Chapter 5 – A Whisper in the Smoke
The sky over Myrkwell had grown quiet again.
Dusk draped the city in its rust-colored veil, and the gas lamps flickered to life along the winding cobblestone streets. Steam hissed from the brass vents that lined the alleyways, curling upward like ghosts rising from the sewers below.
A clocktower chimed seven.
And somewhere deep within the city's heart, a name was being whispered by mouths that ought not to know it.
Haron Velric.
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Inside the Trial Colosseum, silence had stretched longer than it should have.
The candidates who had yet to enter the Gate of Judgement stood still, as if caught in some dream. The judges—stoic in their crimson coats and brass-rimmed monocles—stood equally frozen.
All eyes were on the boy who should have died.
Haron knelt at the center of the circle, head bowed, breath shallow. His coat was torn at the shoulders, and soot clung to his cheeks. The air around him shimmered faintly, like the last breath of a dying flame.
Floating just above his chest, unseen by all but the most sensitive gazes, the [System Window] blinked.
> [You have returned from death.]
[This is forbidden.]
[Remain hidden, or be erased.]
Haron could feel it.
Not just the chill in his bones—but watching eyes. Something ancient had noticed his awakening. Not with curiosity. But with disdain. Hatred, even.
Still, he forced himself to rise.
Slowly.
He did not roar or cry out or fall to his knees in joy.
He simply stood. A boy in a worn coat, with dirt beneath his nails and shadow in his blood.
"Candidate 451…" one of the judges finally said, voice wary, "your trial has ended. Yet your class is... unregistered."
The man adjusted his monocle. His mechanical arm clicked softly as it moved, brass fingers tightening on the clipboard.
"This shouldn't be possible."
Another judge—a thin woman with a lace collar and rust-stained gloves—stepped forward.
"Do you remember what happened inside?"
Haron looked up.
The gaslight caught his eyes. For a moment, they gleamed—not gold, not silver, but something darker. Like iron dipped in oil.
"I remember enough," he said.
His voice was hoarse. Quiet. But steady.
The judges exchanged glances.
One of them—a pale, elderly man with ink-stained sleeves—whispered something to the others.
Velric. The name. Isn't that the factory boy? The one with the mother?
Poor district. East Smoke Lane. Near the blackwater river.
He shouldn't have passed. No power. No records.
Then how did he kill a Class-Eater?
The whispers grew louder in Haron's ears.
He turned from them.
And walked.
Not fast. Not slow. Just steady.
No one stopped him.
No one dared.
---
Outside, the city welcomed him with a familiar scent—wet coal, old rain, and the distant hum of steam carriages rattling down the iron tracks.
The streets were quieter now. Shadows longer.
He walked with hands in his coat pockets, every step echoing softly on the stone.
His mind drifted back to the trial. To the Devourer. To the sword.
And to the final message.
> [Observation Flag Triggered by ???]
Who was watching?
And why had the system warned him to hide?
He didn't know yet.
But as he passed a broken lamppost and stepped into the fog-draped alley of East Smoke Lane, he made a quiet vow:
"I'll find the truth. Even if I have to drag it out of the dark."
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