The morning breeze drifted in through the grand window, laced with the fragrance of wet cobblestones and blooming marigolds. Brasshaven was already alive. The distant hiss of steam pipes mingled with the clatter of carriage wheels against stone roads. From high above, where Petunia stood, he could see the city breathing—like a great mechanical beast clothed in humanity.
Children dashed past lampposts, their laughter echoing between narrow alleys. A woman in a blue bonnet haggled with a street vendor, her hands pointing at baskets of fresh apples, while behind them a group of soot-stained workers trudged toward a factory, their boots leaving dark trails on the cobblestones. Smoke curled lazily from brass chimneys, swirling in the sunlight like ghostly banners.
For a long moment, Petunia simply watched.
"If only I could walk among them… feel the weight of coins in my hand, taste food that isn't conjured by runes." His words carried a mixture of longing and quiet frustration.
He closed the curtain halfway, the mansion returning to its usual hush. A faint rustle of magic answered his call—silver cutlery arranged itself neatly, plates appeared, and golden light shimmered before solidifying into breakfast: steaming bread, a wedge of soft cheese, and dark roast coffee. Across the table, a wine bottle floated upright, tilting politely to refill his half-empty glass.
He sipped without much thought, sighing. "Two months. Two whole months since Mr. Garrick."
The grandfather clock in the hall gave a heavy clang. His gaze fell upon the worn calendar on his desk, the date circled in thick ink. A smile tugged at his lips.
"Today," he murmured, almost conspiratorial, "the Iron Crow returns."
Outside, the city continued its symphony: the sharp whistle of a steam train, the metallic clink of blacksmith hammers, and the faint music of a street violinist struggling to be heard above the chaos. Brasshaven was alive, vibrant, moving forward. And yet here he was, trapped in silence, waiting for the knock on his door.
---
The city outside roared with life, but within the mansion, silence reigned supreme. The vast halls stretched endlessly, each corridor lined with towering shelves that swallowed the light of chandeliers above. Dust motes floated lazily in the air, shimmering whenever the golden glow of enchanted lamps flickered.
Petunia walked slowly through the main hall, his footsteps muffled by the velvet carpet. His eyes trailed the shelves—thousands of books, some glowing faintly with arcane seals, others wrapped in chains that rattled softly as if alive. Despite the sheer grandeur, the mansion breathed with loneliness. It felt less like a home and more like a prison gilded in knowledge.
"Two months of silence…" Petunia muttered, fingers brushing across the spine of a book that whispered faintly at his touch. "I almost forgot the sound of another voice."
Then it came.
Tok… Tok…
The heavy knock echoed through the great iron doors at the far end of the hall. The sound did not simply reverberate—it crawled along the shelves, making the lamps tremble and the air grow cold.
Petunia froze. His chest tightened, not with fear, but anticipation.
"Mr. Petunia… are you within?"
The voice was familiar, yet altered. Rougher. Darker. The faint rasp of someone who had walked through fire—and perhaps, had brought the fire back with him.
He stepped toward the door, but before he could reach it, the lock turned with a slow, grating sound. The doors groaned open on their own, and there stood Garrick.
The Iron Crow.
Yet he was not the same man.
His broad frame seemed heavier, as though carrying invisible chains. One hand still ended in cold iron, but the veins along his arm pulsed with a faint crimson glow, crawling up beneath his skin like molten cracks. His single uncovered eye burned with an unnatural glint, violet streaks flickering across the iris. Even the air around him seemed to distort slightly, as though reality itself recoiled.
Petunia's breath hitched. "Mr. Garrick…?"
The warrior stepped inside, his boots heavy against the marble floor. He gave a stiff bow, his voice carrying an edge both respectful and… unhinged.
"I have returned, as promised. And with it… the book."
He placed the tome on a nearby table with both reverence and fear, his iron hand trembling slightly. For Petunia, it was the same dusty, worn book he had lent months ago. But for Garrick—his gaze lingered on it like one staring at a beast barely chained.
"Do you know what you've given me, Librarian?" His voice cracked, half awe, half madness. "Do you even understand the storm you keep caged in these halls?"
The chandeliers above flickered violently. From Garrick's shadow, for the briefest second, claws seemed to stretch outward before retreating.
Petunia swallowed hard, masking his unease with a calm facade. "…Tell me, then. What did the book show you?"
Garrick's lips curled into something between a grin and a grimace. "It showed me power. And it whispered your name."
---
Petunia's gaze lingered on Garrick, studying the man who had left this place as a mercenary and returned… something more.
Garrick's single eye flickered with violet light as he clenched his iron fist. "You wish to know, Librarian? Then watch."
He stepped into the center of the hall, and for the first time in weeks, the silence of the mansion broke—not by sound, but by pressure. The air grew heavy, oppressive, as if the walls themselves recognized the presence of a foreign storm.
He muttered words that twisted like broken glass. A chant not of this age, but older, darker.
"✦ Sanguis Bellatoris… Aperi Portam ✦"
The iron hand glowed, crimson runes carving themselves across its surface. With a guttural roar, Garrick drove his fist into the marble floor.
CRACK!
The stone split apart in jagged lines, not from mere force, but as though reality had been cut open. Black smoke hissed upward, writhing like serpents. The chandeliers swayed violently though no wind stirred them. To Petunia, the room seemed unchanged save for Garrick's wild display. But to Garrick's eyes, the library was warping—walls melting into endless battlefields, shelves twisting into iron spears, the air ringing with the screams of forgotten warriors.
Petunia frowned, whispering under his breath, "So this is what you see…"
Garrick straightened, his chest heaving. His aura pulsed outward—raw, untamed. For a moment, the iron plates of his arm peeled apart, revealing veins of molten crimson beneath. He looked less man, more vessel.
"Level Seven was chains," Garrick spat, voice ragged. "But with this… with your book… I have torn them apart. I feel the threshold of Six at my fingertips."
He turned his burning eye toward Petunia, kneeling suddenly, almost desperately.
"Tell me, Librarian… what price must I pay to keep climbing? What abyss must I throw myself into if it means reaching the First Throne?"
The hall fell silent again, though the echo of his chant still hung in the air like a curse.
Petunia did not answer at once. His fingers brushed the spine of another book on the shelf behind him, its whispers tugging at his mind. A smile ghosted his lips—not of joy, but of quiet realization.
---
Petunia's calm voice cut through the charged air like a blade.
"There is no path to Level One," he said, his tone flat and absolute. "Because Level One is nothing more than a myth."
The words struck Garrick harder than steel. His body stiffened, his iron fist clenching so tightly that sparks danced between its runes.
"That's… impossible," Garrick spat, trembling with disbelief. "Legends speak of a warrior who ascended to the First Throne! Are you telling me the stories are lies?"
Petunia's lips curved into the faintest smile, though his eyes glimmered with an intensity far beyond mortal measure.
"Mr. Garrick… have you ever heard of Rank Zero?"
The world shuddered. The air thickened as if reality itself resisted the words. Around them, the shelves groaned and shook, their ancient wood alive with hidden power. One by one, books tore themselves free, spiraling into the air. Thousands of tomes swirled in a storm of paper and ink, their pages flapping like a legion of wings. Dust churned upward, and glowing runes flared across the mansion's walls, pulsating with light older than kingdoms.
"Then let me show you…" Petunia's voice deepened, layered, resonant—no longer one voice, but a chorus of countless echoes. "What it means to be a god."
With a deafening crack, the marble floor split apart. From the fissures rose a throne—an obsidian seat veined with radiant gold light. Its presence bent the air around it, distorting the hall as though reality itself bowed. Shadows screamed in silence, flickering across the walls.
Petunia stepped forward, unhurried, and lowered himself onto the throne. At once, the storm of books froze midair. Pages halted in perfect stillness, forming a vast halo behind him, like a crown of infinite knowledge.
Garrick staggered backward, his breath caught in his throat. His vision twisted—Petunia was no longer merely human. A colossal silhouette loomed behind him, stretching beyond the vaulted ceiling. Its shape shifted and flickered: at times angel, at times demon, and at times something far beyond either.
The Iron Crow collapsed to his knees, every trace of defiance burned away. His voice cracked, trembling like a child before fire. "M-my lord…"
Petunia leaned forward on the throne, one hand resting casually on its armrest. His gaze cut through Garrick like a spear of light.
"Rank One is myth," he whispered, each word reverberating with divine weight. "But Rank Zero… is divinity."
The final word exploded through the hall. Every book snapped shut in unison. The chandeliers blazed, casting the throne in a blinding glow. And Garrick could no longer tell if he knelt before a man… or before a god.
---
Garrick's body trembled uncontrollably. His iron arm, once a symbol of unshakable will, now rattled against his chest like a child's toy. The overwhelming silhouette of Petunia still loomed behind the throne, vast and unspeakable, even though his eyes dared not rise to meet it.
A force—not hands, not wind, but raw command—pressed against Garrick's chest. It was gentle, yet irresistible. His boots scraped against the marble floor as his body was pushed back, step by step, toward the great doors of the hall.
He tried to resist. His knees dug into the ground. But his soul itself quivered, and no strength remained. His heart screamed like it would burst.
When the doors swung wide on their own, Garrick fell forward, sprawling onto the cold stone of the corridor beyond. His breaths came ragged, shallow, as though the air itself rejected him.
For a long moment, silence. Then—like a broken man dragging his last words from his chest—Garrick whispered hoarsely, his forehead pressed against the floor.
"I… I'm sorry, my lord…" His voice cracked. "Forgive me… I disrespected you…"
The words echoed pitifully in the vast corridor. His pride, his strength, his reputation as the Iron Crow—crumbled into ash before a single throne and a single man who was no man at all.
Behind him, within the hall, Petunia's voice drifted out—calm, unshaken, terrifying in its serenity.
"Leave, Garrick. And remember this day. You have glimpsed Rank Zero. Tell no one what you saw… or your soul will tear itself apart."
The doors closed without a sound.
And Garrick lay in the dark corridor, shivering like a dying bird, the weight of divinity pressing forever on his chest.
---
Garrick's POV
The night air bit into Garrick's lungs as he stumbled into the crooked alleys of Brasshaven. His iron arm dragged against the wall, scraping sparks with every uneven step. He didn't care about the noise—he only cared about the pounding in his chest.
Every shadow stretched too long. Every whisper of wind sounded like a voice mocking him.
"Rank… Zero…" he muttered, as though saying the words out loud would make them less monstrous. It didn't. The syllables crawled over his tongue like maggots.
He found himself in front of a tavern—The Rusted Crown, a place where mercenaries drank to forget. Garrick shoved the door open. The rowdy chatter froze the moment people saw him. Even drunkards recognized the Iron Crow.
But tonight, he didn't look like the Iron Crow. He looked like a man hollowed out.
"Wine," he growled, his voice low and raw. "The strongest you have."
The barkeep, a stout woman with steel in her eyes, set the jug down without a word. Garrick poured, gulped, poured again—yet the taste was ash. His hands shook so violently that the jug cracked under his grip.
A mercenary leaned closer, whispering to another. "What happened to him? He looks… broken."
Garrick slammed the table, the iron hand denting the oak. Everyone went silent. His eyes, bloodshot and wild, scanned the room.
"You fools," he hissed. "You drink, you fight, you chase ranks like dogs after scraps… but none of you know. None of you understand."
The tavern's silence was suffocating. Garrick rose to his feet, his shadow trembling under the flickering lanternlight.
"There is no Level One. It's a lie. A tale to make children dream. What exists… what truly exists…" His voice cracked, a shiver running down his spine. "…is Rank Zero."
Someone laughed nervously. "Rank Zero? That's not real, Garrick. You've been drinking too much."
Garrick's fist lashed out, the mercenary's head smashing against the table with a sickening crack. The tavern gasped.
"DO NOT MOCK ME!" Garrick roared. His voice was the scream of a man who had stared into an abyss too vast to measure. "I saw it with my own eyes… a throne beyond thrones. A shadow that even gods would kneel to!"
Silence. Utter, paralyzing silence.
Garrick dropped back into his chair, clutching his face. His iron hand trembled like a leaf in the storm.
"They call him the Librarian of Fate…" His whisper was barely audible, but every ear strained to hear. "Pray you never find his gaze. For once you see… you'll never sleep again."
The tavern dared not speak. The legend was born that night—not from glory, but from the broken voice of a man who had seen too much.