Dust swirled in every direction. A young man crouched behind something large—a rickety, ancient bookshelf.
The scent of decaying paper seeped into the air, mingling with the smell of old wood. Gas lamps hissed softly, their light too weak to properly illuminate the room, leaving everything shrouded in gloom.
The metal in his hand felt cold, though he knew it couldn't kill anyone. Outside, the heavy thud of leather boots struck the library floor, hunting for his life.
"Those dogs really have no taste," he muttered quietly. "All of them pretending they understand art. Permits for this, permissions for that."
Footsteps echoed from outside the room. "Have you seen a young man wearing a red coat, sir?" a man's voice asked.
"No," another man replied, his voice rougher, hoarse with age.
"Are you certain, sir? Allow me to search the entire library," the younger man said again. His uniform was dark, fastened with a leather belt plated in yellow metal. Clearly an officer.
"I-I swear, sir! There's no one here. Just me," said the middle-aged man—the librarian.
The uniformed man seized the librarian by the collar.
"Please cooperate, sir. Don't resist."
The constable released his grip and fixed the older man with a sharp stare, trying to intimidate him.
Crash!
The sound of something falling shattered the silence from inside the storage room. Hidden within, the young man froze. He held his breath, his body stiff and unmoving.
"Allow me to inspect that room, sir," the officer said.
"Don't go in there! There's a ghost—ghosts of books that have never been touched and—"
Before the librarian could finish, the officer shifted his steps toward the narrow storage door behind the desk—only a few steps away from where they stood.
His footsteps grew closer. Inside, the young man's nerves tightened like a violin string pulled too far—trembling subtly, brimming with tension.
The rotting door creaked open.
Behind it stood only four old, fragile shelves lined up neatly. Torn cobwebs clung behind one of them—far too noticeable for a room meant to remain untouched. The uniformed man frowned and approached cautiously.
He advanced toward the suspicious shelf, his steps slow but deliberate. He drew his revolver from his belt and raised it gradually, threatening.
"Come out!" the officer barked.
With a small jolt, the shelf's support gave way. Old wood slammed down violently. Dust and paper fragments burst into the air. The lawman leapt backward, barely in time, his coat brushed by the corner of the collapsing shelf. As he jumped, he struck another shelf behind him and fell flat onto his back.
"My fifteenth-century history books!" the librarian cried from outside, his face flushed red, veins bulging at his temples. He rushed forward, staring at his ruined collection. "Damn you! Don't let a single drop of your sweat touch those covers!"
The officer ignored him and forced himself to stand. He brushed sheets of paper and dust from his uniform coat.
He heard hurried footsteps again, his breathing returning to normal.
Cold metal pressed into the young man's palm. From another shelf, a small object emerged—shaped like a revolver. Too light to be a real weapon, yet convincing enough in the dim light. The officer's eyes widened as he aimed back at the supposed gunman.
The figure stepped out from behind the shelf, still pointing the revolver at his pursuer. The gun trembled slightly in his grip. There was a strange, beautiful madness in the way his hand refused to stay still—a manifestation of burning spirit. This should frighten him, the young man thought.
"Don't shoot!" the uniformed man's voice cracked slightly. "Drop your weapon. I can lessen your sentence."
For a moment, they stood aiming at one another. "D-drop your weapon! Th-this is an order!" the officer shouted.
"No," the young man replied. This is ridiculous, but it's my last prop, he thought.
The silence lingered, both of them still aiming. The officer's fingers tightened around the trigger—ready for anything.
Sweat poured down his face, stinging his eyes. His breathing was steady, but his hands began to shake. A fly landed on the muzzle of his revolver.
Click.
The young man pulled the trigger first—trained reflex taking over instantly. The officer pulled his trigger as well.
Bang!
The shot thundered through the narrow room. The bullet struck the magician's shoulder. His body jerked violently, stumbling backward.
For a moment, the air filled with the scent of sulfur. The young man collapsed to the floor. The room fell silent, replaced by a piercing ringing that stabbed into his ears.
The officer realized then that the young man's revolver hadn't fired a bullet—from its barrel popped out a small flag, fluttering weakly.
"Ssshh…" the magician hissed faintly. He dropped the toy revolver and pressed his wounded shoulder.
It felt as though his arm had been struck by a sledgehammer. The world around him slowed. He tried to jump backward but collapsed, his legs trembling, his trousers soaked with sweat.
A thin, squeaking sound escaped his throat each time he tried to draw breath.
Donder… it hurts like hell! But I have to look calm, the magician thought. His hands shook violently now, no longer from excitement. His entire body was drenched in sweat.
The uniformed man's eyes widened as he realized he had shot an unarmed civilian. That wasn't a weapon? He startled me—I was just defending myself, he reasoned before stepping closer.
Still gripping his revolver, the lawman took a deep breath. "You're under arrest. Come with me to the police office. We'll treat your wound there."
The officer inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly.
He stood still, surveying the entire room carefully. He walked through every corner, opening what remained of the shelves.
He knocked on the walls at each corner, searching for something unseen.
Does he have another trick up his sleeve? The officer braced himself for what he feared most.
The magician's trembling hand moved away from his injured shoulder, revealing blood soaking into his red coat.
The magician tried to laugh, but only a strained breath escaped. Something caught in his throat and he coughed. His mouth fell open, a long ribbon slipping out. He pulled it free by force, his hands shaking.
A bundle of ribbon came out entirely, mixed with saliva and blood. The unfortunate young man coughed again, blood spraying from his mouth.
Is he human… or a demon? Should I help him? the officer wondered in confusion.
"That was supposed to be more dramatic than this…" the magician muttered. "Ssshh…"
He forced a crooked smile, sweat pouring down his face. The world felt quiet and slow. This pain… damn it all, he thought.
"Hang in there, kid. At least don't die here," the constable grumbled.
He picked up the ribbon that smelled of rusted iron from the floor, rolled it up, and stuffed it into the magician's mouth. "Bite down. Don't tear your tongue."
"Sir, do you have a small pair of pliers?" the officer asked the librarian.
The librarian nodded as if he had anticipated this, quickly pulling out a small pair of pliers he always used to fix door hinges from his coat pocket and handing them over.
"J-just don't let his blood stain my carpet," the librarian said.
I have to do this. If the medical team comes, there will be more eyewitnesses, the constable thought.
The officer examined the bullet lodged in the magician's shoulder with his fingers. The magician's body tensed. Once he found its position, the officer—his hands trembling—pulled the bullet out with the pliers. The magician froze in agony.
The constable took the ribbon from the young man's mouth and wrapped it tightly around the wound. "At least you won't bleed out for now. I'll treat you properly at the police office."
"What's your name?" the uniformed man asked.
"S-Stellan… Stellan Haze," the magician answered, still groaning in pain.
"Don't joke!" the officer snapped. "The world would be mad to allow a name like that."
"That really is my name… at least, I think it is."
"I'll check the population records later. If it's not there, prepare yourself."
The officer's hands trembled as he fastened the handcuffs around the magician's wrists. Click. Stellan's hands were now locked. The officer dragged him out of the storage room.
"Ugghhh…" Stellan groaned, his eyes squeezing shut as he faced the lamplight.
"Just walk. Don't move too much or your wound will tear wider," the uniformed man ordered.
They walked on, leaving the librarian alone, navigating through the maze of bookshelves until they reached the exit.
The door opened—an orange-red sky stretched overhead, hooves clattering against stone streets. People passed by, some dressed elegantly, others in rags.
They stared at Stellan with disgust, as if he were the foulest trash among them. Some covered their noses as they passed—even those dressed in rags.
"Ug—" Stellan continued to groan as the stone road jolted him with every step. The officer steadied him to keep him from falling, while keeping his distance—careful not to stain his coat with blood.
Smoke drifted upward, covering what should have been a beautiful evening sky. Their steps slowed as they passed tall houses, steep roofs cutting into the dusk.
Some houses exposed red brick walls. Rows of bay windows jutted outward, covered by yellowed lace curtains.
After some time, they arrived at a large white building. Several empty horse stands lined its side. Lamps filled with magic stones burned brightly, banishing shadows with their glow.
An old iron plaque hung above the entrance, golden letters engraved upon it:
LUNARINE CITY POLICE OFFICE
"Move!" the officer barked as they entered the building.
"Donder…" Stellan murmured. "This place has truly become Bedlam—chaotic and beyond control."
Inside, the space felt unnaturally quiet. Lamps were extinguished, cups lay overturned on desks, coffee still spilling across the surface.
"Inspector!" the constable called out. "Did the inspector run off again to gamble at the docks? If so, I swear I'll rip that old man's beard out," the officer frowned.
He noticed a torn sheet of paper—a list of imprisoned criminals. The paper was ripped, the prisoners' faces torn away, their features unrecognizable.
The air suddenly grew heavy with a strange odor. Stellan frowned as he smelled it.
"Rotten garlic…" he muttered.
—To be continued…