Kael had been prowling through the dusty archive for over an hour, the air thick with the scent of old parchment and dried ink. Rows of towering shelves stretched upward almost to the ceiling, receding into the dim distance. The vast structure seemed alive—quietly creaking with age, as though whispering to itself in ancient tongues.

  Narrow aisles were lined with rolling ladders that could be moved along the shelves. They squeaked whenever Kael pushed one to inspect a higher level. Dust rained onto his shoulders, and in the lamplight, tiny motes spun in the golden glow like drifting sparks.

  An hour earlier, he had signed his contract with the Hall of Ancient Research, officially gaining the title of Third-Rank Master. The whole process had gone smoothly and without ceremony.

  Violet, of course, had proposed announcing the news in the city paper—claiming it was “a historic event the whole of Lasthold should know about.” But Duran had merely shaken his head and said it was better to refrain from publicity for now—to let Kael settle into his new position and find his footing.

  Kael hadn’t objected. He had no desire to attract attention anyway. He preferred quiet—and focus. Here, surrounded by hundreds of texts and the smell of parchment, he felt entirely in his element.

  At that moment, Kael was standing high up on one of the movable ladders, near the very top of the archive. The wood creaked softly under his weight as he shifted his stance, holding in his hands a thin book with a darkened cover.

  He flipped through a few pages, and a look of mild surprise crossed his face.

  “All the texts in this archive are written mostly in one of the three languages of the ancient human empires,” he murmured, studying the lines thoughtfully. “But this one… this is demon script.”

  His fingers glided slowly over the uneven symbols, drawn in thick ink that looked almost seared into the parchment. The letters stretched upward in winding lines, giving the impression that even the writing itself pulsed with arrogance and grace.

  Kael grunted and turned the page.

  “I wonder when it crossed into our world?” he said quietly. “Must have been before the fall of human civilization…”

  He read to the end of a paragraph describing the “Seven Gates” leading into the abyss, then clicked his tongue in disapproval.

  Closing the book, Kael carefully placed it back where it belonged and brushed the dust from his fingers.

  “A pity it’s trash,” he said softly, glancing at the spine. “Just the usual myths of their race.”

  Shifting his weight, Kael pressed his foot against the wooden divider of the shelf and gave himself a light push to the side. The ladder’s wheels squeaked as it rolled smoothly along the row, gliding between the towering sections. The sound of the wheels gradually faded until he came to a stop in an untouched corner.

  His gaze drifted across the spines of the old tomes—thick, dusty, some cracked and warped with age.

  “The collection is impressive,” he muttered, running his fingers along the faded titles. “But there’s not much of real value…”

  With that, Kael narrowed his eyes and pulled out one of the heavier volumes bound in worn leather. The cover was scratched but still solid—a mark of fine craftsmanship.

  He opened it carefully, and his eyes immediately lit up.

  “Alchemical recipes…” he said with clear interest. “And by the looks of it—far more advanced than anything used in Lasthold today.”

  Flipping through the pages, Kael skimmed the formulas and marginal notes. The lines were uneven, smudged with old reagents—clearly, the book had once belonged to a practicing alchemist.

  “Hm…” he murmured, scanning the list of ingredients. “Most of these recipes can’t even be reproduced in Lasthold… half the materials don’t exist here anymore.”

  He tilted his head, studying the text more closely, and the corners of his lips lifted slightly.

  “But these herbs and minerals…” he tapped a line softly with his finger. “Those can definitely be found nearby.”

  Kael began flipping through page after page—quickly, yet with care, not missing a single symbol. His gaze slid along the lines with the focus of a hunter stalking its prey.

  Each formula, each mark, he memorized effortlessly—his innate, boundless memory holding everything as though freshly written.

  “Once I reach the level of a Core Mage, I’ll finally be able to practice alchemy,” he thought, turning another page. “If I could brew my own mana elixirs, that would make all the difference…”

  Finishing the last page and committing the contents to memory, Kael exhaled lightly, closed the book, and placed it carefully back on the shelf.

  “Valuable knowledge, but not what I need,” he murmured, brushing the dust from his palms.

  For a moment, he froze, staring into the empty space between the shelves. After his conversation with Magister Duran, much had become clearer. Now he understood how fine the line was between progress and destruction. In the Lasthold of today, certain knowledge could bring not advancement, but chaos.

  “If only the upper-class holds the superior elixirs and pills…” he thought, frowning. “The gap between the elite and the commoners will only deepen.”

  He clicked his tongue and muttered aloud, as if reasoning with himself:

  “I need something else. Something that could benefit all of Lasthold… not strengthen the few, but empower everyone.”

  He ran a finger along the spines of the books, as though searching for an answer hidden among the dusty volumes.

  “Something I wouldn’t have to keep from the people. Something that would help everyone…” he added more quietly, a note of resolve in his voice.

  Deep in thought, Kael rested an elbow on the ladder’s railing, lowering his head as though he might drown in his own reflections. Dust swirled slowly around him, shimmering in the light, and the air seemed utterly still.

  Then, suddenly, he inhaled a little deeper—and froze.

  Achoo! He sneezed sharply, sending up another cloud of dust.

  “Damn it…” he grumbled, rubbing his nose. “If even a fraction of this dust existed in the Divine Library, the God of Knowledge and Madness would’ve torn everyone’s heads off…”

  He gave the shelves a weary glance, squinting at the shadows between them.

  “It’d be nice to take some of these books home and study them there,” he muttered. “But unfortunately… there’s no way I could carry them all.”

  The instant those words left his lips, something clicked in his mind—like a lightning bolt cutting through fog. His mouth parted slightly, and a cunning smile spread across his face.

  “Of course…” he whispered. “That’s what will help all of Lasthold!”

  He straightened sharply, looking around as if to confirm his sudden revelation. Energy returned to his movements—that familiar spark of excitement he always felt when a new idea took hold.

  “I just hope I can find what I need here,” he murmured, descending a few steps on the ladder. “If not… I’ll have to start scheming from day one as a decipherer. Feed them information Lasthold doesn’t even have yet.”

  He chuckled softly—mostly to himself.

  “But once I know exactly what I’m looking for…” he said, letting his fingers glide over the spines of the books again, “my excavations in this archive will become far more efficient.”

  At once, Kael began methodically searching through the shelves, moving with the single-minded intent of a predator on the trail. He no longer leafed through each tome out of curiosity—he was hunting for something specific. His focus narrowed to one topic alone: mana ore.

  The ladder wheels squeaked, filling the quiet hall with a metallic rumble that echoed faintly off the stone floor. Kael would pause for a second, grab a book, flip through a few pages, toss it back, and move on.

  “Not it… not it… still not it,” he muttered under his breath, his voice fading into the depths of the archive. “I don’t need refining—I need compression data… where is it?”

  Dust rose and settled on his hair and shoulders, but Kael paid it no mind. With every minute, his movements grew faster, more urgent.

  At the far end of the hall, behind a massive desk, sat the archive keeper—a man in his thirties with neatly combed blond hair and clear blue eyes. For a long time, he had ignored the sounds, but now it was impossible: the metallic rattling, the scraping of the ladder, the thuds of books being dropped.

  Frowning, he rose from his chair.

  “What is that kid doing?” the man muttered, pressing his lips together in irritation.

  For a moment, he stood still, listening. Then, unable to restrain himself, he circled the shelf and peeked around the corner.

  Before his eyes unfolded a peculiar scene: Kael, covered in dust, hair tousled, darted back and forth between the rows, dragging the ladder along, pulling out books one after another, muttering something rapidly under his breath.

  The keeper blinked.

  “He’s really supposed to be a Third-Rank Master…?” he murmured, disbelief coloring his tone.

  His frown deepened as he watched the boy, whose face now carried an almost fanatical focus, haul down yet another stack of scrolls.

  “How am I still an apprentice while he’s already a Master…?” he whispered, feeling a strange mix of envy and bafflement.

  ? ? ?

  Time passed, yet the rustling in the depths of the archive did not cease.

  The ladder’s wheels rolled back and forth, somewhere a book fell, a dry thump of pages followed—then once again the silence was split by the metallic squeak.

  The keeper, who at first had tried to ignore it, now looked on the verge of boiling over. He sat at his desk, chin resting on his hand, tapping his finger against the wood in irritation. The rhythm of the tapping grew faster and faster—tap-tap-tap-tap—until it became almost a nervous drumbeat.

  “This is too much…” he muttered, squinting toward the distant rows. “How long is he going to rummage around in there?”

  He threw the quill back into its stand, leaned against the chair’s back, and exhaled heavily. Silence reigned for a heartbeat—only to be broken again by the creak of the ladder and the dull thud of something heavy hitting the floor.

  “Oh, for—” he clenched his fists and stood up. “If he drops even one manuscript—”

  But he didn’t finish.

  From the depths of the archive came a sudden cry—loud, jubilant, bursting with energy and pure triumph:

  “There it is! Found it!”

  The echo rolled through the hall like thunder.

  “Now he’s shouting too?! Unbelievable!” the keeper howled, practically jumping in place.

  He stormed out from behind the desk, ready to march into the rows and tell the boy exactly what he thought of his “scientific research.” His face flushed crimson, his eyes flashing with fury.

  But at that very moment, the door to the archive creaked softly open. In the doorway stood Violet—dressed formally, her posture impeccable, her smile restrained yet polite. She inclined her head gracefully toward the man.

  “Greetings, Jean,” she said in an even, professional tone.

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  Jean’s expression changed instantly—the irritation vanished as if wiped away. His brows lifted, his lips stretched into a broad, slightly awkward but utterly sincere smile.

  He even straightened his back, smoothed his hair with one hand, and hurried out from behind the desk.

  “M-Master Violet! Always a delight to see you—as radiant as ever!” he exclaimed, voice overly courteous, with just a hint of nervousness—as though he hadn’t expected to see her in person.

  Violet maintained perfect composure, offering him a gracious but measured smile.

  “Thank you, Jean,” she replied evenly, her tone polite, almost official. “But tell me—what’s with all the shouting? I was passing by, and I could hear it from the corridor.”

  Jean’s face darkened at once. His smile vanished, replaced by a scowl of open irritation.

  “That little pest has no respect for silence,” he grumbled, jabbing a finger toward the far shelves. “He’s been at it for hours! Running around like a madman, stirring up dust and chaos.”

  He threw his hands up, clearly seeking her support.

  But to his surprise, Violet’s expression suddenly softened. Her stern look melted into a faint, amused smile—not the professional kind, but a genuine one, alive and unguarded.

  Even her voice took on a hint of laughter as she said:

  “I should have expected that,” she remarked with quiet mirth. “I have a feeling Kael is going to bring a touch of color to our rather dull Hall.”

  Jean snorted, folding his arms across his chest and turning aside, jealousy flashing in his eyes.

  “I don’t like it,” he muttered under his breath, bristling. “All he does is cause trouble.”

  He was about to add something else, but at that moment the source of all the commotion emerged from the depths of the archive. Kael walked out calmly, his hair dusted with gray and a faintly triumphant grin on his face. In his hands, he held a scroll tied neatly with a dark, time-worn ribbon.

  His footsteps were steady, his posture radiating quiet satisfaction—he was clearly pleased with what he’d found.

  Violet spoke first, cutting off Jean before he could even open his mouth.

  “What scroll is that you’re holding, Kael?” she asked, one brow arched.

  Kael smirked when he saw her. A familiar, mischievous glint flashed in his eyes.

  “What, are you spying on me now?” he asked with mock calmness, a hint of teasing in his voice.

  “Of course,” Violet replied flatly. “Half the Hall could hear you shouting.”

  Jean rolled his eyes but said nothing—only let out a loud, theatrical sigh.

  “You exaggerate,” Kael said with a grin, giving the scroll a light shake in his hand.

  He stepped closer and stopped right before them. The satisfied smirk still played on his lips—a mixture of confidence and excitement that only someone who had just made a small discovery could wear.

  Turning his gaze to Jean, Kael said calmly:

  “I’d like to take this scroll home to study it. As a Master, I’m allowed to do that, aren’t I?”

  Jean grimaced, as if the words had a sour taste.

  “Technically, yes…” he muttered, glaring at Kael as though the boy personally embodied every injustice in his life. “But you’re so young that—”

  He didn’t finish.

  Violet stepped forward, her voice suddenly cold and firm as steel:

  “Magister Duran himself vouched for him,” she said, staring directly at the keeper. “Judge him by status, not by age.”

  Jean wilted instantly. In the span of a heartbeat, all his bravado drained away, leaving only a strained, sheepish smile.

  “W-well… if you put it that way, Master Violet…” he stammered awkwardly, lowering his gaze.

  He quickly turned away to hide his embarrassment and hurried back to his desk. Grabbing a small ledger, he began scribbling furiously, recording the scroll’s release with excessive care and precision.

  Kael gave a polite nod.

  “Thank you,” he said briefly, already about to tuck the scroll under his arm.

  But he didn’t get the chance.

  In a single, deft motion, Violet reached out—and the scroll was in her hands. With practiced ease, she unrolled it, her lips curving into a faintly amused smile.

  “Let’s see what’s made you so excited…” she said.

  The parchment unfurled with a soft rustle, revealing delicate ink lines that spiraled into a complex circular diagram—layers of concentric rings connected by arrows pointing toward the center. Around them were smaller sketches, diagrams, and dozens of meticulous notes.

  Every symbol, every stroke looked deliberate, though faded by time. Tiny, cramped inscriptions explained the purpose of each component—as if the author had been trying to capture the structure of something that demanded absolute precision.

  Violet frowned, tracing one section with her finger.

  “What is this…?” she murmured, tilting her head. “Some kind of architectural design?”

  She squinted, trying to grasp the logic behind the image, but the longer she studied it, the more complex it became. The terminology, the symbols, the formulas—all of it was dense, cryptic. The purpose of the scroll was completely unclear.

  Kael watched her—a sly, amused smile curving his lips.

  He stepped closer and, without hesitation, took her hands, gently prying her fingers open just enough to snatch the scroll back.

  “If you hadn’t grabbed it, I might’ve told you,” he said with mock offense. “But now I don’t feel like it!”

  He deftly rolled up the parchment again, tucked it under his arm, and added with cheerful defiance:

  “Curiosity is a dangerous vice, Master Violet.”

  Then, deliberately turning his back to her, he paused for only a heartbeat—and bolted for the door, laughing as he ran.

  “Kael!” was all she managed to breathe out.

  Her eyes flashed with irritation.

  “He’s at it again!” Violet hissed, and darted after him, the sound of her footsteps echoing sharply across the stone floor.

  The archive door slammed shut with a dull thud, leaving Jean alone among the shelves. For several seconds, he just stood there, unable to believe what he’d just witnessed.

  “I’ve never seen Master Violet act like that before…” he muttered, frowning. “Could they have known each other for a long time? Maybe they’re related?”

  He scratched the back of his head, still unable to comprehend how that young Master had managed to throw off balance a woman renowned for her composure and icy restraint.

  ? ? ?

  At that same instant, beyond the archive walls, a woman’s shout rang down the corridor:

  “Stop, you little wretch!” Violet sounded as if she were ready to hurl the nearest volume of ancient manuscripts at the fleeing youth.

  Kael, nearly at the end of the long corridor, glanced back without breaking stride and called in reply:

  “You’ll have to catch me first!”

  The echo of his laugh stretched along the stone walls, mingling with Violet’s hurried footsteps.

  He ran on with that mischievous sparkle in his eyes he hadn’t shown in a long time. It seemed that along with his freedom something else had returned—that carefree, almost childlike feeling he’d once lost. Or, to be precise, the feeling that had been stolen from him and never allowed.

  Sometimes Kael pushed things too far. In such moments two natures collided inside him—the cynical, grumbling sage who had learned the cost of mistakes and betrayal, and the ordinary teenager suddenly permitted an ordinary life.

  And somewhere in that strange balance between maturity and youth something new was being born—the Kael who now sprinted down the corridor.

  Feeling irritation flare, Violet narrowed her eyes—they gleamed dangerously.

  “You little—” she whispered, the threat already threaded through her voice.

  In the next instant a soft violet haze wrapped around her, shimmering like living light. The air trembled, thick with mana. A mark bloomed on Violet’s brow—delicate, like a flowerbud opening in the glow.

  Her hair lifted as if caught by an invisible breeze, and tiny buds began to unfurl among the strands—violet, as if woven from magic itself. They swayed, emitting a faint light and leaving behind barely visible traces of luminous pollen.

  No sooner had the transformation finished than Violet sprang forward.

  The floor under her feet barely trembled, the air ignited with a violet trail—and she, a blurred shadow now, shot forward with inhuman speed.

  “Thought you’d play games?” her voice reached him, cold but charged with excitement. “I’ll teach you a lesson now, you little wretch!”

  ? ? ?

  Kael, still running, laughed from the heart—freely, contagiously, sincerely.

  He felt a rush of energy, excitement, that rare moment when he could allow himself to relax and simply enjoy freedom.

  “What a magnificent woman,” flashed through his mind with satisfaction. “I do love teasing her.”

  But he had no time to enjoy the thought before something in the air changed.

  First came the scent—rich, sweetly floral, soft yet so dense it seemed to wrap around him like a thin veil. The air thickened, almost intoxicating.

  “What the…” Kael didn’t finish the phrase before his ears caught a sharp whistle—short, slicing, like the air itself being cut by a blade.

  A moment later something snapped around his legs, sweeping them out from under him, sending him flying forward at full speed.

  “Damn it!” he gasped, losing balance.

  The world spun. Kael was lifted, tossed as if by a gust of wind—but before he hit the floor, something elastic wrapped around his wrists and ankles.

  He hung in the air, spread out like a cross, barely having time to grasp what was happening.

  Around him, violet roots twisted and pulsed—living, flexible, infused with mana. They reached out like obedient threads extending from Violet herself.

  She approached without hurry. Every step she took radiated confidence and mockery. A challenging smile played on her lips, and triumph gleamed in her eyes.

  “Got you,” she said calmly, though her voice carried a faint note of satisfaction, as if she were finally getting her revenge.

  Seeing her like that, Kael stopped struggling for a moment.

  The violet glow of mana shimmered softly on Violet’s skin, catching her cheeks and hair where translucent flowers bloomed.

  “A mark on her forehead and partial spirit fusion…” he thought, narrowing his eyes. “That means she’s at the Marked Mage level… a Silver Mage by Lasthold’s scale. Impressive for her age.”

  Violet stopped right in front of him, tilting her head slightly, studying him like a captured animal.

  “It seems you don’t take me seriously enough,” she said coldly, though the faint twitch at the corner of her lips betrayed her amusement. “It’s my fault for being too gentle with you.”

  Still suspended, Kael couldn’t help but laugh.

  “I surrender, esteemed Master Violet!” he declared with mock grandeur, smiling. “I was wrong. My apologies!”

  Violet snorted, her eyes flashing violet.

  “You think I’ll fall for your tricks again?” her tone turned dangerous. “Disobedient boys need discipline.”

  The roots holding Kael suddenly jerked.

  Another one coiled around his waist, then twisted sharply, arching him backward so that his body bent like a hook—arms and legs stretched forward, back curved, facing away from her.

  “H-hey!” Kael shouted in shock. “What are you going to do?!”

  Violet said nothing. Then came a quick, sharp crack.

  Whap!

  Kael felt a flash of heat across his backside.

  “Ow!” he yelped, jerking, but the roots only tightened their hold.

  Violet stood with a stern expression, though there was unmistakable satisfaction in her eyes.

  She struck again—like a mother disciplining a mischievous child.

  “Disobedient boys must be taught through action, not words,” she said coldly.

  Kael froze, feeling the rush of blood to his cheeks. A flicker of embarrassment brushed through him, though instead of offense, a stubborn thought flared inside:

  “I may look like a fifteen or sixteen-year-old teenager—but I’m far older than you, Violet! We are definitely not in a position where you should be spanking me!”

  Of course, he couldn’t say that out loud. So, only one kind of defense remained—humor.

  “All right! Let’s see how brave you really are!” his eyes lit up with a mischievous glint.

  The next instant, as another smack landed, Kael didn’t scream—he threw his head back and moaned, overacting like a bad stage actor:

  “Aaah!”

  The echo of his voice rolled down the corridor, making it sound even louder than before.

  At once, Violet’s next strike froze midair.

  And in that tiny pause, Kael went for the kill.

  “You know… I think I’m starting to like this! Please, continue, Master Violet!” his voice echoed down the hall—and for Violet, time itself seemed to stop.

  Her face turned crimson—pure shock and mortification. She couldn’t believe Kael had actually pulled such a shameless stunt.

  “Shut up, you idiot!” she blurted, her voice trembling between panic and anger.

  And right then, as if fate decided to mock her, a door creaked open somewhere ahead—slow, hesitant, as though someone had come to investigate the commotion in the corridor.

  Panicking, Violet lunged forward. The roots vanished into the air, scattering into glowing particles, and Kael dropped with a short gasp.

  Before he hit the ground, Violet instinctively caught him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders—and clapped a hand over his mouth.

  “Mmph!” Kael tried to protest, but in vain.

  She pulled them both behind the corner, just in time for the door to open fully.

  An old man with messy gray hair and a permanent scowl stuck his head out, blinking at the empty hallway.

  “What in blazes…? Don’t tell me I’m going senile already,” he grumbled, scratching his head before slamming the door shut again.

  Violet stood frozen, still holding Kael close. Her cheeks burned, her breath quick and uneven, a bead of sweat running down her temple. She looked like someone caught in something deeply improper.

  Her heart pounded wildly; her hands trembled. Barely audible, she muttered more to herself than to Kael:

  “Damn brat… Do you even realize how close you came to ruining me?”

  She still hadn’t let him go—her palm was still pressed against his face.

  Kael, meanwhile, was struggling to break free, his muffled “mmm!” growing desperate. He wriggled, pulling his shoulders, but Violet was far too flustered to notice.

  “Mmm! Mmm!” he pressed out, trying to breathe.

  Finding no other way, Kael stomped down hard on her foot.

  “Ow!” Violet yelped, instinctively loosening her grip.

  Kael dropped to his knees, gasping for air.

  “Gaaah! Gods…” he wheezed, sucking in a breath. “I was just joking—and you nearly killed me!”

  Violet’s face flared red again—this time with fury.

  “Don’t talk nonsense!” she snapped, and before she could stop herself, gave him a sharp kick that sent him lurching forward onto all fours. “And it’s your own fault anyway!”

  With that, she spun on her heel and stormed off. Her steps rang through the corridor—clack, clack, clack—each one pulsing with a mix of anger, humiliation, and the desperate wish to erase the last few minutes from memory.

  Kael, still on all fours, chuckled quietly to himself. His laugh came out rough, but genuine—a mix of relief and mischievous satisfaction.

  He rose slowly, brushing the dust off his knees, and looked after her—watching as Violet strode away, hips swaying irritably, throwing the occasional furious glance over her shoulder.

  “I like her more and more…” he muttered with a grin, running a hand through his hair.

  Then his gaze dropped to the scroll still in his hand.

  “All right, enough fooling around,” he said under his breath, adjusting the parchment. “I’ve got more important things to do than tease poor Violet.”

  He turned the scroll slightly, catching the faint light that revealed the intricate diagram within. A sly, satisfied smile crept over his lips.

  “Deciphering this scroll…” he whispered, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “It’ll help all of Lasthold—and line my pockets quite nicely.”

  With that, he tucked the scroll beneath his cloak and walked down the corridor. His steps were calm now, steady—the swagger of a man restored, replacing the playful recklessness of a boy.