Librarian of the Void

5: Rules Written in Dust

Leo did not touch the grey book immediately.

He crouched beside it and studied the cover from a safe distance, which was not actually a safe distance because he was still in a library where impossible doors had opened behind shelves. But it was the closest thing he had.

The silver thread moved.

Only a little.

It shifted across the cover like a worm beneath paper, then went still.

Leo stood up.

"I am going to get coffee first."

The book remained on the floor.

He went to the staff room, made coffee that tasted like hot metal, and returned with the mug in one hand and a plastic ruler in the other. The ruler had been intended for straightening shelf labels. It was now his weapon.

He tapped the book.

Nothing happened.

He nudged it with the ruler.

The cover opened.

Leo dropped the ruler and stepped back.

The pages were blank except for a single grey line in the centre. The line moved when he leaned closer, changing from a curve into a symbol he did not recognise.

His System window appeared.

[Corrupted record: Threadstep]

[Restoration progress: 0.00%]

[Available evidence: 1 fragment]

[Required evidence: 3 fragments]

[Primary contradiction unresolved]

Leo lifted his coffee.

"At least you are giving me numbers now."

The System did not answer.

He placed the mug on the desk and pulled out his phone. There was no signal in the older wing, but the academy’s local archive could still be accessed through the staff computer. Leo logged in with his employee account.

A list of categories appeared.

Post-Integration dungeon reports.

Class awakening studies.

Monster identification.

Skill inheritance records.

He searched for Threadstep.

The result was immediate.

No recognised skill found.

Leo leaned back.

That was impossible. The Library had named it. The book had named it. The record had shown a person moving through a doorway.

He searched again with a space between the words.

Nothing.

He searched for thread.

Hundreds of results appeared, mostly crafting skills and binding techniques.

He searched for step.

Movement skills filled the screen. Short Step. Silent Step. Wind Step. Step Lock. Stone Step.

Threadstep was not there.

Leo took a sip of coffee and regretted it immediately.

The grey book on the desk remained open. Its blank page now had a second line. The two lines crossed each other and formed the outline of a narrow path.

He opened an old database of first-generation Hunter reports. The records were messy because the earliest years of the Integration had been a disaster. People had not known what to call classes, gates, monsters, or even the glowing rectangles that kept appearing in front of them.

Leo searched for movement anomalies.

The search produced thousands of results. Leo narrowed them by date, then by location, then by records connected to inheritance disputes. The archive interface became slower as the filters increased, but the pattern-recognition part of his brain kept working. The same words appeared in different reports: path, return, missing interval, impossible position.

Nobody had grouped them together. Either the researchers had missed the connection, or somebody had made sure the connection stayed hidden.

A list appeared.

Unverified displacement event — East District, Year One.

Multiple-position sighting — St. Orison perimeter, Year Two.

Assassination incident — Royal diplomatic archive, Year Three.

He clicked the last file.

The document opened slowly. Half the photographs were missing. The text had been copied several times, and the formatting was broken. At the top, someone had written a title in bold:

The Threadstep Murderer: Final Record.

Leo read the first paragraph.

The incident had occurred in the third year after the Integration. A royal mage named Arthur had been found dead inside a secured room. There were no signs of forced entry. Three witnesses claimed to have seen a figure leave the room, but the descriptions disagreed about height, clothing, and direction.

The accused had supposedly used an illegal movement skill called Threadstep.

The accused was never captured.

The record listed the owner as unknown deceased.

Leo’s fingers stopped on the keyboard.

Unknown deceased.

The Library had given him the same contradiction in different words. The owner was listed as dead before the skill had been properly recorded. The report called the owner a murderer, but did not provide a name.

That was the first lie, maybe.

Not the lie itself, but the place where it began.

He scrolled further.

The final page was damaged. Several lines had been blacked out by the archive scanner. At the bottom, one sentence remained:

The skill was removed from all approved inheritance lists after the incident.

Leo sat back.

A skill could disappear because nobody used it. It could also disappear because someone made sure nobody was allowed to use it again.

The thought made the library seem colder.

He turned toward the grey book.

The page now showed three short marks.

[Evidence fragment accepted: Public assassination report]

[Restoration progress: 3.18%]

Leo nearly fell out of his chair.

The System updated the progress even though he had not placed the report inside the book. It had somehow recognised his research.

"So you can read what I am doing?"

No answer.

"That is not creepy at all."

The book’s pages turned by themselves.

A new line appeared.

[Investigation method accepted.]

[Further evidence required.]

[Return to origin record.]

Leo stared at the last sentence.

Return to origin record.

The assassination report was a copy. The original might be in the restricted collection, the one Professor Ruth rarely allowed students to enter. He had seen the section before, behind a glass partition near the oldest wing. Its catalogue labels were handwritten, and half the shelves had no public index.

He walked there with the grey book tucked beneath his arm.

The glass partition was locked.

Professor Ruth’s office was empty, but her lamp was still on. Leo checked the corridor twice before kneeling beside the access panel.

He was not good at picking locks.

He was good at noticing that the panel’s lower screw had already been removed once.

That meant somebody else had opened it recently.

Leo touched the screw, then pulled his hand back.

No.

He was already involved in a mysterious library. He did not need to add petty theft to the list before breakfast.

He stood and examined the glass.

Behind it, the oldest collection slept beneath a layer of dust. The shelves were narrow and tightly packed. One label caught his eye.

Early Integration: Restricted Skills.

There was no record of Threadstep on the visible shelf.

But the grey book warmed against his arm.

Leo looked down.

Its cover had changed.

A faint mark now showed beneath the silver thread: a circle surrounded by seven short lines.

The same symbol from the catalogue card.

The same symbol that had opened the door.

Leo touched it.

The book snapped shut.

A System message appeared.

[Second evidence fragment located.]

[Location: Academy restricted collection]

[Access requirement: Unknown]

From behind the glass, something fell.

A single catalogue card slid between the shelves and landed face-up on the other side of the locked partition.

Its surface was black.

Leo could not read the writing through the glass, but he could see one word glowing on it.

Threadstep.

Then the office light behind him turned off.