The knife cut the room in two.
The man who held it stood near the center of the hall, shoulders squared, his face drawn and hard. Around him, a circle of space had formed where no one dared step closer. Those who had huddled together earlier now pressed even tighter, whispering, eyes fixed on the blade.
The boy who had drawn it from the blank book still lay where he'd fallen, chest rising and falling shallowly. No one touched him. He had become a warning.
The number 73 glowed above them, its pale light spilling over their faces.
But the longer they stared, the more it seemed to burn.
"What if that's not just a number?" someone whispered.
Heads turned.
The speaker was a thin girl with wide eyes, clutching her arms around herself as if to keep from shaking. "What if it's us? The number of us? That's why it hasn't changed. Because no one has—"
Her voice cracked. She didn't finish.
The silence that followed was louder than shouting.
Then, as if to break it, someone laughed. Too high, too sharp. "Ridiculous. If it were counting us, what happens when one dies? Does it drop? Do we just watch it tick down until—"
He stopped abruptly when he realized what he was saying.
Until zero.
The word didn't have to be spoken. It was already in everyone's minds.
The broad-shouldered man with the knife sneered. "Good. Then maybe that means we're meant to outlast each other. Survival of the fittest."
"No," the cropped-hair girl snapped. "That's not survival. That's slaughter."
He raised the knife just enough for the light to catch on its edge. "Better slaughter than waiting to be picked off like cattle."
Shouts broke again — arguments tangled, accusations flung. Fear churned the air until it felt thick, suffocating.
Through it all, the young man stood silent. Watching.
He studied the faces. The ones who shrank back. The ones who leaned forward. The ones whose eyes darted not to the knife but to the walls, as though wondering if another book waited in the stone.
The Library was already shaping them. Dividing them.
The fallen boy stirred. His eyes flicked open, dull and dazed. He tried to speak but only managed a hoarse rasp. Someone crouched near him at last, pressing a hand to his shoulder.
"What did you see?" they asked softly.
The boy's lips moved. "…hungry…"
The word sent another ripple through the group.
"He's starving?"
"No, he just collapsed—"
"The book took something from him. Maybe his strength."
"Or his life."
The broad-shouldered man's grip on the knife tightened. His gaze swept over them, daring anyone to challenge him. "Then we'll use the books carefully. Smartly. And whoever has the will to wield them stays alive. The weak—"
"—don't matter?" the cropped-hair girl spat.
His silence was answer enough.
The young man shifted. For the first time since they'd woken, he spoke.
His voice was calm, quiet. But it carried.
"If the number is us," he said, "then every death changes it. And if it reaches zero…"
Dozens of eyes fixed on him.
"…we end."
No one spoke. Even the knife-holder hesitated. The weight of the words pressed down heavier than stone.
Then the young man's gaze lifted to the glowing 73. His expression was unreadable. "Maybe the Library wants us to kill each other. Or maybe it wants us to resist."
That fractured the silence again.
"Resist? Against what?"
"It doesn't matter what it wants — we'll die either way."
"You don't know that!"
The young man let their voices clash. He had said enough. Already, he had drawn their attention — and shifted it away from the knife.
---
Hours bled together. Or maybe minutes. The Library had no clocks, no change of light, nothing to anchor time. Only the number remained constant, glowing above them like an executioner's blade that had yet to fall.
A few tried sleeping. Restless, shallow sleep. Others stayed awake, whispering in small knots. Hunger began to gnaw, real now, undeniable. The young man felt it too, but he ignored it.
He watched.
And that was when he noticed the seam.
Not in the wall this time. In the floor. A faint line running between the stones, so narrow it could be missed by anyone not searching for it. His gaze lingered, calculating.
If the walls had given one book… what would the floor give?
He didn't rush. He waited, letting the arguing continue. Then, when no one was looking, he moved. Quiet steps, a crouch, fingers brushing over the seam.
The stone shifted.
A hiss of air whispered through the hall.
Gasps snapped heads around.
Another alcove yawned open, this one beneath the floor itself. And inside — resting like an offering — another book.
Not blank this time. Its cover bore faint markings: lines like a diagram, sketched but shifting, as though the pattern refused to stay still.
The crowd surged again. The young man stepped back, letting them press forward.
The cropped-hair girl reached first, hand trembling, then pulled back. "What if it kills us like the other one?"
The broad-shouldered man pushed through, knife raised. "Then let me."
"No!" someone shouted. "You'll use it against us!"
The knife-holder's glare silenced them. He reached down, seized the book, and yanked it free.
The hall waited, breath held.
The book opened.
Light spilled from the pages, blinding, sharp. And then — in the empty air above it — words burned into existence.
[Utility: Water]
A glass chalice shimmered into being, filled to the brim with clear liquid.
The room erupted.
"Water—!"
"It's real!"
"We can live!"
Desperation drove them forward. Dozens of hands clawed toward the chalice. The knife-holder snarled and shoved them back, keeping it for himself.
But the chalice flickered. Faded. Dissolved into nothing.
The book's glow dimmed. Its pages turned blank again.
"No!" voices cried. "Why—why did it vanish?"
"Because it's gone," the young man said quietly. "One use."
The weight of it sank into them. Hope, then loss. A taste of survival, then the cruelty of its cost.
The knife-holder slammed the book shut, fury in his eyes. "Then we'll find more. And I'll decide who uses them."
The room fractured further — shouts, protests, threats. Some begged him, others cursed him.
The young man only stared at the fading glow of the chalice, then at the number 73.
Still unchanged.
But now he knew.
The Library wasn't just a cage.
It was a game.
And the rules had only begun to reveal themselves.