The Central Library of Vandegarde didn't look like much from the outside.
Just another elegant stone building with those same weird blue-lit windows.
But according to my research, it housed the most comprehensive collection of beginner Essence manuals in the district.
Perfect for an F+ ranked nobody trying not to die.
I approached the entrance, a set of double doors that hummed with energy.
A small panel glowed beside them, clearly waiting for ID verification.
I pulled out my card and pressed it against the scanner.
The panel flashed green, and the doors slid open with a soft hiss.
"At least my library card works in this world," I muttered.
Inside, the space opened up dramatically, with shelves stretching at impossible angles.
Some floated entirely without support, rotating slowly to optimize viewing angles.
The ceiling was a dome of what looked like actual sky, complete with drifting clouds.
Not what I expected from the plain exterior.
A few other patrons browsed quietly—students mostly, based on their focused expressions and note-taking.
Near the center desk sat an elderly librarian, his hands moving with practiced precision as he sorted through a stack of books.
His skin looked like parchment—wrinkled, thin, and vaguely translucent.
As if he'd been shelved alongside his books for too long.
I approached him, clearing my throat to get his attention.
"Excuse me," I said. "I'm looking for books on Essence training. Beginner level."
The old man didn't look up immediately.
His fingers continued their sorting motion for another few seconds before stopping.
When he finally raised his head, his eyes were unexpectedly sharp—pale blue and penetrating.
"What rank?" he asked, voice like dry leaves rustling.
"F+," I admitted.
Something flickered across his face—disapproval, perhaps, or simple disinterest.
"Untrained, then," he stated rather than asked. "What's your Innate?"
"Shadow."
This earned a slight raise of his eyebrows.
"Rare enough," he said. "But rarity means nothing without foundation."
He studied me for an uncomfortably long moment.
I fought the urge to fidget under his gaze.
"You wish to become stronger?" he finally asked.
"Yes," I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt.
"Why?"
The question caught me off guard.
"Because I don't want to die when things get dangerous," I said honestly.
A thin smile cracked his weathered face.
"Honesty. Refreshing."
He stood with surprising agility for someone who looked about two hundred years old.
"Follow me," he instructed, moving out from behind the desk.
I trailed him through the maze of shelves, past sections labeled with classifications I didn't understand.
We eventually reached a secluded corner far from the entrance.
The shelves here were made of actual wood rather than the synthetic materials elsewhere.
"You are weak," he said bluntly, gesturing to the books around us. "Without foundation, seeking strength is futile."
I opened my mouth to argue, but he continued.
"Like building a tower on sand," he added. "These will help with fundamentals. Physical conditioning. Mental discipline. Start here."
He pulled several volumes from different shelves, creating a small stack.
"Thank you," I said, genuinely appreciative despite his blunt assessment.
He nodded once, then turned to leave.
But at the edge of the section, he paused and looked back.
Something like curiosity creased his ancient face.
Then he was gone, leaving me alone with the books.
I sighed and sat cross-legged on the floor, examining my new reading material.
"'Physical Foundations for Essence Development,'" I read from the first cover.
Thrilling stuff.
I flipped through a few pages of dense explanations about muscle conditioning and breathing techniques.
Another book covered meditation methods.
A third focused on dietary recommendations.
Important, sure, but not exactly the magical shortcuts I'd been hoping for.
As I set aside the last book from his stack, I noticed another volume partially hidden behind where they'd been.
It was bound in dark leather, with no visible title on its spine.
Curious, I pulled it out.
The cover simply read: "The Path of Strength" by Jirou.
The name meant nothing to me, but something about the book felt different.
Heavier, somehow.
I cracked it open, expecting another dry text on fitness regimens.
Instead, I found blank pages.
"Weird," I muttered, flipping through.
Not a single word anywhere.
I was about to close it when something caught my eye.
A distortion in the air above the center pages.
Like heat rising from pavement, but more... defined.
I blinked, thinking it might be a trick of light.
But no, there was definitely a ripple in space itself.
A fold, almost like a tear in reality.
"What the hell?" I whispered, closing the book quickly.
The distortion vanished when the pages came together.
I glanced around to see if anyone else was watching.
The section remained empty.
Cautiously, I opened the book again.
The spatial fold reappeared immediately, hovering just above the pages.
It seemed to pulse gently, as if breathing.
I should definitely not stick my hand into a mysterious spatial anomaly in a book.
That was literally how horror movies started.
"This is stupid," I told myself as I slowly extended my finger toward the distortion.
The air felt cool around the fold, almost misty.
My finger passed through with no resistance.
No pain, no disintegration, just... through.
I pulled back quickly, examining my finger.
Still there. Still normal.
I took a deep breath and made a decision that was either very brave or incredibly stupid.
I opened the book wide on the floor, watched the fold expand to roughly the size of a doorway, and stepped through.
A moment of disorientation hit me—like missing a step in the dark.
Then my feet touched solid ground again.
I was standing in what appeared to be an ancient training ground.
Stone circle. Weathered wooden posts. Misty mountains visible in the distance.
The air felt different—heavier, more charged.
In the center of the circle sat a man in a meditation pose.
Not the librarian, though there was a similar aura of age about him.
This man's body was lean and corded with muscle, despite his apparent age.
His eyes were closed, his breathing imperceptible.
I stood frozen, unsure what to do.
Run back through the portal?
Speak up?
Before I could decide, the man's eyes opened.
They were completely black—no whites, no iris, just depthless darkness.
"So," he said, his voice surprisingly normal for someone with void-filled eyes. "You found your way here after all."
His lips curved into something between a smile and a grimace.
"I suppose we should begin."