Webster in Immortalis Produces a Daily Nicolas Report on Precision

Day 47 of the Eternal Reckoning.

Master Nicolas awoke at the precise stroke of midnight, his eyes opening with the mechanical inevitability of a clock’s chime. No languor troubled his emergence from the velvet shroud of repose; his lids parted exactly on the hour, pupils dilating to calibrate the gloom of the chamber. Precision governs his every transition, a law as unyielding as the steel of his resolve. I, Webster, his devoted chronicler, noted the time to the second: 00:00:03. Three seconds past the zenith, accounted for by the faint tremor of the city’s pulse beyond the casement.

The first act of the night unfolded in the preparation of his ablutions. Master selected the scalpel from the array on his vanity, its edge honed to a singularity finer than thought itself. With strokes measured at intervals of 0.2 millimetres, he shaved the shadow from his jawline, each pass leaving skin unmarked, unbloodied, pristine. A single droplet of crimson would have offended his exactitude; none dared appear. The mirror reflected perfection, and I transcribed the ritual without flourish, for flourish is the enemy of truth.

Descending to the atrium, Master encountered the petitioner, a trembling wretch named Elias, who had begged audience under false pretences of loyalty. The air thickened with anticipation, yet Master moved with calibrated grace, his steps spanning precisely 1.2 metres each, heels striking marble in rhythmic metronomy. He circled Elias thrice, gaze dissecting the man’s facade: sweat beading at 37.2 degrees Celsius, pulse fluttering at 112 beats per minute. Precision in assessment precluded mercy.

"You feign allegiance," Master declared, voice a scalpel’s whisper, "yet your deceit measures 4.7 centimetres deep." From his cuff, he produced the flaying tool, custom-forged to part flesh in layers of exactly 0.1 millimetre thickness. The first incision traced the clavicle, exact to the anatomical chart pinned to my ledger. Elias screamed, but Master silenced him with a pressure point strike, thumb compressing the carotid at precisely 5.2 kilograms of force, inducing blackout without fracture. The skin peeled away in translucent sheets, each segment catalogued: length 18 centimetres, width 3.2, weight 0.04 grams. Blood flow stemmed by cauterisation at 400 degrees Celsius, applied for 2.1 seconds per site. I weighed the viscera on the scale beside me, entries unerring.

Precision extended to the symphony of agony. Master orchestrated the vivisection with the fidelity of a conductor, severing tendons at their fulcrums, exposing nerves calibrated to maximal response. No organ was ruptured prematurely; the spleen yielded last, punctured with a lancet thrust deviating no more than 0.05 millimetres from perpendicular. Elias revived thrice, each awakening timed to 47 seconds post-injection of the stimulant, his confessions extracted in bursts of 23 words apiece. Lies comprised 61%; truths, the remainder, duly notarised in my report.

With the petitioner’s husk consigned to the incinerator, chute calibrated to 1,200 degrees Celsius for complete ash reduction in 4 minutes 32 seconds, Master turned to sustenance. The vessel, prepared by my hand, awaited in the alcove: a maiden of 22 years, vital signs optimised at haemoglobin 14.2 grams per decilitre. He drank with restraint, fangs penetrating jugular at 1.8 millimetres depth, withdrawal at exactly 300 millilitres ingested. No excess marred her pallor; she slumped, alive, for future utility. Precision in consumption preserves the herd.

The council convened at 02:17, delegates arrayed in semicircle of 120-degree arc, chairs spaced 0.8 metres apart. Master dissected their proposals with verbal incisions, each rebuttal landing at 1.4-second intervals, dismantling fallacies layer by layer. Lord Vesper’s scheme for territorial expansion faltered under scrutiny: projected yields overstated by 17.3%. Master recalibrated the figures on the abacus, beads clicking in binary precision, restoring equilibrium. Dissent evaporated; fealty reaffirmed.

Dawn approached at 05:43, and Master retired, but not before the evening’s capstone: the engraving. Upon the obsidian slab in his sanctum, he inscribed the night’s tally with a diamond stylus, letters 2 millimetres high, kerning uniform at 0.5 millimetres. Seventeen lives influenced, 4.2 litres of blood transacted, zero deviations from protocol. I verified each character against the template, my quill dipping twelve times to corroborate.

Thus concludes the Daily Nicolas Report on Precision. Master embodies the axiom: chaos yields to the rule of the exact. Deviate, and perish measured.

Recorded by Webster, Chronicler Eternal.

Immortalis Book One August 2026