From that day on, the Trikker Crack was sought after by puzzle solvers and locksmiths from far and wide. Though Eli continued to improve his device, he never revealed the full extent of its capabilities, keeping some of its magic locked within its wooden confines, ready for the next challenge.
One of them, a thing of rotating hexagons and needle-teeth, slithered through the crack in reality and touched his mind. It showed him a vision: his sister, Lyra. She was alive. She was in the Undercroft, a place whispered about in gutter legends—a city beneath the city where the Trikkers hoarded the only currency that mattered: unlived time .
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The rain was a baptism no one asked for. It hammered the corrugated tin roofs of the Lower Warrens, turning the alleyways into rivers of rust and regret. Inside a concrete box of a room, lit only by the flickering bioluminescent glow of a dying lamp-fungus, Kaelen pressed a syringe to a bruised vein.
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The crack was immediate. Absolute.
The drug never lied about the living. It only lied about the cost.
“And you want that?”
One crisp autumn morning, the town's mayor, Mrs. Harcourt, approached Eli with a peculiar request. A valuable, ancient clock tower in the heart of Ashwood had stopped working years ago, and its mechanism had been lost to time. The clock tower was not only a historical landmark but also a cherished symbol of the town's unity. Mrs. Harcourt proposed that if Eli could use the Trikker Crack to fix the clock tower, the town would celebrate him as a hero.
Kaelen thought of Lyra, who had vanished three years ago during a “cleansing” by the Spire Police. Officially, she was dead. But the crack never lied about the living. It only lied about hope. It showed him a vision: his sister, Lyra