Role Player: Ascend Through the Omniverse(Currently:Harry Potter)

The dimly glowing embers in the Black manor's study were nearly gone by the time Caelum crossed its fence for the last time that morning. His silhouette blended into the sparse mist and undergrowth, making him nearly invisible against the sprawling countryside. His pulse remained steady, unfazed by the small rush of adrenaline that typically came after a close reconnaissance. There were questions — many — and now a few threads to follow. Whatever conspiracy Black was entangled in, it seemed much bigger than a single family; it seemed to be a network tying pure-blood houses together under a hidden cause.

As the first rays of light fell across the heavens, coloring the clouds a deep purple and orange, Caelum pressed a knuckle against his forehead and tried to piece it all together. Pure-blood messages routed through Black, promises made in dim salons and hidden caves, a small box filled with something more than documents — something that seemed to tremble in its keeper's hands. Whatever Black was a part of, fear seemed to permeate their conspiracy. It seemed less a movement of unity and power, and more a conspiracy under pressure — blackmailed, coerced, or forced into service.

He turned back toward London, ignoring the temptation to find a place to rest. There were questions to pursue — messages to intercept, conversations to overhear — and the first place to start was the small weak spot in Black's fence, the place through which messages flowed in and out. If Black was a relay, then whatever messages were routed through it might illuminate the conspiracy's true center.

Walking briskly and quietly, a dark silhouette against the growing city, Caelum crossed back into the labyrinthine streets without ceremony. His breath misted in the chilly air; a small thread of magic flowed through him, a disguise, a small illusion to dampen his presence and make him less remarkable to the casual passersby. The Black conspiracy seemed to operate in the margins — messages were hidden in ordinary delivery drops, clandestine meetings were held in back alleys — and it was in those margins that Caelum intended to find a lead.

He made his way toward Diagon Alley, careful to avoid the main thoroughfare. His path meandered through side streets and service corridors, letting him stay hidden while retaining a clear view of key locations — the backdoor to Gringotts, the delivery entrance to Flourish and Blotts, the rooftop balconies where owls came and went under cover of dark. His senses remained stretched — not alarmed, not aggressive, just quietly vigilant — marking movement, noting deviations in routines.

He chose a rooftop across from a small, inconspicuous bookshop — a place frequently used by pure-bloods to send messages through a neutral intermediary. His magic anchored him there, making him nearly undetectable against the slanted rooftop. There were a few people who came and went, dropping off small parcels and messages — a young woman in a deep green cloak, a man with piercing blue eyes — none staying long enough to attract suspicion, all careful not to linger. Whatever conspiracy flowed through Black seemed to have many such points of contact — a sprawling, clandestine network — not easily dismantled in a single move.

As the first delivery came — a small leather pouch handed off under a dimly glowing side door — Caelum pressed himself further into shadow and listened. His magic amplified the two brief exchanges — a password, a confirmation — enough to tell him that messages were routed and verified here, not directly, but through numerous cut-outs. Whatever was within Black's conspiracy was sophisticated, careful — designed to avoid suspicion — and it meant that this trail would be hard to follow without careful patience.

He remained there, nearly a ghost against the rooftop, for nearly an hour, marking delivery after delivery, noting the phrases, the signals, the people. His view of the conspiracy was growing clearer, piece by piece, a puzzle that seemed more sinister and ambitious than a simple conspiracy amongst pure-bloods. Whatever Black was a part of, it seemed to connect to something much more extensive — a conspiracy tying together houses, messages, transactions — a hidden web beneath the ordinary face of British magic.

As the delivery runners fell away and the small side entrance fell silent once more, Caelum pressed back into the deep shadow of a rooftop gable and contemplated his next move. His investigations were yielding answers, but not enough to illuminate the conspiracy's true purpose. Whatever it was, Black was a key — a node — not the center. To cut through it, to find its beating heart, he'd need to follow the messages back to their true destination. That meant choosing a moment to act — a moment when the conspiracy opened itself — and then striking.

With that thought, Caelum slid away into the growing city, a shadow amongst many, already planning his next move.

---

The dimly glowing clocktower struck a quarter past midnight as Caelum pressed himself into a deep corner of a rooftop balcony, letting silence wrap him like a second skin. His pulse remained slow and deliberate; years — or perhaps lifetimes — of training kept him calm under pressure. His breath flowed smoothly, in and out, a careful rhythm to match the movement of the city below him.

He remained there a little longer, listening, tasting the magic in the air. Diagon Alley seemed ordinary at first — a bustling market gone quiet for the evening — but under its surface flowed a conspiracy that many believed a pure-blood family was orchestrating. Black was a piece, not the whole. Whatever conspiracy Black was a node in, it was a large and sophisticated network, a hidden spiderweb tying numerous houses together under a single, yet undefined, purpose.

He pressed a knuckle against his forehead, letting a trickle of magic flow into his senses, extending his perception just a little farther. His surroundings fell into sharper view — not physical details, but traces of magic, the lingering residue messages left, transactions made under the cover of anonymity. His ability to follow these traces hadn't gotten strong enough to illuminate the conspiracy directly — it was more like following a thread through a labyrinth — but it was progress.

From his rooftop perch, Caelum hopped quietly to the balcony of a neighboring building and then crossed into a dimly lit service alley. His feet barely made a sound against the gravel; his form seemed more shadow than flesh. Here, the messages flowed through a labyrinth of drop points — abandoned houses, hidden compartments in market stalls, and small businesses that seemed ordinary on the surface. Black was just the tip of it — a convenient delivery hub — not the center.

He pressed forward, letting his senses guide him, counting messages, noting patterns, marking the houses and businesses that seemed to serve as dead drops. Each drop seemed to connect to another, a chain tying together different segments of the conspiracy. His understanding was growing, piece by piece. Black, it seemed, was not the ringleader but a nervous participant — someone under pressure, someone forced into service — a weak link in a much greater structure.

He paused outside a dimly lit apothecary — a small, run-down corner shop — where messages were frequently routed in and out. Inside, the proprietor remained hunched over his counter, grinding herbs into a fine powder, ignoring the small owl that hopped in through a side window and left a small parchment tube on the shelf. The merchant nodded once, without looking up, then pressed a small rune into a wooden box beneath his counter. The box glimmered briefly — nearly invisible — and then fell dark again.

Caelum pressed himself further into shadow, letting his senses absorb the scene. Whatever messages were routed through this apothecary were not meant for Black directly; Black was a relay, a temporary node. The merchant seemed more permanent, a keeper of messages, a fixture in the conspiracy's delivery network. If Black fell, the conspiracy would adjust; this merchant would remain.

Turning this over in his mind, Caelum pressed forward. His silhouette flowed smoothly across the rooftop, dropping into the rear courtyard. There, a small, hidden gate opened into a labyrinth of back passages — a perfect place for clandestine meetings. His pulse remained slow and strong; there was no fear here, just a growing resolve. Whatever conspiracy Black was entangled in, it seemed to permeate much more than a single pure-blood family. It flowed through businesses, through messages, through people who barely seemed to know their own roles in it.

He pressed a gloved hand against a wooden fence and hopped effortlessly into the courtyard. His feet fell without a sound, his form nearly invisible against the dimly glowing stones beneath him. The conspiracy was a puzzle — a labyrinth made of countless interconnected components — but it was a puzzle that could be solved. He'd follow the messages. He'd piece it together. And when the time came, when the conspiracy was exposed… he'd cut it off at the root.

He remained there a moment longer, letting silence fold around him. His breath misted in the chilly air; the moonscape above glimmered through a break in the clouds. Whatever Black was a part of, whatever conspiracy flowed through this hidden network, it was not going to remain hidden for much longer.

Turning back into the labyrinth, Caelum pressed forward, a silent actor on a hidden stage — a man whose motives were his own, a guardian against a conspiracy that was threatening more than just pure-blood politics. Whatever Black had gotten himself into, whatever messages flowed through these drops and merchants and hidden gates, Caelum would find it. He'd illuminate it, piece by piece. And when the conspiracy was fully exposed… then, and only then, would he act.

---

The labyrinth seemed endless, but Caelum pressed forward anyway, letting each twist and turn unveil another piece of the puzzle. His senses remained acute — not just physical senses, but those subtler ones that tasted traces of magic, the residue left by messages routed through this clandestine network. His pulse remained slow and purposeful, a warrior's discipline in the face of uncertainty.

He crossed a dimly lit courtyard — the rear of a merchant's home — where a rust-covered gate stood nearly off its hinges. The gate opened to a small path sheltered by a row of dying hedges. His silhouette seemed to blend into the sparse leaves and barren branches. The conspiracy was a puzzle made up of countless tiny components. Black, the merchant, the messages — all were small cogs in a much greater machine. His task was to find the center of it.

As he walked, his gloved knuckles pressed against the wooden fence beside him, letting his magic seep through. His ability to sense messages wasn't just a trick — it was a discipline, a form of reconnaissance — a way to track movement without needing eyes. His mind constructed a map of messages routed through this path, noting which were frequently used, which fell into disrepair. Black's messages seemed to pass through this route nearly every weekend. There were deviations — messages routed through alternative drops — but nearly all flowed back here in the end.

He turned a corner and pressed himself against a wall, letting two hooded figures pass by. They were young, nervous — probably couriers, not power players. His ability to remain undetected was not just a matter of physical concealment; it was about understanding human behavior — when people were distracted, when their senses were dampened by fear or urgency. The two kept their heads down, exchanging a small pouch without a word and then darting their separate ways into the labyrinth. Caelum remained a shadow against the wall, letting their movements illuminate another piece of the puzzle.

He pressed forward once their presence had gone. His path crossed a small, forgotten courtyard — a place nearly erased from the city's memory — where messages were routed through a hidden drop box beneath a rusted sundial. His magic flowed into the sundial, letting him feel messages meant for delivery in the future — messages not yet routed. Black was slated to send something here in two days' time — something more urgent than the rest. Whatever it was, it seemed Black was trying to move it through without the conspiracy's knowledge, adding a layer of complexity to the puzzle. Black was not entirely a willing participant; something or someone was forcing him into this, and now Black was trying to find a way to resolve it without putting himself in danger.

Caelum pressed his fingertips against the sundial a moment longer, letting this realization sink in. Black was a weak link — not a ringleader, not a kingpin — a man trying to navigate a conspiracy much greater than himself. Black's messages were not all orders; some were pleas, signals for help, messages meant for someone outside the conspiracy's knowledge. Black was a potential ally — or a vulnerability — depending on how Caelum played it.

He turned away from the sundial, letting his senses withdraw back into himself. His pulse remained slow and purposeful. There were messages routed through Black — messages meant for delivery in two days — messages Black hadn't intended for his masters. That meant Black was a weak link in their defenses, a pressure point. If Caelum pressed there, forced Black's hand, it might bring the conspiracy into the light.

The conspiracy seemed to connect numerous houses — Black, the merchant, the couriers — and messages flowed through a network that stretched far and deep into the city's underworld. But Black was a thread that seemed ready to break, a piece that might come loose under pressure. If Caelum could pry Black away from the conspiracy's grip, it might undermine their ability to operate in the shadows.

He pressed forward, back into the labyrinth of Diagon Alley, letting the conspiracy's path unveil itself piece by piece. His silhouette seemed to fade into the background, a wraith gliding through hidden corridors and back streets. Whatever Black was a part of, whatever messages flowed through him, Caelum was close — close to understanding, close to dismantling it from within.

He'd follow this thread wherever it led, and when the moment came — when Black tried to send his clandestine messages in two days' time — Caelum would be there. He'd confront Black, extract the information, and use it to illuminate the conspiracy's hidden center. Until then, patience was key. His greatest asset was not power or aggression, but knowledge — understanding — a careful, deliberate unraveling of a conspiracy that seemed impenetrable from the outside.

As the labyrinth fell silent around him, Caelum pressed forward into the night, a single piece of a much larger puzzle — a piece that was slowly turning into the key.

---

The path opened into a dimly lit rooftop balcony, a forgotten corner of the city where few bothered to venture. From here, Caelum could see nearly all of Diagon Alley — a sprawling patchwork of roofs, chimneys, and hidden balconies — a labyrinth made of brick and magic. His silhouette remained a dark slash against the purple-black heavens above.

For a moment, the silence pressed in on him, the kind of silence that seemed more oppressive than a riotous crowd. It meant the conspiracy was not a messy, disjointed mess — it was purposeful, careful, well-laid. Black's messages were a thread, not a knot; the conspiracy itself was a spider's web.

Caelum pressed his knuckles against the rooftop's rail and exhaled quietly. His breath misted briefly in the chilly night air and then fell away. The two days' deadline gnawed at him — Black's clandestine delivery, the weak link in the conspiracy's defenses — a small window when the conspiracy might be vulnerable. That knowledge seemed to illuminate him from within, a spark against the oppressive dark. Whatever Black was sending, whatever it meant, this was his opportunity.

He turned away from the view, letting the city fold back into anonymity beneath him. His descent from rooftop to back alley was a careful drop — a short, silent descent supported by small traces of magic. His feet barely made a sound when touching the ground.

Walking through the dim labyrinth below, Caelum pressed close against the wall, staying within the deep shadows. His senses remained heightened; every rustling piece of paper, every scurry of a rat seemed a potential alarm. Black's delivery might be two days away, but the conspiracy's defenses were already bracing against future shock. Anything — or anyone — who seemed to threaten their plans might disappear in the blink of an eye.

Turning a corner into a quieter side alley, a voice addressed him from the dimness.

"Walking alone this late?" it said quietly. The voice was gravelly, worn by years — a merchant, a cutthroat, someone who'd lived a hard life and made peace with it.

Caelum remained calm, letting his senses dart forward and backward to be sure this was not a trap. "I prefer it that way." His tone was neutral, a little icy. Whatever this person wanted, it wasn't a friendly chat.

The silhouette remained in shadow, not threatening, not aggressive — simply a fixture in the background. "Some say you're a man who sees a bit more than the rest. That you find things hidden from ordinary eyes."

Caelum remained silent.

"It's a dangerous path you're on. Black… the conspiracy… delivery in two days… you're not the only one who knows." The gravelly voice seemed less threatening now, more a warning — a messy thread trying to align itself with a larger conspiracy.

Slowly, Caelum exhaled. "Who are you?" His voice was firm now, not weak, not unsure — a demand.

"That depends on who you need me to be." The silhouette remained elusive, hidden in shadow. "A friend… or a tool. The conspiracy is not what it seems. Black is not a kingpin — Black is a pawn. There are bigger players you haven't crossed yet."

Caelum pressed forward a step, letting a sliver of light illuminate the bottom of his face — a piercing stare beneath a mess of black hair. "I know Black isn't the center… That's the whole point. Black is a weak link. That makes him useful… and dangerous. But you… you know more. So we need to clear this up. Are you friend… or tool?" There was a softness beneath the icy delivery — a spark of curiosity. Who was this person, and what did they know?

The silhouette remained silent for a moment. Then it nodded, nearly imperceptibly. "For now… friend." A piece of parchment fell from its hand — a small, folded note — then a rush of icy air seemed to scatter it into the dimness.

Caelum darted forward, snatched it just before it fell into a puddle, and unfolded it quickly. Inside were a few words — a meeting place and a time. A hidden rooftop garden, midnight — the following night.

He pressed the paper closed and nodded to himself. Whatever this meant, it was a lead — a thread tying him further into the conspiracy's hidden workings. Black might be a weak link, a delivery boy in a much larger conspiracy, but this… this was something else. A clandestine meeting with someone who seemed to know more than Black and yet remained outside the conspiracy's center.

Turning back into the labyrinth, Caelum felt the pressure grow. The conspiracy was closing in — not to destroy him, but to absorb him, to make him a piece of its greater puzzle. But for now, it seemed there were still allies — or at least useful informants — hidden in the shadows. Whatever lay at midnight in the rooftop garden, it might be the key to unlocking the conspiracy's true form.

-----------------------

If you wish to read more or simply support me than check out my patreon at

"https://www.patreon.com/Amon0_0"

Or Just search Amon_The_Error in your patreon and you can find the advance chapters there