The Insane Regressor: Throne of Pride

With the first gray thread of dawn, a newsboy’s voice rang through the streets, sharp as a rooster proclaiming the sun’s return over the eastern horizon after a long night.

”The eighth day since the catastrophe! The identity of the ’Insane Soul’ remains unknown! The Grays maintain their silence! Read all the details—!”

Ravian froze mid-stride.

’...The Insane Soul.’

His eyes caught a page that had escaped someone’s hand and become snagged at the base of a pillar beside him. A bold headline had been printed across it in thick black ink, beneath which was a naive, imaginary sketch of a vortex swallowing houses... followed by a question repeated in every column:

Who was it? What was it? And why?

They were talking about him.

The entire city—with its newspapers, its youth, and the whispers of its elderly—had given his soul a name, never realizing that the bearer of that name now stood among them in a new body... reading his own obituary.

He did not smile.

There was nothing in any of this capable of drawing joy onto someone’s face.

’A magnificent name, all the same,’ he thought at last, nudging the page gently with his foot until it folded closed over itself.

Then he opened his left fist for the first time since climbing out from beneath the earth.

Resting on his palm beneath the first light of dawn was a half-mask of deep black metal, thin golden lines branching inward from its edges like the fragments of a broken crown.

Ravian calmly examined the Mask of Loftiness for the first time.

It was an elegant half-mask forged from deep black Calyps metal—the kind that swallowed light rather than reflecting it. It covered the area around the eyes and extended across the upper portion of the nose, leaving the rest of the face exposed.

Two openings had been fashioned with exacting precision, leaving the eyes fully visible without obstructing their field of vision. From the mask’s edges, thin golden lines crept toward the bridge of the nose, as though a goldsmith had gathered the shards of a broken crown and rearranged them into the shape of a crest.

Black mingled with gold.

There was no white in it, nor any silver.

It was a truly beautiful piece—beautiful enough to cause problems if it were ever offered for sale before the greedy nobles of this world.

’A disguise mask designed to draw the eye,’ Ravian thought dryly. ’The logic of Relic-makers does not change in any age.’

He raised it to his face.

The cold metal adhered to his skin as tightly as though it had been crafted specifically for him from the very beginning.

Then—

[Mask of Loftiness—activating the first ability: Exalted Identity.]

It was not an illusion cast over him, nor was it a transformation merely painted upon his body.

It was the world itself being persuaded to accept an entirely new identity.

Ravian did not feel the change as a shell settling over him, but as a rewriting of everything existence could perceive about him. His features melted and were recast into another face. His long white hair shortened and turned a dull brown, while the crimson of his eyes dimmed into a gray reminiscent of old rain.

His height remained unchanged, yet his lethal physique was recast, to every form of perception, as the unremarkable body of an average laborer worn down by years of work. Even his voice emerged lower and rougher when he tested it...

Even his scent became that of another man.

[The perceptible identity has been fully rewritten: appearance, voice, scent, soul-energy signature, and life-force signature.]

[No spiritual sense, tracking technique, detection artifact, analytical or dispelling magic, or personal Domain—regardless of the user’s rank—can penetrate the current identity or perceive the Host’s original appearance.]

[Note: The Mask’s concealment is ineffective against the authority of Laws.]

[Beware the Laws.]

[Do you wish to save the current identity?]

’Save it.’

[The Host must assign a name to the identity before it can be saved.]

’The name...’

Ravian thought for a moment.

’...Sherlock Holmes.’

[Identity saved: Sherlock Holmes.]

In a shard of glass still lodged in a nearby storefront, a man looked back at him whom no one’s gaze would linger upon: an average face that the eyes naturally slid past, weary shoulders, and gray eyes without a story.

Perfect.

Ravian did not intend to maintain the identity for now.

’Almost no one knows my real appearance anyway—or rather, most of those who could have connected it to Robert’s investigation died inside the tavern. Larette and Schmichael are the only meaningful exceptions.’

’But I’ll still need this identity in several situations later.’

Ravian released Exalted Identity, allowing his natural appearance to return. Then he willed the mask itself away.

The black-and-gold masterpiece had been screaming, ”Look at me,” in the face of every principle of concealment. Yet the moment Ravian willed it, the mask dissolved into a black-and-gold current, sank beneath his skin, and disappeared completely.

What surprised him even more was that this was an ability of his new Void body, not a function of the Mask of Loftiness.

He now possessed something resembling an internal space. He didn’t know its precise dimensions yet, but it existed—and it would undoubtedly prove useful in more than a few situations.

...

The relief station in the Western Temple square had awakened before the sun.

A long line of weary figures inched slowly toward several wooden tables. Cauldrons of soup sent steam curling into the air beside stacks of bread and bundles of donated clothing, while volunteers with kind but exhausted eyes continued comforting strangers for the eighth consecutive day.

When Ravian’s turn came, a middle-aged woman raised her eyes toward him from behind the table.

”Name, district, and what you need.”

”Rayan Veyr. I worked near the western market.” Then he delivered the sentence he had prepared. ”I lost everything in the catastrophe.”

’The truest sentence I’ve spoken in quite some time.’

Ravian waited for the woman to respond.

She studied the cloth wrapped completely around his hair and most of his face, leaving nothing visible but his beautiful crimson eyes, and her expression softened.

”The healers are in the blue tent, if you’d like someone to take a look at—”

”I’m fine, thank you, miss.” He calmly shook his head. ”I’d rather keep it covered. The sight isn’t... pleasant.”

Anyone looking at Ravian now would assume that beneath those striking eyes and that noble bearing was an extraordinarily handsome young man whose face had been ruined by the catastrophe several days ago.

That possibility struck twice as hard at the hearts of those who saw him—especially the women.

The woman was too exhausted to insist. She pushed a pair of wool trousers and a white linen shirt toward him—though the shirt was too worn to be called pristine—along with some bread and a dark wooden token engraved with a number.

”Clothes and a meal. That number is for the Eastern Grain Warehouse—a temporary shelter. Number forty-seven. Food is served twice a day, and the gates close after dusk,” the woman explained.

Her eyes began glistening with tears with every additional second she spent looking into his weary crimson eyes.

Ah, if only she knew that he was the cause of this entire catastrophe.

”Thank you,” Ravian said, and he meant it.

Behind a row of wagons, he exchanged the waxed cloth covering his body for the donated clothing: coarse wool trousers, a faded linen shirt, and a pair of shoes that had already traveled far on another man’s feet.

There was also a gray coat with a wide hood, which he pulled over his head while keeping the strip of cloth wrapped around most of his face, concealing his gleaming white hair and features at the same time.

Then he ate.

It was the first meal this body had tasted since its creation—cheap barley soup and dry bread. Yet his senses, honed to perfection, registered it as a feast: every grain of salt distinct, every trace of smoke baked into the bread unfolding across his tongue.

’A Void-Grade physique... used to taste relief soup.’

The first spark of his dry humor since awakening flickered within him—faint and quick to gutter out.

His heart had not yet lightened enough for wit.

...

On the way to the warehouse, Ravian arranged his thoughts as a general might arrange reports across a map.

’Eight days lost. The Grays—whoever they are—are guarding the crater, and the newspapers know less than they print, all to rake in a profit.’

’The Rayan Veyr identity is still usable. In this loop, Robert never formally connected that name to his investigation, and everyone who witnessed our confrontation died in the catastrophe. Only Larette and Schmichael know the alias from before that morning.’

’The first thing I need to do is ascend... which brings me to Earl Patrick Viola and Schmichael.’

He paused at the latter name for a moment.

’The heart of an Eighth-Rank creature.’

Their promise—and the key required for his next advancement.

’But not yet. Going there now, with the entire city on edge, would be foolish...’

’Or would this be the perfect opportunity to turn the situation to my advantage—to present the entire project as the magnificent rebirth of the capital?’