'Ding-Dong!'
The shrill echo of the classroom bell cut through the thick tension in the air, and in its wake, Professor Cheng's voice rang out, sharp and unwavering.
"Time's up—pencils down, everyone!"
A collective shiver seemed to pass through the lecture hall. The relentless scratching of pens and pencils—so frantic and desperate moments before—ceased all at once, replaced by a heavy silence punctuated only by the shuffling of paper and a few scattered, exhausted sighs. The vast space, once humming with academic anxiety, now felt as if it held its breath.
Yun exhaled, setting his pen down with a sense of relief and finality, flexing his aching fingers. He rolled his shoulders and pressed his back further into the rigid seat, letting his gaze wander across the auditorium. The hall itself was cavernous, with rows upon rows of ancient, creaking desks climbing up towards the ornate ceiling. Chandeliers hung from above like watchful sentinels, their crystal facets scattering cold light across the room. On the far wall, tall arched windows let in the waning afternoon sun, casting golden slats over the hunched forms of his classmates.
Damn, Yun thought, Professor Cheng really didn't go easy on us this time.
The exam papers had seemed endless, each question more cryptic than the last. He'd felt his brain stretch and strain, pulling at the edges of what he thought he knew.
At the front, Professor Cheng—a slight woman with sharp, hawk-like eyes—began her slow procession through the aisles, collecting exam sheets. Her heels clicked methodically against the polished stone floor, the sound echoing off marble pillars and bouncing beneath the domed ceiling. She was a fixture of the university, her legend looming larger than life, and as she moved, no one dared utter a word.
Yun observed the faces around him: some students sat slumped, their expressions hollow, while others stared transfixed at their desks, as if willing the ink on the page to rewrite itself. A few simply closed their eyes, muttering prayers to gods of luck and mercy.
A small, satisfied smirk tugged at Yun's lips.
Lucky I studied extra. Relative grading really is a blessing. My GPA is going to thank me this semester.
As Professor Cheng reached the final row and gathered the last paper, she paused, then looked up at the class. With a rare, almost mischievous smile, she announced,
"All right, you're free to go. See you next semester—hopefully in a different course."
A ripple of laughter and relief passed over the room. Backpacks zipped. Chairs scraped. Students, suddenly lighter, began to spill out into the corridor, voices rising in a rush of post-exam release.
Yun wasted no time. He grabbed his worn canvas backpack, slung it over one shoulder, and threaded his way out of the hall. The air outside felt different—looser somehow, as though the university itself was exhaling alongside its students.
Finally. I can't wait to start a new book.
The hall outside was abuzz with conversation, the stone floors alive with footsteps. The university's corridors were a patchwork of old and new—centuries-old stone walls lined with digital screens, gothic arches framing the busy flow of students. Stained glass windows threw pools of colored light onto the checkerboard tiles, painting everyone in shifting blues and reds. The smell of old paper, polished wood, and a faint trace of coffee drifted through the air.
Yun navigated the crowd, dodging clusters of classmates deep in discussion or celebration. The campus around him was a city unto itself, its grounds sprawling with manicured lawns and ancient oaks whose leaves fluttered in the breeze. Statues of long-dead scholars watched over the students, their features worn smooth by time. The university's heart pulsed with life, every building a monument, every path a thread in the tapestry of academia.
He soon spotted two familiar figures by the notice board, lost in animated conversation. Earson, tall and perpetually disheveled, was gesturing wildly, while Jim—shorter and always impeccably dressed—listened with a bemused smile.
Yun approached, grinning, and slung an arm around Earson's shoulders.
"How'd it go for you guys?" he asked, his voice bright, almost teasing.
Earson groaned, his face a picture of misery. "Don't even ask. That exam was a disaster. I think I wrote an essay on the wrong question for half an hour."
Jim shook his head, trying to sound upbeat. "On the bright side, at least we're finally free of this cursed class," he said, glancing from Earson to Yun. The sunlight caught in his glasses, momentarily hiding the tiredness in his eyes.
Yun chuckled, nudging Earson playfully. "Assuming you pass, that is."
Earson rolled his eyes, managing a weak smile. "Yun, you bastard. High achievers like you are the reason us mere mortals have to worry about failing. You set the curve, and the rest of us pay the price."
"Hey," Yun replied, feigning innocence. "Don't blame me for your lack of motivation."
Jim stepped between them, holding up his hands as if to broker peace. "All right, enough. By the way, Yun, what's your plan now? We were thinking of checking out that new café by the plaza. Supposedly the pastries are incredible."
Earson snorted. "Come on, you know what he's going to do. The library's probably got his name on a chair by now."
Yun smiled sheepishly, the familiar warmth of anticipation bubbling up inside him. "You know me. Finals kept me away long enough. I'm overdue for some quality time with a book."
Jim laughed, shaking his head. "Suit yourself, bookworm. We'll save you a scone, just in case you change your mind."
With a wave, Yun split off, weaving through the crowds. His pace quickened as he left the noise behind, the air growing quieter and cooler as he neared the library. The path took him beneath arches veined with ivy, past stone fountains where water danced in the afternoon light. He passed a group of students sprawled on the lawn, their laughter ringing out as they celebrated their newfound freedom.
The library loomed ahead: a marvel of ancient architecture, its façade a patchwork of grey stone and weathered carvings. Two imposing wooden doors stood beneath an archway inscribed with faded Latin—words that promised wisdom to all who entered. Above, gargoyles perched silently, their stone faces frozen in perpetual watchfulness.
Yun paused for a moment, letting his hand rest on the cool wood. Every time he stood here, a sense of awe washed over him. The library was more than just a building—it was a sanctuary, a world apart from the chaos outside.
Inside, the air shifted, thick with the scent of old paper and polished oak. Sunlight slanted through stained glass, painting the marble floors in shifting colors. The hush was profound, broken only by the occasional rustle of pages or the soft footfalls of those who moved with reverence between the stacks.
The librarian, a serene figure surrounded by towers of books, glanced up and offered Yun a knowing smile. He nodded in return before heading towards his favorite alcove—a secluded nook by a broad window, where sunlight pooled and dust motes danced in the golden glow.
He set his backpack down on the worn leather chair, claiming his spot. For a moment, he simply stood there, breathing in the familiar blend of must and old wood, letting it ground him.
All around him, the library stretched in labyrinthine splendor. Endless shelves soared towards the vaulted ceiling, each groaning under the weight of age and knowledge. The wood was dark with centuries of polish, carved with swirling patterns that told silent stories of those who had come before. Busts of forgotten philosophers peered from alcoves, their gazes stern and unblinking. The hush here was absolute; every sound seemed to dissolve into the thick velvet silence.
Yun wandered between the shelves, fingers trailing along the spines. Some were new, their covers glossy and untouched; others were battered and ancient, their titles barely legible. The air grew cooler the deeper he went, lit only by the occasional shaft of sunlight filtering through high, arched windows.
He drifted toward the mythology section—a recent obsession, thanks to the librarian's suggestion. The shelves were heavy with stories of gods and monsters, heroes and tricksters. Yun loved these tales for their strange truths, the lessons braided into the wildest of adventures. Each legend felt like a puzzle, waiting to be unraveled.
His footsteps slowed as he reached the farthest, quietest part of the library. Here, the world outside felt impossibly distant. Dust hung in the air, shimmering in the late afternoon light. A single stained glass window cast a patchwork of color across the floor, painting the shelves in hues of ruby and sapphire.
It was here that Yun noticed something odd: a thick, black book with gilded edges, awkwardly wedged between two battered volumes. It looked out of place, as though it had been hastily shoved into a gap where it didn't belong.
Strange. I don't remember seeing this before. I've practically memorized these shelves by now.
Curiosity sparked, Yun reached out and eased the book free. Its cover was cool and supple—leather worn smooth by time. The gilded edges glimmered even in the dim light, as if the book held its own secret glow. It was heavier than it looked, and much larger than the neighboring tomes. He ran his fingers over the front, feeling the embossed title beneath his touch.
Liminal
There was no author, no publisher, no hint at what lay within—only that single word, stamped in bold, golden letters.
A thrill of anticipation ran down Yun's spine. He hurried back to his seat, cradling the mysterious book in his arms as if afraid it might vanish. He set it gently on the table, the wood creaking beneath its weight. For a moment, he simply stared at it, heart pounding, savoring the promise of discovery.
He traced the cover with a fingertip, marveling at how the gold still shone, untouched by the years. The rest of the cover was unremarkable—no illustrations, no text, just black leather pocked with age.
He opened the book, and the first page greeted him with a startling image: a serpent, black as midnight, coiled into a near-perfect circle. Its scales shimmered with a metallic sheen, catching the light as if alive. Yun leaned closer, brow furrowing.
Ouroboros…? But something's different.
Most depictions showed the serpent biting its own tail, the eternal cycle, the loop of creation and destruction. But here, the serpent's head hung just shy of its tail, hovering in eternal anticipation but never quite closing the circle.
A chill traced Yun's spine.
Breaking the cycle… isn't that supposed to be taboo in mythology? The ouroboros is the circle itself. If the loop isn't closed, does that mean the cycle can end? Or is it the beginning of something new?
He flipped the page, almost desperate for answers. What greeted him next was a single, handwritten poem, the ink bold and black, the cursive both elegant and hurried—like someone had written it in a fever dream.
He took a breath, steeled his heart, and read:
Between the serpent's distant howls
And its ever-distant tail,
Lies the narrow gap of choice—
Where destiny and freedom fail.
The construct walks alone
Through countless deaths and sacrifices,
Believing his destiny his own;
Yet that dream is long forgotten.
Are his choices truly his,
Or parts of schemes woven together?
His sacrifice weighs but a feather
As between reality and dream, his existence is.
O, sweet paradox of final hour—
When the predestined one at last can choose,
And in that moment of illusory power
Selects precisely what he cannot refuse.
In that infinitesimal, precious void
Between the serpent's head and end,
Lies the only truth unalloyed:
Some circles were never meant to mend.
Yet the vessel, seeing patterns clear,
Shall close the gap with open eyes,
Knowing that the choice most dear
Is accepting fate's disguise.
Thus the Architect's grand design
Finds completion in conscious surrender;
As fragments merge in space divine,
And tear reality's fabric tender.
As Yun's eyes traced the final line, a strange heaviness settled in his chest. He blinked, surprised to find his cheeks damp, his vision blurred by tears he hadn't felt coming. His heart thudded in his chest, loud in the silence.
Why… why am I crying?
Even as he wiped his face, Yun couldn't look away from the strange book. The library's hush pressed in all around him, broken only by the faint ticking of a distant clock and the slow, steady beat of his own heart. Outside, the sun slipped lower, its golden light fading from the stained glass, drawing long shadows over ancient shelves and unread stories.
Somewhere, in the deep silence of the library, the secrets of gods and cycles and choice waited—just beneath the surface, just out of sight.