The silence after the Knight Commander's fall was deafening.
Shattered fragments of armor lay scattered like broken statues, their runes dimmed to ash.
Elias stood in the center of the wreckage, chest heaving, sweat dripping into his collar. His makeshift plank had splintered into useless shards, but the Codex still floated at his side, pages humming with light.
The notification burned across his vision:
> [Chapter II: Pagewalker Unlocked]
Feature Gained:Manifestation.
Description: Skills may now be materialized into physical constructs. Weapons, shields, wings, and summons can be formed from recorded Pages.
He stared at it, breath caught in his throat. "Manifest… constructs?"
As if in answer, the Codex flipped open. Pages swirled around him, each glowing with etched words. One pulsed brighter than the rest.
> [Manifestation Available: Breaker's Strike]
Elias hesitated. "A skill… as a weapon?"
He reached out. The page folded, twisted, then exploded in light. Where empty air had been, a sword now shimmered—its blade carved from runes, its hilt engraved with the Codex's glowing script.
Elias's hand trembled as he wrapped his fingers around it. The weapon was weightless, yet every swing hummed with lethal precision.
He slashed. The air itself split, scattering dust into the wind. The blade dissolved into paper fragments, then reassembled in his hand with a thought.
A laugh escaped him—half-disbelieving, half-exhilarated. For the first time in his life, he held a weapon worthy of the stories he had only ever read.
No… better. This isn't someone else's weapon. This is mine.
The Codex pulsed again.
> [Manifestation Available: Iron Guard]
A page shimmered, and when Elias reached, a shield formed in his other hand. Broad, gleaming, etched with the same runes. He raised it experimentally, and a rush of strength anchored his stance.
A sword in one hand. A shield in the other. A library's worth of pages orbiting around him.
The Silent Archivist was born.
---
Deeper in the Dungeon
The floor rumbled as the abyss yawned wider. From the darkness below came new horrors—lumbering stone golems, their bodies carved from obsidian and lined with molten veins. Heat radiated from their forms, the air shimmering with every step.
Elias raised his sword. His body still trembled from exhaustion, but his eyes burned with something sharper than fear.
"Come on, then," he whispered.
The golem's fist crashed down, enough to pulverize a man. Elias moved without hesitation, slamming his shield up. The impact thundered—but the runes held. Sparks scattered.
Pages flared.
> [Annotation Available]
Iron Guard + Precise Swing → Reflective Guard.
"Yes."
His shield pulsed. When the golem struck again, its fist rebounded with a shockwave—bones of molten rock cracking under its own strength. Elias followed, sword cutting with impossible sharpness. Each strike was precise, surgical, breaking joints where runes converged.
Fragments rained like meteors.
The golem collapsed.
Elias exhaled, his chest tight with something between awe and terror. This wasn't just survival. This wasn't luck.
He was winning. Alone.
---
The Outside World
Meanwhile, aboveground, panic spread like wildfire.
The Grand National Archive had sealed itself the moment the dungeon manifested. Guild sensors picked up mana spikes off the charts—enough to warrant an S-rank raid. By the time hunters arrived, the building was already shaking, glowing with runes.
Crowds gathered behind barricades. Journalists shouted into holo-cameras, broadcasting live.
"The Grand Archive dungeon remains sealed—hunters estimate an S-class incursion!"
"Rumors say there are survivors trapped inside!"
"Where are the guild leaders?!"
At the frontlines, guild banners unfurled. The crimson lion of the Crimson Fangs Guild. The silver tower of the Spirewatch. The golden wings of Elysian Dawn. Their elites stood ready, weapons gleaming.
Guilds were rivals, but in crisis, they united. Not for altruism—for loot rights. Whoever cleared the dungeon would claim its treasures.
Captain Roderick Hale, leader of the Crimson Fangs, scowled at the glowing Archive. His scarred arms flexed around his axe. "S-class dungeons don't appear without reason. Whoever's inside is already dead."
Beside him, Lyra Duskveil of Elysian Dawn flicked her staff, violet sparks trailing her fingers. Her eyes narrowed. "The mana fluctuations… they're strange. Like the dungeon is—changing."
A junior hunter rushed forward, panting. "Captain! The readings… they're dropping!"
"What?" Hale barked.
The man held out his crystal device, trembling. "The boss's mana signature—it just vanished. Like it was… killed."
Murmurs rippled through the guild ranks. Hunters exchanged shocked glances. An S-class dungeon boss, defeated in less than an hour? Impossible.
Lyra's lips parted. "That's… not possible. Unless…"
The ground rumbled. The Archive's runes shattered, collapsing into sparks of light. The doors groaned, slowly opening.
Guild elites raised their weapons. Journalists shoved closer.
And out of the smoke, a single figure emerged.
A man in torn librarian clothes. His glasses cracked, his shirt clinging to sweat. Orbiting him were glowing pages, each radiating faint runes. His hands were empty—but when he moved, fragments of paper folded together, shaping briefly into a gleaming sword before dissolving again.
Elias Crowe stepped into the light.
The crowd fell silent.
"That's… a librarian," someone whispered.
Hale's eyes narrowed. "Impossible. An unranked nobody cleared that dungeon?"
Lyra's staff lowered. Her gaze locked onto the glowing pages surrounding Elias. Her lips curved, equal parts fascination and dread.
"No," she murmured. "Not nobody. Not anymore."
---
The Weight of a New Story
Elias blinked at the crowd, the rows of armored hunters, the flashing holo-cameras. His Codex hovered at his side, silent now, as though waiting.
He had no guild. No fame. No allies. Just a book that had chosen him.
But the looks on their faces—fear, disbelief, envy—told him everything.
He wasn't invisible anymore.
He was a threat.
And for the first time in his life, Elias Crowe smiled without hesitation.
"Looks like I've turned a page," he whispered.
The Silent Archivist had stepped into the world's story.
And nothing would ever be the same.