A young woman dressed in ragged clothes stood before a pile of old books. These weren't just any books meant to be discarded—they were set aside to be burned, as they contained information far too dangerous to fall into the wrong hands.
Not far from the scene, a cargo truck had skidded off the road and into a ravine.
As a beggar, the young woman knew what she had to do. She would take some of the books and resell them, even if it meant betraying her own country. After all, she couldn't read or write in foreign languages anyway.
She grabbed around ten books at random and ran away, leaving the roadside deep in the forest and heading toward the cave where she lived. Night was falling, and soon, those with miracles would appear.
Inside the cave, she examined the books one by one. None of the text made sense to her. That is, until she opened the last book—a book written in an entirely different script.
It turned out to be a guide to reading ancient texts.
With nothing else to do, she began reading the seven-hundred-page tome that very night.
By morning, she had surprisingly started to understand fragments of other books written in the same old language.
Perhaps out of excitement, or simple curiosity she forgot all about her original plan to sell the books.
She picked up one particular volume. On its cover was the image of a white-haired king, crowned and holding a bloodied sword.
It took her quite some time to grasp its contents.
One person. A king. Striking others. Servants. Crying. Commanding. Soldiers. War. People. Dying. King. Laughing.
She slowly realized that the book depicted the story of a tyrant—a ruthless king who tortured his people and waged war without regard for casualties.
"I wonder if the old gravekeeper can read this language…"
Her black eyes caught the morning sunlight filtering into the cave. Quickly, she wrapped the books in a piece of cloth and headed toward the cemetery at the edge of the city.
The city she lived in was known to be the poorest in the country, plagued by corruption at the hands of its mayor and his cronies.
Soon, she arrived at the graveyard, where a small hut stood nestled against an ancient banyan tree.
"Old man!" she called out, spotting a frail figure drawing water from a well.
"Oh, Arvani. What brings you here so early, girl?" the old man asked, peering through the curtain of hair that veiled his face.
"I need your help. Can you teach me how to read these books?"
Thud!
She dropped the cloth bag, spilling out the twenty books she had taken the night before. The old man's eyes widened at the sight of them—these were books a girl like Arvani shouldn't even have.
Yet instead of scolding her, he chuckled.
"Lucky me. To come across such treasures before death comes knocking."
"Don't die just yet. You still have to teach me how to read first. After that, you can die all you want."
"Who taught you to speak that way to your elders?"
"You did, old man."
He sighed and motioned for her to sit in front of his hut. He was somewhat impressed that Arvani had managed to decipher parts of the ancient Egarta language—a tongue spoken in the distant, frozen mountains.
But Arvani didn't care much for the history behind it. She was only interested in the book about the cruel king. Once her curiosity was satisfied, she planned to sell the rest.
The old man then told her a story about a cold-hearted swordsman who had slaughtered an entire noble family in the Zhajuyo Empire. That swordsman possessed power nearly equal to a Viarki, a miracle bearer of the highest rank.
But he eventually lost in a duel against a Viarki and vanished without a trace. His name was never heard again.
The book Arvani found claimed that the swordsman hadn't vanished—he had been captured by one of the Twelve Great Noble Families and his soul had been sealed away, turned into a living weapon.
His name was Kensei Igarashi, from the Land of the Rising Sun.
After the tale, the old man began teaching Arvani to read the languages found in the books: the continental tongue, the international script, and several ancient dialects.
By the time the sun reached its peak, Arvani stood and dusted herself off.
"Old man, I'm heading out. Want me to bring you some food?"
He shook his head gently. "I've got enough nuts to last me ten more days."
"All right then. Take care of the books. Don't eat them."
She walked away from the graveyard quickly.
"What kind of lunatic eats books?"
"I do!" Arvani shouted back.
.
.
.
Later that afternoon, the old gravekeeper sat and inspected each of the books Arvani had brought. After a moment, he let out a long, weary sigh.
"Where on earth did that girl get her hands on such dangerous books? If the elite find out, she'll become a target…"
"How am I a target?"
Thump!
The old man nearly died from shock—Arvani had suddenly appeared behind him without a sound.
"You little brat! Trying to scare me to death?!"
Arvani tilted her head. "I told you. If you wanna die, you have to teach me how to read first."
Another sigh escaped his lips. He told her to come back tomorrow—nightfall was near, and the dark would be dangerous.
Arvani, though curious, reluctantly agreed. She took her books and returned to the cave.
Unable to sleep, she reached into her pocket and pulled out an energy crystal, using its glow to light the cave. Then, she resumed reading the book about Kensei Igarashi.
"A noble-born swordsman from the Land of the Rising Sun… I wonder what he ate every day? What kind of special treatment did he get for being born a noble? How soft was his bed?"
"How skilled was he, to feel so confident in war?"
"Very skilled."
Thump!
Arvani flinched, stumbling back until her shoulder hit the cold, rough wall of the cave.
Standing before her was a man with flowing white hair, sharp gray eyes that looked down on her with disdain, and an old sword strapped to his waist.
There was no mistaking it.
Kensei Igarashi.
"Was it you who freed my soul, filthy woman?" he asked coldly.
Arvani didn't even register the insult—she was too stunned to speak.
How could someone who had vanished for over a hundred years… still be alive?