Forbidden Splicer: Infinite Spellcraft

Chapter 5: Price of Forbidden Ink

Pre-dawn shadow clung to stone corners in Jaroth's basement cell. Cold oil smoke rose from a brass lamp on his desk, flickering against a sheet of pale monster-hide parchment. Jaroth held a steel-tipped quill, his fingers tight around the wooden barrel as ink hovered above the blank surface.

He closed his eyes and summoned the interface.

[Crafting Interface Activated]

Selected Recipe:

Sun-Blight Eruption (Scroll Form)

Estimated Market Value: 500 Imperial Gold Crowns

[Initiating Inscription...]

A sharp pulse clicked in his skull. Guided by invisible force vectors, Jaroth's hand moved across the parchment without a stagger. The steel tip carved dark silver lines into the monster hide, etching the intricate geometric nodes of

Aurelian Flare

interlocked with the decay runes of

Marrow-Erosion Wave

.

Sweat dripped from his jaw, splashing onto the wood desk.

Inscribing a spliced spell did not route mana through his shattered core, but the process demanded intense mental focus. His temples throbbed with a dull headache as his mind anchored two opposing elemental forces onto a single sheet of paper. Solar light vectors pulled left while shadow-acid strands twisted right, locked together by the Splicer's internal code.

Ten minutes passed in silence. The silver ink dried to a deep violet hue, humming with dormant power before settling into the parchment fibers.

[Inscription Complete: Sun-Blight Eruption Scroll (Tier 1 Forbidden Art)]

[Matrix Slot Cleared: 1/3 Slots Occupied]

Jaroth leaned back against his wooden chair, letting out a long breath. He rubbed his aching temples. The system slot that had held

Sun-Blight Eruption

was now empty, leaving only

Displacement Sheath

stored in his memory bank. The spell matrix had been transferred entirely into the physical parchment, free for anyone to detonate by breaking the wax seal.

He rolled the monster hide tight, tied it with a leather cord, and slipped it into his inner tunic pocket alongside his cowl.

An hour later, Jaroth walked down a narrow alley in the Sunless Quarter. Steam hissed from iron vents in the catacomb walls, smelling of old grease and sulfur. He kept his head down, dark wool cowl drawn forward to hide his face in mist.

He pushed open the heavy oak door of The Blind Owl. The brass bell above the threshold chimed once.

Lyra sat behind her iron counter, polishing the lens of a copper scope. She looked up as Jaroth entered, her silver eyes sweeping over his dark cowl before resting on his gloved hands.

"You returned early, Splicer," Lyra said, leaning her forearms on the counter. "I expected you to take three days to prepare a fresh scroll."

Jaroth reached into his tunic, pulled out the rolled monster-hide parchment, and set it on the glass surface between them.

"Inspect it," Jaroth said, his voice raspy beneath his hood.

Lyra pulled a heavy diagnostic frame from under her counter. Three crystal lenses hung from silver arms above a brass base plate. She untied the leather cord on Jaroth's scroll, unrolled two inches of the parchment, and swung the diagnostic frame over the silver runes.

She focused the topmost crystal lens. A beam of amber light projected onto the ink.

The diagnostic glass hummed. Inside the crystal lens, two distinct elemental strands flared to life: a bright gold sun node locked inside a dark green decay ring.

Lyra froze. She adjusted the second lens, her sharp eyes scanning the rune geometry.

"Solar light and organic rot," Lyra murmured, her voice losing its businesslike tone. She looked up at Jaroth, genuine shock showing in her expression. "These elements cancel each other out in standard spellcraft. Combining them on parchment should have dissolved the hide within seconds."

She passed her palm over the unrolled section, sensing for residual signatures. "There is no caster stamp. No bloodline trace. No Imperial guild mark. How did you stabilize these matrices without a containment array?"

"The spell is stable," Jaroth replied, keeping his posture still. "Break the seal, and it deploys a localized solar burst that rots metal and flesh upon contact. Five hundred gold crowns, as agreed."

Lyra stared at the scroll for three seconds before closing her diagnostic frame. She reached under her desk and pulled out four heavy velvet pouches, setting them on the glass. The iron counter groaned under their weight.

"Five hundred Imperial Gold Crowns," Lyra said, pushing the pouches across the counter. "Minted gold, unmapped by Citadel tracking wards."

Jaroth picked up one pouch, feeling the heavy, cold metal inside. For an eighteen-year-old commoner scribe who earned three copper coins a day sweeping ash, five hundred gold crowns was a fortune. It was enough to buy a merchant shop in the upper city or fund years of illegal spell resources.

Before Jaroth could tuck the gold into his cloak, a curtain at the back of the shop slid open.

A tall man stepped into the room, his boots making no sound on the stone floor. He wore a dark velvet coat lined with silver thread, his fingers covered in heavy rings bearing obsidian gems. His face was long, with sharp features and cold, calculating dark eyes.

Lyra did not reach for her weapon, but her shoulders stiffened as the man approached the counter.

"Master Valerius," Lyra said, her voice dropping an octave.

Valerius stopped two paces from Jaroth. He looked at the unrolled scroll on the counter, then turned his gaze toward Jaroth's dark cowl.

"I observed the diagnostic scan from the back room," Valerius said, his tone smooth and cultured. "A scroll that fuses opposing elements without leaving a mana trace is a rare treasure in this city. High Enforcers cannot trace a weapon that carries no caster signature."

Valerius pulled a leather trade book from his inner coat pocket and set it on the counter. "I represent aristocratic factions in the upper city who value discretion. Name your price, craftsman. I will pay double Lyra's rate—one thousand gold crowns per scroll—if you sign an exclusive supply contract with my household."

Jaroth did not move. He analyzed Valerius's posture, noting the faint hum of high-tier defensive magic emanating from the silver rings on the nobleman's fingers. Valerius was testing him, trying to gauge whether "The Splicer" was a desperate rogue artificer or a representative of a hidden faction.

"I do not sign contracts," Jaroth said, keeping his tone flat and cold. "And I do not work for households."

Valerius narrowed his eyes slightly. "Every craftsman has a patron, friend. Operating alone in the Sunless Quarter is a quick way to find a blade in your ribs. My household can offer protection, lab facilities, and rare reagents from the upper vaults."

"My business remains with Lyra," Jaroth replied, resting his hand on the counter near his gold pouches. "If your household wants my scrolls, buy them off her shelf at her prices. If I see your agents following me down these catacombs, trading ends."

Silence settled over the shop. Lyra kept her hand near her counter drawer, watching the exchange between the two men.

Valerius stared at Jaroth's masked face for several seconds. A faint, dry smile touched the nobleman's lips. He bowed his head two inches, stepping back toward the curtain.

"A true master values his independence," Valerius said smoothly. "Very well, Cipher. I shall purchase your work through The Blind Owl. I look forward to your next creation."

Valerius slipped behind the velvet curtain, vanishing into the back rooms.

Jaroth gathered his four gold pouches, tucked them beneath his dark cloak, and turned toward the shop exit without another word.

Morning bell rang across the Citadel as Jaroth returned to his basement quarters.

He bolted his wooden door shut, knelt beside his cot, and pried up a loose stone tile near the wall foundation. Digging a small pit in the damp earth beneath, he buried three of the velvet gold pouches, replacing the stone tile and sweeping dirt over the seams. He kept one pouch containing fifty gold crowns hidden inside his inner tunic pocket.

He washed his hands in cold water, scrubbing away the silver ink stains under his fingernails, before putting on his ragged scribe tunic.

Ten minutes later, Jaroth stood in line at the Grand Atrium of Sub-Level 3 Archives alongside fifty other commoner scribes.

Archivist Garrick stood on the marble podium, flanked by four Citadel High Enforcers clad in black plate armor. Beside the main archway leading into the vault, two stonemasons were finishing the installation of a massive, copper-bound mirror six feet wide. The glass emitted a pale silver light that cast long reflections across the floor tiles.

Garrick cleared his throat, his harsh voice echoing through the atrium.

"Attention," Garrick announced, pointing a bony finger toward the copper frame. "Following recent security breaches and rumors of contraband trade, the High Enforcers have installed Rune-Tracing Mirrors at every archive threshold."

A quiet murmur ran through the rows of scribes.

"These mirrors project a continuous dimensional scan," Garrick continued coldly. "Any worker attempting to carry hidden spell scrolls, active spell matrices, or unauthorized mana-bearing artifacts out of the vaults will trigger a crimson alarm. Offenders will be executed on the spot for treason. Form a single line and step through the checkpoint."

Jaroth stood in the middle of the line, keeping his head low while his mind calculated the danger.

He glanced down at his hands, then up at the silver glass glowing above the vault archway. His matrix slots held

Displacement Sheath

, a spell constructed from stolen noble arcana. If the mirror scanned his internal system structure while he walked through the threshold, the alarm would sound before he took two steps.

The scribe ahead of him stepped under the copper frame. The mirror shone pale silver, allowing the worker to pass into the vault.

Jaroth took a slow breath, stepping forward as his turn arrived, his eyes fixed on the glowing glass above his head.