The Ashlands bustled with morning activity. Street vendors called out their wares—steamed buns, recycled artifacts, second-hand clothing. Laborers trudged toward the industrial district, shoulders already stooped in anticipation of the day's burdens. Courier guilds dispatched their runners, each bearing a colored armband denoting their company.
Elias kept his head down, cloak pulled tight despite the growing heat. The sword at his hip felt conspicuous, though he'd wrapped the hilt in rags to disguise its sect markings. Each face he passed was a potential threat—a Brass Tiger informant, a debt collector, or worse.
His destination lay in the Crumbled Quarter, where civilization had collapsed in on itself over generations. Once the home of minor noble families, the district had decayed as Whitebrand expanded upward instead of outward. Now it housed those who existed on the fringes—failed cultivators, knowledge brokers, and collectors of forgotten arts.
As he walked, Elias noticed something strange. The memory-traces he could perceive were everywhere, flowing like ghostly rivers through the city. Some paths glowed brighter than others—major thoroughfares used by thousands daily. But more interesting were the hidden paths, the shortcuts and secret routes known only to a few.
On impulse, he followed one such trail, barely visible as a faint blue shimmer between buildings. It led him through narrow alleys and under low archways, bypassing crowded streets and guard checkpoints. Within minutes, he'd traversed what would normally take half an hour.
At the trail's end stood a crooked building wedged between two larger structures, like a book crammed awkwardly into an overstuffed shelf. The sign above its door read "Relics of Mind & Memory" in faded gilt lettering.
Elias hesitated. The memory-trace led directly inside, a path trodden by seekers of obscure knowledge. Exactly what he needed, yet suspiciously convenient.
He pushed the door open, setting off a tinkling bell.
The interior was dim and cluttered. Shelves lined the walls, packed with scrolls, trinkets, and oddities. Glass cases displayed what appeared to be cultivation aids—spirit stones, meridian maps, focusing crystals. Most were fake or severely degraded, but some emanated faint spiritual energy.
"Close the door," rasped a voice from the shadows. "You're letting the knowledge escape."
An old woman emerged from behind a beaded curtain. Her face was a maze of wrinkles, her eyes milky with cataracts. Yet she moved with surprising grace, her fingers trailing over items as she approached, like she was reading their essences.
"You seek something," she stated. Not a question.
"Information," Elias replied, closing the door behind him.
The old woman tilted her head, her blind eyes somehow fixing exactly on his. "Information has a price, young man. Higher for those who carry stolen swords."
Elias's hand instinctively moved to his concealed weapon. "How did you—"
"I see with more than eyes," she interrupted. "You carry Brass Tiger steel. Fresh blood on your hands. And something else..." She inhaled deeply. "Something old. Something awakening."
A chill ran down Elias's spine. "I need to know about Memory Walkers."
The word seemed to echo in the dusty shop. The old woman went absolutely still, her unseeing eyes widening slightly.
"Out," she whispered.
"I can pay—"
"OUT!" she shrieked, suddenly backing away. "I deal in harmless curiosities, boy. Not extinction-level secrets."
Elias stepped forward. "Please. I need to know what's happening to me."
"To you?" The woman froze again. Then, cautiously, she approached him. Her gnarled hand reached up, hovering near his face without touching. "Impossible. The bloodline was purged centuries ago."
"What bloodline? Who are the Memory Walkers?"
The old woman retreated behind her counter, reaching underneath to pull out a small wooden box. "If you are what I suspect, you're already dead. You simply haven't realized it yet." She opened the box and removed a small crystal, dull and cracked with age. "Take this and go. I want no part in what follows."
Elias accepted the crystal. It felt warm in his palm, despite its lifeless appearance. "What is it?"
"A memory crystal. Ancient technology, from before the Cultivation Era. If you truly carry the Walker bloodline, you'll know how to use it." She waved her hand dismissively. "Now leave. And don't return. Knowledge is my business, but some prices are too steep."
"At least tell me who might want me dead because of this bloodline."
The old woman laughed, a dry sound like crackling parchment. "Everyone, boy. The Memory Walkers were mind-thieves and soul-benders. They fell from power long ago, hunted to extinction by a coalition of every major sect. Even mentioning them is dangerous."
She shooed him toward the door. "If you're smart, you'll forget this conversation and throw that crystal in the deepest drain you can find. If you're a fool, you'll seek answers and join your ancestors in oblivion."
Elias clutched the crystal, its weight suddenly significant. "Thank you for the warning."
"Don't thank me," she muttered. "I've likely killed you with kindness."
Back on the street, Elias examined the crystal more closely. Hairline fractures webbed its surface, and its interior was cloudy. To any cultivator, it would appear worthless—a depleted spirit stone at best.
Yet as he turned it in his fingers, something stirred within his mind. An intuitive understanding, rising from his awakened bloodline: this crystal contained memories, preserved like insects in amber. The old woman believed his bloodline would allow him to access them.
He pocketed the crystal and continued through the Crumbled Quarter, mind racing. Memory Walkers. Mind-thieves. Soul-benders. A bloodline hunted to extinction. The dream of two suns and a battlefield of corpses. A child that needed protection.
Lost in thought, he failed to notice the subtle signs of pursuit—the same face appearing in multiple shop windows, the careful distance maintained, the eyes that never wavered from his back.
He was being followed.
The realization came suddenly, instinctively. Elias turned down a narrower street, then another, then doubled back through a covered market. His pursuer was skilled, always maintaining visual contact without making it obvious.
Not a typical Brass Tiger thug, then. Someone with training. Perhaps even a true cultivator.
Elias's hand tightened on the hilt of his hidden sword. If confronted, could he win another fight? The Mnemonic Meridian gave him technical knowledge, but his body was still adjusting to its new capabilities. He lacked the refined spiritual energy that even a low-level cultivator would possess.
He needed an advantage. And suddenly, he realized he had one—the memory-traces.
Focusing on his newfound perception, Elias sought out the dimmest, least-traveled paths. He found one—a barely visible trail leading to what appeared to be a solid wall. Approaching it, he discovered a hidden gap between buildings, concealed by an optical illusion created by their overlapping architecture.
He slipped through the gap and emerged in a small courtyard overgrown with weeds. Ancient stone benches surrounded a dry fountain. The memory-trace continued across the courtyard to a rusted door.
Behind him, he heard the scrape of boots as his pursuer discovered the hidden passage. Elias drew the sword, its weight comfortable in his hand despite his limited practice.
A figure appeared in the gap—a woman in nondescript clothing, her hair pulled back in a tight braid. Nothing marked her as a sect member, but her movements betrayed training. She carried no visible weapon.
"Elias Thorne," she said calmly. "I mean you no harm."
"People who mean no harm rarely follow others through secret passages," Elias replied, keeping the sword raised.
The woman's eyes flicked to the blade, then back to his face. "Interesting. The reports said you were untrained, yet you hold that sword like you've used one for years."
"Reports?"
She nodded. "You've attracted attention. A non-cultivator defeating a Brass Tiger enforcer? That raises questions."
"Questions asked by whom?"
The woman took a single step forward, hands open at her sides. "By those who monitor anomalies in Whitebrand. By those who recognize when something unprecedented occurs."
"You're being deliberately vague," Elias said, backing toward the rusted door.
"Because I don't yet know if you're a threat or an opportunity." She gestured to his eyes. "Those golden flecks weren't there three days ago. Your musculature has restructured itself. You're changing, Elias Thorne, becoming something this city hasn't seen before."
Elias felt cold dread in his stomach. "How do you know these things?"
The woman smiled slightly. "You're not the only one with secrets. My name is Sera Lin. I represent interests that have been waiting a very long time for someone like you."
"The Memory Walkers?" Elias asked, watching her reaction carefully.
Her expression didn't change, but a subtle tension appeared in her stance. "Where did you hear that name?"
Before he could answer, pain flared in his temples—sharp and sudden. The world tilted sideways as information flooded his awareness.
Trial initiating. Neural pathway reinforcement commencing.
Unlike previous trials, this one didn't target his body. Instead, his mind felt like it was being simultaneously compressed and expanded. Memories sharpened, connections formed between disparate thoughts. His perception of the memory-traces intensified until they practically blinded him with their glow.
He staggered, dropping to one knee.
Through watering eyes, he saw Sera Lin approach cautiously. "What's happening to you?" she asked, fascination replacing caution in her voice.
Elias couldn't answer. His consciousness was splitting, part of him remaining in the present while another part delved into paths that existed only in memory and probability.
He saw connections—between the old woman's shop and this courtyard, between Sera Lin and a shadow organization that operated beneath Whitebrand's surface, between his own awakening bloodline and ancient secrets buried by time.
When the pain subsided, he found himself on all fours, gasping for breath. The sword lay beside him. Sera Lin stood just out of reach, observing with clinical interest.
"Fascinating," she murmured. "It's happening faster than the prophecies suggested."
"What prophecies?" Elias managed, his voice hoarse.
Sera Lin extended her hand. "Come with me, and I'll explain everything. About the Memory Walkers. About your bloodline. About the role you're destined to play."
Elias looked at her outstretched hand, then at the crystal in his pocket, visible now that his cloak had fallen open.
"You have a memory crystal," she observed, her eyes widening slightly. "Where did you get that?"
In that moment, Elias made a decision. He snatched up the sword, ignored her hand, and backed toward the rusted door. "I'll find my own answers."
Sera Lin's expression hardened. "You don't understand the forces you're dealing with, Elias. There are those who would kill you for what you're becoming. I'm offering protection."
"Protection serves the protector's interests, not the protected," Elias replied, surprised by the wisdom in his own words—another echo from his awakening bloodline, perhaps.
He pushed through the rusted door and found himself in a narrow passage that led back toward the main streets. Behind him, Sera Lin called out:
"When you're ready to learn the truth, ask for the Hidden Hand at the Silver Crane Teahouse. We'll be watching, Memory Walker."
Elias didn't look back. He emerged onto a busy street and immediately blended into the crowd, mind reeling from all he had learned.
Memory Walker. Hidden Hand. Prophecies. His simple life as a courier seemed like a distant memory now, replaced by ancient bloodlines and secret organizations.
And through it all, the System continued its work, reshaping him pulse by pulse into something beyond flesh—something that even immortal cultivators apparently feared.
Night was falling as he finally returned to the Ashlands. He needed time to think, to plan his next move. Most urgently, he needed to discover how to use the memory crystal, to unlock the secrets it contained.
Because one thing was becoming increasingly clear: in Whitebrand's complex web of power and intrigue, knowledge was not just currency—it was survival itself.