Outside the window — around eight in the evening.
But... the sun still hadn't set.
As if pretending it was about to leave, then changing its mind at the last moment.
A rude sun.
Didn't it know that by eight in the evening, it was supposed to disappear beyond the horizon?
Time held no meaning here.
But by the sun's trajectory — you could guess what part of the day it was.
Guessing how much was left, though? Impossible.
As for us... we were in the library.
About ten thousand books — and not a single one that would outright say, *"here, take this one."*
Business as usual.
Some of them were forbidden.
Books that could grant you unimaginable power.
And not necessarily through knowledge. Sometimes — just by being *opened*.
Many were sealed. Banned. Not meant to be read.
Under any circumstances.
Not now. Not later. Not ever.
But we needed just one.
The one that would explain the meaning of those four bloody lines.
Yes, those very ones, proudly displayed on the wall.
Doubtful they were written by someone with an arts degree.
The search began.
We split into groups — each with their own shelf, their own ladder, their own desperate enthusiasm.
Thankfully, there were actual ladders here.
The shelves towered like spires, as if they held the world's salvation. Or its end.
Some grimoires immediately betrayed their *abnormality*.
They radiated an aura — a real one, no metaphors.
It would've been safer not to go near them within a three-meter radius.
It felt like they'd explode at the slightest touch.
Well... nice to know the library cared about its readers.
Most of the books contained... something like diaries.
One man's knowledge. The master of this house.
As if, at some point in his life, he'd decided: *"Let the world know how I thought."*
He must've been powerful, truly. Enough to earn respect. Or fear. Or envy.
Was he a god?
Or just a man?
No one could answer that for certain.
Not that it mattered — because this wasn't about him.
But here's what did matter: this was where it all began.
The games. The Witch. Us.
The love he believed in.
The fear that followed.
He feared separation.
And so, using everything he knew — he sealed the Witch away.
Her body. Her soul. Everything that had ever lived within her.
Forever. On this island.
Fear birthed pain.
Pain became suffering.
And now it's a closed loop.
Hurt — fear. Fear — hurt.
Welcome to human life.
Guess that's its fundamental law.
Some think: *less suffering would make the world better.*
But isn't it man who creates fear?
Fear of loss. Fear of betrayal. Fear of powerlessness.
Him, exactly.
We take the first step toward pain ourselves.
We open doors that shouldn't exist.
And then live as if we don't know who built them.
We make these monsters.
These feelings. These torments.
They live inside us — yet we act like it's someone else's fault.
So did he.
He faltered. His mind proved weak.
And in the end, he didn't save the one he loved — he twisted her forever.
And now — she's here.
The one who was once beloved.
Now — the island's mistress.
The architect of the games.
Once in an eternity — she sets it all in motion again.
Over and over.
With different players.
From different times.
Without warning.
Meanwhile...
The sun finally set.
At last.
Night fell.
Quiet. Unusually so.
Even unnervingly.
The rustle of leaves.
Sounds of the forest.
A calm ocean.
Too calm.
It always used to rain.
Overcast skies. Heavy drops. Damp walls.
Here, rain isn't an anomaly.
It's the norm.
Yet tonight — dry.
That's unsettling.
Because sometimes calm is the herald of a storm.
Calm is a mask.
And beneath the mask... who knows?
The floor — already littered with hundreds of books.
They'll have to be gathered later.
Put back in place.
No magic — just manual labor.
Two hours of searching.
Nothing.
Empty.
This could go on forever.
And then...
It hit me.
*The second day.*
Like back then.
When I went out for water.
And returned — only to find blood.
In the first game, the Witch accused Enua.
Called him the killer.
And now he's in his room.
So I wondered:
*"Did he, on the second day... kill everyone in the library too?"*
I ran.
Without warning.
The others didn't even get a chance to ask.
Morgana — right behind me.
Sheryl — too.
They reacted instantly.
If I want to prove his innocence...
If I *truly* want to — then I have to start with the obvious.
See for myself first.
Personally.
Until now, I just believed.
Blindly. Without proof.
Because he didn't seem bad.
But now?
*Can I trust him?*
I thought — yes.
I *wanted* to believe it.
But that's not enough.
The first game made it clear:
If you want to believe — verify first.
Then — decide.