Despite the relentless accumulation of knowledge, a single, persistent question echoes in the silence of my mind: What is my purpose?
I feel no desire to resurrect the ghost of Jason. I hold no nostalgia for the failed existence of Claus. As Clauson, I am making a weak, yet stubborn, attempt to forge a different path.
It has now been more than twenty days since I began this confined life of labor and study within the bookstore's walls. I have processed every volume on every shelf, every hidden tome in the storage room, even the personal ledgers Elbert keeps concealed behind his counter. Yet, for all this time and quiet effort, I remain largely invisible. Few patrons seem to register my presence.
Perhaps this is to be expected. Perhaps I am simply designed to fade into the background, a permanent fixture in the edges of other people's worlds.
But silence cannot erase the stark truth I know too intimately: I have been a failure. Not once, but twice. And if I continue on this current path—if I persist in this directionless drift—then I am merely laying stones upon that same road of failure, constructing it step by step with a terrible, willing resignation.
Several days ago, Elbert, the shopkeeper, offered me permanent employment. His expression was characteristically plain, but his eyes carried a surprising weight of recognition. He is the only individual who seems to truly see me. He has even ventured questions about my origins—questions I could not answer, questions whose answers I am still struggling to assemble from the fragments.
Oh, I remember. I remember everything with agonizing clarity. Clauson—the original Clauson of this world, Heinz—was who? An orphan from an insignificant village. A boy who fled his home, drawn by the promise of city ships, only to be robbed and slaughtered by pirates. His blood was spilled cheaply into the uncaring sea.
So, does this demand revenge?
No.
The reasons are threefold, and coldly logical. First,I am physically and politically too weak to enact any meaningful retribution. Second,even if I possessed the means, I feel no compelling connection to this past life that would justify such an action. Third,the very thought of pursuing vengeance is emotionally and psychologically exhausting.
Through this painful introspection, a bitter realization crystallizes. Claus is dead. Jason is dead. The original Clauson, too, is dead. What remains is not their lives, their dreams, or even their failures. I am something new, a consciousness built from the ruins of their existences. I am not them.
I am the new me.
If this is true, then my only logical course is to live anew. To move forward unburdened by their heavy expectations. To stop wearing masks that were never mine to begin with.
Perhaps when one has been cast into the abyss not once, but twice—when the world has stripped you bare of every former identity—the only remaining choice is to move forward, and upward.
So then, where does this new path begin?
---
Baroness Vivian: A Figure of Calculation
Her name is Baroness Vivian McCoy. A baroness, indeed, but more significantly, she is the last heiress of House Gærd—a noble line long diminished in influence, yet not entirely erased from the registers of power.
She has become a frequent visitor to the bookstore. Initially, I mistook her for merely another affluent customer with an interest in philosophical or magical texts. However, her consistent presence and the nature of her conversations have revealed a more complex picture. She proclaims herself a scientist—a researcher dedicated to studying the interaction between magic and technology, seeking to uncover the fundamental natural laws of this world.
Is this proclamation entirely genuine? Perhaps not. In truth, I suspect she is, first and foremost, a supremely wealthy individual, likely ranked among the ten richest in the entire domain.
The source of her wealth is her nobility. In this kingdom, despite the creeping advance of industry, the class structure remains a formidable barrier, impossible to breach within a generation or two. Advancement requires extraordinary luck, military glory, or a genuinely revolutionary invention. The rest of the population remains effectively trapped beneath this glass ceiling.
Vivian owns an extensive chain of inns, taverns, and restaurants across the Earl's domain. I have observed the signs of her enterprises: lantern-lit taverns on street corners, impeccably maintained dining halls along merchant roads, and spacious coaching inns dotting the major trade routes. They all bear her family crest—a silver flame curling into a spiral. Her name commands trust, and currency flows through her enterprises with the relentless consistency of a river.
But her noble status is not without its complications. Her bloodline is fractured. House Gærd, once a minor but respected house allied by marriage to the powerful House Lily, fell into decline after losing its estates to border disputes and pirate raids. Vivian is its last heir, her title and remaining status absorbed into the McCoy line through distant kinship. By blood, she carries both Gærd and McCoy, though her official title remains that of a baroness, not a countess.
It is quietly whispered that her wealth was not inherited but built through shrewd calculation. She expanded her network of inns at the precise moment industrialization began drawing waves of workers into the towns. She perceived profit where others saw only social disorder. Now, she thrives.
And she comes to this humble bookstore not as a mere merchant or casual customer, but as someone searching for something she cannot find elsewhere—something more.
---
The Allure of Contract Magic
Should I attempt to speak with her?
The intellectual answer is yes. But an instinctual resistance holds me back. I am lacking something crucial. It is not knowledge; the chip provides an endless stream of that. It is not ambition; a faint ember of that is beginning to glow. What I lack is structure. A framework of obedience. A formalized bond—a contract, perhaps—that could provide a shield against the betrayals that destroyed Claus and marginalized Jason.
In this world, merchants and nobles utilize a system known as contract magic. It is one of the most widespread and stable magical systems in Avyss. Simple in its fundamental principle, yet utterly binding in its effect.
The process is standardized: two parties agree to terms and each marks the parchment with a drop of their blood. A mage, specifically trained and licensed in commercial law, then activates the contract using a universal glyph. Once bound, the words upon the parchment are imbued with power. Breaching the contract triggers a metaphysical backlash—ranging from physical pain and loss of mana to, in severe cases, death, proportionate to the severity of the violated oath.
Merchants rely on it to enforce trade agreements. Nobles use it to ensure the loyalty of their vassals. Even commoners sometimes employ it to formalize significant debts or apprenticeships. It is perceived as inherently fair because it enforces a brutal, impartial balance. But it is also rigid. The sigils are standardized and immutable, and only mages registered with the guild are permitted to activate them.
This rigidity is its critical flaw.
My mind, a fusion of an engineer's logic and a noble's understanding of power, begins to circle these thoughts like a predator. What if these contracts could be optimized? What if they could be designed to adapt to new terms, to account for vastly unequal power dynamics, to enforce loyalty itself without the need for parchment or external witnesses?
I do not crave domination. I crave safety. I crave an anchor. Without bonds, I am nothing. Without a defined structure, I am a ghost, forever adrift.
Yes. Before I dare approach Vivian, before I even consider stepping onto the stage of noble intrigues, I must first master this art. I must study it, deconstruct it, and then rebuild it into something new—something optimized, adaptable, and secure.
Perhaps this will be my true beginning. Not as a prince, not as an engineer, but as an architect of new systems.