The barrier dimmed from silver to pale blue as dawn broke over Sector Six. The city woke with it. Canvas flaps lifted, carts rolled, and vendors shouted themselves hoarse before the sun had cleared the roofs.
I moved with the tide of bodies, coffee steaming in my hand. It tasted like ash and regret, but the heat helped.
The market was a theater of survival. The poor came to buy scraps. The gangs came to posture. The corps sent men in clean suits, always with guards at their backs. And every so often, relics glimmered among them.
A nurse pressed a green slab against a man's ribs, light flaring as flesh knitted. The guard who stood nearby jotted a note in his ledger—debt recorded. Elsewhere, a Red Fang tough wore a ring that sparked faintly whenever someone came too close. Trinket relics, but still power.
The Lexicon hummed in my chest, faint and steady. It stirred whenever I lingered on someone too long. Threads of intent shimmered around them, faint outlines that hinted at what lay inside.
The vendor selling cracked watches had a warm, steady glow. Honest. The guard skimming coins off a cart twitched with grease and hunger. Dangerous.
I was beginning to understand. Soul Sense. The Lexicon had given me a compass for trust.
Not fate. Not certainty. Just leanings.
---
The preachers came midmorning, climbing crates to shout about the three paths.
"Body for strength! Mind for truth! Tech for creation! Choose wisely, or death will choose for you!"
Their words cut sharp, but hunger always cut sharper. A boy stared at their rod-shaped relic like it was the sun. His mother yanked him back.
"Don't listen," she hissed. "Food first."
The boy's eyes didn't leave the relic.
---
By midday, I reached the corner shop.
It slouched beneath a sagging balcony, windows thick with dust. Inside, broken clocks and faded books waited under cobwebs. In the corner, relic shards glimmered faintly—spent, harmless, decorative.
The crooked bell above the door groaned when I opened it.
The air smelled of paper and rust.
Perfect.
A mask for a shadow.
The front would sell scraps and lies. The back would hide the truth. Plans, secrets, scriptures.
The Lexicon pulsed once, pages turning. Approval.
---
I spent days cleaning. Dust rose in clouds. Rats scurried. The floor creaked under every step. Slowly, shelves became neat, books stacked, clocks lined like soldiers.
The back room I left bare, except for a table and a candle. That was where the real weight would settle.
"This is the mask," I said to the empty air. "The face comes later."
The Lexicon hummed softly, like it agreed.
---
At the pit that week, Jonas fought again. His patience was the same as before. He absorbed storms, struck once, and ended fights. The crowd screamed his name—Bastion.
And at the edge of the ring, I saw her.
Mara.
Arms folded, gaze sharp, measuring. She didn't cheer. She watched.
Later, when she left, I crossed her path.
"Good show," I said.
"You still don't belong here," she answered.
"Maybe not. But I think you do."
Her mouth twitched, almost a smile. Then she turned and was gone.
The Lexicon stirred. Her shimmer was steel.
---
That night, I sat in the back room. Candlelight painted long shadows against bare walls.
A door.
A blade.
A shield.
The door was here. The shield I had already seen. The blade had looked me in the eye.
Umbra was beginning to breathe.
---
Author's Note:
Scripture Introduced: Soul Scripture (Mind Path) — first skill glimpse: Soul Sense (reading loyalty and intent).
Setting Pieces: Relic trade in the market, corp Detection relics, Red Fang presence.
Umbra Foundation: Antique shop chosen as Umbra's first front.
Foreshadowing: Jonas as shield, Mara as blade, both circling closer.