The world, for the first few days after my advancement, was cold and beautiful. My mind, now a perfect machine, analyzed every detail, every variable, every probability. My emotions weren't gone; they were simply filed away, their influence muted by an icy, logical filter. When old Grimsby worried about the cost of repairing the manor's roof, my mind didn't feel a pang of sympathy; it calculated. I could see the exact number of pounds needed, the probability of a storm occurring before it was finished, and the most efficient way to get the job done. It was the perfect counter to the chaotic nature of the Monster I had become.
My acting method was constant. I spoke in precise, measured sentences. I walked with a calculated gait. I analyzed every human I interacted with, noting their tells, their micro-expressions, the subtle way their spiritual energy flared with certain emotions. I was becoming an excellent observer, a detached spectator in the human comedy.
The money from Old Man Kohler was a godsend. It wasn't just enough to repair the estate; it was enough to start hiring people. My rational mind understood that a noble of my standing needed a retinue, not just for appearances but for information gathering. I began to hire a few loyal staff members, not out of kindness but because the long-term benefits of a reliable network outweighed the short-term financial cost.
My system pinged, giving me an update on my status. [Host: Tom Trunsoest. Current Sequence: 8 'Robot'. Potion Digestion: 11%.] The number was so low. I had to continue my acting method. The thought of losing control and becoming a true, unthinking machine was a horrifying one.
The search for the next Beyonder characteristic, a Lucky One, was no longer a simple quest. The system provided hints, not answers. [To advance to Sequence 7, you must gather good fortune and use it to your advantage. Hint: A stroke of luck can be a coincidence, or a choice.] The hint was cryptic, a puzzle for me to solve.
The first hint of trouble came a week later in the form of a wax-sealed letter delivered by a liveried messenger. My Danger Sense gave a faint, cold hum as I held it. It wasn't an immediate threat, but it was a sign of a future problem. The seal was that of the Tudor family, a powerful noble house with a known history of ruthlessness. My new memories told me they had been rivals of my family during the old empire.
My mind went to work. [Probability of hostile intent: 67%. Probability of a trap: 82%. Probability of an opportunity for social advancement: 45%.] The numbers were not in my favor.
I broke the seal. The invitation was for a grand social gala hosted by Duke Tudor. It was a clear power play, a way to test my influence and, more than likely, to see if the rumors of a Trunsoest resurgence were true.
"Master Tom," Grimsby said, his old face lined with worry. "The Tudors… they are not to be trifled with."
"I know, Grimsby," I said, my voice as level as a calm lake. "But staying hidden will only make them bolder. To survive, one must be seen."
My logical mind had already laid out the variables. Avoiding the gala would show weakness. Attending was dangerous, but it was also an opportunity. It was a calculated risk. I needed connections, and a social event filled with powerful people was a prime hunting ground. With my luck, something improbable was bound to happen in my favor.
My acting method dictated I show no fear. I looked at the invitation and felt nothing but cold analysis. The social customs, the dress code, the seating arrangements—all were just data points. My premonition gave me a flash of an ornate ballroom, and a brief, silent whisper of the words, "A forgotten gem."
I had a goal. I would not just attend this gala; I would use it. My luck would guide me, my Robot mind would protect me, and my monstrous, unpredictable nature would keep my enemies on their toes. I was a player on a chessboard far bigger than I had ever imagined, and my first move was to step directly into the lion's den.