The sun was already high, its golden rays penetrating the narrow arched windows of the guest quarters when William finally opened his eyes. He didn't just wake up; he felt as if he were being reconnected to a body that was no longer entirely human. Every fiber of his muscles pulsed with an unusual, tectonic weight. It wasn't the ache of a heavy workout, but the pure, compact density of his new attributes.
He stretched, and the pop of his joints sounded like the structural creaking of a ship's hull. With Strength 16, the air itself seemed thinner, less resistant. He had the surreal sensation that if he rolled out of bed too fast, he might accidentally smash through the ancient stone walls of the castle with his shoulder. Yesterday's adrenaline — the memory of shattering a mercenary's ribcage with a single casual punch — had dissipated, leaving behind a residue of profound mental exhaustion.
— "Damn... I think I overdid it yesterday," — murmured William, rubbing his eyes to ward off sleep. His voice sounded deeper to his own ears, resonating in a chest that felt like it had been forged from cold-rolled steel.
Before his feet even touched the freezing floor, he mentally invoked the interface. The translucent blue screen lit up in the dimness of the room, casting a futuristic glow over the rustic furniture. A new notification blinked in the center of the screen, pulsing with a triumphant golden light:
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: TIMELINE ANOMALY DETECTED]
The direction of the original story has shifted positively. Outcome: Salvation of key allies (Greyhound, Brian, Erik and Trevor) and preservation of strategic resources (supply granary).
[REWARD: +150 Credits]
[CURRENT BALANCE: 170 Credits]
A slow, predatory smile spread across William's face.
— "One hundred and seventy... now we're finally playing with a real bankroll." —
He realized he had discovered the "gold mine" of this Dimensional System: changing the course of history for the better wasn't just a moral choice; it was the primary currency. By saving a few "secondary" characters who were destined to be footnotes in a tragedy, he had effectively doubled his strategic power.
As he analyzed the numbers, a fascinating detail from the previous night's massacre came to mind. In the chaotic heat of the tunnel, as his eyes darted between Captain Greyhound and the traitors, he had noticed something strange: small, flickering text windows hovering just above their heads. He focused his thoughts on that memory, and the System confirmed: he had unlocked the [Observation] subroutine. Now he could see the Status of ordinary humans.
He remembered Brian, the burly guard who had nearly died. The image returned with an overlay of data: Strength 9, Speed 7, Intelligence 7. Brian was a human at the peak of his capabilities by Border Town standards, but compared to William's current 16 Strength, the guard was as fragile as a porcelain doll.
The temperature in the room dropped suddenly.
The air near the window seemed to ripple and agitate like heat haze on a deserted road. In the blink of an eye, Nightingale materialized, leaning against the wooden frame with the lethal, natural elegance of a panther. She didn't look like she had slept at all; her silver-blonde hair was flawless, and her eyes were penetrating enough to cut glass.
— "You sleep too deeply for a man who claims to hold the keys to the future," — she said, her voice husky and melodious. She didn't move, but the intensity of her presence filled the room. — "I came looking for the answers you avoided yesterday in the office. I want to know what you meant by 'extras.' And I want to know why you speak of my sisters in the Association as if their shrouds are already being woven." —
William sat on the edge of the bed, letting out a long, heavy sigh. He ran a hand through his hair, thinking about how to explain the concept of a "supporting character" to a woman who had spent her life fighting for every inch of her own autonomy. He couldn't break the fourth wall — it would sound like the delusions of madness.
— "Extras... is an old term from my homeland, Nightingale," — William began, choosing his words with a precision that would have made Arthur proud. — "It refers to people who simply let themselves be carried away by the current of the world. They walk toward a precipice without ever looking up, thinking the path is safe because everyone else is on it. It's not an insult, though I know Arthur made it sound like one. It's an observation about ignorance. People who are not the authors of their own story." —
He stood up, his imposing figure casting a long shadow across the floor, and walked to the window. He stopped a few inches from the witch, close enough to feel the freezing aura of the Mist World permeating her cloak.
— "About your 'Holy Mountain'... I'm not guessing, and I'm not telling a ghost story to scare you," — William said, his voice icy. — "Beyond the Impassable Mountain Range, there is no paradise. There is no secret valley of peace. There is only a race you can't even begin to imagine: the Demons. They aren't mindless, black-blooded beasts like the ones attacking this town. They are a civilization. They have consciousness, high-level intelligence, and harbor a hatred for humanity that has burned for centuries. They are warriors, Nightingale. And they are waiting." —
Nightingale's face paled like a ghost. Her eyes locked onto William's, searching for the "scent" of a lie, but all she found was the terrifying weight of his conviction.
— "Demons... with minds?" — she whispered, her voice trembling. — "The Church speaks of demons, but describes them as mindless monsters... and says that we, witches, are their mindless servants." —
— "The Church has spent hundreds of years hiding the truth to maintain its own power," — William countered firmly. — "But the point is this: if the Witch Cooperation Association chooses to cross those mountains now, chasing a fairy tale, they will be walking straight into a massacre. They will freeze in the passes or be hunted by the demonic vanguards. Almost all of them will die in the snow, Nightingale. Scroll and a few others might be lucky enough to crawl back, but the cost in blood will be the end of your Association." —
Hearing the name "Scroll," Nightingale froze as if she had been struck by a God's Stone of Retaliation.
The shock was visceral. Her posture stiffened, her pupils contracted into pinpoints of light, and her hand moved out of confused instinct toward the hilt of the dagger beneath her cloak. She knew that no one in the castle — not even Roland's most trusted spies — knew the name of the witch who tended the Association's secret camp.
— "How do you know that name?" — she hissed, her voice vibrating with a lethal, desperate caution. — "Scroll rarely leaves the shadows of the camp. I have never spoken her name to you or to the Prince. Who are you, really?" —
William remained unfazed, staring at her with a calm that bordered on the supernatural. He didn't hesitate when she stepped closer, the hand holding the dagger tensing.
— "I already told you, the 'magic books' provides what is necessary," — William said, his voice a soft contrast to her aggression. — "I know who Scroll is. I know her power is to detect the flow of Magical Power; she can also memorize anything she desires and even summon a book she has already read. I know she is one of the few who would have the strength to survive the mistake your leader, Cara, is about to make. But why risk her life — why risk the lives of any of them — for a myth, when Roland is building the true 'Holy Mountain' right here in the mud of Border Town?" —
Nightingale remained silent for a long, agonizing minute. Her mind was a whirlwind, trying to reconcile the impossibility of his knowledge with the terrifying logic of his warnings. The name "Scroll" was the final blow to her skepticism. She realized that William wasn't just a scholar; he was a man who saw the threads of fate before they were even woven.
— "You're not going to tell me the whole truth today, are you?" — she asked, her voice returning to a melancholy whisper as she began to fade into the gray textures of the Mist. —
William felt the tension dissipate. He let out a sigh and recovered his usual provocative aura, a mischievous glint returning to his eyes.
— "Tell you everything? In one day?" — William smirked, leaning back against the stone frame. — "No way. I'm saving the big secrets for when we get married." —
Nightingale stopped. Her form, which was partially through the veil of the Mist World, suddenly solidified. For the first time, her pale, stoic face took on a distinct and unmistakable rosy hue. She was a trained assassin, a woman who had seen the worst of humanity, but the pure, playful audacity of the comment caught her completely off guard.
She let out a short, nasal laugh — a sound that was half-annoyed and half-amused.
— "You really are an cheeky idiot," — she said, though there was a new, playful trace in her voice that hadn't been there before. She stepped out of the shadows and walked toward him with a speed that would have left any other man breathless, stopping with her face just inches from his. — "If you keep up with these jokes, 'prophet', I might decide that your 'old books' would be better off without the organ you use to tell stories." —
With a light, teasing push to his shoulder — a touch that felt surprisingly warm despite her cold aura — she disappeared into the monochromatic mist with a fluid, evocative movement.
William was alone in the room, the smell of ozone lingering in the air. He let out the breath he didn't even realize he was holding, a wide, satisfied smile spreading across his face as he stared at the empty space. With 170 credits in the bank, the ability to read the world in numbers, and the genuine interest of the deadliest woman in the kingdom, William felt that the industrial revolution was finally moving in the right direction.
He was no longer just a spectator. He was the one holding the pen.