The corridor around him was empty—too empty. Normally, students wandered every corner of the campus, yet now, silence pressed against the walls. No chatter, no footsteps, not even the janitor.
A chill skittered up his spine. Following the man was reckless. Reporting him to the authorities would make more sense. But something gnawed at him—curiosity, instinct, maybe both.
Before he could reason himself out of it, Kenji pushed open the library door.
The room beyond was still.
Rows of shelves loomed in the soft glow of overhead lights. Desks stood vacant, chairs neatly tucked in. The air carried the familiar scent of old paper and polished wood—but beneath it, an emptiness lingered, heavy and unnatural.
No librarian at her desk. No students buried in books. Not even the faint squeak of a chair or rustle of a page.
"What's going on here?" Kenji whispered to himself.
He walked to the front counter and rang the silver bell. The sharp chime cut through the silence like a blade. No answer.
Frowning, he approached the scanner gate. Normally, it lit up the moment his ID card hovered over it. He swiped it once. Nothing. Twice. Still nothing.
The machine remained lifeless.
Kenji's unease deepened. Did that man break it?
Sliding past, he ventured between the shelves. The library was his refuge—his favourite place on campus. He had spent countless afternoons here in peace. But today, the silence pressed differently. It was no longer comforting; it was suffocating.
His footsteps echoed faintly as he traced a familiar aisle. Books stood in neat order, spines aligned with meticulous care. Everything appeared normal—too normal, like a stage set waiting for actors who never came.
Maybe I'm overthinking, he told himself. He could've just been a visitor. I should really stop chasing shadows.
He exhaled, preparing to leave.
But then—
something caught his eye.
One shelf, near the centre, was out of rhythm. Nestled between two modern textbooks was a heavy tome. Its spine was thick, its yellow cover faded and frayed, as though it had weathered centuries.
Kenji approached, curiosity overriding caution. His fingers traced the dust-coated edge. The letters along the spine, faint but legible, sent a chill down his back.
"Carcosa: Kingdom of the Lost Ones," he read softly.
Beneath the title, etched in a darker ink, was the author's name.
"Written by…" His voice faltered. His eyes widened.
"Lucas Romanno?!"
Kenji's pulse quickened. The name was impossible to mistake. Lucas Romanno—the famed military general of King Dorrado's army, a man from 250 BC whose strategies shaped empires. A name that had echoed in his own thoughts during history lectures.
But Lucas Romanno had never been described as a writer. No philosopher. No historian. Only a general. Yet here was a book, heavy with age, carrying his name.
Kenji pulled it free. The weight was immense, the leather binding cracked with age. Dust puffed into the air as he cradled it.
"What is this doing here?"
The sound of footsteps snapped his head toward the door.
Quick. Approaching.
Panic flickered through him. He glanced down at the book, then to the exit. His instincts screamed.
Without another thought, Kenji shoved the tome into his bag. He zipped it closed just as the library door creaked open.
"Kenji?"
He froze.
It was only the librarian, her kind voice cutting through his anxiety. She stepped inside, carrying a small stack of papers.
"Oh—Miss!" Kenji said, his voice sharper than intended. He cleared his throat quickly. "Sorry, I didn't mean to—"
She tilted her head with a smile. "I was just wondering where you'd gone. You usually come straight here after class. What kept you?"
Kenji forced calm into his tone. "I got delayed in history lecture."
"Ah, I see. Well, don't you want to sit here for a while? You never leave without reading something."
"Oh, no," Kenji said quickly. "Actually, I have something important today. I'll come tomorrow."
"Hmm." Her eyes twinkled knowingly. "Off to the new café, then? Everyone's talking about it."
Kenji shook his head. "No. Something at home. That's all."
"Alright then," she said, though she didn't quite look convinced. "I'll see you tomorrow, Kenji."
They nodded politely, parting ways at the door.
Kenji stepped into the open air, the campus gates looming ahead. Students passed by in cheerful clusters, laughing, planning, living their ordinary lives. He walked among them, yet apart, his mind spiralling with questions.
Who was that man?
Did he leave this book?
The image of the black-suited stranger burned in his mind—faceless, silent, purposeful.
Kenji's hand brushed against the side of his bag, feeling the weight of the yellow tome inside.
This book… It's too old. It doesn't belong here. The library never keeps books like this. Did someone hide it? Plant it? And if so—why?
His thoughts circled faster.
Lucas Romanno. The general who lived and died over two thousand years ago. No records say he wrote a single word. Historians described him as secretive, yes—but a writer? Never.
Kenji clenched his jaw. If he truly wrote this, then history missed something.
Something important.
Something hidden.
The title replayed in his mind like an echo.
Carcosa. Kingdom of the Lost Ones.
He tightened his grip on his bag.
Perhaps he had stumbled onto more than a coincidence. Perhaps the past wasn't as closed as he thought.
And perhaps the shadows of Carcosa had just begun to follow him.
The walk from the academy to Kenji's home wasn't long.
He had taken the same path almost daily for years, his feet tracing it so naturally that he rarely thought about the steps anymore.
But today, his head was full—too full. The mysterious man in the black suit. The silent library. The strange, ancient book is now tucked away in his bag. It felt as though the campus itself had shifted, as if the world he thought he knew had grown a shadow he couldn't escape.
A cool drop tapped his forehead.
Kenji stopped, brushing his hair back. Another drop slid down his cheek. He glanced at the sky.
"Rain?" he murmured. Just this morning the sun had blazed bright, and the air had felt heavy with heat. Now the clouds above were tumoring, swallowing the light in great, bruised swaths of grey.
Within moments, the drizzle swelled into sheets of rain. The crowd on the street scattered. People ran for bus stops, convenience stores, awnings—anywhere to escape the sudden downpour.
Kenji didn't run. His backpack was waterproof, and for once, the cool wetness felt welcome against his skin. He tilted his face upward, letting the drops wash over him.
"Not bad," he whispered. "Maybe the day isn't all trouble after all."
But then—something moved above him.
Atop a flickering streetlamp sat a shadow. Wings folded neatly, feathers as dark as soot, eyes glowing faintly red against the storm.
Kenji slowed, his heart lurching.
"An owl?"
It wasn't the owl itself that startled him—Tokyo suburbs occasionally saw barn owls hunting rats and stray birds. But this owl was different. Its body was large, hunched, its feathers a sooty black that seemed to swallow the rain.
Its "horned" ear tufts rose like devil horns, and when a bolt of lightning streaked across the sky, its eyes flared red-orange like molten metal.
Kenji's breath hitched. Recognition jolted him.
"A… Stygian Owl?" he whispered, almost laughing in disbelief. "But… they only live in Central and South America. What the hell is it doing here?"
The name struck him even harder: Devil's Owl. In half a dozen old myths he had read, its appearance was said to herald death, curses, bad omens. Even in Japan, owls carried mixed meanings—sometimes luck, sometimes misfortune. But this? This one wasn't supposed to exist here at all.
Kenji looked around. Surely others could see it. Surely he wasn't the only one.
"Excuse me!" he called to a man jogging past, his briefcase clutched above his head. "Can you see that owl—up there, on the pole?"
The man barely slowed. He blinked at Kenji, confused.
"Owl? Kid, there's nothing there! Go find shelter—standing out here is dangerous. Lightning'll strike you before the rain soaks you." He hurried on, splashing through the flooded pavement.
Kenji turned back. The owl was still there. Staring directly at him.