Chapter 169: Chapter 169—Impulse and Execution

Silas existed in a state of controlled satisfaction—giddy from his accumulated kills, from his successful combat ventures that had validated his capabilities, proving that his outpost survival skills translated effectively in the Shroud deployment.

Bodies stacked up, Silas thought with dark pleasure.

Crawlers dropped with ruthless efficiency—it was dangerous if he slipped,as he wasn’t as durable ass the rest of his cohort but otherwise the fights felt procedural, not difficult. Speed Enhancement paired with Sense Fade turned the hunt into something that bordered on unfair.

Well almost.

He spotted a large candidate across the plaza with a huge body suggesting a strength-focused build, and an expression that was just… ugly. Not hostile. Not friendly. Just an unfortunate facial structure that made his neutral expression look vaguely threatening.

Poor bastard, Silas thought without real sympathy. Genetic lottery failed him. Stuck with a face that makes people uncomfortable despite probably being harmless.

The big candidate drifted closer, stride loose, path angled like he was simply cutting across the plaza rather than closing in—near Silas, but not quite on him.

Not my problem, Silas decided, returning his attention to his immediate area. Just another candidate navigating Shroud. No reason to interact.

But something felt wrong.

He didn’t have any overpowered ability like a certain someone.

Silas didn’t have Bright’s perfect threat detection nor any form of spatial awareness—his perception was adequate but not exceptional.

He just had some sort of vague … feeling. A certain type of Instinct he developed through too many survival situations. Recognition that something about the large candidate’s approach carried a hostile weight despite his casual appearance.

Bad vibes, Silas identified. He couldn’t explain it. Couldn’t point to a specific warning sign. Just a feeling that this wasn’t a harmless encounter.

And he learned back in Vester—back with the cultists during Clear Light’s Eve—that when you feel a threat, you don’t wait for confirmation. You don’t analyze. You don’t the give potential enemy time to commit to an attack.

You strike hard and fast and deal with the consequences later.

That was his mode of operation when he faced the cultist at the medical bay. When he killed one of them while everyone was distracted by Adept Goba’s arrival.

Worked then. Works now.

The large candidate—Gregor, though Silas didn’t know the name—closed to a certain distance.

And as soon as he reachedthat point, Silas didn’t hesitate.

His Illusion type soul talent activated—a crude application that created a visual duplicate of himself, fake Silas standing where real Silas had been, maintaining an absentminded expression that suggested continued distraction.

In the same vein, the Alley provided some cover as its darker Shadows masked his movement. The Illusion didn’t need to be perfect—just convincing enough for a few seconds while he repositioned.

He engaged his Speed Enhancement fully—transforming him into a blur of motion, his body crossing distance faster than normal perception could track, his dagger drawing with practiced efficiency.

No sooner had he closed to optimal range, his target’s attention fixed on the illusion — a perfect execution window.

Gregor’s expression showed triumph: anticipation of a successful strike, satisfaction at his target’s apparent obliviousness, confidence that the mission was already complete.

He thinks he’s won, Silas realized. Thinks I’m helpless. Thinks he has the advantage.

He’s wrong.

Silas’s dagger plunged into Gregor’s throat—perfect targeting that found his carotid artery, severed his windpipe and guaranteed death within seconds regardless of any medical intervention.

No hesitation. No mercy.

The only consideration—the only concern that penetrated his combat focus—was more strategic rather than moral:

As the School mentioned having registered healers outside the Shroud and spoke about emergency extraction teams monitoring for casualties. He wondered whether they would detect this as a murder rather than a combat casualty. Whether they would investigate and whether there would be consequences?*

Still that was a problem for after he was out of the shroud.

Gregor’s expression transformed—from triumph becoming confusion becoming horror as he processed what had happened, as the reality caught up to his expectation, as certain victory became certain death.

One second ready to kill, Gregor’s fading consciousness registered. Next second already dying. How—

His vision showed Silas still standing where he’d been. Still looking absentminded. Still apparently unaware of attack.

Illusion, Gregor understood too late. The real one is—

Darkness took him before the thought could finish.

Before he could process how wrong he’d been.

Before he could understand the truth he’d avoided—

He’d been a butler’s son reaching past his weight, loud on confidence, light on the work needed to justify it.

Who killed me and why, were his last fragmented thoughts. What did I miss? What—

Then nothing.

Just a corpse collapsing in a Shroud alley. Just blood pooling on ancient stones. Just another evidence that the Academy deployment produced casualties exactly as expected.

—–

Silas stood over Gregor’s body, his dagger still dripping blood, his mind processing what had just occurred with cold analytical detachment.

Clear example of how unpredictable this world actually is, Silas thought.

He—Private Silas—wasn’t the one to be messed with as he had seen too much for his short tenure in life. Grim Hollow’s fall. Clear Light’s Eve massacre. Countless survival situations that taught brutal lessons about threat assessment and decisive response.

The Outcome of this battle was set in stone before it even begun.

He looked at the body without any particular emotion—not satisfaction, not guilt, just clinical assessment of the eliminated danger.

He was going to attack me, Silas reconstructed. Don’t know why. Don’t know if this was a personal grudge or just some random encounter that went wrong. But his approach pattern was hostile. His body language was aggressive. His timing suggested a coordinated assault rather than a chance meeting.

So I killed him first.

Question is—will the Academy see it that way? Will the instructors classify this as a justified self-defense? Or will an investigation reveal that I struck preemptively, that my “self-defense” was actually murder?

And if they investigate—if they discover this was an execution rather than mutual combat—what consequences may follow?

He cleaned his dagger with mechanical efficiency—wiping blood on Gregor’s clothing as well as removing evidence from his blade, preparing to continue his Shroud deployment like nothing had happened.

Because nothing did happen, Silas told himself. From the Academy’s perspective. Just another candidate casualty during a dangerous field exercise. A statistical inevitability that deployment produces.

Gregor’s death was a tragedy for his family. And a Political inconvenience for the people that positioned him there. But for sparkshire it was a common and acceptable loss.

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