She awoke, rose from her bed, and went to the sink to wash her face, the cool water a welcome shock.
Afterward, she settled into her wooden study chair, which was positioned to face the desk directly.
On the desk lay a book. Its cover was worn and fragile to the eye, bearing a brownish, time-worn hue. However, contrary to its appearance, the binding was remarkably strong and durable.
She opened it and murmured to herself, "I found this in the library yesterday. It was just sitting on a public shelf, so I figured it would be fine to read it properly." She held the firm belief that everything in a library was meant to be read, and that everyone—herself included—had the right to do so.
Opening the cover, she was met with immediate confusion. "Hmm... There's no table of contents?" The first page offered neither a contents list nor any kind of introduction.
"This page is numbered 000. Hah, that's odd. Usually, a book starts with page one, or at least a preface. Alright, let's see what this is about."
She began to read the first line.
"APPELLATION: Neira Luna Oryvella. Is this a name or a title? So this book is just a record of names? Perhaps a list of criminals, or the missing?"
Though a twinge of disappointment struck her—having hoped for something more ancient and profound—she continued down the page.
TITLE / EPITHET: N/A
CLASSIFICATION:
* Primary: N/A
* Status: N/A
* Scale: N/A
* Level: Nihil, N/A
ORIGIN: Its origin is, by definition, unknown. The scribes and librarians of old agreed only that its Origin came into being afterward.
FORM / ESSENCE: Unknown. This does not imply it lacks form or essence, but rather that no information pertaining to it has ever been found.
APPEARANCE & PERCEPTION: Unknown. No data or record of any encounter or related experience exists.
DOMAIN & INFLUENCE: Unknown, though ancient philosophers theorized that its domain and influence encompassed everything.
VULNERABILITY & COUNTERMEASURES: None. Unknown. It possesses none.
ECHOES IN HISTORY & MYTH: Ancient philosophers across countless civilizations spoke of a figure they called 'the origin'—a singular entity whose nature could not be grasped by logic, language, or even magic. They never succeeded in defining it. Every manuscript attempting an explanation would mysteriously end up as blank pages, as if the very ink refused to commit the knowledge to parchment.
WHISPERS & FRAGMENTS OF KNOWLEDGE:
"They say one should not think of it, nor be curious about it."
"Be wary, not of your actions, but of your intent. For even the intention to ponder it too deeply will slowly unravel you."
"To understand it, you must first accept that all things exist because of it."
Note from the Scribe: I did not write this. This entry is a collection of inherently contradictory fragments from the past, pieced together. Each word is a shard from shattered pages I have reassembled. I feel that this is, ultimately, a failed attempt to comprehend the impossible.
Perhaps the purpose of knowing Neira is not to understand it, but to realize that some things are meant to remain pure and untouched mysteries. If we believe that something infinite has boundaries, then we are, in essence, merely contemplating our own limitations.
"Okay, okay, I take back what I said about it being a list of criminals," she whispered after processing the text. Her mood had soured, and a distinct sense of unease settled over her.
Despite reading it thoroughly, she struggled to grasp the meaning—the empty titles, the unknown form, the fact that everything was defined by its absence.
"What does this even mean? If it's unknown, doesn't that mean it doesn't exist? How can they record and know about something that isn't there?"
Beads of sweat formed on her brow, her skin growing damp as if she had just been running. Her breathing grew heavy, and a slow, throbbing headache began to build behind her eyes.
"What's going on? Why is it suddenly so hot in here?" She glanced at her open bedroom window, where a gentle breeze was rustling the curtains inward.
The window is open, the wind is blowing, so why does the air feel so heavy and suffocating? she thought in confusion.
At that moment, the door to her room burst open.
The hinges snapped and the wooden door splintered, crashing into the room in pieces. She stared in shock at the figure standing in the ruined doorway.
"How dare you keep me waiting," said the woman responsible for the destruction. She stood with her arms crossed, her expression a mask of fury.
"S-Sorry, Teacher. I just woke up," the student stammered.
The woman was, indeed, her teacher.
The teacher listened to the excuse, then her eyes scanned the room, landing on the open book. "How diligent of you. To wake and already be buried in your studies," she said, her praise laced with a sharp, smiling edge.
"Thank you. I was just reading a book I found in the library yesterday," the student replied.
Instantly, the teacher's smile vanished, her face turning dark and serious. "It is good to seek knowledge in the library, but it seems you have picked up the wrong book."
She strode forward, closing the distance to her student. "That is not a text you can read alone, without guidance," she said, her hand reaching for the book on the desk.
The student lowered her head in guilt, but curiosity won out. She lifted her face and asked, "Isn't everything in the library meant to be read?"
"Everything can be read, yes, but certain books are forbidden and kept within a restricted section," the teacher replied, her gaze hardening as it fell upon the book in her hand. "It seems this one was misplaced on the public shelves," she mused, a flicker of surprise and deep concern in her eyes. Her gaze then shifted back to her student, silently asking if she had been the one to move it.
Feeling the weight of that unspoken accusation, the student quickly shook her head in denial.
"Very well... how far have you read? Tell me the truth."
"Only the first page. I just opened it this morning."
"I see." The teacher looked from the book to her student. "This book is exceedingly dangerous, and its true peril lies on the very first page," she said, opening it. "This page isn't numbered 1 or 001, but 000," she stated, her expression grim. "It's the page that always appears first, no matter how you open this book."
She snapped the book shut. "Now, how do you feel?"
"I'm fi—" The student stopped. No, wait. What is she really asking? 'How do I feel now*?'* She began to ponder the deeper meaning behind the question.
The teacher saw the shift in her eyes. "Stop. Do not think about it any further," she commanded. "If you continue to dwell on it, you will begin to feel it again."
Dwell on what? What was I thinking about? 'Again'? Instead of halting her thoughts, her teacher's words only pulled her deeper.
"I told you to stop," the teacher insisted, but her words seemed to fall on deaf ears. The student's gaze lost its focus, becoming vacant and utterly blank.
The teacher grabbed her student's shoulders, shaking the motionless body. She stood as a hollow vessel, her spirit seemingly gone, completely unresponsive.
"She's being pulled in. I cannot let this happen." Knowing the consequences, the teacher began to chant an incantation.
Her hands began to glow with a brilliant, golden light. Cupping her luminous palms, she gently wiped them across her student's face. "Return," she commanded.
The student gasped, the light returning to her previously vacant eyes. Her breath came in ragged gasps, and her entire body was slick with sweat.
"Breathe slowly. You're safe now. Calm down, I'm here... look at me, look into my eyes." The teacher guided her gently, her voice a calming anchor.
Following her teacher's instructions, she focused on her breathing and locked eyes with her mentor.
"Slowly, that's it. Just focus on me," the teacher coached, before raising her voice and shouting, "Is anyone out there? Bring a glass of water, quickly!"
Moments later, two women appeared. One was a junior scholar carrying a glass of water, while the other wore the magnificent robes of a Chronicler, marking her as another teacher.
"Here is the water, Teacher," said the scholar, offering the glass.
"Thank you." The teacher took it and gave it to her student. "Drink slowly. Don't choke," she warned.
The other Chronicler who had just arrived surveyed the scene. "What has happened here?" she asked.
"My student read that book," came the simple, heavy reply.
The visiting Chronicler's eyes widened in understanding. "How is that possible? That book is supposed to be under the tightest security."
"I don't know how it got out, but she found it. Reading it is what caused this."
"If she has begun, she must finish it. There is no other way."
"I know. And I will be watching her every step of the way."
While the two teachers spoke, the junior scholar called out to them. They turned to see the student's breathing had finally returned to normal.
"Teacher... what happened to me?" she asked, her voice weak as she lay on the bed. "I felt like I was being pulled into the sky. I could see the whole world below me, and then..."
"That's enough," the teacher interrupted gently. "You can tell me the rest later, when you have recovered your strength."
The three women decided to let her rest. They exited the room, closing the damaged door as best they could.
Once outside, the junior scholar asked innocently, "Teacher, what kind of book is that?"
Her teacher countered with a question of her own. "You know what this place is, do you not?"
"Of course," the scholar answered confidently. "This is an institute, an academy. A great library."
"That is correct. It is a place for scholars, philosophers, historians, and Chroniclers. But the ultimate purpose behind it all is to safeguard the knowledge of our predecessors—knowledge like the book your friend just read."
The other Chronicler added, "You scholars are our future. You are the next Chroniclers."
The scholar pieced it together. "So, this entire place—all these books and all these great minds—are gathered here solely to preserve knowledge."
"Precisely," said her teacher. "Our duty as Chroniclers is to preserve the wisdom of the past while recording the history of the present and future. But we are mortal. That is why we teach and guide you, our successors." Her voice then grew somber. "But there has been an incident. A scholar should only read a forbidden text when she is ready to be named a Chronicler."
"This is not the first time something like this has happened," the other teacher stated. "Such accidents are rare, but not unheard of... however, the books involved are usually common forbidden texts. This is different."
"What do you mean, Teacher?" the scholar asked, confused. She assumed all forbidden things were equally dangerous.
"All dangerous things may share a label, but their effects are vastly different. Especially this one book: the NLO CHRONICLE." The teacher paused, then offered an analogy. "Consider this: a deep lake is dangerous. A volcano is also dangerous."
The student thought for a moment, grasping the meaning. The lake is dangerous, but with the right equipment and preparation, one could survive a dive. The volcano, however... its magma would incinerate you instantly, no matter your skill.
"Then, Teacher, what is the NLO CHRONICLE?" the scholar asked again.
"You are not yet meant to know, and I cannot tell you. It seems we have arrived. Go back to my study and wait for me there." They had stopped before a grand set of doors—the entrance to the Chroniclers' council chamber.
The doors swung open, revealing a vast room dominated by a large, circular table and the ornate chairs surrounding it. A woman stood just inside, bowing respectfully as the two teachers entered.
One of them gave a crisp order. "Send word to the Chroniclers. Call an emergency meeting."
The woman bowed again and hurried off to carry out the command, while the two great Chroniclers took their seats at the empty table.