The plan for Borlock was simple, ruthless, and relied entirely on the God-Eye's brutal clarity. Leo didn't need to fight the guardsman. He needed to orchestrate a defeat.
Borlock's protection racket was a delicate ecosystem of fear and silence. His [Fear of the Captain] was his Achilles' heel. Leo's goal was to amplify that fear until it shattered the man's operation, creating a "defeat" from which he could harvest the resulting chaos. Essence, he theorized, was the energy released by a broken will, a shattered scheme, a concluded conflict.
He spent two days observing. The God-Eye made it easy. He noted the shopkeepers who paid Borlock—the baker with a slumped shoulder (Sin: 45, waters down his milk), the cobbler who glanced nervously at the alley (Sin: 120, uses stolen leather). Their strings of [Fear of Borlock] were thin, brittle things. They would break easily if given a better option.
Leo's tool was the Tincture of Truthful Tongue. Not for Borlock, but for his victims.
He diluted the last dregs of his tincture with plain water, creating three minuscule, barely-potent doses. Then, he chose his moment.
It was collection day. Borlock, trying to look casual, made his rounds. Leo shadowed him, a ghost in the crowded market. When Borlock leaned into the baker's stall, his voice a low growl, Leo slipped past and dropped one of the diluted vials into the baker's apron pocket. A moment later, as Borlock intimidated the cobbler, Leo did the same.
He saved the third dose for the owner of the Leaky Tankard, a woman named Marta with a face like knotted rope and a Sin of 88 (watered-down ale). He paid a street urchin a copper to deliver it as a "complimentary tonic from a satisfied customer."
The doses were weak. They wouldn't force a grand confession. But they would lower inhibitions, nudge a tongue towards a truth that fear usually locked away.
Leo then positioned himself near the end of the alley where Captain Joric, a stern man with a Sin of 10 (rigid adherence to rules, caused a debtor's ruin), made his daily inspection. Leo focused his God-Eye on Joric, not to see his sins, but to see his route. The man was a creature of habit, his path a rigid golden thread through the market.
With timing born of cold calculation, Leo stepped into Joric's path just as Borlock, having finished his collections, swaggered out of the Leaky Tankard, a small, heavy purse now on his belt.
"Captain Joric, sir!" Leo called, injecting just the right amount of panicked respect into his voice. He pointed a trembling finger, not at Borlock, but at the baker, who was now serving a customer, his face flushed. "That baker, sir—I just heard him mutter something about 'paying the guard's tax' and 'rotten flour'! He sounded… distressed!"
It was a nonsense accusation, but it contained the trigger words: paying the guard.
Captain Joric's head swivelled. He wasn't a brilliant man, but he was literal-minded and hated irregularity. A baker complaining about payments to a guard? That was irregular.
He strode toward the baker's stall. At that exact moment, the weak tincture in the baker's system, compounded by the sight of the approaching Captain and his own baseline fear, did its work.
"I didn't want to pay!" the baker blurted out as Joric drew near, his voice louder than intended. "The flour's fine! It's just… he said he'd make trouble!"
Joric stopped. "'He'? Who said he'd make trouble?"
The baker clamped his mouth shut, eyes wide with horror, but the damage was done. Joric's gaze followed the man's terrified glance, which flicked directly to Borlock, who was frozen halfway down the alley.
Across the square, the cobbler, serving a noblewoman, was asked about a scuff on her shoe. Flustered by the customer and the strange, loose feeling in his tongue, he mumbled, "Apologies, milady, the hide was… acquired cheap. Had to, with the takings…"
The noblewoman frowned. "Takings?"
The dominoes began to fall. A whisper from a stall-holder here, a hissed accusation there. The market's usual buzz of commerce turned into a low rumble of pointed murmurs and pointed fingers, all directed at the hulking guardsman.
Borlock saw it—the shift in the crowd's energy, the Captain's cold stare locking onto him. His [Fear of the Captain] string, already taut, began to vibrate so violently in Leo's vision it seemed to hum. Then, Marta burst out of the Leaky Tankard, her face furious.
"You said it was just us!" she shouted at Borlock, her voice carrying. "You said the Captain turned a blind eye! You lying whoreson!"
That was the final blow. The public accusation, the crumbling of his web of silence. Borlock's defiance shattered. He didn't fight. He didn't protest. He turned and fled, shoving through the crowd, his collection purse bouncing against his hip.
Captain Joric barked an order, and two other guards gave chase. The spectacle was over in minutes.
Leo stood still, watching. He focused not on the chaos, but on Borlock's retreating form. As the guardsman vanished around a corner, utterly defeated not by a blade, but by exposed corruption and broken trust, Leo saw it.
A wisp of shimmering, violet energy—like smoke but made of light—detached from the space where Borlock's scheme had collapsed. It drifted, insubstantial, on the market air. The God-Eye identified it instantly.
[ Loose Essence Detected: Grade 1 (Fragment). ]
[ Source: Defeat of 'Borlock's Protection Racket' (Moral/Social Conflict). ]
[ Harvestable via Conduit or direct absorption by a Grade 1+ entity. ]
He still couldn't absorb it. He wasn't Grade 1. But he had a conduit. The plan was working.
He moved quickly, slipping into the alley behind the shop where the minor spiritual locus glowed. He took the Seed of the Whispering Vine from his pocket—not the one from the vendor, but a common, mundane seed he'd taken from the stockroom, a placeholder for his experiment. He held it in his palm and focused his will, not on the seed, but on the God-Eye itself, visualising it as a funnel, a channel.
He directed that imagined funnel towards the drifting wisp of Essence.
Nothing happened for a long second. Then, the God-Eye interface flickered.
[ Attempting to channel Essence through Host's Authority… ]
[ Host Grade insufficient for direct channeling. ]
[ Utilizing System Parasitic Protocol… ]
A thin, almost invisible beam of golden light, like a strand of the God-Eye itself, lanced out from Leo's vision and touched the wisp of violet Essence. The energy shuddered, then streamed along the golden beam, not into Leo, but into the seed in his hand.
The ordinary seed glowed with a sudden, brief inner light. It grew warm. Then the light faded, leaving it looking just as it had before.
[ Essence Fragment (Grade 1) has been stored in 'Vessel: Mundane Seed.' ]
[ Warning: Vessel is unstable. Essence will dissipate within 24 hours. ]
He had done it. Not a true harvest, but a capture. A stolen fragment of power, taken from the defeat he had engineered. He stared at the seed, his heart pounding with a fierce, savage joy. This was the key. He didn't need to be strong himself. He needed to be clever enough to break things that were.
He returned to the attic as the market settled into an uneasy new normal. That evening, he experimented. He couldn't use the Essence in the seed, but the act of capturing it seemed to have an effect. A new notification waited.
[ You have participated in the defeat of a higher-Grade entity's influence. ]
[ System Analysis: Host methodology unorthodox but effective. ]
[ Reward: +1 to System Synergy. ]
[ God-Eye has gained minimal experiential data. ]
It wasn't Essence in his body, but it was progress. The System itself was learning from him, adapting to his indirect, manipulative style.
He looked at his notebook. Borlock's entry was now closed. He drew a line through it. Defeated. Yield: 1 Essence Fragment (captured), market instability.
His eyes fell on the next potential entry. Roland de Marque. The noble with the missing ring. Roland's problem wasn't defeated; it was paused. And Roland had money. More than silver. He had access, influence.
A true conduit—like the Seed from the hidden vendor—cost Essence. To get Essence, he needed to engineer more defeats. To engineer defeats, he needed resources, reach. Roland could provide both.
Leo picked up his quill. He began drafting a letter, his handwriting careful and neat.
"To the esteemed Roland de Marque,
Trust the cleansing tincture has provided some… relief from your burdens. A purged falsehood often leaves space for new solutions. It has come to my attention that a certain item of familial significance may be causing lingering distress. My unique insights extend beyond humors. Perhaps a discussion, at your convenience, regarding the recovery of lost property? Discretion, as always, is my profession.
Yours in service,
A Friend at Grimes's Apothecary."
He had harvested his first fragment of power. Now, he would plant it, and see what poisonous, beautiful thing would grow. The game was no longer just about survival. It was about cultivation.