The satchel’s damp canvas clung to Radek’s fingers, the harvested Phase-Shift cap inside radiating a steady warmth. Vorlag had abandoned Perin and Giska without a glance, treating two deaths as routine ledger entries. The Bastion was an abattoir with lecture halls, and Radek possessed only an appraisal trick to keep himself off the slab. He returned to his dorm, the stale air a familiar comfort after the stench of ozone and terror. Cyrus was there, perched on his bed, meticulously cleaning a wicked-looking vibro-knife. The fluorescent lights hummed, casting sharp shadows on his face, but his eyes, usually so animated, were subdued. “You made it back,” Cyrus said, his voice flat. He didn’t ask about the expedition, didn’t comment on Radek’s mud-splattered fatigues or the tremor in his hands. He merely nodded toward the satchel. “Got the specimen, then?” Radek set the satchel on his desk, pulling out the violet-capped mushroom. It shimmered with an unstable, almost liquid light. “We almost didn’t. That wasn’t a low-risk zone. It was a trap.” Cyrus’s gaze sharpened, meeting Radek’s. “I heard the reports. Anomalous Tier 5. Unfortunate. Predictable, even. The Bastion pushes limits. Always has.” “This felt different,” Radek insisted, the memory of the creature’s maw still vivid. “Planned. Like they wanted to see what would happen.” Cyrus sighed, a rare, genuine expression of weariness crossing his features. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “They always do, Radek. They always want to see. Your skill… it’s a variable they haven’t accounted for. So is Iona’s progress. Corvin wants to understand how you break her systems. And she’s willing to sacrifice a few pawns to find out.” Cyrus's assessment landed without theatricality. Radek laid the stalk on the cutting board. “Then I give them variables they cannot predict. Something that slips clean through their system.” He worked quickly, methodical despite his coughing fit. The stem was fragile, its cell walls threatening to unravel into chronal fog. He used his portable induction hob, a relic Cyrus had ‘acquired’ from a forgotten supply cache, and a small, ceramic pot. He diced the stalk, adding purified water, a pinch of mineral salts from a street stall, and a sliver of dried Sunder-root for stability. The air in the dorm began to hum, a faint, metallic scent filling the space. The blue System interface flickered into existence before him. [“Phase-Shift Fungus (Tier 4, Rare)” – Infused with residual Chronal Energy. Consuming raw may result in uncontrolled temporal displacement or cellular desynchronization. Potential for controlled short-term intangibility if properly processed.] [“Sunder-root (Tier 2, Common)” – Stabilizing agent. Counteracts chaotic energetic fluctuations. Enhances molecular cohesion.] He simmered the broth slowly, watching the sliced cap dissolve into a pale, opalescent broth. The scent shifted, becoming less metallic, more like rain on hot stone. He stirred, the broth swirling with faint, silver eddies. Then, a final ingredient: a single, crystalline shard from the monster’s gullet—the very weak point he’d identified. He dropped it in. It dissolved instantly, leaving no trace. [“Ghostwalk Broth (Tier 5, Epic)” – A meticulously crafted culinary achievement. Grants temporary molecular desynchronization upon consumption, allowing for 30 seconds of full intangibility. Warning: Prolonged or repeated use within short intervals may lead to spatial disorientation or temporary sensory deprivation. Cooldown: 12 hours.] “Intangibility,” Radek whispered, staring at the translucent liquid. He glanced at Cyrus, who stood frozen, reading the floating script. “This… this changes everything.” Cyrus let out a low whistle. “It certainly does. Corvin’s surveillance nodes, locked vaults, restricted zones… they’re all solid walls. For now.” He paused, then stood, walking to a hidden compartment in his wall locker. He pulled out a small, worn datapad, its screen dark. “This might help you understand *why* they’re solid. I found this tucked away in a sub-level maintenance tunnel. It’s old, encrypted. Took me weeks to crack a single phrase.” He tapped the screen, and a single line of distorted text appeared, barely legible: “*Where the First Echoes sang, before the Warden claimed their song.*” Radek frowned, reading the cryptic words. “What does it mean?” “A riddle,” Cyrus said, a familiar glint returning to his eyes. “My best guess: the Bastion archives. The oldest sector, sealed before the initial breach events. Before Corvin took the seat. ‘First Echoes’ likely refers to the earliest classified studies into dimensional bleed. ‘Warden’… well, that’s Corvin. She keeps a tight leash on information.” Radek stared at the broth, then at the datapad. His desire to hide under the floorboards was slipping away. Survival on borrowed time demanded leverage, and leverage meant finding whatever rot held this facility together. He waited until the dead of night, the hum of the Bastion’s massive generators the only sound. He held the small flask of Ghostwalk Broth. The cooldown was long, the risks explicit, but the need for answers outweighed everything. He tipped the flask back, swallowing the bitter liquid in three gulps. The floor tiles softened under his boots like wet wax. [Molecular Desynchronization Active: 29 seconds remaining.] He slid through the dorm room door, a ghost, the solid metal yielding like smoke. He moved silently through the deserted corridors, past automated sentries that detected only physical mass, through reinforced checkpoints, each barrier melting before him. The feeling was surreal, terrifying, exhilarating. He felt a profound isolation, a disconnect from the physical world, yet he was utterly free. He found the archives, a vast, imposing cavern of information. The sealed wing smelled of desiccated paper and long-dead capacitors, its terminals thick with gray powder. The riddle led to an intake terminal designated ‘Pre-Cataclysm Spatial Research – Project Chimera.’ It was sealed behind an ionized perimeter wire designed to strip flesh from bone. But Radek simply walked through it. [Molecular Desynchronization Active: 5 seconds remaining.] He materialized inside, the world snapping back into sharp focus. He quickly located a deactivated console, its power cells long dead. He used a portable power conduit Cyrus had given him, a complex device Radek barely understood. The console sparked to life, its ancient interface flickering green. He bypassed the local security, a skill Cyrus had taught him for ‘emergency data retrieval.’ He scrolled through sensor logs and obsolete drive partitions. Then he struck a protected index: “Chief Investigator – Personal Log.” The author was an unlisted principal from the early crisis, a scholar wiped from current academy directories who vanished shortly after the sky cracked. Radek opened the primary file. The entries were dense with field calculus, detailing attempts to artificially induce dimensional bleed in human marrow using ambient radiation from early fissures. The scientist documented catastrophic organ ruptures, administrative disputes, and eventual success. He paged through the lab manifests. The writer named a junior colleague, an ambitious specialist whose signatures approved every live subject transfer: Prefect Corvin. Cold grease seemed to coat the back of Radek’s throat. Corvin had not simply inherited the post-crisis academy; she had helped engineer its baseline conditions. The final log entry was dated three days before the sky tore completely: “The Prefect is twisting our protocols. She does not want to seal the rifts. She wants to cultivate them.”

The Alchemist's Notebook