Gray Chronicle

Chapter 1 The Awakening of Ash

Lynn was awakened by the pain.

The pain was excruciating, as if my left arm had been hammered on an anvil and then quenched in ice water. My consciousness swayed with the pain, and each attempt to regain consciousness was pulled back into the depths by a new wave of agony.

When I opened my eyes, the first thing that rushed in was the smell—the musty smell of rotten old wood, the fishy smell of corroded iron, and the unique sourness of the gray mist seeping in from the cracks in the door, all mixed together, like an old rag covering my face.

Then the useful information was captured: a sloping wooden ceiling, oak beams dark brown from the fire, and joints stuffed with dried moss and rags to keep out the wind. An extinguished oil lamp hung from a beam, its shade covered with a layer of grayish-green powder, emitting a weak, sickly light in the dark.

Graying and crystallization.

The word surfaced from the depths of memory. Something unique to Graymist City—graymist that seeped from fissures in the ground, crystallized after long-term erosion of matter. Its traces could be seen on every wall and every metal tool in the lower city. It was said that alchemists from the Seven Kingdoms were willing to pay silver coins for the purified crystalline powder, but the residents of the lower city only knew that long-term inhalation would cause coughing and that skin contact would cause a burning sensation.

Scattered on the workbench in the corner were the cooper's tools: iron hoops, a mallet, a plane, and several unfinished bucket planks. The tools all showed signs of grime and corrosion, and the metal parts had an unhealthy grayish-green hue.

This used to be a cooper's workshop.

This is now Lynn Gray's residence.

This sudden realization shattered his last vestiges of drowsiness. He jerked himself up, the violent movement tearing open the wound on his left arm. A sharp pain exploded within him, making his vision blur and his head spin.

He looked down at his wound—his left forearm was loosely wrapped in a rough linen bandage, the dirty fabric and the seeping dark red blood forming a dark stain. The flesh beneath the bandage was swollen and distorted, with bits of herbal scraps falling from the fabric.

A herbal mixture of calendula and yarrow. A cheap and readily available home remedy for stopping bleeding in the downtown area.

"Who am I? Where am I? What's going on?"

Three questions popped into his head almost instinctively. He forced himself to stop focusing on his physical condition and began searching his memory—

Debris poured in.

Lynn Grey. Fifteen years old. An orphan from the lower city of Greymist City in the Kingdom of Aldric. His parents disappeared three years ago in the "Grey Veil Descends"—a massive eruption of grey fog that engulfed three streets in the lower city and took more than a hundred residents. The church called it the sigh of the ancient gods, while the common people called it the call of death. Since then, Lynn has lived alone here, barely surviving by scavenging, running errands, and occasionally stealing. Yesterday, he got into a fight with three equally hungry boys over a piece of cheap black bread mixed with sawdust.

And then they lost.

The other set of memories is equally clear: Your name is Lynn, you are twenty years old, you just hit the jackpot, and your greatest hobby in life was collecting all skills and achievements in an open world.

The two sets of memories are like misaligned gears, stuck together.

Through.

The word suddenly popped into Lynn's mind. His first reaction wasn't fear, but rather an inexplicable sense of relief—so those stories were true; when near death, the soul really could cross the veil of time. But this relief didn't last long before turning into helplessness: if one could cross time, why couldn't one gain a healthy body in return? And why would one have to rely on these largely useless herbs, enduring the pain of wounds to survive?

What's at the edge of my field of vision?

He rolled his eyes—the pain in his left arm making every tiny movement feel like walking on a knife's edge—and finally saw the pale blue light screen floating in the corner of his vision. No, it wasn't a light screen; it was more like an extremely thin, translucent slice of crystal, etched with fine characters.

He focused his attention, and the words became clear:

------

[Lynn Gray]

Status: Minor injury (laceration on left arm, medium risk of infection)

Attributes: Strength 4 | Agility 5 | Constitution 3 | Intelligence 7 | Perception 6 | Charisma 5

Skills acquired: None

Proficiency Tracking: Stealth Movement 0.7% · Tracking Footprints 0.3% · Weapon Grip 0.8%

------

There was no explanation. No guidance. No strange voice suddenly appeared in my mind.

Only these words, quietly suspended there, like a mirror.

Lynn stared at it for a long time. Those numbers weren't given to him by anyone. It was more like a translation—his body, his abilities, his injuries, read by some rules he couldn't understand for the time being, and translated into a form he could comprehend.

He tried to move his left arm—a sharp pain shot through him. The words "minor injury" on the crystal slice flickered briefly before settling. The flickering was a visual afterimage caused by his momentary lapse in attention, not a change in the text itself.

This mirror can only reflect, not change.

Having figured this out, Lynn slowly exhaled.

That's fine. He's not used to people—or things—talking in his head.

He stood up and began to examine the workshop. Cracks in the wooden walls let in a cold wind. Outside lay the alleyways of the lower town, from which he could hear the distant clamor of vendors, children crying, and the rhythmic hammering of a blacksmith's hammer somewhere. Further away, the bells of the temple tower in the central town rang out—the morning prayer bells of the Temple of Aldric, the god of order.

The original owner's memories told him that in a few moments, the bells of the Temple of Hephaestus would also ring—the followers of the god of craftsmen would begin their day's work. Then came the lingering echoes of the midnight bells from the Temple of Nox—the followers of the god of shadows were active at night, and dawn was the time for them to finish their work.

The tolling of the bells of the Three Temples overlapped in the gray mist, as if three gods were each announcing their own domain.

Lynn snapped out of her thoughts and looked at the line "Proficiency Tracking" on the crystal slice.

Stealth movement 0.7%. Tracking 0.3%. Weapon grip 0.8%.

These three numbers correspond to what the original owner did yesterday—stealthily evading patrolling guards in the alleyways, observing footprints on the ground to determine if anyone had passed by, and carrying a knife for self-defense. In other words, this mirror doesn't record any tasks, but rather the actions he has already completed. When he actually accomplishes something, the corresponding progress will appear on the mirror. Reaching a certain level of progress roughly means he has completely mastered it.

The "Skills Acquired" section is currently blank.

With only 0.7% stealth movement, it's still a long way from being "mastered".

He noticed a detail—there was no "occupation" section on the crystal slice.

He searched through the original owner's memories. Orphans in the lower city had very little access to information, but regarding professionals, there were always a few snippets of conversation floating outside taverns, complaints at guild windows, and old craftsmen's drunken grumbles that the original owner had roughly memorized. These fragments couldn't piece together a complete picture, but one word kept recurring—world consciousness. When someone mastered a certain skill, the world consciousness would give them a judgment, and from then on, they were a professional. As for how to determine mastery, what the criteria were, and what happened after the judgment—those snippets of conversation and grumbles didn't mention it. The original owner forgot about it after hearing it; anyway, he didn't think he could become a professional.

However, there is no occupation field on this crystal slice at this moment.

Is it that it hasn't appeared yet, or is it just not the right time for it to appear?

He wasn't sure.

Let's fill up one progress bar first.

He took a deep breath and began his first test. He picked up a blunt knife—the kind he used to whittle wood—from the workbench, adjusted his grip, and shifted his weight forward, blade facing outward, thumb pressing on the end of the handle. He held the position, feeling the muscles working.

Put down the knife and look at the crystal slice.

Weapon grip: 0.9%.

It increased. Not because he completed any task, but because he genuinely found a more suitable angle, and his body remembered the feeling. The mirror simply reflected reality.

The second test. Walk lightly from one end of the workshop to the other. Land heel first, shift your weight forward, and synchronize your breathing with your movements. Do this ten times.

Stealth movement: 1.1%.

The third test. He crouched down and observed the dust and footprints on the ground. His instincts, honed from surviving in the lower city, told him which marks were fresh, which were at least a day old, and which showed signs of multiple people passing by. He carefully examined them for five minutes.

Trace tracking: 0.6%.

All three progress bars have increased.

Lynn leaned against the wall, his heart pounding, not from the pain in his left arm. Those with a lineage might spend a lifetime trying to determine "how far they've progressed and how much they still need," but he could see the numbers directly. He could try skill combinations that required his master's approval before attempting them—as long as the progress bar was rising, it meant he was on the right track.

The sky outside the window turned from leaden gray to deep gray. The days in Graymist City were already dim, but at dusk it was like night. The bells of the Three Temples rang out again in unison, this time for evening prayers.

He examined the bandage on his left arm. The "risk of infection" on the crystal slide had changed from "medium" to "low"—his body was recovering, and the mirror faithfully reflected the change.

He needs food, clean bandages, and a safe place to spend the night.

These are tomorrow's survival issues.

But before falling asleep, Lynn did something. He hid a blunt knife, half a saw blade, and a rusty nail in three different places on his body. Then he closed his eyes and mentally rehearsed the day's actions—the angle of his grip, the technique of landing heel-first when sneaking, and the trajectory of his gaze when observing traces.

He also simulated the trajectory and force of the throw. It was just a simulation; he didn't actually throw it. This was one of the few exercises he could do that required no equipment, no physical exertion, and only required repeatedly rehearsing the movements in his mind.

The crystal slice floated quietly at the edge of his consciousness, like a mirror that never actively disturbed him.

Outside the window, gray fog billowed from cracks in the ground, spreading across the cobblestone streets of the lower town. The gray, eroded crystals glowed faintly in the fog, like countless broken pieces breathing in the darkness.

The progress bar is still far off.

But as long as they live, they will always increase in value.