The next morning, Warthram's mist did not lift.
It clung to the village like a veil of mourning, winding through alleyways and curling at the edges of windows. The sun was a pale, sickly disc behind the clouds, and everything beneath it felt gray and muted.
Asari descended from the rooftop, eyes heavy but alert. Aicha was already waiting, seated by a quiet fire, arms wrapped around her knees.
"I didn't sleep much," she admitted. "Something kept whispering."
He gave a small nod. "Same here."
They didn't speak more. They didn't need to.
The village elder appeared as if summoned by the silence. He wore the same pale parchment robe as the others, but his chest bore a symbol in dark ink—an open book with a bleeding quill.
"You seek the Library," he said simply.
Asari stepped forward. "We do."
The old man gestured toward the cliffs to the north, past the stone stairwell etched into the mountain. "It is not far. But distance is not the true challenge."
Aicha narrowed her eyes. "Then what is?"
"The mind," the elder whispered. "The Library tests not your strength—but your memory. It tears through the cracks in your soul and finds what you wish to forget."
He held out a small vial. Inside swirled black liquid Eather.
"This will protect your bodies from the Library's rot. But not your minds. That… is yours alone to guard."
Asari took the vial without hesitation. "We're ready."
Aicha glanced at him, unsure—but followed all the same.
The climb was long.
As they ascended, the world became quieter still. Even the wind dared not speak. And when they finally stood before the Library gates, they saw it—a colossal ruin fused into the cliffside, with pillars carved like reaching hands and doors that breathed faintly as if alive.
A plaque above the gate read:
"We are what we remember. And we are what we forget."
The doors creaked open.
Darkness welcomed them.
Asari stepped through first.
Inside, it was colder than outside. The air was thick with old knowledge—dust and ink and time pressed into every breath.
Rows upon rows of floating tomes lined the endless chambers. No shelves. No walls. Just books drifting like ghosts in a dream.
A voice rang out, low and haunting.
"Memory or madness. Choose your guide."
Two lights appeared—one blue, one red.
Without waiting, Asari reached toward the red one.
Aicha hesitated… then followed.
The moment they touched the red light, the world twisted.
The Library shifted.
No longer empty halls—now it became Asari's past.
The scene unfolded in blood and screams.
The night he witness his master death.
He stood in that familiar field again. Moonless sky. Rain hitting his back.
Master Dante.
The man who had raised him.
The man who had once smiled while teaching him to wield Eather.
"Why do you always choose the sword?" Dante had asked, moments before his death.
Asari, now reliving the memory, answered again—quiet, pained. "Because it never lies."
Aicha stood behind him, eyes wide. "This is…"
"A memory," Asari growled. "A scar."
The vision collapsed.
Now it was Aicha's turn.
The world turned white. Then pink. Then red.
She sat in her old wheelchair. Surrounded by mocking faces.
Children. Adults. Even teachers.
"Useless."
"Why does she even try?"
"She'll always be broken."
Tears welled in her eyes as she clutched the arms of her chair.
"I hate this," she whispered.
"You have to push through it," Asari said gently. "Or it'll bury you."
She gritted her teeth—and screamed.
The memory cracked.
They returned to the Library.
The books shifted. New paths opened.
They had passed the first test.
"Only those who endure themselves may see beyond," the voice echoed again.
In the center of the chamber, a massive tome rose from the floor. Its cover was blackened leather, stitched with silver threads that pulsed like veins.
A name etched across its face:
"Velmara Codex: Chapter of Forgotten Kings"
Asari reached for it.
The moment his hand touched the book, pain surged through his arm. Not physical pain—knowledge pain. Images, names, voices, and ruins flooded his mind.
He saw kings burned alive to seal curses.
He saw monsters birthed from living thoughts.
He saw seven cities—each ruled by a fragment of something ancient.
And he saw one phrase over and over again:
"Velmara does not belong to the living."
The book slammed shut.
Both Asari and Aicha collapsed to their knees.
They gasped in unison, sweat pouring from their bodies.
"That book… It wasn't just history," Aicha panted. "It was… prophecy."
Asari nodded. "It's happening again."
And worse…
It was just beginning.
---
"Even if your body survives, will your mind remain yours?"
— End Chapter 49 Quote