. They plan to assassinate Captain Greyhound and burn down the central granary tonight. If that granary burns, the town will starve before the first snow even melts. If the town starves, Roland loses control. And if Roland falls... you lose the only refuge left for your sisters."
Nightingale's hand instinctively drifted down to the hilt of her dagger. — "Traitors? Here? Are you certain, or is this another one of your 'prophecies'?"
— "Does it matter which, if the blood is real?" William countered, stepping even closer. — "The ambush starts in an underground passage that leads straight to the back of the granary. I can't find the entrance in this maze, but you can see through walls. I have the strength to break them, Nightingale, but I need you to guide me."
A long silence stretched between them. Nightingale examined his face, her unique ability to "sniff out a lie" working overtime. She found no hint of deception—only the raw, harsh urgency of a man who genuinely wanted to save a world he wasn't born in.
— "If you are telling the truth, we will find these rats and drag them into the light," she said, her voice turning cold. — "Step into the mist with me. Hold your breath."
At Nightingale's touch, the world around William shattered and reformed. The vibrant colors of the afternoon dissipated, replaced by a monochromatic landscape of shifting grays and glowing, iridescent outlines. Inside the Mist World, the solid stone of the castle became translucent, revealing the hidden "vibrations" of the structures. Nightingale guided him through walls as if they were smoke, descending deep into the cold foundations of the fortress.
It only took a few minutes. On the misty plain, Nightingale pointed a gloved finger at an irregularity in the floor of an abandoned tool shed. — "There. A camouflaged hatch. I can see the heat signatures of several men who passed through here recently. They are moving fast."
They phased through the floor and landed in a damp, dark tunnel. Almost immediately, the metallic clash of steel and the guttural screams of men in agony began to echo off the wet stone walls.
— "It's already started," hissed William, his eyes adjusting to the gloom. In the distance, the flickering orange glow of torches revealed a desperate struggle. — "That's Brian... he's fighting four of them. And that mercenary in the back... that's the leader."
Nightingale drew her daggers in a fluid, silent motion, her eyes shining with a lethal intent that always left William breathless.
— "Let's go down," she ordered, her tone cutting. — "Show me if this 'Strength' you and Arthur boasted so much about is good for anything besides winning an argument in the hallway."
The taunt hit William like a lightning bolt. For a fleeting, terrifying second, a thought crossed his mind: She heard us. She was there when we were arguing about 'extras' and 'characters'. But the thought was instantly obliterated by the sound of a blade slicing leather and Brian's muffled cry of agony. There was no time for existential crises; the lives in that tunnel were made of blood, and that blood was being spilled.
William charged.
With his Strength now at 16, he didn't move like a man; he moved like a falling mountain. He didn't bother drawing his sword. He didn't need to. The first rebel who tried to intercept him didn't even have time to raise his shield before William's fist crashed into his chest. The sound of the man's sternum shattering was a sickening crack that echoed down the tunnel like a gunshot. The traitor was thrown backward, his body hitting the stone wall hard enough to crack the masonry before collapsing into a lifeless heap.
Beside him, Nightingale was a ghost of surgical lethality. She phased in and out of the Mist World, appearing behind the mercenaries and slitting their throats before they could even perceive a shadow. It was a terrifyingly beautiful dance of violence. To them, the fight was an execution. To the guards being rescued, it was a nightmare made real.
Brian, Captain Greyhound, and two other guards—Erik and Trevor—were backed against the wall, bleeding and exhausted. They watched in absolute shock, paralyzed. Greyhound, a man who had already accepted death, watched the Prince's "scholar" dismantle an elite squad of mercenaries with his bare hands, moving with a speed that defied the laws of physics. Brian could only stare, unable to reconcile the friendly, eccentric William with the engine of destruction tearing through the rebels.
Nightingale, even in the heat of the slaughter, never took her eyes off William. As she wiped a splatter of dark blood from her cheek, her mind swarmed with questions. She had indeed heard the entire argument in the corridor. She had heard Arthur call her sisters "extras." She had heard them talk about "demons" as if they were a predictable game mechanic. But watching William shatter a man's collarbone with a casual backhand to save a guard's life, she saw something that wasn't in the "script." She saw a man fighting for the "extras" with a fury that felt frighteningly real.
The fight ended as abruptly as a heart stopping. The traitors were dead or incapacitated, and the torches meant for the granary lay extinguished in the mud. The immediate threat to Border Town's survival had been annihilated.
The scene shifted to Roland's office, the atmosphere thick with the smell of ozone, sweat, and the metallic tang of blood that still clung to William's clothes. Roland, Carter Lannis, Arthur, and William stood in a tense semicircle, while Nightingale remained a grim shadow in the corner, only partially visible.
William, leaning against the mahogany desk, methodically wiped his bloodstained knuckles with a cloth. He looked at Roland, and then at Arthur's analytical, deeply annoyed glare. Arthur looked like he wanted to scream about "operational security," but the results were undeniable.
— "Well, to make a long story short, Roland," said William, his voice raspy from adrenaline. — "Duke Ryan's rats were in the walls. They were minutes away from turning our winter food supply into a bonfire. Nightingale took the 'express route' to find them, and I handled the heavy lifting."
Nightingale stepped forward, her arms crossed beneath her cloak, her gaze lingering on William for a second longer than necessary.
— "What he says is the truth, Your Highness," the witch confirmed, her voice solemn. — "If not for his... insistence and his terrifying physical capability, Captain Greyhound would be a corpse, and this town would be a graveyard of frozen bodies before the first snow even fell."
Roland nodded, his expression softening as the weight of the averted disaster fully hit him. The engineer's pragmatism was replaced by a deep, intense gratitude.
— "Thank you, William. And you too, Nightingale. Without those supplies, Border Town would have been nothing more than a footnote in history," said the Prince, finally standing up and gesturing for the tension to dissipate. — "You've done enough. You look like you've been through a meat grinder, William. Go get cleaned up. Get some rest. Tomorrow, we deal with the survivors and tighten security. Arthur... go with him. Make sure he actually makes it to bed without starting another war."
Arthur gave a stiff, silent nod and turned to leave. William followed, but as he passed the shadowed corner where Nightingale stood, he felt her gaze piercing right through him. The rebellion was over, but the secret of the "System" and the meaning of the "extras" was a storm that was only just beginning to brew.