Capítulo 8: 8. Probes in the System
The merchant stayed longer than he should have.That alone told him something was wrong.
Most traders came, bartered, and moved on quickly, eager to reach larger towns before dusk. But this man—this smiling, sharp-eyed shadow—lingered. He spoke warmly to villagers, bought small trinkets he clearly didn't need, and asked too many questions.
"What river feeds your crops?""Do you often suffer raids out here?""Curious that your children can read so young. Who taught them?"
Questions that seemed harmless. Yet to the programmer's ear, they rang like probes—pings in a network, each one seeking weak spots.
That night, when the village slept, he followed.
The merchant sat by his cart with a small brass device shaped like a compass. Instead of a needle, glowing runes flickered across its surface, spinning, recalibrating. The man whispered over it softly. Not prayers—commands.
Data collection.
The compass pulsed, and the firewall shimmered faintly in response. He saw the barrier flex, straining under the probe. The man's eyes lit up.
"There it is," the merchant murmured. "Not divine blessing. Not natural. Artificial."
The programmer's blood ran cold. The man wasn't just guessing anymore. He was mapping the code.
The next morning, the merchant was all smiles again. He traded freely, laughing with children, praising their clever diagrams in the dirt. But his eyes flicked often toward the boundary, watching where the barrier shimmered against the forest.
Maren caught him staring too. "You think he sees something?" she whispered later.
"He sees too much," he answered.
He had spent years debugging systems, hunting subtle leaks and exploits. And now he recognized the pattern: the man was testing him.
So he tested back.
That night, while villagers slept, he rewrote a patch into the firewall: an obfuscation layer. Any magical probe scanning the ward would read it as mundane blessings—fertile soil, protective charms, common superstition.
When the merchant tried his compass again, the glyphs spun and flashed uselessly. He cursed softly under his breath, shaking the device.
The programmer watched from the shadows, hiding a grim smile. Caught you.
But systems were never secure forever.
On the fourth day, the merchant gathered the villagers and offered gifts: bright cloth, salt, even a steel knife. Generous, too generous.
"Trade is good," he told them, "but stories are better. Word spreads faster than any cart." His eyes slid toward the programmer, calm and pointed. "Perhaps I should carry tales of this blessed village to the temples. They'd rejoice to know such miracles thrive in forgotten valleys."
The villagers cheered, thinking it praise. But Maren's jaw tightened. She heard the edge.
Afterward, she found him by the river, skimming stones across the water. "He's threatening you," she said flatly.
He nodded. "He wants leverage. If I resist, he reports me. If I yield, he owns me."
"Then what will you do?"
He crouched by the water's edge, watching ripples expand. His mind raced in loops of logic. Firewalls were defense. Obfuscation was camouflage. But against human systems—greed, ambition, politics—he needed something else.
A failsafe.
"I'll write a trap," he whispered.
That night, he slipped into the merchant's camp. The compass lay on a crate, glowing faintly. Its runes pulsed in slow rhythm—like a system waiting for input.
He reached out. His hand brushed the glyphs. The device quivered, lines of sloppy code spilling into his vision. Inefficient, brittle. Easy to slip into.
He injected a patch. Nothing destructive—just a false log. From now on, whenever the compass recorded data about the village, it would rewrite itself to show normalcy: average soil, modest crops, no trace of wards.
The merchant would see only noise.
When he withdrew, the device hummed smoothly, unaware it had been hijacked.
But as he turned to leave, the merchant's voice cut through the dark.
"I thought you might try something like that."
The man sat just beyond the firelight, eyes glinting. "You hide it well, Oracle. But not from me."
The programmer froze, every muscle taut.
The merchant rose slowly, hands open. Not hostile—yet—but no longer pretending. "I serve the Temple of the Second Flame. My order hunts corruption, heresy… and anomalies. And you, my friend, are the largest anomaly I've ever seen."
He stepped closer, voice dropping to a whisper. "You could make me rich. Powerful. Or…" His smile sharpened. "You could make me your enemy."
The fire crackled between them.
The programmer met his gaze, mind racing like a processor under strain. Every system had vulnerabilities. Every adversary left patterns. This man was no different.
But now the stakes were clear: this wasn't a probe anymore. It was the first intrusion attempt.
And if he failed to defend… the whole village would pay.
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