Three days have passed since I began my employment at the bookshop. The days have unfolded in a rhythm of quiet repetition. Each morning opens to the sound of horse-drawn carts rattling over cobblestones, the distant, mournful whistle of factory pipes releasing great plumes of steam, and the hollow, resonant clang of church bells carried inland by the damp coastal wind. Each evening concludes with the thud of wooden shutters being secured, the soft hiss of gas lamps igniting, and the gradual dimming of public voices into private murmurs. The routine itself feels weightless, a series of motions without meaning. Yet, what I extract from this stillness is profoundly heavy.
I have processed nearly forty percent of the collection housed within these walls. Not every volume is useful. Many are mere copies—frayed pamphlets reiterating identical trade laws, dusty theological tomes repeating sermons in slightly altered phrasing, instructional guides on household charms that differ only in their wording. But nestled within this redundancy, I have uncovered veins of genuine value: genealogical records of noble houses, meticulous histories of local conflicts, journals from explorers who charted the western seas, and foundational manuals of common spellcraft. Each book, once touched, once scanned line by line, feeds the quiet, insatiable hunger of the quantum chip embedded in my skull.
Every page turned. Every word traced. The chip acknowledges each with a silent, internal notation: +1 knowledge. Not in a quantifiable score I can measure against others,nor in some trivial game-like sense. But in the slow, deliberate accumulation of something far larger—a living archive of this world, constantly being rearranged and cross-referenced against the vast databases of my previous lives. Earth. Klid. And now, this place: Heinz.
Slowly, painstakingly, patterns are beginning to emerge from the chaos.
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The Town and Its Lord: A Calculated Rule
The town is named Grentwallow, and it is far from an isolated backwater. It is a possession, a tangible asset within the domain of Earl Norman, of House Caster—a name that recurs with imposing frequency in ledgers, royal decrees, and merchant contracts. House Caster is famed, the texts say, for its mastery of fire magic, a lineage that burns with a ferocity few rival houses can match. The Earl's control extends beyond this single town to encompass two additional towns and one small city, all spread across a calculated domain of approximately 2,450 square kilometers.
The forest where I first awoke—that damp, shadowed place of endings and beginnings—is also his. It serves as a crucial source of timber, feeding the Earl's relentless industries, and functions as a natural borderland between his territory and the county of Viscount McCoy of House Lily. It is a frontier in the truest sense: dense, unwelcoming, and thick with shadows that seem to resist any attempt to be carved away.
Earl Norman is depicted as no ordinary noble. The texts label him a man of the radical faction within Avyss politics, an early and enthusiastic adopter of industrialization. He permitted factories to sprung like grim, mechanical fungi on the outskirts of Grentwallow, powered by a brutish combination of coal, wood, and crude magical apparatus. This gamble has, by all accounts, enriched him significantly, placing him among the more prosperous earls and elevating his lands to a state of medium development within the kingdom. This perceived opportunity acts as a lure, drawing a steady stream of migrants from the impoverished rural interior, all desperate for the promise of steady work, if not actual prosperity.
The town itself is a testament to this uneasy transition. Carriages share the cramped streets with groaning carts piled high with coal. The sharp, metallic scent of industry perpetually mingles with the salty tang of the ocean. New constructions of red brick steadily encroach upon neighborhoods of older, wooden huts. And yet, poverty remains a visible undercurrent, etched into the faces of barefoot children playing in the alleys and heard in the racking, soot-filled coughs of laborers returning from their shifts. Development here is a patchwork, a truth as old as civilization itself.
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Magic and Control: The Unseen Chains
From the fragmented lore I have gathered, it is clear that magic in Avyss is a common utility, yet profoundly limited for the masses. There are four schools of magic broadly taught and deemed acceptable for common use: basic elemental manipulation, minor bodily enhancement, simple illusions, and object-binding charms. Farmers use diluted earth magic to slightly enrich soil; merchants employ preservation wards on their goods; city guards might tap into enhancement spells to bolster their strength for a short time.
But beyond this sanctioned surface lies the forbidden deep. The government, the noble houses, and the church maintain a stranglehold on rarer and more potent forms of magic. Necromancy, blood rites, temporal arts, and summoning are not merely illegal; they are erased from public knowledge, their very names whispered. The texts do not elaborate fully, but the fear is palpable between the lines. Should such knowledge ever become public currency, no law, no army, no title could contain the consequences. The nobility's monopoly on power would evaporate. The kingdom itself would be torn apart by chaos.
Here, knowledge is not just power; it is a currency more guarded than gold, a weapon more carefully sheathed than any sword.
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The Kingdom of Avyss: A World Taking Shape
The kingdom itself occupies the western coast of the continent of Toris. Toris is one of three known continents on this world, which its inhabitants call Heinz—'known' being a operative term, as only three have been reliably charted. There are rumors, of course. Whispers of other lands across the unforgiving oceans, but no voyage has ever returned to provide conclusive proof.
Avyss itself is perched upon a peninsula, its northern border abutting the Crass Kingdom. Its geography blesses it with natural harbors and a strong position for trade, though its naval power is reportedly middling. It is sufficient for self-defense, and for now, that is enough. The lifeblood of the kingdom is maritime trade: timber, coal, refined goods, and mass-produced enchanted trinkets flow out of its ports, while spices, exotic fabrics, and precious ores flow in from across Toris.
It is not a sprawling empire, nor is it a weak or failing state. It exists in a precarious, fascinating equilibrium—a kingdom perpetually balanced on the knife's edge between tradition and change, between inherited magic and emerging industry.
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Reflections: The Quarry and The Scholar
Three days is an insignificant measure of time in the lifespan of a man or a kingdom. Yet, in this brief span, the chip has silently devoured almost half of the bookstore's inventory. Each book processed is another stone laid upon a formidable, growing wall within my mind. Forty percent is only the foundation. Some texts are redundant, yes, but the chip possesses a boundless patience for repetition. It rearranges, it collates, it deduces. With each redundant page, it only sharpens its web of connections, drawing conclusions from patterns no human eye could detect.
I am realizing, with a cold and clarifying focus, that I am not merely reading. I am mining. This bookstore is not just my place of employment.It is my quarry, and I am its sole, silent excavator.
Yet, even as this repository of knowledge expands within me, a deep-seated caution remains. This world operates on rules of power that are unspoken but immovable. Rare magic is hoarded by the elite. Dangerous knowledge is controlled with brutal efficiency. The nobles reign not just through wealth and arms, but through secrets. A single misstep, a hint of understanding I should not possess, and I will be noticed. And to be noticed here, I sense, is to be extinguished.
And so, I perfect the performance. I remain silent. I arrange shelves with a deferential hunch to my shoulders. I polish spines until they gleam dully in the lamplight. I bow my head to customers, a frail young man of no particular presence, hardly worth a second glance.
Outwardly, I am nothing. Inwardly,I am a vortex—absorbing, cataloging, constructing.
Every beginning requires capital. Every foundation requires patience. For now, I wait. I learn. I gather.
Each book opened: +1 knowledge. Each day passed:a step toward a purpose I have not yet dared to name.