The silence of a library was never truly silent. It was simply… a different kind of noise.
The soft rustle of turning pages.The gentle creak of old wood settling into itself. Muted footsteps gliding across polished floors.
And above all—
That strange, unspoken feeling that speaking a single word too loudly might earn you exile for life.
Aren stopped just before the counter, slightly out of breath from walking too fast, and looked at the old man behind it.
The librarian looked like he had always been old. The kind of person who could say, "I read this book before it was written," and somehow make it sound believable.
He raised his eyes slowly, as if Aren had interrupted him in the middle of a duel.
"State your business, boy."
Aren blinked.
"…Good afternoon to you too."
Beside him, Stella immediately leaned forward, smiling brightly—almost painfully polite.
"Good afternoon, sir! Please excuse us for disturbing you."
The librarian studied Stella for a second, then shifted his gaze to Aren.
"The daughter of Count Tallcrag… and a commoner following her like a bad decision. Interesting."
Aren grimaced.
"I'm not following her. She's the one clinging to me."
"I am not clinging!" Stella protested, cheeks red.
"Quiet," the librarian said flatly. "This is a library, not an inn."
Aren placed both hands on the counter.
"I'm looking for books. Training manuals. Mostly… swords."
The librarian narrowed his eyes.
"You wish to learn swordsmanship?"
"Yes."
"Do you have a master?"
"No."
"Do you have mana?"
Aren didn't answer immediately. A cold prick ran up the back of his neck, like the edge of a blade resting there.
"…No."
The librarian sighed heavily, as though Aren had just confessed to eating stones in hopes of growing stronger.
"So you want sword manuals… without mana… without a teacher."
"Yes."
"That's like trying to learn how to swim by reading a menu."
Stella covered her mouth, stifling a laugh.
Aren turned toward her.
"Are you mocking me?"
"A little," she admitted, eyes sparkling.
Aren faced the librarian again, stubborn.
"I still want them."
The old man studied him for a long moment. Then, unexpectedly, he pulled out a quill, scribbled something down, and gestured toward a shelf.
"Row seven. Third column. Foundations of the Body and Ethics of the Blade. If you touch Secrets of Assassins, I'll throw you out."
Aren blinked.
"Ethics of the Blade…?"
"Yes. Because you're young. And because if you learn how to strike before learning why you strike, you'll end up hanged—or worse: a knight."
Stella burst into muffled laughter.
The librarian didn't smile. Not even slightly.
"And you, Stella," he added, "you're supposed to be at home."
She flinched.
"I—I just wanted to—"
"I know. You followed a cat. Cats have a talent for ruining noble dignity."
Stella lowered her head, embarrassed.
Aren couldn't help himself.
"So… you knew?"
"I'm a librarian. I know everything that happens. I just pretend not to care."
He waved a hand sharply.
"Go. And hurry. I don't want your presence attracting more idiots."
Aren and Stella moved toward the shelves.
Once they were out of earshot, Stella leaned toward Aren.
"See? He's nice."
"No," Aren replied. "He's dangerous."
"Why dangerous?"
"Because he could kill me just by sighing."
Stella giggled. Then, more quietly:
"You really want to train?"
Aren didn't answer right away. His gaze drifted across the shelves, as if each book were a door to something he had never been allowed to want.
"…Yeah," he said at last. "I need to enter the academy someday."
Stella's smile froze for the briefest moment.
"The Imperial Academy?"
"The Academy of Nerathis."
Stella blinked.
"Nerathis…?"
Aren nodded.
"In the Neutral Kingdom of Lyréa. The merchant kingdom."
Stella let out a small "oh."
"So it's true. They say Lyréa accepts anyone… as long as they have something to offer."
Aren snorted.
"I've got nothing to offer. Just trouble."
Stella opened her mouth to reply, but Aren had already grabbed a thick book—nearly as heavy as a sack of flour.
"Foundations of the Body. Sounds like a guide to breaking rocks with your forehead."
"You can actually read this kind of thing?" Stella teased.
"I can read. I'm a commoner, not illiterate."
She nudged him with her elbow.
"You're really unbearable."
"Thanks."
They gathered several books. Stella chose some as well—though the titles were different. Aren noticed them:
Mana Theory — First CircleCatalysis and FlowFoundations of Invocation
He raised an eyebrow.
"You read that?"
Stella straightened proudly.
"Of course. I want to be a mage."
Aren stared at her.
"How old are you?"
"Ten. Same as you."
"And you're already reading this?"
"Yes."
"…I hate geniuses."
Stella smiled, delighted.
"Thank you."
Aren sighed, though there was no real mockery in it. Just a strange mix of surprise… and envy.
They passed by a window. Late afternoon light filled the room, dust motes floating like golden snow.
Aren hugged the book to his chest.
"I'll come back for those later," he murmured, glancing at the mana section.
Stella looked at him.
"Why not now?"
Aren shrugged.
"Because if I obsess over something I can't do, I'll waste time. And I don't have much time."
Stella opened her mouth… then closed it.
She understood. Not everything—but enough.
—
They left the library an hour later, loaded like pack mules.
When Aren reunited with his father near the market square, Rob was already waiting beside the cart.
"So?" Rob asked, eyeing the pile.
Aren carefully placed the books inside.
"I've got enough material to break my back for four years."
Rob chuckled.
"That's not reassuring."
Aren climbed onto the cart. Stella waved quickly before disappearing with an escort of servants who had finally "miraculously" located the count's daughter.
As the cart rolled away, Rob glanced at Aren.
"Did you speak to the count?"
"No."
"Good. I'd rather not owe him anything."
Aren replied without looking up.
"I'd rather owe him something than owe my sister to the Light."
Silence fell.
The road home felt longer.
—
The village welcomed them with familiar scents—wood smoke, damp earth, overly salty soup.
Nila stood in front of the house when they arrived, wiping her hands on her apron.
"There you are."
Aren jumped off the cart before it fully stopped.
"Mom."
She cupped his cheek, as if checking that he was whole.
"Did you buy your books?"
"Yes."
"Good."
Rob stepped down as well, placing a hand on Aren's shoulder.
"I'll let you show her. I'll unload."
Aren nodded. As soon as his father left, Nila studied the stack.
"You're really going to do this?"
Aren felt his throat tighten.
"I have to."
Nila lowered her eyes. Then lifted her chin.
"Then do it properly. Not with anger. With consistency."
Aren clenched his fists.
"I'll… try."
Nila smiled sadly.
"You're smart, Aren. But you're also impatient. And impatience breaks bones faster than any monster."
Aren grimaced.
"You sound like the librarian."
"I know him," she said. "He scolded me once too."
Aren blinked—then laughed despite himself.
"Seriously?"
"Yes. And I survived. You will too."
—
That night, Aren opened his books.
He read.
And understood one thing above all else:
His body was a weapon. But a poorly maintained one.
The next morning, he rose before sunrise.
Rob saw him outside, barefoot on cold grass.
"What are you doing?"
"Starting."
Rob scratched his beard.
"Alright. Start by not killing yourself."
Aren smiled—just a little too proud.
"I won't die."
Rob looked at him for a long moment.
"…Good. Keep that."
—
The following days, Aren trained like a possessed man.
Not with a sword at first. With his body.
He ran. Did push-ups until his arms shook.Carried logs .Climbed, fell, stood back up. Repeated.
He talked to himself often.
Patience. Mana later. One day at a time. Build a base that won't betray you.
His mind already knew:
If he couldn't rely on mana, he had to rely on something that would never leave him.
His muscles.His breathing.His balance.
Sometimes, anger returned—burning hot.
When he remembered Kayla. Her empty eyes. The priest's hand on her shoulder.
Then Aren punched the tree behind the house until his knuckles bled.
One day, Nila wrapped his hands in cloth and said calmly:
"You want to be strong. Not crippled."
Aren muttered,
"I needed to—"
"You didn't need anything. You wanted something."
It stung because it was true.
—
A week passed.
Then one morning, a messenger arrived in the village.
A well-dressed man, bearing the Tallcrag crest.
Aren stared as if he were looking at a rare bird.
The messenger spoke with Rob and Nila, then produced a sealed letter.
"An invitation from Count Russell Tallcrag. For all three of you."
Nila accepted it carefully. Rob remained still.
"Why?" Rob asked.
"To thank your son. Lady Stella insists."
Aren's stomach twisted.
"…I didn't do anything."
The messenger smiled politely.
"Nobles consider helping their daughter avoid being robbed in an alley 'something.'"
Aren muttered,
"I mostly ran."
"That's still more than most," the messenger replied.
Rob sighed.
"Very well. We'll come."
—
Two days later, they traveled back to Amoria.
This time, Nila came along.
And Aren felt something strange—an invisible pressure. Not mana… but the weight of entering a noble's home.
When they arrived at the Tallcrag manor, he understood why.
It was too big. Too clean. Too quiet.
Stella waited in the courtyard, excited.
"Aren! Mr. Rob! Mrs. Nila!"
Aren eyed her.
"You didn't follow a cat today?"
She frowned.
"No!"
"Too bad."
She almost hit him—then stopped herself. She was learning.
A butler led them inside. Count Russell Tallcrag awaited them in a hall lined with paintings.
A tall man. Well-kept. Sharp gaze.
He examined Aren first. Then his parents.
"Thank you for coming."
Rob bowed awkwardly. Nila curtsied simply but cleanly.
Aren did… something in between.
The count studied him.
"You are Aren."
"Yes."
"My daughter spoke of you."
Aren glanced at Stella.
"She talks too much."
"And you too little," the count replied.
Stella blushed.
"In this city," the count continued calmly, "many look away. You acted."
Aren shrugged.
"I just… moved."
"That is precisely what this world lacks."
Then he asked simply:
"What do you want?"
Aren froze.
Rob opened his mouth—but Nila gently touched his arm. Let him.
Aren swallowed. His voice came out firmer than he expected.
"I want a sword technique."
The count inclined his head slightly.
"For what purpose?"
Aren answered without hesitation.
"So I won't stay weak."
Silence fell.
The count studied him.
"You are bold."
"I have to be."
The count turned toward a man near the door.
"Sir Davos."
The man stepped forward. Sword at his side. Not decorative.
Aren's body reacted instinctively.
"Show him."
—
The duel followed.
And Aren learned a simple truth:
He was still far from enough.
But—
He wasn't empty.
And that was enough to keep going.