Soulforged: The Fusion Talent-Chapter 164—Self Interest

Adam materialized inside the Shroud with his Mental Dampening already active—a subtle field that made him easy to overlook, that let him observe without drawing focus, that wrapped his presence in cognitive static.

No grand strategy, he decided, eyes moving over the archaic architecture while Enhanced Cognition processed angles, sightlines, and structural weaknesses. Hide. Stay out of trouble. Survive six hours. Leave when the timer runs out.

It was practical and efficient. Exactly how an intelligence specialist built for battles of the mind rather than direct combat operated.

Why bleed for nothing when avoidance achieves the same objective?

He slipped into a shadowed alley, Mental Dampening nudging attention away from him, while his sharpened mind mapped potential hiding spots, fallback routes, and blind zones throughout the area.

Then suddenly he heard voices—multiple candidates converging, their conversation carrying a mixture of fear and forced confidence.

A ragtag group, Adam assessed. Candidates clustering together for mutual protection against the hostile environment.

He could ignore them. Continue alone. Stay unseen.

But...

He reconsidered. He was about as strong as a typical Initiate—not exceptional in direct combat given his build, but more than capable in a support role.

And groups had advantages. Social cover. Distributed attention. Shared defensive burden.

Less individual visibility. Less pressure on any one person if things went wrong.

From a survival standpoint, joining them was simply... efficient.

Adam eased his Mental Dampening back, just enough to become noticeable as he approached the group, adding a slight hitch to his breathing for effect.

"Room for one more?" he asked.

The group consisted of seven candidates—a mix of minor nobles and military transfers, all showing varying degrees of combat capability and psychological stress.

"Adam, right?" one military transfer—Kellen from Redwatch—recognized him. "You’re welcome. With more bodies we could cover our blind spots."

Just accepting me immediately , Adam noted. They’re desperate enough for numbers that they’re not questioning my motives.

That worked in his favor.

He slipped into the group’s formation, Enhanced Cognition quietly dissecting their positioning—spotting gaps, predicting movement inefficiencies, mapping where he’d need to step in if things broke down.

This Shroud doesn’t have a defined objective like the last one I unwillingly ended up in, Adam noted. No territory to secure. No artifact to retrieve. No boss creature to eliminate.

Just survival.

Exist for six hours while the Crawlers attempt to make that impossible.

Five hundred first-years entered the Academy this year.

Only a fraction would reach Adept. Fewer still would become something greater. Many would die before their training ever bore fruit.

That wasn’t pessimism.

It was statistics.

Brutal mathematics proven year after year.

And yet, everyone believed they would be the exception.

That was human nature.

And that—more than discipline, more than fear—was why the system continued to function despite its obvious cruelty.

The group moved cautiously through the Shroud’s ruined streets, their hushed exchanges offering more insight than they realized. Adam catalogued it all with quiet detachment.

The jittery ones were a liability. Fear eroded their judgment and made their decisions impulsive which was dangerous in a fight.

The confident ones were stabilizers. They held the formations together and gave others something to anchor to. But overconfidence bred a certain type of risk—pushing too far, too fast.

They would need watching too.

I’m the balance point, Adam decided.The one who smoothed over mistakes before they cascaded.

And if the situation collapsed—if the threat outmatched them—

He had an exit.

Mental Dampening would let him fade from notice and slip away while the attention was fixed on louder targets.

He was not a hero in any sense. He was purely pragmatic and understood that loyalty had limits determined by self-preservation.

-----

Silas moved through the Shroud like a ghost with purpose, his Speed Enhancement turning him into a blur too quick for Crawlers to track.

This is my element, he thought, a flicker of dark satisfaction surfacing as instinct and calculation merged. For him, predation was craft—precision over spectacle.

His dagger slipped across a Crawler’s throat in a flawless motion, severing vital channels before the creature could even register danger. It collapsed without a sound, another body added to his quiet tally.

He was gone before the corpse finished falling.

Left. Right. Silas kept a quiet tally, cutting through monstrosities with ruthless efficiency.

He was built for this—combat in its purest form. No politics. No posturing. Just movement, timing, and the clean finality of death.

The second-year noble he’d been involved with—Katerina Verne—was just a fling.

But she was very useful as she served a connection. A discreet access point into the Academy’s inner circles, where decisions were shaped long before they became orders.

So even as he fought, a broader awareness tugged at him.

The Academy wasn’t just a school.

It was pressure building beneath polished stone—alliances, rivalries, ambitions stacking like dry timber.

Sooner or later, something here would ignite.

No way in hell, Silas thought, that pampered nobles, military brats, and outpost survivors are going to magically get along just because the Academy shoved them into the same class.

That kind of harmony was a fantasy.

It wouldn’t hold. It couldn’t.

Nobles wouldn’t surrender their advantage willingly. Commoners wouldn’t accept a permanent subordination. Sooner or later—probably sooner—that friction would turn violent.

The only real question was positioning.

Which side benefits me most when it breaks?

He didn’t hate the nobles for guarding their power. From a cold, practical angle, it made sense.

If I had what they have, he admitted to himself, I wouldn’t be eager to split it either. Power isn’t something people share out of kindness. Not at this level.

He hadn’t been born into privilege. He was one of the outpost survivors—one of the nameless bastards who started with nothing except ability and the willingness to do whatever survival demanded.

Noble houses carried inherited authority.

He would build his own.

Make Drey a name that meant something.

Another Crawler fell—a quadrupedal hunter that never sensed his approach, dying in confusion before understanding death had already claimed it.

Aligning with power isn’t cowardice, Silas reasoned. It’s strategy.

People with resources created opportunities. Connections meant protection, access, leverage. He would use what they offered while sharpening his own edge.

And later—

When his strength, reputation, and influence were undeniable—

Terms could change.

A useful tool could become a partner.

A subordinate could become a peer.

He made his way toward the Shroud’s center, where Crawler density spiked—more threats, more opportunity. Capable candidates would naturally gravitate here, chasing the promise of combat.

The heart of the Shroud drew near: an archaic plaza where multiple pathways converged, where even the most skilled would feel the pressure of concentrated Crawlers.

Let’s see what the center offers, Silas thought, anticipation sharpening his instincts. Let’s find out if anything here can actually push me to the edge.

Probably not.

But hope—that fragile, foolish spark—was what made the hunt worthwhile.

-----

Elsewhere, Gregor moved through the Shroud with a purpose that went beyond mere survival. He had a mission. A target. A chance to prove his worth to the noble connections he’d cultivated.

He wasn’t completely new to Shroud expeditions—for a butler’s son, anyway. His father’s service with the Cavendish household had included occasional deployments. He’d seen corruption before, recognized Crawlers, and understood the basics of survival protocol.

But this...

He had never faced the Shroud’s true unpredictability. A place that didn’t just kill through force, but through incomprehensible patterns, environmental traps, and chaos beyond instinct.

Still, he had power. Low Initiate rank. Enough, in his mind, to accomplish the task.

He moved toward the center—where Theodore’s intelligence suggested targets would converge, where ambitious candidates chased maximum kills, where "accidents" could happen without raising institutional eyebrows.

Catch the poor rat, Gregor thought, reviewing his assignment.

That’s my role. Enforcement.

And he accepted it and understood what it made him.

Everyone here is a whore for something, he mused, blunt honesty tracing each thought. Power. Influence. Money. Most trade pieces of themselves for scraps of a world they’d never otherwise touch.

A story as old as time. Or as old as the Great One’s fall. Or whatever reckoning marked the start of days that truly mattered.

A Lesser Crawler burst from a doorway ahead. Gregor met it head‑on, Body Enhancement surging through his limbs. The kill was quick—brutal, efficient, routine.

My combat capability is adequate, he judged. Not special. But enough for the job.

He rolled his shoulder once, scanning the streets again.

Poor bastard probably doesn’t even know he’s marked. Doesn’t know noble politics picked him as a convenient lesson.

A flicker of something almost like sympathy surfaced—

—and died just as fast.

Sympathy doesn’t pay,and won’t protect me.

So he pushed the thought aside.

Mission first.

That was just what survival in the Academy entailed. Everyone does it, no matter how they dress it up.

At least I’m honest about it.

At least I know what I’m selling—and what I’m buying with that sale.

That was more integrity than most nobles ever managed.

Even if integrity didn’t erase the moral compromise.

Gregor pressed on toward the center—enforcer on an assignment, predator hunting a prey, a tool with a purpose.

This is what I am.

This is what the Academy makes of people.

Whores to power. Dealers in violence. Survivors who sacrifice everything but immediate self-interest.

A sad story as old as time.

And he was merely the latest Chapter in its endless repetition.