The first person to speak was Belial.
"NO."
Haruto looked at him.
The goat stared back.
"Absolutely not."
"...you haven't even explained why."
"I DON'T NEED TO."
Belial pointed dramatically at the sketch.
"The NAME ALONE IS A TERRIBLE SIGN."
Haruto looked down at the drawing.
The black tower seemed simple at first glance.
Yet the longer he stared—
the more uncomfortable it became.
The lines felt wrong.
Not inaccurate.
Wrong.
As though the tower had been drawn from memory instead of observation.
Like Arthur hadn't wanted to look at it any longer than necessary.
The bookseller slowly sat down.
For the first time since meeting him—
he looked tired.
Truly tired.
"That place shouldn't exist."
Haruto immediately focused on that.
"Shouldn't?"
The old man nodded.
"There's a difference between doesn't and shouldn't."
A pause.
"One is reality."
Another pause.
"The other is a mistake."
The room became quiet.
Haruto folded the note carefully.
Then slipped it back into the sketchbook.
His mind raced.
Questions.
Dozens of them.
Perhaps hundreds.
The Grave of Pages.
The black tower.
Arthur's warning.
The pattern repeating.
Nothing fit together yet.
And that bothered him.
A lot.
Finally—
he looked up.
"You know where it is."
The bookseller didn't answer.
Which was answer enough.
Belial groaned.
Loudly.
Painfully.
The sound of a creature witnessing disaster in real time.
"HE KNOWS."
The bookseller sighed.
"I know stories."
"That's not a denial."
"No."
Haruto leaned forward.
"Then tell me."
The old man looked toward the shelves.
Toward thousands of books.
Thousands of preserved memories.
His gaze lingered there for a long moment.
Then—
he spoke.
"When civilizations die..."
Haruto listened.
"...most leave something behind."
The old man stood.
Walking toward a nearby shelf.
"Ruins."
He pulled out a book.
"Records."
Another book.
"Names."
A third.
"Evidence."
The books landed on the table.
One after another.
The bookseller looked down at them.
"Proof."
His voice softened.
"Proof that they existed."
Haruto slowly nodded.
That made sense.
History survived through remnants.
Even Earth worked that way.
Ancient cities.
Old monuments.
Fragments of forgotten lives.
Proof.
The bookseller tapped the cover of one book.
"Now imagine all of that disappearing."
Haruto frowned.
"What?"
"Everything."
The old man met his eyes.
"Not destroyed."
A pause.
"Forgotten."
The word hung heavily between them.
The bookseller continued.
"There are kingdoms nobody remembers."
"That's normal."
"No."
The old man shook his head.
"Not nobody remembers."
His expression darkened.
"There is no record they ever existed."
Haruto froze.
The implication hit immediately.
The bookseller continued.
"There are ruins that vanish from maps."
"There are names that disappear from books."
"There are entire histories that simply..."
He snapped his fingers.
"...stop."
Silence.
Belial wasn't joking anymore.
The goat sat quietly.
Watching.
Listening.
The bookseller rarely spoke this seriously.
Haruto noticed.
"What does that have to do with the Grave of Pages?"
The old man laughed.
A bitter laugh.
Without humor.
"Because that's where those stories go."
The room felt colder.
The bookseller pointed toward the sketch.
"Every lost kingdom."
"Every erased record."
"Every forgotten history."
His gaze hardened.
"They gather there."
Haruto stared.
"That's impossible."
"Probably."
The answer came instantly.
The old man folded his arms.
"Unfortunately, impossible things happen quite often."
Haruto couldn't argue.
His entire existence was proof of that.
The bookseller walked toward a nearby window.
Sunlight streamed through the glass.
Dust floated in the air.
For a moment—
he looked older.
Much older.
"The Grave of Pages appears in stories."
"Legends."
"Rumors."
"Warnings."
His expression grew distant.
"Most scholars believe it's symbolic."
"Do you?"
The old man didn't answer immediately.
Then—
quietly—
"No."
Haruto's pulse quickened.
The bookseller looked back.
"Because Arthur found it."
Silence.
Complete silence.
The words struck like a hammer.
Arthur found it.
Not searched for it.
Not believed in it.
Found it.
Actually found it.
Belial lowered his head.
The goat suddenly seemed much less playful.
Much less chaotic.
Haruto noticed.
The bookseller noticed too.
Everyone noticed.
That alone was worrying.
"What happened?"
The question escaped before Haruto could stop it.
The old man looked away.
Toward the shelves.
Toward the sketchbook.
Toward decades of memories.
Then—
he answered.
"Arthur came back."
Relief flooded Haruto.
For exactly one second.
Because the bookseller wasn't finished.
"He wasn't the same."
The relief vanished instantly.
The old man continued.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Choosing every word.
"As if part of him had been left behind."
A pause.
"As if he'd seen something no person was supposed to see."
The room remained silent.
The bookseller's gaze drifted toward Arthur's sketch.
Toward the smiling young man.
The student who asked too many questions.
The traveler who refused to disappear.
Then—
for the first time—
the old man looked afraid.
Not of Arthur.
Not of the curse.
Of what Arthur had found.
And that frightened Haruto more than any warning ever could.
Because if a man like Arthur had returned broken—
what exactly was waiting inside the Grave of Pages?