The massive, rune-engraved doors to the Valerius library swung inward, and the air that washed over Kael was thick with the scent of aged parchment, dried leather, and something else—a faint, ozonic hum of dormant magic. It was the smell of knowledge, and to Arga's soul, it was more intoxicating than any perfume.
His breath caught in his throat.
The library was not a room; it was a vertical city of books. Shelves of dark, polished wood soared five stories high, connected by delicate, wrought-iron walkways and ladders that slid on silent rails. The ceiling was a masterpiece of enchantment, a vast dome that mimicked the soft, diffuse light of a cloudy sky, bathing the entire space in a calm, even glow. In the center, a colossal, ancient tree whose branches were woven with glowing crystal filaments stretched upwards, its leaves whispering secrets to the silence.
"The heart of House Valerius's knowledge, Young Master," Elara said softly, her voice filled with a mix of reverence and concern as she guided his wheelchair forward. The wheels made no sound on the intricate mosaic floor depicting the elemental constellations.
Kael could only nod, his mind reeling. This was beyond any library on Earth. This was a cathedral, and he, the unworthy acolyte, had just been granted entry. So many blueprints… The thought was a prayer. Every book was a schematic for a piece of this world's reality.
But the sanctity of the space was immediately violated by its other inhabitants. A few robed scholars looked up from their tomes. A librarian polishing a crystal lens behind a grand desk paused, his eyes widening in surprise before narrowing with unmistakable disdain. The silence became heavy, pregnant with unspoken judgment.
Whispers began to weave through the stacks, sharp and clear to his attuned ears.
"...the Cripple? What is he doing here?"
"Does he think the words will magically jump into his head? The irony."
"Even my young daughter can conjure a light. What use are theories to one who cannot practice?"
The words were meant to sting, to drive him out. They cemented a brutal truth: in this world, his inability to channel mana made him less than a functional adult. He was a theoretical physicist who had been rendered blind and deaf, trying to study the stars. The humiliation was a cold knot in his stomach, but Arga's intellect, his lifelong habit of burying himself in work to escape ridicule, took over. He shut out the noise.
"There," he pointed to a secluded alcove nestled between towering shelves on the ground floor, far from prying eyes. "Please."
Elara wheeled him into the nook. It held a sturdy desk and a high-backed chair that promised both comfort and isolation. As she arranged a blanket over his lap, her eyes met his, filled with a silent question.
"I will be fine, Elara," he said, and for the first time, he almost believed it. "This is where I need to be."
Once she left, the transformation was immediate. The weight of the stares lifted. He was alone with the books. Pulling a heavy primer titled "Fundamental Runic Lexicon" from a shelf, he opened it. The intricate symbols, which others saw as vessels for power, he saw as variables in a grand, universal equation.
Hours melted away. He devoured basic texts on mana theory, cross-referencing them with historical accounts of great spells. He wasn't learning to cast; he was learning the physics. He identified consistent principles—conservation of energy, laws of equivalent exchange for elemental transmutation, the harmonic resonance required for stable enchantments. The magic of this world was not miracle; it was a complex, albeit often poorly applied, science.
His focus was so absolute he didn't notice the subtle shift in the air around his chair until he returned from a trip to the water closet. A new structure had appeared, a clumsy, shimmering web of energy enveloping the seat of his chair. A jape. A simple "Sticking Charm," designed to humiliate him, to make him struggle pathetically while others laughed.
A week ago, it might have worked. Now, Arga's mind lit up with clinical interest. A practical test.
He knelt, ignoring the strain in his weak legs, and examined the spell. It was simple, crude—a basic loop of force intended to bind. But to his eyes, it was a schematic. And there it was: the flaw. A redundant 'binding' rune, added for emphasis but destabilizing the entire matrix's elegant simplicity. It was the architectural equivalent of an unnecessary support beam that compromised the integrity of a wall.
He didn't lash out. He didn't push. He simply extended a single finger and, with the precision of a surgeon making the first incision, applied a minuscule pulse of his will directly to that redundant rune.
The spell didn't explode. It didn't backfire. It simply unraveled. The shimmering web of energy dissolved with a soft sigh, the mana dissipating harmlessly into the air. It was a silent, perfect, controlled demolition. From the shadows between distant shelves, he heard a faint, frustrated curse. Kael allowed himself a small, cold smile. He had just passed his first practical exam.
Days blurred into a routine of obsessive study. Elara brought his meals, and he ate mechanically, his mind lost in treatises on spatial warping or elemental confluence. He often forgot to sleep, his frail body sustained by the adrenaline of discovery. He grew gaunt, his pallor returning, but his eyes burned with an inner fire that worried Elara more than his weakness ever had.
One morning, the dawn light from the enchanted ceiling was still a pale grey. Elara entered the library with a tray of warm broth and fresh bread, a determined set to her jaw. She would make him eat and rest, even if she had to drag him back to his room herself.
She found him not at his desk, but on the floor.
He was collapsed amidst a fortress of open books, his head resting on a page detailing intermediate warding theory. One hand was still curled around a quill, a pool of ink slowly spreading from a shattered bottle near his fingers. His face was deathly pale, his breathing shallow.
"YOUNG MASTER!"
Her cry shattered the sacred silence of the library. The tray clattered to the floor, the broth spreading like a dark stain across the mosaic constellations. She fell to her knees, gathering his limp form into her arms, his chilling coldness seeping through her clothes.
He had built the foundation of his knowledge, brick by brilliant brick. But in his obsession to understand the architecture of magic, he had nearly broken the vessel meant to contain it.