Merlin stood in the shifting, cerulean light of the void, his expression a mixture of pity and academic curiosity. He tried his best to console Alab, mentioning that this was only the beginning—that he hadn't even started the true work of a Librarian yet. There was no ink on paper, no grand mystery solved. He was merely surviving the prologue of a story that promised to be thousands of pages long.
Alab stared at the old man in a heavy, weighted silence. His mind was still half-buried in the mud of the Rosenheim Plains, the phantom weight of Lucas Ternos's memory pressing against his skull like a physical bruise. Finally, he let out a long, slow breath, the tension in his jaw loosening just enough to speak. "Okay," he said, his voice flat but resolute. "Let's continue."
Merlin blinked, momentarily taken aback by the swiftness of the recovery. He moves on quickly, the wizard thought. Most newcomers spent their first few sessions in Mozzafiato drowning in existential dread. This man, however, seemed to have the emotional compartmentalization of a surgeon—one used to moving from a failed operation to the next patient without a backward glance. He didn't dwell on the tragedy; he looked for the tools to prevent the next one.
Alab turned toward the Mahika Rent Stall. The shadowy structure felt more substantial now, its presence rooted in the void like an ancient, silver-grey tree. He reached for the heavy, leather-bound volume that sat atop the counter. The book was massive, its pages made of a vellum that seemed to pulse with a faint, inner luminescence. As he flipped through it, he saw the available magics categorized not by elements, but by what the book described as the Levels of Intervention.
The first category was Level I: Superficial Interventions. These were non-invasive shifts, described as subtle ripples in the host's perception. They enhanced existing biological functions without breaking physical laws—essentially the "minor surgeries" of the magical world. Alab recognized spells like Widen Vision here, which merely optimized the neurological processing of light. It was a clean, low-impact way to gain an advantage without distorting the natural order of his host's body.
Deeper into the vellum, the text shifted to Level II: Systemic Interventions. These were invasive alterations that fundamentally changed biological limits. They reinforced the body's skeletal and muscular structures to handle unnatural stress, speed, or torque. It was the magical equivalent of an internal organ transplant or a full-body graft. He saw Arm Power and Speed Boost nestled in these pages, their descriptions vibrating with a low, aggressive hum.
At the very back were the Level III: Environmental Interventions. These were magics of reality warping that rewrote the world around the user rather than the user themselves. The warnings in the margins were stark: high risk of "reality rejection." To Alab, these looked like open-heart surgeries on the fabric of existence itself—complex, dangerous, and likely to leave a scar on the soul of the Librarian who dared to cast them.
"It's quite troublesome to browse this one by one when I'm in a rush," Alab muttered, his eyes darting across the archaic scripts. "Can't this book be changed into a screen? Something with an instant search mechanism?"
"Actually, improvements like that are possible," Merlin replied, hovering near his shoulder. "We call them Continuing Thesis Projects. They represent the evolution of the Library's interface. However, they also require a significant investment of Information Points. You are currently operating on the basic 'student' version of the record."
Alab didn't waste time arguing for a better UI. He focused on the task at hand. He felt the Information Points vibrating in his consciousness—a total of 400. He looked at the spells, his mind calculating survival the same way he'd once calculated blood loss and anesthesia depth. He settled on Widen Vision for 50 points, Speed Boost for 50, and Arm Power from the Systemic category for 100.
"I'm going to avail these for two days, Merlin," Alab said, his finger tapping the iridescent ink. He knew the battle was expected to peak in the next forty-eight hours, but his hand hesitated. It was an old surgical principle: always cut an extra centimeter around a cancer lesion to ensure total removal. He wouldn't cut his safety margin close in a world that wanted him dead. He added an extra day as a precaution, a habit of thoroughness that followed him even into this nightmare.
With only two minutes left, Alab turned to the wizard. "Hey Merlin! I thought Librarians were only on the sidelines? Why send me into the throat of the war?"
"Mozza chose that as your first destination," Merlin said. "The record seeks the truth, and the truth is often found where the fire is hottest."
The flashes of light became blinding. Alab woke up on his thin, damp pallet in the Dragoon Platoon tent. The air was thick with the smell of unwashed bodies and the low, rhythmic snoring of exhausted men. He sat up, and for a second, he felt dizzy. But as he stood, he felt the change. He felt lighter, as if the gravity of the planet had lessened its hold on him. When he stretched his arms, he could feel a coiled, dense power in his biceps—a borrowed strength that hummed with a faint, metallic vibration in his bones.
After a breakfast of watery porridge and hard bread, Alab found himself near a group of his platoon members. To test the Arm Power, he challenged the largest man in the tent to arm wrestling. This time, there was no struggle. He pinned the man's arm with a clinical, effortless snap that left the rest of the platoon staring in bewildered silence. Next, he focused on his sight. He activated Widen Vision, and the world seemed to "unfold" around him. He could see the entire camp in a single glance, noticing details he'd missed—the way the dust motes danced in the morning light, the slight tremors in the hands of the veteran soldiers.
The fourth day of the battle commenced under a sky the color of a bruised plum. Alab joined the Dragoon Platoon, which had been moved to Atop Hill. This was a "safe point," a tactical vantage slightly removed from the primary clash in the valley below. He stood with a dozen other bannermen, their flags whipping violently in the cold wind.
He watched the battlefield through his expanded vision, trying to understand why this archaic system existed. In a world without telepathy or long-range magic, the Fog of War was a physical, choking thing. The plains were so vast that a commander at the rear couldn't see a breakthrough until it was too late. Messengers on horseback were fast, but the latency—the time it took to ride through mud and arrows—meant that by the time an order arrived, the men who needed it were often already dead.
The Banner Strat, proposed by the strategist Kuma, was the only real-time solution. The banners were the nerves of the army. Red signaled a charge; blue signaled a desperate need for support. A strategist like Kuma didn't just look for the colors; he looked for the position and the rhythm of the flag. A steady wave meant a unit was holding; a frantic, erratic snap meant the line was about to shatter.
But the Green Rose Kingdom was not a silent observer of this strategy. They had their own counter-measure: The Shrike's Eye. While Heartwood relied on banners to move their infantry, the Green Rose used a predator strategy. They deployed specialized units of long-range archers equipped with high-tension bows, positioned not on the front line, but hidden in the tall, dry grass of the plains. Their entire mission was to hunt the banners. They didn't aim for the soldiers; they aimed for the "nerves." If a bannerman fell before the reserves saw the signal, an entire Heartwood platoon could be slaughtered without headquarters ever knowing they were in trouble.
The order finally came. Alab was dispatched to the left flank, where the Heartwood line was buckling. He wasn't alone; he was accompanied by a squad of Dragoon soldiers. As he ran, the Speed Boost made the uneven ground feel like a paved road. He reached the position, unfurled the blue, and waved. The Arm Power made the ten-foot pole feel like a light baton. He snapped the flag with such force the silk hissed, catching the eyes of the reserves miles away.
On his way back to the hill, he saw the man who had spoken to him earlier—another bannerman—get stabbed by a Green Rose scout who had bypassed the line. Instinct, fueled by a doctor's reflex to intervene, took over. Alab didn't drop his banner. Instead, he swung the ten-foot pole in a wide, horizontal arc. With his doubled arm strength, the wooden pole struck the scout with the force of a battering ram. The enemy was thrown backward, his ribs caving in with a sickening crunch.
Alab reached down to pull the injured bannerman to his feet. "I waved my flag... but no one came," the man wheezed, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth.
Alab realized the flaw. The strategy was perfect on paper, but if the reserves were already engaged or the strategist was looking elsewhere, the bannerman was just a target. He half-carried the man toward the ridge, his wider vision alerting him to the fact that the Dragoon Platoon behind him was being systematically cut down. As he sprinted back toward the safety of Atop Hill, his foot caught on something massive. He tripped, tumbling into a shallow hollow.
He landed on the body of a large man—a Heartwood soldier who looked like a mountain of meat and metal. As his palms struck the cold, blood-slicked breastplate, Alab felt a sickeningly familiar tug at the base of his brain. The world didn't just fade; it snapped like a broken bone.
"Not again... is this another flashback?!"
The smell of copper and mud was instantly replaced by the sharp, stinging scent of cheap grain alcohol and old, sun-dried salt.
Alab—no, the giant whose armor he now touched—was not on a battlefield. He was in a small, cramped cabin by a freezing northern coast, the wood groaning against the winter wind. The room was littered with empty clay jugs, the sour stench of wine permeating every corner. The man sat on a wooden stool, his broad shoulders hunched as he stared at a heavy, iron-bound chest in the corner of the room.
The man's hands were stained with dirt and grease, trembling as he reached for another bottle. He had lost them—his wife, his daughter—to a fever that swept through the coast while he was away trading. Now, he lived in the bottom of a jar, his only companion the heavy weight of his own failure. He wanted to end it. Every day he woke up was a disappointment, a new opportunity to wish for the cold embrace of the sea.
The chest in the corner began to vibrate. It wasn't a violent shake, but a steady, rhythmic thumping from the inside, a dull sound that echoed against the floorboards. Thump. Thump. Thump. It sounded exactly like a heavy, resting heartbeat.
"I'm almost ready, Elias," the man whispered, his voice like grinding stones.
He stood up, swaying slightly, and approached the chest. Elias. His only friend left in a world that had turned to ash. Elias, who had been by his side since they were children, whose skeleton now lay nestled in the dark of that iron-bound box. The man had spent his final coins on a forbidden Pulse Charm—a low-tier magic that caused inanimate objects to mimic the rhythm of life. He couldn't accept the finality of the stillness. Every time he returned from the tavern or the docks, he would open the chest just to see the bones, just to pretend the thumping was a sign of a soul still lingering.
He had joined the war not for the Heartwood Kingdom, but because he was chasing a lethal end. He fought with a suicidal ferocity, hoping each blade swung his way would be the one to finally close his eyes. And yet, he fought to win, because he needed the coin. He needed to pay a high-tier mage to truly bring the bones of Elias back to life. He was a man trapped in a rhythmic delusion, carrying a crate of bones across a continent of blood, seeking both resurrection and a grave.
The intensity of the borrowed grief and the suffocating smell of the alcohol was too much. Alab's mind buckled under the weight of the man's obsession. He lost consciousness for seconds, his face pressed against the cold armor of the "Wall of Flesh." When his eyes finally snapped open, the thump-thump of the phantom chest was still ringing in his ears, but it was quickly being replaced by the metallic hiss of a descending sword.
A Green Rose scout was standing over him, his blade raised for a killing blow. Alab jerked his head to the side, the blade whistling past his ear and biting deep into the mud. He rolled, sweeping his flag pole in a frantic arc that knocked the legs out from under two approaching scouts. He stood up, his head still ringing with the dead man's sorrow. He looked at the corpse of the giant. Surrounding the man were forty enemy corpses—men who had died trying to stop a soldier who thought he was protecting a heartbeat in a box.
Alab reached the safe point on Atop Hill, his chest heaving. Out of the original fifteen bannermen, only two others remained. The hill was being overrun. The Green Rose was using a Pincer Maneuver, driving their light infantry up the hidden ravines on either side of the hill to bypass the heavy Dragoon lines.
The strategists were preparing to flee, their maps rolled up in panic. "Kill those men with flags!" the enemy leader roared.
The other bannermen were already retreating, their flags lowered. The safe point was being abandoned. But Alab looked at the valley. The Heartwood lines were beginning to stabilize, but they needed a pivot point. If the flags vanished now, the entire left flank would be blind to the coming counter-attack. They would be a body without eyes.
He remembered Merlin's words: Find the right people.
Alab didn't retreat. He stepped to the highest point of Atop Hill, planted his feet, and waved the flag with every ounce of his rented strength. He didn't just wave it; he used the pole to catch the wind, making the silk snap with a rhythmic, surgical precision that could be heard over the din of the battle. He wasn't just signaling for help; he was providing a lighthouse for the entire army.
Miles away, at the main headquarters, Strategist Kuma peered through a brass looking-glass. He saw the lone banner on Atop Hill, waving with an unnatural, powerful rhythm. "That safe point..." Kuma whispered, his interest piqued. "It was supposed to be abandoned. Why is he still there? That rhythm... it's too steady. It's not the wave of a terrified farmer."
He turned to the Commander, Raphael. "That safe point has proven vital. That bannerman... he knows exactly where our reserves are positioned. He's demanding a response, not just for himself, but for the entire sector."
Raphael looked at the map, then at the flickering, defiant silk on the horizon. "Send the Lion, Snow, and Tulip Platoons. If that bannerman wants to hold the world on his shoulders, give him the strength to do it."
Alab stood on the hill, his arms burning with the rented power, watching as three fresh tides of Heartwood steel began to turn toward Atop Hill. He had held the margin. He had taken the extra centimeter. The Librarian was no longer just a passenger; he was the signal that kept the story from falling into shadow.