10,000 Years Too Late

Dana—still adapting to her borrowed identity as Jennersen Salvarose—found herself following her father's aide through the hushed corridors of the Salvarose manse. The echoes of distant footsteps merged with the soft glimmer of ash-lanterns on polished stone floors, and each step brought her closer to the private study where all the city's major medical factions waited.

At a heavy door carved with swirling patterns, the aide paused and bowed low.

"Your father is inside, my lady."

Dana nodded, taking a slow breath. It had been only minutes since she'd narrowly averted a sabotage scheme during the gala toast. Another swirl of tension now awaited her on the other side of this door—Operating Theatre doctors, Incisor representatives, Terminal Society scholars, and more. They all demanded Daylor Salvarose's attention. And Romern… She bit her lip, remembering how her brother had blocked her governess from entering earlier that day, ensuring she'd be unprepared for the night's events. But Romern was not in these negotiations; he had departed on an urgent Incisor mission in the Undawild, dealing with vile corpses some rogue Terminal Society biologist had unleashed. The fiasco had tarnished the Terminal Society's name and heightened citywide scrutiny of their experiments.

At last, she pushed open the door. A hush rippled through the room's occupants—clusters of robed figures, each seated or standing around a broad table lit by an ornate ash-lantern. Daylor Salvarose stood at the table's head, arms folded and expression guarded. He inclined his head to Dana, a gesture that silently acknowledged her presence and recent performance.

"Jennersen," he said, in a measured tone. "Join us."

She stepped in carefully, scanning the room. High shelves lined with medical tomes and genealogical records enclosed the group like a fortress of knowledge. The tall windows were shuttered, shutting out the night's ash-laden breeze. The carpet muted everyone's footsteps, but the tension was unmistakable—no one spoke until she took her place near Daylor.

Operating Theatre: Doctors Vaius Thresh and Meridia Voss, each in immaculate white robes with subtle embroidered emblems. Their posture radiated clinical confidence.Terminal Society: Professor Alden Ward, his academic robes more rumpled, accompanied by a colleague who hovered protectively. Ward's eyes darted nervously—no doubt anxious about the scrutiny from the fiasco in the Undawild.Incisors: Chief Surgeon Kaine and a lean deputy by his side, both wearing crisp uniforms reminiscent of a disciplined militia. Their presence always carried a hint of danger.Minor Delegates: Representatives of Nursemaidens, Estimators, and Eugenicists either sat or stood close by, waiting for their turn to speak.

Dana mustered a polite nod to the room, recalling how her Axis terminal had identified each faction's priorities. This was the next step after the public gala—where real deals were made or broken behind closed doors.

A beat of silence clung to the air, and then Daylor spoke:

"I appreciate your patience," he said, voice calm. "We can be more candid here than in the ballroom. Let's proceed with the matters at hand."

With that, the tension snapped. Professor Alden Ward cleared his throat:

"Lord Salvarose, we are…grateful to be received again. Especially in these trying times." He glanced at Kaine and the Operating Theatre doctors. "I'd like to reiterate that the Terminal Society as a whole regrets the rogue experiments. We've taken measures to prevent further misuse of our research."

Chief Surgeon Kaine exhaled, leaning forward, impatience etched on his brow:

"Regret is all well and good," he said, "but your 'rogue elements' have cost us valuable time dealing with monstrous corpses. Now, the city frowns upon any advanced experiments. We can't get new specialized ash for our Incisor squads. All because your Society roused suspicion."

He shot a look at the Operating Theatre doctors, who maintained expressionless faces. Doctor Thresh finally spoke:

"The fiasco indeed stirred distrust, Professor. If advanced research leads to abominations in the Undawild, you can't expect the city—let alone the Operating Theatre—to defend your methods. Unless," he paused meaningfully, "you align with stricter medical protocols."

Dana watched the volley of blame with caution. The Terminal Society needed the Incisors' cooperation for resources and field data. The Incisors wanted advanced ash from the Society. Meanwhile, the Operating Theatre demanded stricter oversight. They're like cogs in a jammed mechanism, she thought.

A small cough from a slight figure reminded Dana that the Nursemaidens were present too. One of them—a quiet attendant—seemed to want to speak, but remained overshadowed by the more forceful personalities in the room.

Daylor listened, hands clasped behind his back. He allowed the factions to air frustrations, occasionally nodding or requesting a detail. The hush that followed suggested they all looked to him for a unifying solution. She realized her father's influence as a Doctor-lord was enormous.

But it was clear from his faint frown that he didn't have an easy fix. Dana decided to step in:

"This friction seems… solvable, if we realize each side's progress depends on the other," she said, carefully measured. "Incisors rely on advanced ash—ash that only the Terminal Society can develop. The Society needs public trust, which the Operating Theatre can help shore up, if certain procedures are followed. Meanwhile, both rely on House Salvarose's political support to keep their ventures from collapsing under scrutiny."

Several pairs of eyes flicked her way, some with intrigue, others with wariness. They were not used to the old "Jennersen" being so calmly rational. The Terminal Society colleague gave a thoughtful nod, while Kaine's glare softened, if only slightly.

Daylor exhaled:

"It's as my daughter says: none of you alone can push your agendas without the others. But if this conversation remains locked in blame, we'll accomplish nothing."

A restless shuffling followed. The minor delegates—Nursemaidens, Estimators, Eugenicists—each tried to chime in:

Mother Superior Helena from the Nursemaidens gently raised concerns about ensuring children remain safe from "aggressive culling" or rogue experiment fallout.A spokesperson for the Estimators insisted that the city's rising mortality data was urgent. "We need immediate interventions," they said, hinting that incisor hunts alone won't fix the problem.Doctor Emil Thane, representing the Eugenicists, quietly offered that a more "selective breeding" approach might curb future crises—earning scowls from half the room.

Dana kept a neutral expression. She recalled how the fiasco at the gala was merely the appetizer. This is the real seat of power, she realized, surveying the frustration. "You're all locked in place. Even the presence of the Operating Theatre might not muster enough political will to unify these efforts."

At her remark, Doctor Meridia Voss from the Operating Theatre raised an eyebrow:

"Daylor Salvarose has substantial sway, Lady Jennersen. Yet the city's cynicism grows after the failed Undawild raid. People question whether any noble lines can lead them out of these… plagues."

Her subtle implication: the Salvarose family's star might be rising, but public faith in the upper echelons was still precarious. The tension in the study felt as suffocating as the ash-laden air outside.

Dana inhaled, searching her borrowed mind for answers. We need a cohesive message, she thought. The question was how.

A hush settled as they waited for either Daylor's command or some miracle solution. Dana felt her pulse climb, remembering how, at the gala, she'd discovered the potential power of a "symbol" that could unify hearts: the story of survival. Her Axis terminal flickered at the edge of her vision, reminding her that time was short. Slasher might be after my friends, or the Operating Theatre might claim them if we don't move fast, she thought.

"There's a way," she ventured, voice steady. "The city's hearts are weary from half-truths and cold policies. We need something tangible—something that gives them hope. A sign that even our darkest failings can be turned around."

The faction leaders turned toward her, frowns replaced by curiosity. Daylor folded his arms, letting her speak.

"We have survivors from that deadly Undawild raid," she went on carefully. "If we… highlight them—if we rally them under House Salvarose's guidance—imagine what that would do for public morale. A group of men and women who cheated death in the Undawild itself, standing as living proof that our city can still produce triumphs."

She swallowed, trying not to let her personal motives shine too obviously. I must keep my friends close, ensure they don't fall into the wrong hands…

Professor Ward from the Terminal Society perked up. "Those who survived the raid—eight in total, correct? But some left the hospital. The rest remain in advanced care, right?"

A quick murmur ran through the table. Indeed, the city was abuzz with rumors that many survivors had vanished.

Dana offered a small smile, feigning calm: "Yes, but if House Salvarose focuses on retrieving them, giving them proper recognition, the people's cynicism might shift. We can unify under a message of healing and possibility."

She saw the flicker of excitement crossing certain faces:

The Incisors might see them as living heroes to champion culls in the Undawild.The Terminal Society might glean data from them without being hammered by scandal.The Operating Theatre could advertise new medical triumphs.Meanwhile, House Salvarose cements a lead role in restoring faith.

Daylor tapped a finger on the table, gaze turning thoughtful. "Gathering them could be a turning point indeed." He nodded slowly, as if weighing political risk. "If these survivors are truly the key… let us see how best to bring them back."

Dana exhaled in subtle relief, flicking her eyes to the side. Yes, father, let me gather them in your name. And then, they'll be safe from every unscrupulous faction.

The room began to buzz with cautious optimism, as each faction recognized the brilliance of employing the survivors' narrative. Dana forced a calm exterior, even as her mind whirred with private triumph: At least one part of this plan is coming together.

The new momentum in the study felt almost hopeful, each faction cautiously enthused about leveraging the raid survivors to inspire Sveethlad. Dana, still playing the role of Jennersen Salvarose, could sense the slow shift from simmering tension to something resembling unity. At least on paper.

But a hushed cough interrupted the moment: Chief Surgeon Kaine, the Incisor leader, fixing her with a narrow gaze. "Gathering those eight might help the city's morale," he conceded, "but we all know their so-called 'miraculous' escape from the Undawild was pure chance." He paused, letting the words hang. "I wouldn't place too much faith in 'luck' if any of them attempt a second descent."

A ripple of unease crossed the room. Daylor's eyes flicked to Dana, but he held his tongue, letting her respond if she chose.

Dana straightened. "I believe they survived through resilience, not mere chance." She kept her tone steady. "And if they went back in—"

"—they'd die," Kaine finished, voice clipped. "Traps, spectrals, collapsed tunnels. Even your brother Romern, an elite Incisor, is risking his life right now in the Undawild, cleaning up the Terminal Society's fiasco with those malformed corpses. The city can't handle another funeral for so-called 'heroes.'"

A half-suppressed flinch hit the Terminal Society delegates at the mention of their rogue biologist's monstrosities. Professor Alden Ward looked away, silent guilt etched in his posture.

Dana felt her borrowed pulse hammer. She knew Romern had tried to undermine her by blocking her governess. Now he was off dealing with undead horrors. A convenient excuse to avoid these negotiations, she thought. Still, she wouldn't let Kaine dismiss her so easily.

She measured her response: "Perhaps that's a risk we must accept. Besides," she added calmly, "I intend to join Romern soon."

That simple statement drew a collective intake of breath. Eyes darted among the factions, some in disbelief, others in shock.

Kaine arched a brow, crossing his arms. "You, Lady Jennersen, returning to the Undawild? Weren't you the one who barely crawled out alive in the last fiasco?"

A hush fell. At the corner of Dana's vision, her Axis terminal flickered with micro-prompts, suggesting partial skill synergy. She remembered how the old "Jennersen" might have sneered or lashed out. But I'm not her, Dana thought. I have new methods.

She forced a mild smile. "The city can't linger in fear. Whether it's me, Romern, or others, we must show Sveethlad we're not cowed by one failed raid." She exhaled slowly. "If that means returning below, so be it."

Kaine scoffed. "Then it'd be luck again—like the legend of the One-Eyed Pilgrim: blessings for the random soul who stumbles out. A few of us revere that pilgrim more than the healers, you know." His voice held faint mockery, not bothering to hide his skepticism about House Salvarose's famed medical tradition.

The reference to the One-Eyed Pilgrim piqued Dana's interest. She'd read that some Incisors saw the pilgrim as a luck-bringer, though mainstream Pathos revered the original healers. He trusts in luck, not the healing arts… interesting.

A small tide of frustration rose in her chest. Daylor looked ready to intervene, but Dana quietly signaled that she could handle it.

"Chief Surgeon Kaine," she said, letting her voice drop to a measured calm, "I appreciate your point about luck. But luck is only part of survival. Skill and confidence matter, too."

His lip curled. "Prove it."

A taut silence swept the table. Dana's heart pounded—Prove it? The Incisor was famous for lethal precision and unwavering steel nerves. If she hesitated, she'd appear weak. Her Axis terminal flickered at the edge of her vision, a faint reminder of the Luck points she'd allocated after the sabotage fiasco. Maybe… I can demonstrate something improbable.

Her father shot her a warning glance. She quietly ignored it, letting her borrowed body's muscle memory guide her. Jennersen might have carried hidden weapons—Dana had discovered a retractable wire with a hook in her belongings earlier, something the original had possibly used for cunning pranks or intimidation. Now it lay coiled in her left sleeve.

Slowly, she stood. The factions tensed, uncertain what she'd do. Kaine's expression hardened, as if expecting a childish outburst. Instead, Dana turned and addressed him politely:

"Let me… show you how luck can be shaped."

Her left hand flicked forward in a sudden, fluid motion. A thin wire—slender as a thread but unbelievably strong—whipped out from beneath her sleeve, the hook whistling through the air. In a flash, it latched onto the hilt of a knife she'd spotted at Kaine's belt.

Even as everyone gasped, a second motion—a near-invisible flick of her right wrist—sent a tiny throwing blade spinning across the space. Kaine's reflexes were formidable; he jerked aside, but something about the angles—her improbable synergy of poison-laced luck—let the blade bury itself in his shoulder. Just enough to wound, not kill.

Time seemed to freeze. Operating Theatre doctors half-rose, alarmed. The Terminal Society flinched, eyes wide. Daylor stood, face stricken with shock. The faint smell of blood drifted into the hush.

Kaine exhaled, eyes dilating. He stared down at the small blade in his shoulder, and at the wire hooking the knife from his belt. No one in the room had fully registered how it happened. The improbable angles, the improbable speed… She shouldn't have been able to do that—unless luck itself had twisted in her favor.

A few heartbeats later, Kaine hissed, pulling the embedded blade free. Blood beaded through his uniform, but he seemed more shaken than enraged. He locked eyes with Dana, a flash of genuine respect crossing his shock.

"What… was that?" he managed, wincing.

Dana retracted the wire with a soft whir, letting his confiscated belt-knife clatter to the floor. She fought to keep her racing pulse steady. My Axis skill points… that's what. But out loud, she said nothing. Just maintained a level stare.

A swell of whispers erupted:

"She pinned Kaine?""Did you see how fast that was?""She's changed—definitely not the old Jennersen… or maybe she's not fully human anymore."

Daylor found his voice. "Jennersen!" He sounded part furious, part amazed. "What have you—" He stopped, clearly unsure how to handle the situation. The delegates looked between father and daughter, stunned.

Dana inhaled, turning a polite glance around the table. "I apologize for the disturbance. But Chief Surgeon Kaine questioned survival as mere luck. I… simply demonstrated that skill, too, plays a role." Her voice stayed icy calm, though adrenaline surged in her veins.

Doctor Thresh from the Operating Theatre broke the silence, stepping forward to inspect Kaine's wound. The blade had grazed muscle but avoided vital arteries—uncanny precision. He glanced at Dana, suspicion etched on his face. "You… shouldn't have that level of accuracy, my lady. Unless… you trained extensively, or—"

A hush fell, the unspoken question trembling in the air: Or unless the rumor was true: raid survivors might be… changed.

Dana felt a flicker of sardonic amusement. The city guessed they were possessed by wandering spirits, monstrous or otherwise. And ironically, they were almost correct—Dana's Earth soul inhabited Jennersen's body. She subdued a mirthless laugh. If only they knew just how right they are…

Kaine, wounded but proud, gave a faint nod of acknowledgment. "Understood," he muttered, pressing a cloth to his shoulder. A swirl of thoughts clearly swam behind his eyes. Yet no further challenge came—he'd recognized he'd been outmaneuvered.

A ripple of edgy hush pervaded the study. No one seemed quite sure whether to praise or condemn Dana's show of force. The Nursemaidens hovered in alarm, eyes flitting between Kaine's bleeding uniform and Dana's calm face. The Eugenicists exchanged smug looks—as if her display of "genetic excellence" confirmed their theories. The Terminal Society delegates looked downright rattled, as if suspecting new layers of "mutations."

Daylor cleared his throat, retaking control. "We can… attend to Kaine's wound. Meanwhile, let us not forget the subject at hand: forging a path that unites our city." He paused, eyes flicking to Dana. "And it seems my daughter is… quite determined to see that happen."

Nods rippled around the table. The meeting resumed in a subdued tone, none daring to provoke Jennersen further. Daylor skillfully guided them back to the earlier idea: rounding up the raid survivors to reinspire Sveethlad. They talked logistics—who might track the missing survivors, how to publicize them, how to spin the story to overshadow the rogue fiasco. All the while, a new undercurrent thrummed: Jennersen wasn't just changed—she was dangerously capable.

Twenty minutes later, the discussions wound down, with each faction carrying a mixture of hope and trepidation. Some left quickly, still rattled. Others lingered, whispering among themselves about the rumored "inhuman skill" displayed tonight.

Dana stood back, letting Daylor finalize small details. She noted how he carefully gleaned commitments: The Operating Theatre would stoke public trust in these survivors' medical validity; the Incisors (minus Kaine, who was getting patched up) would quietly help locate them if the Terminal Society provided safe routes or hush-hush experimental gear. The Nursemaidens, Estimators, and Eugenicists each contributed small pieces to the puzzle—child welfare angles, mortality data, or genealogical analysis. All hinged on forging a precarious coalition.

Inside, Dana felt a swirl of relief and apprehension. She'd advanced her plan to protect her friends, but also set tongues wagging about her bizarre abilities. Will this rumor help me or make me a bigger target?

At last, the study's door clicked shut behind the last departing faction leader. Daylor lingered across the room, arms crossed. In the dim lamplight, he studied Dana. She braced for reproach—maybe condemnation for nearly stabbing Kaine to prove a point. But he only shook his head slowly.

"I won't pretend to understand you right now," he said, voice low. "But I can't deny… you're forging alliances we desperately need." A beat passed. "Keep it up, but be mindful, Jennersen. Rumors swirl fast."

She nodded, heart pounding. "I know, Father." She didn't elaborate. He gave her a curt nod in return and stepped out, leaving her alone in the hush of the private study.

Dana exhaled, pulse gradually settling. At least Daylor sees some value in me. She wondered how Romern would react when he heard she'd bested an Incisor chief in a single motion. One crisis at a time, she told herself.

A faint glow at the edge of her vision caught her attention—her Axis terminal, awarding points for her "incredible demonstration," plus for guiding negotiations toward unifying the city under the "survivors' banner." A small text hovered:

Luck skill advanced. Next level available.

She allowed herself a slight smirk. If the city thinks we survivors are possessed by wandering spirits, they're not entirely wrong. She reached into her sleeve to coil the retractable wire again, marveling at her success. Her physical stats might still be modest, but with each cunning move, she grew stronger in the Axis's eyes. And I'll keep leveling up until I can protect them all.

She could almost hear her Earth friends' voices, imagining how they'd laugh at the superstitions swirling around them. That thought buoyed her. She quietly pushed open the study door and slipped into the corridor. The negotiations might have ended, but the real work—finding her friends, rallying the city, and stopping the looming sickness—was only beginning.