Jack devoured the information within the Encyclopedia of Mystic Arts. The book was dense and archaic. It was not easy to understand and dry as dust. But it was exactly what he needed.
The book laid out the tiers of existence. It told him how power scaled in this batshit crazy world.
At the bottom tier was the Unawakened. They were the sheep. The normal folks. Blissfully ignorant of the transcendent power. Or they know about it, but had no talent and determination to pursue it.
Awakened Transcendent were the first step above it. Those who had acquired a small piece of something beyond. They had a spark. A flicker of power. But compared to the higher tiers, they were still mostly just playing with matches.
Next... Enhanced Transcendent. That was where Jack figured he stood at present. He had leveled up. His powers were... enhanced. [Mysterious Dream], [Mysterious Lullaby], [Mysterious Control] – all amped up.
He could mess with dreams and illusions. Much stronger than before. And control... things. He was more than a spark. He was a damn bonfire.
But then came... Illuminated Transcendent. This was where things got serious. The transcendent being of this tier had acquired what the book called: Fate Code.
Fate Code. A cheat code for reality. A power multiplier that let the owner punch way above your weight class. The book described it as tapping into the very fabric of destiny. Bending the threads of fate to your will.
Jack thought back to Highcliff. The Goddess of Purity's half-baked incarnation. The six-winged angel. They weren't just strong. They were abnormally strong. They were operating on a level he couldn't even comprehend.
The Duchess. The Cardinal. They were probably in the same ballpark. Fate Code. It had to be.
Jack quickly diverted his attention. He didn't want to think further about the Highcliff fiasco. It was still way above his current level. He focused back to the tiers.
Sanctified Transcendent was next level afterward. It is the tiers for beings housing a 'Seed of Divinity'. In Mystic Arts, 'divine' didn't always mean good, virtuous thing.
Seed of Divinity could be originated from laws, sins, virtues, natural aspects,... It didn't matter where it came from. But when it was there, it would change the host at a fundamental level. Turning them somehow into demi-gods.
Then, at the pinnacle... it was Exalted Transcendent. Gods. Real, actual gods. Entities that shaped reality itself.
Jack slammed the book shut. He was getting ahead of himself. Gods? He was a goddamn ghost with fancy stage-magician look. He had better things to do than contemplating about gods.
The book might be full of cosmic hierarchies and divine mumbo jumbo. But it also had practical stuff. That should be his focus.
Spells, rituals, ways to channel his power. He opened the book again and started skimming through sections, finding simple things he could practice. Manipulating shadows. Household spells. Defensive wards.
Jack spent nights after nights learning about and practicing cantrips and rituals. Obviously only ones that could be done by a specter like him.
He focused on three evocation cantrips he found useful for him... Fire Spark, Dreamy Mist, and Cold Light. And two rituals he could do, that didn't involve any god... Misfortune Avoidance and Perception Boost.
These mystical arts didn't seem much. But he needed to start small. It would be unwise to start learning Meteor Strike when he was just a newbie.
Other than learning, Jack never forget that he was a Harbinger of Vengeance. And that his main power source came from Spirit of Judgement.
He didn't just get stuck in the library. He explored the town.
The people of Ironpile Town were oblivious to his presence. Going about their lives without realizing that a specter was nearby.
Most of them were just Unawakened. Even a few awakened people he encountered couldn't detect the current him at all.
Jack spent the next few days alternating between the Encyclopedia and the town. Ironpile wasn't exactly a hotbed of villainy. A few drunken brawls, some petty theft. Nothing that screamed for spectral intervention.
But Jack wasn't just dealing with grand crimes. Judgement wasn't always about smiting the mighty. Sometimes, it was about righting small wrongs. Bringing justice to the mundane slice of life.
He used his [Mysterious Dream] to plant the nightmare of losing all his wealth in the mind of a man who cheated at cards.
He used [Mysterious Lullaby] to ease the suffering of a widow mourning her husband. Putting her into deep sleep and using impersonated voices of her husband to soothe her pain of loss.
He used [Mysterious Control] to prank some thugs and embarrassed arrogant assholes in public.
Small acts. Insignificant, maybe. But they were his acts. His way of making a difference.
...
Summer had given way to autumn. It painted the hills around the town in shades of rust and gold.
Two months quickly passed in Ironpile Town. It had been surprisingly chill for Jack there this far.
He had spent most of his time learning the ropes of Mystic Arts. Obviously, he still served small-time justice. It was his bread and butter after all. Doling out spectral punishments to pickpockets and wife-beaters.
Jack had actually gotten pretty decent at a few low-level spells. Or, cantrips as the book called them. Little tricks, really.
Fire Spark. Exactly what it sounded like. A tiny, generally harmless spark of flame. Useful for lighting candles. Or mildly annoying someone. Or setting a particularly flammable piece of object alight.
Dreamy Mist. A puff of shimmering fog that looked beautiful. But pretty much useless, other than providing distraction.
Cold Light. A small, floating orb of pale blue light that emanated cold instead of heat. Not particularly useful. But it looked cool.
Lightning Guide. A dimly glowing symbol that was supposed to attract lightning strike. There hadn't been any thunderstorm to experiment so far though.
Water Splash. Conjured a handful splash of water out of the empty air. Perfect for a surprise prank. But not quite enough for anything substantial.
Vicious Taunt. An irritating whisper that only the targets could hear. It would annoy and enraged them. Making them lose their composure. An excellent find this one.
Quick Mending. Briefly reverted the target into the previous... state three seconds ago. An excellent time-based spell. It would be incredible if not for the three-second limit.
Glowing Stone. A soft, internal light imbued into a small stone. Useful for marking trails. Or creating impromptu nightlights.
Other than learning those cantrips, Jack was also trying to build a grimoire. Why? Because stronger spells in mystic arts required either one-time-use scroll as a medium. Or a grimoire.
But, what Jack wanted was not a normal, leather-bound, physical one. He was a specter, after all. He envisioned a spectral book, a collection of ethereal pages bound by his will.
The Encyclopedia had chapters on making regular grimoires. It involved alchemy for special paper and ink, rune inscriptions, and rituals to bind spells to the book.
Jack was trying to adapt those principles to his incorporeal existence. It was slow going. He could conjure wisps of spectral parchment, but getting them to hold anything beyond a fleeting image was proving difficult.
Runes flickered and faded, the alchemy was theoretical, and the binding rituals were… well, he was making it up as he went along. Prototype grimoire. That was putting it nicely.
Tonight, though, the learning and experiment could wait.
His enhanced senses, affected by Spirit of Judgement, had been tingling these days. His [Karma Detection Sight] had indicated the source. A newcomer in town. A wealthy traveler. A man.
Nothing was immediately remarkable about him. Just… unsettling. Even without any obvious supernatural power, the man felt wrong. His karma was pure black. Thick with darkness.
Jack watched him again tonight. In his invisible form. He saw the man buy a drink at the tavern, chat up a few locals, the usual. Then, later, as the town slept, the man's true nature surfaced.
He lured a little girl, no older than seven, into his room. Jack felt a wave of cold rage wash over him as saw the man sedate her with some kind of drug.
The second the man went to undress, Jack unleashed hell.
His [Mysterious Dream] ripped into the man's mind. Flooding it with a torrent of pure, unadulterated nightmare.
The man was standing in a dilapidated room. The air thick with the smell of mildew and decay. Children surrounded him. But they weren't children anymore.
Their skin was rotting. Eyes were milky white. Limbs were twisted at unnatural angles. [Mysterious Lullaby] struck in full power with eerie dissonant music.
The zombie children moaned, a chorus of rasping, guttural sounds, and reached for him with skeletal hands.
Then came the hags. Grotesque, ancient women with withered breasts and claw-like fingers. They emerged from the shadows, cackling with a chilling glee.
They circled him. Whispering obscenities and promises of pain. One hag shoved a handful of worms into his mouth. Another one pinched a sensitive part of his body with her nasty, long-nailed fingers.
The zombie children began to claw at his flesh. Tearing at his clothes. So real, that their touch felt icy and agonizing. He felt bites, scratches, and the squelch of rotting flesh against his skin.
The hags chanted. Their voices growing louder. More frenzied. Until they were a deafening roar that threatened to shatter his sanity.
The room warped around him. The walls closing in. The floor collapsing into a pit filled with writhing maggots. The children bit him on his private part. And pulled his hair and face. The hags spat on him. And pulled his nails off.
He screamed. A primal, desperate sound that echoed through the nightmare schoolhouse. He tried to run. But his legs were leaden. His feet were trapped in the muck.
The zombie children swarmed him. Their decaying bodies piling on top of him. Suffocating him. The hags danced around the periphery. Their cackles reaching a fever pitch. Their eyes burning with malevolent triumph.
Back in the real world, the man thrashed on his bed. Screaming and babbling incoherently.
The noise drew attention. Neighbors, roused from their sleep, pounded on the door. No answer but the same terrified screaming. They kicked it in.
They saw the unconscious child on the bed. And the half-naked man writhing in terror. Their faces hardened.
Jack kept the nightmare going. Amplifying the horror. But with a twist. The zombie children and hags started interrogating the man. Their voices were echoing his sins back at him.
"You hurt them!" a zombie child shrieked, its voice a gurgling rasp. "You took them!"
Jack forced images into the man's mind. Visions of his past crimes. Each one sharper, more vivid, more condemning than the last. He was being judged.
And then, surprisingly, the man broke. He started sobbing, a pathetic, whimpering sound. He confessed. He admitted everything. Thirty-two children. Seven towns. Raped. Murdered. He begged for mercy.
The neighbors heard every word. Their expressions were shifting from concern to disbelief to pure, unadulterated rage.
They didn't hesitate. They dragged the man and beat him. Punches, kicks, a frenzy of righteous fury. He cried, pleaded, but they didn't stop. They beat him until he was a broken, bloody mess.
Until he was dead.
Jack, still invisible, floated away. He felt a strange sense of satisfaction. Justice served. He loathed anyone who preyed on children.
Then, the familiar chime.
[LEVEL UP!]
[AVAILABLE NEW SUPERNATURAL TRAIT] CHOOSE ONE:
[EBU GOGO'S VOICE ECHOES]
[ALRAUNE'S MYRIAD AROMAS]
[JUBOKKO'S BLOOD THIRST]