An old man sat hunched over a thick, leather-bound tome.
His robes, deep blue and stitched with thread that shimmered faintly under the pale library lights, hung loose on his wiry frame. His long silver beard flowed like mist across the marble floor, curling in elegant spirals that never gathered dust. He turned each page with precise care, lips moving silently as he read a language long forgotten.
This was Archwizard Velgrin of the Spiral Order.
He had arrived yesterday.
And already, the Library of Noctis unsettled him.
He didn't remember walking through any door. Just the end of a ritual gone wrong — the sky breaking open above his tower, light pouring in like divine judgment — and then... silence. When he opened his eyes, he was here.
Endless bookshelves stretched beyond vision in all directions. Volumes upon volumes of forgotten lore. No staff. No exit. No sound but the whisper of pages fluttering now and then, as if the books sometimes turned themselves.
The air smelled like ink and something older. Something almost like rain. But it never rained here.
Velgrin had spent his first day reading, pacing, attempting spells. Nothing worked quite right. The magic here bent differently — sluggish and quiet, like trying to set fire to wet parchment.
He had just begun to accept the stillness.
Then the door opened.
A long, deep groan of stone against stone. Subtle, but unmistakable in the silence.
Velgrin's head snapped up. His fingers froze over the page.
Footsteps followed. Heavy. Armored. Cautious.
The kind of tread that belonged to someone not meant to be here.
From the far end of the grand aisle, a man stepped into view. Tall. Blood-streaked. Armor dented and scorched from battle. A cracked greatsword hung across his back like dead weight. His jaw was clenched, face half-shadowed beneath a dented helmet. He moved like a cornered beast.
Velgrin stood, instinct more than thought.
The man paused in the threshold, scanning the vast halls with narrowed eyes. He took in the hovering lamps, the vaulted ceiling painted with unfamiliar constellations, the oppressive silence between shelves.
"…Where the hell am I?" he muttered.
Velgrin didn't speak.
The warrior stepped further in, boots thudding on polished marble. "I found a door in a cave. I was bleeding out. My squad was gone. That damn door just opened when I touched it. And now—" He stopped mid-sentence as his eyes landed on Velgrin.
Recognition snapped into place.
"You—"
Velgrin's back straightened.
The warrior stepped closer. His voice dropped into something colder. "Velgrin. Spiral Fire. Archwizard of the Third Flame. You killed my men."
Velgrin didn't flinch, but his face turned grave.
"I see the years haven't dulled your grudge," he said.
"It will never dull," the warrior hissed. "Three years is not that long."
Velgrin exhaled through his nose. "You and me both."
The warrior's hand dropped to his sword.
"Then I'm not dead?"
"No," Velgrin replied sharply. "You're not. And I suggest you lower your voice."
That gave the warrior pause. "Why?"
Velgrin's eyes flicked toward the towering shelves around them. "Because this place isn't yours. And it doesn't like being disturbed."
The warrior sneered. "Don't care. All I know is you're here, and that's reason enough to draw steel."
His fingers tightened around the hilt.
Velgrin didn't reach for his staff. He didn't summon a shield. He just stared at the man in silence — and then, ever so slightly, looked up.
The warrior noticed.
"What? You looking for a god to save you, old man?"
Velgrin didn't answer.
But in the air around them, something began to shift. Quietly. Unseen.
Not magic. Not wind.
Just pressure.
The silence thickened.
The air, once crisp and still, now pressed in with quiet weight — like the moment before thunder. The warrior's grip tightened on his sword, sweat starting to bead under the grime on his brow.
Velgrin didn't move. His hands hung calmly at his sides, but his eyes stayed locked on the space above the warrior's head — not in fear of him, but in dread of something else entirely.
Then a voice spoke, soft but clear, from the far end of the aisle.
"Shhh. You're too loud. This is a library."
Both men turned.
A young man stood beside the nearest shelf, his figure framed by rows of forgotten knowledge and pale, floating lamps. He held a small paperback in one hand and a steaming mug in the other. His clothes were plain — gray cardigan, white shirt, dark slacks — and impeccably neat. His black hair fell in soft waves, slightly disheveled, as if from sleep. His black eyes were calm. Still. Too still.
He looked like someone who didn't belong in a place like this.
And yet, somehow, he looked more real than everything around him.
The warrior squinted. "Who the hell are you?"
The man blinked once, placing the book gently back onto the shelf. "I'm the librarian."
"The what?"
"You've broken one of the rules," he said. "No shouting."
The warrior barked a short laugh. "You serious? This your job? To scold people for yelling?"
The librarian took a slow sip from his mug, then nodded. "Yes. And to protect the collection."
Velgrin was already stepping back, inch by inch, into the shadows of the nearest alcove. He did not speak. He did not warn. He had already done enough.
The warrior didn't notice. "You think I give a damn about your books?"
The librarian looked at him, gently. "You should."
The warrior stepped forward, raising his blade.
"Let me guess. You're going to kick me out?"
"This is your second warning," the librarian said, still soft-spoken, still holding that faint tone of gentle tiredness — as though even this conversation was a kind of dust he'd rather sweep away.
"No third?" the warrior asked, grinning. "What happens if I don't shut up?"
"You don't want to find out."
"Wrong."
The warrior lifted his left hand, fingers trembling as they shaped the start of a spell — a raw, unstable channel of flame gathering in his palm.
He never got to finish.
The ceiling above them groaned.
A cold wind blew through the aisle, snuffing several of the floating lights. Dust rained down in delicate streaks.
Then something fell.
It hit the floor like a hammer, cracking the marble. Shelves trembled. Books shifted. A single leather-bound volume slid free and hit the floor with a dull, heavy thud.
When the dust cleared, it stood upright — massive, armored, and silent.
Three meters tall.
The Death Knight wore pitch-black plate etched in cursed runes. Purple mist coiled from its joints like the breath of something long buried. Its helmet bore no eyes, no face — only a vertical slit of emptiness in the center, glowing faintly like a violet wound in the air. In both hands, it held a greataxe carved from bone and obsidian, wide as a door and nearly as tall as the man it faced.
It didn't speak.
It simply stared.
The warrior's voice cracked. "What the fuck…"
The librarian's voice drifted again. "I told you. Second warning."
"Th-that's a Death Knight," the warrior gasped. "That's Sixth-Tier undead! You need an entire cult to summon something like that!"
"No," the librarian said. "Just a finger snap."
The Death Knight took one step forward.
The floor groaned again.
The warrior backed away, trying to keep his spell charged, blade half-raised in defense. He swung — a wide arc of flame aimed at the Knight's side.
The greataxe met it mid-swing.
The force of the clash sent the warrior flying.
He crashed into a row of shelves. Books toppled like dominoes. The air rang with the echo of steel and falling knowledge.
Before he could get up, the Knight was already there.
Another swing. Another roar of wind and impact.
The warrior ducked, barely avoiding decapitation. He rolled, blasted a shockwave spell under the Death Knight's feet, and tried to scramble away. He cast again — chains of shadow wrapping around the Knight's leg.
It paused.
Then shattered the spell with a flex of its ankle.
The warrior stumbled, desperate. "You can't be real—!"
The Death Knight grabbed him by the chest plate, lifted him off the ground like a child's toy, and hurled him.
He hit the far wall, cracked it.
Blood sprayed across the floor.
One more step. The Knight raised its axe.
"No—!"
The blade fell.
Silence returned.
Velgrin watched from the shadows, unmoving, lips sealed.
The Death Knight bent down, grasped the warrior's severed head by the hair, and carried it back down the aisle.
It approached the librarian.
And knelt.
Presented the head like an offering.
Levi Warwick sighed.
He looked at the head, then at the lingering blood trail.
"I told you to be quiet."
He took another sip of tea, set it on a nearby shelf, and walked past the kneeling Death Knight without a second glance.
"Clean it up. And don't drip anything near the mystery section."