Saō Hyun entered the library the way one enters the belly of a living thing, not a building made of stone and wood.
The scent was the first thing that struck him: old paper, dried ink, aged timber, and silence. A heavy silence — thick, as if sound itself was not allowed to be born here. Even Lin Hua's footsteps were light, measured, as though the ground disliked being stepped on.
He stopped at the threshold.
He did not feel awe.
He felt small.
The shelves rose above him like mountains — endless rows of scrolls, books, and boxes, each carrying an entire world he did not know how to open. His eyes moved slowly, not in search of a title, but in search of a feeling, of something that would call to him from within that stillness.
Lin Hua spoke softly, respectfully:
"The Venerable Shin Ri said you may choose four martial arts from here."
He only nodded.
He did not say, I cannot read.
He did not say, I do not understand these symbols.
He said nothing.
Because he did not feel it was a lack that could be explained with words. He felt it the way one feels an emptiness inside — an emptiness that cannot be seen, but hurts.
He took one step forward.
Then another.
His fingers brushed the edges of some scrolls. The paper was rough on some, smooth on others, warm in places, cold in others. He did not know why he distinguished between them — but he did.
He stopped suddenly.
He felt something.
Not heat. Not cold. Something like a faint prick in his chest, as if his heart noticed before his mind did. He reached for a dark black scroll, placed alone inside a small wooden box.
He took it.
Nothing happened outwardly.
But inside him, something shifted.
It felt as though the night itself had entered his chest — not as frightening darkness, but as a quiet weight, as if the world had suddenly slowed. His breathing calmed without his intending it.
Lin Hua said with slight surprise,
"This is the Scroll of the Fist of Night."
He lifted his eyes to her.
"Fist… of Night?"
"Yes. An art that relies on absorbing one's inner shadows — transforming fear, loneliness, and suppressed anger into concentrated physical power."
He did not understand all the words.
But he understood the feeling.
He drew the scroll to his chest without realizing he had done so.
Then he moved on.
After a few steps, he felt something entirely different. Another scroll — white and silver, radiating a light energy like a breeze. When he touched it, his legs felt lighter, as if the old pain in his long-broken leg weakened for a moment.
"The Four Steps of the Silent Wind," Lin Hua said. "A movement art. It teaches the body to walk with the air, not upon the earth."
He swallowed.
Air… movement… escape… survival.
He took it too.
Then he felt a third.
A blue scroll, smelling of rain, its inner sound like a distant wave. When he touched it, something stirred in his chest — not pain, but an old sorrow that had finally found a way to flow out.
"The Arts of the Sea's Voice," Lin Hua said. "An art of breathing and inner vibration — transforming sorrow into extended, sustained energy that does not explode, but endures."
He took it.
One remained.
He hesitated.
There was another dark silver scroll, engraved with a split crescent moon. As he approached it, a sharp sensation pricked his left eye, as if something there… had awakened.
"Moon-Severing," Lin Hua whispered, as though she did not want anyone but him to hear. "A rare art. It focuses on directing energy through the eye and intent — to sever what cannot be severed, to see what cannot be seen."
His hand trembled.
He did not understand.
But he felt.
He felt this art was not like the others. As though it did not wish to be a tool, but wished to be a path.
He took the fourth scroll.
He stood there, holding four scrolls he could not read, yet knew they had chosen him as much as he had chosen them.
Lin Hua said quietly,
"Are you certain? These arts are not easy. Some of them hurt more than they strengthen."
He looked at her.
His eyes were calm, but behind them was something hardened — something that had been decided long ago.
"Things that do not hurt… never saved me."
She found nothing to say.
He left the library as he had entered, but inside him was no longer the same. He did not feel strong. He did not feel happy. He only felt that the path finally existed — even if it was long, even if it was dark, even if it hurt.
And in his chest, between heart and lungs, four paths began to form slowly, like small roots breaking through hard soil, without knowing where they would reach