POV: Kael — Secondary
I sat in the farmhouse, Zone 0, counting every grain of dust on the rough wood table as though it could explain what had happened. My hand hovered over the quill, hesitating, because no matter how many times I replayed the morning, it made no sense. I had been humiliated by a Level 0 slave. Not just humiliated, but… outmaneuvered. Outclassed. Outplayed.
The bag was gone. My property, my equipment, my carefully organized tools for the coming inspections—stolen. And by her. That girl.
I slammed my fist against the table, sending a shallow cup of water wobbling dangerously. Not enough to spill, thank the gods, but enough to let me taste my own anger. I breathed, slow, methodical. Every fibre of me wanted to track her, retrieve the bag, punish the theft. My mind whirled. But I reminded myself: I was an Overseer. Professional. Methodical. Precise.
I picked up the quill again. The first task: the farm owner.
[NOTICE — IMMEDIATE REPLACEMENT REQUEST]Recipient: Farm Owner, Zone 0Reason: Standard operational equipment lost due to Level 0 worker negligenceAction: Immediate replacement of stolen property requiredPriority: High
I wrote carefully, meticulously phrasing words to make it seem like this was protocol. Like it was standard. Not a personal slight, not a betrayal, not a reflection of my incompetence in allowing her to seize what was mine.
Next: Traveller's Guild. The theft had to be logged, a report submitted, so that the Guild's routing network could mark the item as stolen, trackable through the system if she attempted to move across zones.
[THEFT REPORT]Recipient: Traveller's Guild — Zone 0 NetworkItem: Bag containing personal and operational equipmentPerpetrator: Unknown Level 0 Slave (suspected Glitch anomaly)Action: Item recovery requested, flag for high-priority routingNotes: Evidence compiled, including eyewitness report
The quill scratched across the page. My fingers itched. Every second spent writing these notifications was a second I could not spend recovering my bag.
The third message was the hardest. I paused, staring at the empty sheet. This one had to go to a contact in Zone 35. Someone I could trust. Someone who would understand the implications. My mind ran through contingencies. The bag was not just equipment—it was the key to monitoring, controlling, assessing. The loss was significant. But this message was… more than that.
I began writing. My hand changed instinctively, tightening, curling in precision. Each letter carefully aligned. Each word weighed with importance. I did not stop to reread. Not yet. The message would be sent once my thoughts were fully encoded in ink.
I hesitated over a word, then moved on, focusing on the next line. My gaze flicked to the small window. The forest outside was calm, innocuous. Nothing betrayed the chaos that had occurred, the theft, the attack. I had reframed the attack already in my notes. In my mind, it wasn't an attack. It was a standard "initiation of a labour incentive contract," an acceptable deviation from the schedule.
I rubbed my temples. My system notifications buzzed faintly in the corner of my mind. Routine updates. Nothing alarming. Until it arrived.
A Guild-level broadcast. I saw it immediately.
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION]Scope: Guild-wide, active routing Zone 0Type: ALERTContent: GLITCH CLASS DETECTION — ZONE 0 BORDERClassification: NECROMANCERAnomaly Flag: ACTIVE
I read it twice. My stomach tightened. I recognized the coding patterns. Glitch. Class detection. Active.
I swallowed. My hand twitched. Almost involuntarily, I reached for my Grimoire. My chest tightened. My mind froze.
I have no Grimoire.
My pulse beat in my ears. I sat, motionless, feeling the gravity of the notification press down. Every instinct screamed at me. I had dealt with anomalies before. Rare, dangerous, disruptive. But never one with this kind of signature.
Then it hit me fully. The bag. The stolen bag. My equipment. The tools she had taken. She had it. She had the bag.
I clenched my fist. My nails dug into my palm. The magnitude of the situation crystallized in that instant. She was not merely a Level 0 slave anymore. She was… something else. Something that the system itself recognized before I could even classify her fully.
I could feel my thoughts sharpening, moving faster than my quill could record. Every contingency ran through my mind. If she had the bag, if she possessed it, then she had access to the items I had considered secure. My spells, my notes, my mappings of Zone 0, my equipment calibrations—everything could be compromised.
[SYSTEM LOG — PERSONAL STATS]Alert Level: CriticalAnomaly Detection: Glitch Class — NecromancerItem Compromise: High (Bag — personal and operational equipment)Operational Risk: SevereContingency Required: Immediate
I exhaled slowly, forcing myself to sit straight. My mind mapped possible paths. Zone 0 to Zone 1. She would not go far, not without leaving traces. And yet… the detection system had flagged her. She was classified. I knew what she was before she even fully understood herself. Type C anomaly.
The implications were vast. A necromancer at Level 0. A glitch class. That could destabilize every protocol I had established in this region. My hand shook slightly, not from fear—never from fear—but from the realization of scale. The Guild, the overseers, every routine operation now had an unknown variable embedded within it. And I was responsible for monitoring, tracking, and containing it.
I leaned back in the creaky chair, eyes narrowing. My mind replayed the theft, her flight, the subtle cunning she had exhibited. The way she had avoided detection. The way she had acted without hesitation, without fear, without protocol. That kind of initiative, at Level 0, could only mean one thing: she was beyond the system's normal parameters.
I gripped the quill again, returning to my notes. I had to log everything. Every detail, no matter how minor. The time of theft, her movements, the use of the bag, the encounter with the escorts. I wrote quickly, systematically, keeping my tone neutral but precise. These were facts. Not emotions. Not outrage. Facts.
I sent the first two notices immediately. Farm owner. Guild. Done. Routine. Standard. Checked.
Then the third. My hand hovered over the parchment. I hesitated, then pressed the quill to the paper. The lines were tight, deliberate, careful. Every stroke of ink measured. I did not allow my anger to spill. I did not allow the panic in my chest to betray my authority. This was intelligence, not reaction.
I finished, sealing the message with the emblem only my contact would recognize. Zone 35. Trusted. Secure.
And yet… the thought remained. She had my bag. She had my tools. She had my systems. My operational advantage. And she had gone… unchecked.
I leaned back again, staring at the ceiling. My fingers tapped the table lightly, rhythmically. My mind replayed the alert. Necromancer. Type C anomaly. Active. Zone 0 border.
I whispered it aloud, almost unconsciously. "She has my bag."
The room felt smaller suddenly. The weight of the detection, the classification, the anomaly pressed in. My hand rested over the parchment, over the notifications I had sent. I could feel the system pulse faintly, a reminder of the surveillance network, the guild-level monitoring. It knew before I did. And I had no tools to fully counter it.
I forced myself to sit still. I would plan. I would track. I would recover what was mine.
But for the first time in a long while, I felt a chill in my gut. Not fear, but recognition. Recognition that the variable I faced could not be controlled with standard measures. She was… different. Beyond the standard hierarchy. Beyond prediction.
[SYSTEM LOG — ALERT UPDATE]
Guild Broadcast Read: Confirmed Glitch Class Detection: Type C — NECROMANCER Operational Threat Level: Severe Personal Equipment Compromised: Confirmed (Bag) Contingency Planning: Initiated Estimated Response Time: Variable
I sat, quill in hand, staring at the empty table. Nothing else in Zone 0 mattered. Not the farm, not the routine inspections, not the minor thefts I usually logged. Everything had changed.
She had the bag. She had my tools. She had… potential.