Chapter 17 — The Aetherial Crest, 2
The Noctis estate was a different beast at night, its opulent halls cloaked in shadow, the silence broken only by the occasional creak of settling wood or the distant clink of a guard's armor. Sylan Kyle Von Noctis moved like a ghost, his black trousers and tunic blending with the darkness, his boots muffled by careful steps. The training courtyard had hardened his body—[Strength: 16/100. Agility: 18/100. Endurance: 17/100]—but tonight wasn't about brute force. It was about stealth, precision, and the Aetherial Crest, the relic that could tip the scales against the male leads of Love & Chains: Eternal Hearts. Eight days remained, and Sylan was done waiting.
Virelle's intel had painted a clear picture: the forbidden archives lay in the east wing's basement, behind an iron door with a runic seal, guarded by two sentries and a roving patrol. A blood sigil from a Noctis was required, and Sylan was banking on his own blood being enough. His plan was simple—slip in during the guard change at midnight, use a distraction to draw the patrol away, and test the seal. If it worked, he'd grab the Crest and vanish. If it didn't, he'd retreat, refine the plan, and try again.
The system panel materialized beside him as he crept through a shadowed corridor, its glow dimmed but unmistakable. [Warning: Success probability for archive infiltration decreased to 20%. High risk of detection. Recommend aborting.]
Sylan's crimson eyes flicked to the text, his lips curling into a faint, defiant smirk. "Don't worry," he murmured, his voice barely audible. "I'm just testing the boundaries."
The panel pulsed, its text shifting. [Acknowledged. Proceed at own risk. Detection will result in severe consequences.]
'Severe consequences,' Sylan thought, his soldier's instincts sharpening. 'I've faced worse.' He pressed himself against the wall, the cold stone grounding him as he neared the east wing. The memory of Elias Vaughn, the brooding swordsman who'd cut down the original Sylan in the game, lingered like a blade at his throat. Elias's Shadowstrike, his storm-gray eyes, his stats far beyond Sylan's current reach—every swing in the courtyard had been to close that gap. The Crest was his shortcut, and he wasn't turning back.
He reached a spiral staircase, its steps worn smooth by centuries of Noctis feet. Virelle had confirmed the guard change at midnight, and the distant clock tower had chimed moments ago. Sylan descended, his movements fluid despite the ache in his muscles. The system's warning gnawed at him—20% was a gamble, even for a soldier used to long odds—but he needed to know the archives' defenses firsthand. Plans built on guesses got you killed.
The basement corridor was narrow, lit by flickering sconces that cast jagged shadows. Sylan crouched low, his breathing steady, his crimson eyes scanning for movement. The iron door loomed at the end, its surface etched with glowing runes that pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat. Two guards stood before it, their armor glinting, their faces bored but alert. The roving patrol was nowhere in sight—likely circling the upper halls, as Virelle had said.
Sylan's distraction was already in motion. Earlier, he'd paid a kitchen boy to "accidentally" knock over a stack of crates in the west wing, loud enough to draw attention but not enough to raise alarms. If it worked, the roving guard would investigate, leaving the door briefly vulnerable. If it didn't, he'd have to improvise.
A distant crash echoed through the estate, followed by a muffled shout. Sylan's lips twitched. 'Good kid.' One of the door guards glanced at the other, muttering something, but neither moved. The roving patrol, though, was another matter. Footsteps clattered above, fading toward the west wing.
[Distraction partially successful. Patrol diverted. Door guards remain. Success probability: 22%.]
"Better," Sylan whispered, slipping closer, using a shadowed alcove for cover. The guards were the problem now—two men, broad-shouldered, swords at their hips. His stats weren't enough for a fight, not yet. Stealth was his only weapon. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a small pebble he'd picked up in the courtyard. A simple trick, but sometimes simple worked.
He tossed the pebble down a side corridor, the faint clatter echoing off the stone. One guard turned, his hand on his sword. "What was that?"
"Probably rats," the other grunted, but he stepped away from the door, peering into the shadows.
Sylan moved, silent and swift, his agility stat of eighteen carrying him across the corridor in seconds. He pressed himself against the wall beside the door, his heart steady despite the risk. The second guard stayed put, his eyes scanning the hallway but missing Sylan's form in the dark. The runes on the door glowed brighter, as if sensing his presence.
He drew a small knife from his belt—a tool, not a weapon—and pricked his finger. A bead of blood welled up, dark against his pale skin. 'Here goes nothing,' he thought, pressing his finger to the door's central rune. The glow flared, then dimmed, the runes shifting like liquid. A soft click echoed, and the door shuddered but didn't open.
[Blood sigil partially accepted. Additional authentication required. Success probability: 15%.]
Sylan's jaw tightened. 'Partially? What the hell does that mean?' He didn't have time to dwell. The distracted guard was returning, his boots heavy on the stone. Sylan slid back into the shadows, his mind racing. The blood sigil wasn't enough—maybe it needed a specific Noctis, like Amanda or Darius, or a ritual he didn't know. The distraction wouldn't hold much longer, and the roving patrol could return any moment.
[Warning: Detection imminent. Retreat recommended.]
"Not yet," Sylan hissed, his eyes locked on the door. He'd come too far to back off now. The Crest was behind that iron, its power his key to surviving Elias Vaughn and the game's script. But 15% was a death wish, even for him. 'Test the boundaries,' he thought, 'but don't be stupid.'
He retreated, slipping back up the staircase, his movements silent despite the ache in his legs. The guards didn't notice, their attention still split between the side corridor and the distant crash. Sylan reached the upper hallway, his breath steady, his mind already reworking the plan. The blood sigil was the issue—Virelle would need to dig deeper, find out what "additional authentication" meant. The distraction had worked, but it needed to be bigger, bolder, to pull both door guards away.
[Objective update: Archive infiltration attempt failed. Data collected. Refine strategy for next attempt. Time remaining: Eight days.]
Sylan leaned against the wall, his crimson eyes glinting in the dim light. 'Elias Vaughn,' he thought, the swordsman's shadow looming in his mind. 'You'll have to wait.' The Crest was close, but not his yet. He'd train harder, push his stats higher, and come back with a better plan. The system could warn him all it wanted—he'd rewrite this story, one way or another.