"Oi, Markus! We need seven more boxes of dried meat over here! Grudwar's headin' to Fanoshia through the Lessing Channel, so the crew's gonna need all the provisions they can get! Make it snappy!"
The gruff voice cut through the steady clamor of the warehouse, pulling me into motion.
""Relax boss, the sea's not gonna dry up anytime soon. I'll have the provisions over in a jiffy""
I jokingly replied with a practiced smirk, hefting five crates with my left hand like they weighed nothing and stacking them on my shoulder in one fluid motion while my right hand carried the other 2 crates. My steps were steady and sure as I carried them toward the loading bay, where the SS Grudwar sat, prepped for its journey to Fanoshia's infamous "Iron Ports." Its course would lead the crew through the dangerous waters of the Lessing Channel, but that was the least of my concerns for now.
"Wow…the new guy never ceases to amaze"
"I thought Thomas was exaggerating"
"How is he that strong with such a slim build?"
"I wonder what kind of exercises he does?"
"Hey, I'm just glad he's lightening our workload"
The whispers and stares from the crew followed me as I moved, their surprise evident. It wasn't the first time my strength caught them off guard.
"Back to work, ya fools!"
The boss's sharp voice cut through their chatter, snapping them back to reality as they scattered to their tasks.
Meanwhile, my focus was entirely inward, tuning out all of their pointless chatter. It had been a few weeks since my mission started and I've been tirelessly collecting information using every possible avenue both legal and illegal and I have narrowed down the most promising thread to pull on to this particular place where I'm currently working at.
((The Lessing Channel...A narrow artery where countless ships met their end. Deadly currents being the main culprit—it was infamous for swallowing vessels whole. But for Grudwar's crew, it was the lesser evil))
I mused, reflecting on why the SS Grudwar had to take such a dangerous route.
((The open expanse of the Red Sea was far worse—pirates roamed it like wolves, ambushing anything they could get their hands on and the less I say about what they do to the women they capture the better. And even without the pirates, the sea held other horrors: monstrous creatures lurking beneath the waves, krakens and serpents capable of dragging entire ships to the abyss. Then there were the sudden whirlpools, freak storms, and cursed fogs that sent ships crashing into hidden reefs. Sailors had whispered for years about buried gods and ancient magic, superstitions born out of desperation. No one left those waters unscathed...unless they had the wealth to afford a fully armed and well-trained fleet. For Grudwar's crew, though, that was nothing but a fantasy—financially impossible...))
So, the Lessing Channel it was—longer, and more treacherous, but with far less risk of being slaughtered by pirates or taken by sea monsters. For Grudwar's trip to Fanoshia, it was the safer gamble, even with all the dangers the channel held.
((…Or at least that's what they want you to think…))
I set the seven crates of dried meat down at the loading bay where the SS Grudwar was docked, a dark expression crossing my face.
((The ledgers for the SS Grudwar's shipment to Fanoshia doesn't align with the ship's actual cargo capacity. If the discrepancy was just an issue of weight distribution, I'd see notes on balancing for stability—but there's nothing in the manifests indicating weight management planning))
Earlier, while "helping out" with various tasks, I'd discreetly scanned through some paperwork in the boss's office, and certain documents had caught my eye.
((Cargo insurance and protection for fragile items? Not likely. The listed goods are mostly bulk staples—lumber, metals, marble, textiles—none of which would require special handling or isolation. If rare or enchanted goods were on board, there'd be special permits, maybe extra documentation, none of which appear in the files))
The SS Grudwar's manifest, travel plans, and various other papers had left too many gaps, which is why I made a point of getting assigned to a shift here today.
((In-transit trades could be a reason, but that would mean marking out specific space allotments for stops along the way. The manifests don't mention any intermediate island ports or planned trading posts—and those are few and far between on the Lessing Channel as it is. Besides, the unassigned cargo space is too vague to suggest anything specific. Emergency storage for high-risk voyages? If that were the case, I'd expect extra survival kits, rescue gear, maybe even additional rations for the crew. But the holds are conspicuously empty of such provisions, and even the food I'm delivering now is barely enough for a crew this size over the trip's planned duration. Nothing here indicates they're prepared for a long voyage or any unforeseen dangers))
I'd run through every other explanation for the unaccounted-for cargo space, ruling them out one by one.
((If they wanted to avoid inspection or military oversight, they'd keep the load to a bare minimum, but they've packed it halfway more or less—enough to avoid suspicion but light enough to make space for something else...))
At this point, the pieces were practically falling into place, even a blind man could see it.
((There's only one reason left for leaving holds deliberately "empty", smuggling contraband. Whatever they're transporting isn't supposed to appear on any official record, but it's significant enough in size and value to leave part of the hold free. Uncovering what they're hiding should reveal who they're truly working for))
I concluded, though whether they're working for the "Velvet Tide" or some other force remains to be seen.
"Thanks, Markus...man, you're a real help. Up for grabbing some drinks after the shift's done?"
A large, friendly-looking man with stubble on his chin patted me on the back with a grin as I set down the last of the crates of dried meat, snapping me out of my thoughts.
""Thanks for the offer, Emrys, but I'm afraid I have other arrangements tonight""
I replied, turning to him with a polite smile.
"Aww~ well, I guess a young lad's gotta have a hobby…just don't go too hard on the ladies, ya hear?"
Emrys flashed me a knowing smirk as he waved me off, though I wasn't entirely sure why he'd jumped to the conclusion that I was off to fool around with girls, I decided not to correct his misunderstanding since there wasn't really a point.
Emrys—a big-hearted, straightforward type, the kind of person who wore his thoughts on his sleeve, almost too comfortable around people. With his easygoing grin and disheveled appearance, he seemed like the kind who could make friends anywhere, from the rowdiest tavern to the busiest port. Friendly, yes, but more importantly, he wasn't particularly detail-oriented. The type to miss small discrepancies, especially in paperwork or routine procedures, which meant he'd never look too closely at anything he wasn't specifically told to check. His casual demeanor was both a strength and a weakness: it made him approachable, but it also made him less aware of any undercurrents right under his nose.
((A social anchor. The "good guy" type who keeps morale up and encourages camaraderie among the workers. He's useful for getting close to the rest of the team quickly. And with him around, I can blend in, appear more sociable without drawing suspicion. The perfect cover))
I made a point to profile all of the important personnel among my coworkers for various practical purposes.
((A dependable asset for the time being, but also…someone I'll need to keep an eye on if my movements start getting noticed. Friendly or not, Emrys is exactly the type who'd feel obligated to report anything strange if he thought it would help the team))
I thought already thinking of a way to..."take care" of him should he pose a threat to my mission.
""Welp… back to work.""
I dusted off my hands, ridding them of the last traces of grime before heading back to the grind.
((Busy night ahead…not that I've had a single quiet night since I got here))
I thought to myself, glancing briefly at the pocket watch in my coat. It's been exactly five weeks, three days, and fourteen hours since I arrived in Garellia, and in all that time, I've managed no more than six hours of sleep, total. There's always something that needs my attention.
Tracking down leads on where the Velvet Tide might be hiding their operations without drawing notice; scoping out potential prospects under the cover of darkness; infiltrating a few secure places to gather information, and filing away every useful detail for later use. Then, there's the equally essential task of building a reputation in the neighborhood—small, intentional conversations, subtle favors for a few regulars, strategically dropping pieces of a believable backstory so no one thinks twice when I'm around. To top it off, I've prepared a whole series of contingencies, ready to put into action if the slightest hint of trouble arises.
I've even had to adjust to the local dialect, mimic their mannerisms, and study Coastanian customs well enough to blend in completely but still maintain the appearance of a well travelled foreigner, whether I'm chatting up a barkeep or taking inventory in the warehouse. Every detail, every moment—carefully calibrated to maintain my cover and keep the Velvet Tide completely unaware of the person hunting them.
((But I suppose, with my genetic and biological enhancements, fatigue isn't exactly an issue. My regenerative capabilities constantly refresh my cells at least twice per minute, keeping my brain in peak condition and minimizing exhaustion. It's a strange effect—I feel fully alert, yet there's a gnawing sense of something missing, like an itch I can't scratch. It's almost like a form of mental paralysis, knowing I need rest but being held on the knife's edge of awareness, unable to slip into true relaxation))
This peculiar state of sleeplessness has its advantages, no doubt, but it's hard to ignore the feeling of being constantly "on" with no natural reset. Even as my body and mind remains tireless, there's a part of me that occasionally longs for that elusive sense of true rest.
((But enough about that, back to work…))
I spent the rest of the day hauling crates, tallying supplies for the manager, and handling every mundane logistical task you could imagine. From inventory checks to stacking goods in tight spaces, I took on the dull, repetitive rhythm of the warehouse with practiced ease, letting the hours slip by.
I began working here roughly two weeks into my infiltration. Normally, a fresh hire wouldn't be handed such a range of tasks, but I've made a point of selling myself as a reliable, adaptable worker. The goal is straightforward: by building a positive rapport with my coworkers, I make it easier to gather information and conduct reconnaissance. Earning their trust means fewer questions when I'm around, fewer suspicious glances, and ultimately more insights into anything useful to the mission.
"Hey, Mark! Your shift's over. Things were a lot faster with you around, so you can count on a nice bonus at the end of this week"
My manager called out, his tone gruff but warm and genuinely pleased.
Finn Ledo—a solid, rough-around-the-edges man who managed the warehouse with the heart of a father and the discipline of a sergeant. Everything about him spoke of a life lived with practical values. His fingers were calloused, no doubt from years of manual labor before he got promoted to his current position. He was the type who worked tirelessly to make sure his family had everything they needed, a dependable, well-liked figure among the crew. They often swapped stories about Finn coming in on his days off if things got hectic or treating the team to rounds at the local tavern after particularly grueling shifts. A good-natured man, perhaps even naive, though not to the point of incompetence—a subtle distinction that was clear from the way he observed his surroundings, always aware of who was slacking and who was pulling their weight.
((An ideal cover. His openness makes him easy to please, and his trust in his crew means I can stay under the radar. Not to mention, it's likely he'd consider my diligence as enthusiasm for the job—no red flags raised))
I turned to look at him, an ominous glint in my eyes but I didn't let it show as I regarded Finn with a friendly smile.
""Thanks boss, I'll keep it up!""
I said, readying myself to head back to the medium sized, unremarkable room I'd been renting for the past five weeks.
"Don't get lost on your way back~"
A crass, somewhat brutish voice hollered, laced with an undertone that was hard to miss.
Sezare—a particularly crude man whose jealousy over my quick rise in popularity with the crew has been apparent since day one. He's all bark and little else, and as far as prospects go, he's a low priority, with limited value in terms of information or connections. I make a habit of ignoring him.
"Enough outta ya, dumbass! Get back to work unless ya begging for overtime!"
Manager Finn's voice cut through the warehouse, harsh but not hostile—more like a scolding parent than a supervisor.
""Haha...Later, everyone,""
I called out, adding a light laugh that ALMOST sounded natural even to my own ears as I waved goodbye to the crew. A simple, familiar gesture to close the shift, while mentally, I was already moving ahead to my next steps.
*Step step step step step step*
Although outwardly I had no reason to rush but I needed to get home as quickly as possible.
((Time's running out I need to hurry...[Polymorph]'s about to wear off))
As I arrived at my temporary lodging at 128 Park Avenue, Southeast Garellia, the front desk receptionist looked up and greeted me with a polite smile.
"Oh, Mr. Ulric, did you just get off work?"
Her voice was bright, accompanied by a practiced warmth that I suspected she reserved for all tenants, especially those she knew by name. Emily was her name—a college student, working hard to pay off her debts. She was a nice enough girl, unobtrusive in demeanor and, to my eyes, not remarkable beyond her courteous professionalism.
""Yes, Miss Emily""
I replied with a small smile.
""I won't be going out again for the rest of the day so please tell any guests that I'm not available if you don't mind""
"Of course, Mr. Ulric. Have a good rest...and good job today,"
She added, her businesslike smile flashing briefly before she returned to her work, her attention already shifting to the stack of papers on her desk.
I nodded, then made my way up the stairs, taking in the modest ambiance of the apartment complex. The building rose five stories, unpretentious in design but well-kept. The floors were divided into three sections, each catering to different residents: the ground floor housed a lobby with practical seating, a few recreational spaces, and a small buffet that offered basic meals during certain hours. Floors one and two were reserved for singles, bachelors, and other tenants without families, while the upper floors—three and four—were intended for families, featuring larger apartments and a quieter atmosphere.
My room was on the second floor, one among many that blended anonymity with utility—a place for those who preferred little attachment to their lodgings.
Inside, my room was as I left it: small but functional, designed for a single occupant. The walls were painted a subdued gray, perhaps to mask any wear, with minimal decoration beyond a framed black-and-white photograph of Garellia's skyline, which hung above a small, utilitarian bed. The mattress was firm, and a single woolen blanket lay folded neatly at the end, covering sheets as crisp as the building's policies.
The room had a narrow desk placed near the only window, which overlooked a section of the city's southern district, a view broken by the thick, iron-reinforced glass. An oil lamp, bolted into the desk, cast a pale yellow glow that added a sterile warmth to the space. The desk's drawers contained only the essentials I had brought with me—a few tools and alchemical stimulants disguised as over-the-counter medications. My coat, laden with concealed pockets and straps, hung on a hook beside the door, ready to be donned at a moment's notice. A small closet held a few changes of clothes, all variations on the same dark, nondescript theme.
It was a place that neither invited comfort nor required any personal investment—a space to exist in between missions.
I set my belongings down, slid the window shut as tightly as it would allow, sealing myself in. No evening breeze, no faint twilight glow, nothing from the outside would penetrate here and vice versa. I took a slow breath, then traced my fingers through the air, casting silencing and obfuscation runes around the room. The air grew thick and quiet, as though the entire room was submerged in stillness. ((This would be the time to prepare for the next part of the mission)) I thought. ((But right now, there is another matter that demands my attention...))
""Gruh!""
The sound that escaped my lips was animalistic, a guttural cry of pain as I crumpled to the ground, my body collapsing in on itself as if under attack. If only it were as simple as that.
My limbs began to shift, distending and shrinking in erratic pulses. Muscles tore and reformed, bones snapped and re-knitted with relentless efficiency, the dull throb of broken joints disconnecting and rejoining as they reconfigured themselves into my original structure. Blood vessels tore apart and rewove like threads in a mad seamstress's tapestry, veins pulsing as my core temperature skyrocketed, converting fat to muscle, muscle to fat, as though my body was burning itself to feed the transformation. My skin prickled and flushed, nerves rearranging in sharp bursts, pushing me closer and closer to my true form.
((ARGH! GRUGH! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!! GOD THIS STINGS!))
The pain was beyond comprehension, like every bone was shattered, every organ ruptured, my entire being melted down into a malleable sludge, reshaped by unseen hands. The agony was blinding, stretching into a seemingly eternal 20 minutes and 46 seconds—twenty minutes and forty-six seconds of raw, unrelenting torment that would have shattered the psyche of any common soul. And then, just as abruptly, the sharp pain subsided, leaving only an aching, paralyzing numbness.
I lay on the cold floor, gasping, my body limp, spent. I was back in my true form—more muscular, far sturdier than the disguise I'd shed, with around forty centimeters shaved from my height. My sickly white hair clung to my forehead, damp with sweat, a sharp contrast to the healthy chestnut-colored locks of my false identity. My skin, smoother than before but almost unnaturally pale, felt cold against the floor. The disguise was gone; I was myself again.
""Ugh...this fvcking sucks""
The words came out as a groan, my voice raspy, weighted with exhaustion. I lay there, too numb to move, the aching spreading through every inch of me. Though my mind was sharper than any nine-year-old has any right to be, my body felt ancient—like a seventy-year-old man trapped in a body barely strong enough to endure the strain.
It would take a while to recover, but that was just the price of slipping between identities. The job was never kind, and neither was the transformations that came with it whether they be physical alterations or mental conditioning.
""Ugh...status check""
After exactly 26 minutes and 6 seconds of lying motionless on the cold floor, I finally had enough energy to move. The numbness and dull ache lingered, but they were fading, like the last shadows after a storm.
With effort, I pulled myself up, gripping the edge of the bed to ease into a sitting position. My body felt heavy, sluggish, each movement echoing with the memory of transformation, but eventually, I managed to lean back, breathing steadily.
I pressed my hand to my chest, feeling for the rhythm beneath my skin.
*Thump* *Thump* *Thump* *Thump*
A slow, steady beat pulsed through my palm. I counted it, measured it against the seconds ticking by. For a full 2 minutes, I focused, calculating with practiced precision.
""Heartbeat...54 BPM...well, that's not good""
I muttered, tapping my fingers against my chest as I assessed the rate. For a child my age, a heart rate of 70 to 110 beats per minute would be typical, for an average adult, 60 to 100, and a well-trained athlete might reach between 40 and 60 BPM. But for me, a rate of 54 was a sign—a troubling shift from my usual resting baseline.
My natural state was exactly one beat per minute.
My heart, like every engineered facet of my biology, was designed to adapt to the demands of war and assassination. A slower, steady heart rate offered multiple advantages: it allowed for unfaltering focus, steadier hands for long-distance sniping, and the ability to remain motionless for hours without the toll of energy loss. The lowered rate also made it easier to stay calm under pressure and allowed for more efficient oxygen use—a critical factor when lying in wait, concealed and prepared to strike.
""I need my beta blockers...""
I leaned down to retrieve an inconspicuous suitcase beneath the bed. Inside were a few mundane items—papers, a pen, some spare identification. But lifting the top layer revealed a secondary compartment, meticulously organized. Alchemical compounds, potions, pills, and various medications lay in neatly labeled rows, each precisely placed, all of these were created or procured by my own hands here rather than provided at the start of the mission like my knives and such.
My hand found a small, unmarked orange vial. I poured one of the pills into my palm, studying it briefly before placing it on my tongue.
""*Gulp*""
I swallowed, feeling it slide smoothly down, leaving a faint bitterness. Within moments, the familiar stabilizing effect began to settle, easing the strain in my body, nudging my system back to its engineered equilibrium.
For now, stability was restored. Even with the medication, my heart was a stark reminder of the conditioning that had shaped me—fine-tuned and relentless, designed for missions that left no margin for error.
""It tastes like absolute feces, but hey, at least it did the job""
I muttered, grimacing at the lingering bitterness. The pill had its intended effect, but the aftertaste was wretched, like something dredged up from the bottom of a chemical vat. Naturally, they were custom-made pills—alchemical concoctions brewed specifically for my physiology. If a normal person took even a fraction of this dose, they'd be dead in seconds, either from an immediate overdose or from their organs shutting down in self-defense. My metabolism, honed and accelerated beyond natural limits, required such potency for any medication to take effect.
My body had been crafted for resistance—resistance to poisons, to extreme conditions, to nearly anything that could incapacitate a lesser being. High doses, compounds that would be lethal to others, were the bare minimum for me.
""Alright…let's see what else is still functional""
I shifted my weight, feeling the remaining aches loosen as I moved through a practiced checklist of status checks.
First, I checked my vision. I blinked and focused on the far side of the room, allowing my eyes to adapt as they recalibrated. My sight adjusted quickly, settling into a sharp, crystal-clear focus on even the smallest details—the faint texture on the wall, the individual fibers in the carpet. My night vision activated without a hint of strain, the room becoming saturated in shades of gray and soft blue hues. Unlike normal eyes, mine had been engineered to perceive the full electromagnetic spectrum from low light to pitch black, to adapt instantly, giving me clarity where others saw only shadows.
I tested my hearing next. I undid the isolation spell I casted on the room allowing sounds to filter into the room again before closing my eyes, focusing on the subtle, distant hum of the city outside, filtering out the room's silence and tuning into the faint vibrations of Garellia. My hearing was calibrated beyond the human range, sensitive enough to pick up a whispered conversation from the other side of the district if I concentrated. Each layer of sound separated and sharpened, allowing me to filter out unnecessary noise with ease.
Then, my reflexes. I tightened my grip on the bed's edge, flexing each finger individually, letting muscle memory guide the motion. My joints and muscles felt sturdier, stronger than they had before the transformation, each movement a reminder of the bioengineering woven into my bones and tendons. A single flick of my wrist could break a metal beam in half—a precision tool built for lethality and endurance, no wasted energy, no inefficiency.
Lastly, I checked my internal temperature and heart rate one more time. I took another pulse reading—1 BPM—and noted how efficiently my body was compensating. My core temperature remained significantly below normal, a feature designed to prevent overheating during long, strenuous missions and would also make it easier for me to play dead. My circulatory system, too, had been adapted to shift blood flow under specific conditions, reducing circulation to nonessential parts of my body to conserve energy when necessary.
Everything was in working order, if a bit fatigued. The pill had done its job, and my body, with its abnormalities and enhancements, had responded just as designed.
""Functional enough I guess...""
I concluded, my voice a low murmur in the stillness of the room.
(Author: Yeah our boi is basically a witcher without the ability to seduce any woman he wants)
""Alright, let's get started...""
I muttered to myself, feeling the familiar surge of anticipation as I prepared to resume my work tonight. The target was set, and I knew exactly what lay ahead.
Moving quietly, I opened the closet door and retrieved the familiar attire. A black hooded cloak, lightweight but sturdy, designed to meld with the shadows. I slipped it on, feeling the fabric settle comfortably around me, then reached for the matching gloves and boots, each reinforced for silent movement yet durable enough to withstand harsh conditions.
Finally, I pulled out the last item from the suitcase under my bed—a featureless white mask, with two simple eye holes. The mask was stark, almost haunting in its simplicity, like something out of an opera or masquerade, devoid of expression yet concealing everything. It was a blank canvas, intended to keep me as nondescript as possible.
((Let's go see what the SS Grudwar's hiding in its cargo, shall we?))
I took a moment to adjust each piece, ensuring the fit was flawless. Every item, every detail, had its purpose: the cloak's pockets for holding small vials and tools, the gloves that allowed a perfect grip, the boots that made my steps undetectable. Once satisfied, I slipped out of the room, the door closing softly behind me. I felt far more comfortable in the night than I did in the day.