Chapter 162: When a Town Turns to Dust
For the next month, Nu-1 became a shadow drifting across Central America.
From the jungles of Chiapas to the dried coasts of Guatemala, their black boots pressed through mud, ash, and cartel hideouts long abandoned. Every few days, RAISA fed them another location, a safehouse, a meeting point, a convoy, but by the time Nu-1 arrived, Sin Nombre was already dead or dying.
Not by the Foundation.
By fear.
Entire cells had scattered like rats, abandoning their symbols, burning their shrines, discarding their weapons in rivers as if shedding their own skin. The moment La Loba vanished, Sin Nombre fractured. Leaders betrayed lieutenants. Lieutenants slaughtered their own soldiers. Many fled into the mountains and starved.
Nu-1 didn't stop.
They continued the sweep, methodically, ruthlessly, like a scalpel cutting away rot.
Every outpost they found was cleared.
Every surviving sicario interrogated, tagged, or terminated according to protocol.
Some begged for mercy.
Some cursed the "wolves" that once led them.
But la Loba.
She was nowhere.
Nu-1 tracked sightings.
They hunted rumors.
They analyzed footprints, old campsites, shredded clothing hanging in trees.
Every trail ended the same way:
Cold.
Empty.
Gone.
After thirty days, the taskforce spread across five more countries, running operations from burned plantations and safehouses reinforced with GOC's operatives. Drones hovered constantly overhead. Scouts slept with rifles resting on their chests. And still…
Nothing.
The last stragglers of Sin Nombre fell one by one, executed by circumstance or captured by Nu-1's relentless pursuits.
But La Loba, their jefa, leader, had evaporated from the world as if she had never existed.
Some operators believed she was dead.
Others believed she was hiding.
The rest feared the truth:
La Loba wasn't gone.
Meanwhile, between endless meetings and documents, Léonard's life split cleanly into two worlds, the hidden one drenched in blood and secrets, and the quiet one everyone believed he lived.
He travelled constantly, slipping between continents like a ghost trapped in airport terminals.
From the U.S. back to Europe.
From Europe back to the U.S.
Then again.
And again.
And in those brief pauses between missions, he reclaimed whatever pieces of normalcy he could.
Elise filled most of them.
They wandered through old cities, shared pastries in quiet coffee shops, and stole moments under moonlit rooftops. Sometimes she lectured him on thaumaturgy; sometimes he teased her back. They laughed, kissed, argued, kissed again, anything that made him feel like a teenager instead of the Administrator.
Twice that month, he returned home as well.
Or rather, he temporarily replaced his clone, stepping back into his life in Lille for a handful of hours.
The house smelled like old wood and warm laundry, exactly as he remembered. His mother, exhausted from Gendastrerie operations, hugged him tightly each time as if the world wasn't collapsing somewhere else.
She still believed he was just a normal high-school student.
And he let her.
But she never came alone.
Agent Basil Sias came with her both times, liaison officer, polite smile too sharp at the edges.
To Léonard's mother, Basil was charming. Reliable. Safe.
To Basil…
Léonard was terror incarnate wrapped in the shape of a 16-year-old kid and his own boss.
Every time Basil stepped through the door and saw him, his spine went rigid.
His hands tightened around the grocery bags.
His smile trembled just slightly, just enough for Léonard to notice.
He bowed too low.
Spoke too politely.
Avoided direct eye contact like it might kill him.
"Hello, Léonard," Basil would say, voice carefully steady.
Léonard answered with the flattest, deadliest monotone:
"…Hi."
His mother, oblivious, chatted happily as she set down her luggage. Basil nodded, laughed awkwardly, made clumsy small talk, all while constantly glancing at Léonard like expecting him to turn into a demon and rip his soul out.
Léonard didn't need to try to intimidate him.
Existing was already enough.
Dinner was quiet.
Basil didn't eat much.
He kept dropping his fork.
Léonard enjoyed every second of his discomfort.
And when his mother finally left again, cheerful and unaware…
The Administrator stepped out of the house, let his clone resume its life, and vanished back into the world where monsters existed everywhere.
During that same month, Léonard barely intervened in the Foundation affairs.
He mostly observed.
Learned.
Signed papers.
And drowned in the bureaucratic swamp that every foundation high-ranking eventually faces.
At first, he complained daily about the paperwork.
"This is torture," he muttered on day two, buried under mountains of forms, clearance logs, requisitions, and something called Form 12-A: Incident Report on Incidents Caused by Improper Incident Reporting.
Then he visited the O5 Council's offices and saw the tsunami of documents they dealt with every morning.
He stopped complaining on the spot.
But the true plague of his duties…
Was the Ethics Committee.
They sent him memos daily.
Sometimes twice daily.
Sometimes dozens, when an O5 had been particularly chaotic.
"Administrator, please review violation #-"
Click.
Flick of his lighter.
FWOOF.
Gone.
"Administrator, O5-3 has once again-"
Click.
FWOOF.
"Administrator, this concerns a serious breach in inter-"
Lighter already lit.
FWOOF.
After the forty-eight memo in four days, the director of RAISA, Maria Jones, finally messaged him:
[email protected]: "Administrator, you didn't reply to 237 Ethics Committee notices in the last 14 days.
This raises operational concerns."
His reply:
"Do you have a problem if I do so?"
Director Maria Jones did not respond.
Out of fear. Probably.
Whenever a new memo arrived, Graves, Franz or any aides would silently open the door, toss the document toward Léonard's desk, and then step back like they were handling a live grenade.
Léonard would look up.
See the document.
Sigh.
Reach into his pocket-
Click.
FWOOM.
Ashes.
Eventually, Graves stopped tossing the documents onto the desk.
Instead, he placed a small metal bin right next to Léonard labeled:
"ETHICS COMMITTEE COMPLAINTS - Administrator's Use Only"
It was full within three days.
Besides turning Ethics notices into dust, Léonard also trained relentlessly with Resh-1, especially Graves.
Close combat.
Weapon drills.
Demon Mode control.
Endless sparring sessions.
Graves pushed him like a drill sergeant from hell.
And although Léonard became terrifyingly strong.
He still never managed to knock Graves down.
Not even once.
After one particularly brutal spar in which Léonard ended flat on the mat again, Graves simply nodded and said:
"Better. You lasted ten seconds longer."
Léonard groaned into the floor.
Graves offered him a hand.
The Administrator slapped it away, got up on his own, and muttered something about "rigged genetics."
And so the month passed:
dates with Élise,
rare visits home to replace his clone and greet his mother,
training,
paperwork,
and the Ethics Committee memos that kept arriving like Jehovah's Witnesses with clipboards.
One day, Leonard was slumped in his office chair, pen in hand, eyes drifting lazily between three towering stacks of documents and the Ethics Committee report trash bin, which was now overflowing with charred warning letters.
A soft synth-piano remix played from the small speaker on his desk.
On his second monitor, his favorite streamer was screaming in defeat after dying to the final boss again.
Leonard blinked once.
"Skill issue…" he muttered while signing three anomaly reports without even looking at them.
He reached for another page, another bright yellow Ethics memo, sighed, flicked his lighter open with a practiced motion, and dropped the burning paper into the already-smoking bin.
Then-
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
Rapid. Urgent.
Almost panicked.
Leonard straightened immediately.
"Come in."
The door burst open.
Graves stepped inside, helmet under his arm, breath tight.
"Boss. Urgent situation. SCP-001."
Leonard didn't reply.
He simply stood, grabbed his keycard, and followed Graves out of the office.
They moved quickly through the upper halls of Site-01, then descended into the fortified underground levels.
Security barriers opened one after another as they passed, scanners humming, reinforced doors sliding aside.
Eventually they reached the Command Operations Room.
Every operator snapped to attention the moment the Administrator entered.
Members of OoTA and Resh-1 lined the perimeter.
Alexei, Mei Lin, and Franz were all already present, clustered near the main display.
Franz approached him immediately.
"Boss, you need to see this."
Leonard stepped toward the central holo-screen.
A nighttime drone feed filled the projection:
A small rural village, pitch-black except for a few streetlamps.
But the ground,
His eyes narrowed.
The entire street was littered with clothes.
Hundreds of sets.
Men, women, children.
All neatly laid where bodies should have been.
As if every person had simply… vanished.
Leonard exhaled slowly.
"Don't tell me these clothes…"
Franz didn't answer verbally.
He only tapped his tablet.
A video popped up, footage from a police officer's bodycam.
---
The footage stabilized after a moment of static.
A two-lane rural highway stretched ahead under the fading glow of a late-evening sun. The Ford Explorer cruiser hummed steadily, tires whispering across the asphalt. Dust rose behind them in slow waves, catching the orange sky like embers.
Inside, the cabin was dim, lit mostly by the soft glow of the dashboard.
Deputy Caleb Holt drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, eyes half-focused on the road.
Deputy Maria Daniels sipped from a paper cup of lukewarm gas-station coffee that she held with both hands, like it was the last thing keeping her alive.
Caleb broke the silence first.
"Weather's gone to hell this year," he muttered. "Storms every other day, then heat that melts your damn boots."
Maria snorted. "Sounds like the Midwest to me."
"No, no, this is different," Caleb insisted. "Feels like the sky's got mood swings. Not normal ones either."
Maria raised an eyebrow. "You blaming climate change again?"
"I'd blame it on the devil if I could. After New York… who the hell knows anymore?"
Maria shifted in her seat. Her expression softened just enough to be noticeable.
"…Yeah," she murmured. "That was bad."
"Bad?" Caleb barked a dry laugh. "Terrorists crash a plane into the Empire State Building, spreading toxic gas to the entirety of Manhattan with god-knows-what, then send armed nutjobs into the streets to fight and slaughter the survivors ? That's beyond bad."
Maria stared out the window.
"I'm still surprised how fast the army moved in."
"Well," Caleb said, lowering his voice, "when the President himself is involved in the whole mess, I guess things get fast-tracked."
"You believe that conspiracy crap?" she asked.
"It ain't conspiracy if the Congress, Supreme Court and even the damn NSA confirms it on live TV," he shot back.
Maria had no comeback for that. She sighed.
"Just feels like the world's gone crazy, you know? Like… what's next?"
Caleb shrugged. "Hopefully something boring. Like paperwork."
"God, please."
They approached a weather-worn wooden sign at the edge of the road:
FAIRVIEW - Population 1,143
THE HEART OF OUR COUNTY!
Maria groaned. "Of all places to end our shift…"
Caleb gave a lopsided grin. "Come on, Fairview's not that bad."
"It smells like mildew and unwashed quilts."
"That's oddly specific."
"And accurate."
Caleb chuckled. "Alright, fine. Maybe a little creepy after dark. But it's still a nice town."
"Only because everyone waves at you like you're their landlord."
"That's called 'hospitality,' Daniels."
"That's called 'small-town fear,' Holt."
He laughed again. "You and that coffee are equal levels of bitter."
"Shut up."
They turned onto the main street, quiet, empty, the last rays of sunlight slipping behind rows of houses.
The cruiser headlights flicked on automatically.
Maria checked her watch. "Eighteen forty-two. We sweep the central road, loop around the square, then clock out."
"Music to my ears," Caleb said. "Then burgers."
"You and your arteries need help."
"These arteries are built different."
"Built WRONG," she corrected. "If your heart could file complaints, it would."
Caleb grinned, unbothered.
Then the radio crackled to life.
"Unit 3-Charlie, you are now entering Fairview jurisdiction. Be advised, local residents reported intermittent power outages. Caller did not provide further information."
Maria reached for the microphone. "Dispatch, this is 3-Charlie. Copy. We'll do a sweep."
"Received, 3-Charlie. Report if anything changes."
Caleb made a face. "Probably some old generator acting up."
"Or another meth lab," Maria shrugged.
"Don't say that," Caleb groaned. "Last thing I need tonight is a tweaker explosion."
"Hey, could be worse."
"Could it?"
"Could be your turn to file the reports."
"…Okay yeah that's worse."
As they rolled deeper into town, porch lights flickered on, some steady, some sputtering with a faint buzz.
Caleb frowned. "Power grid's actually acting weird."
"Maybe the caller wasn't exaggerating."
They turned onto Maple Street.
Sunset finally died completely.
Shadows stretched long across the pavement.
Maria leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. "Do you see that?"
Caleb squinted. "See what ?"
At the far end of the street, the bodycam caught it:
A faint shimmer.
Like heat rising from asphalt-
but there was no heat.
The air was cool.
"Probably nothing," Caleb murmured, though his voice lost its confidence.
Maria didn't respond.
The cruiser continued closer.
The timestamp ticked forward.
18:44… 18:45…
Fairview looked normal.
Quiet.
Still.
Too still.
Maria shifted uneasily. "I don't like this."
Caleb forced a shrug. "Relax. Worst thing we'll find here is Mrs. Greenwood's cat on a roof again."
"Yeah…"
But she kept looking ahead.
At the shimmer.
Growing just slightly more visible with every passing second.
And the sun vanished completely behind the treeline.
The cruiser rolled slowly into the center of Fairview.
Maria sat forward in her seat again.
"…Caleb. Stop the car."
"Why-"
Then he saw it too.
Right in the middle of the intersection, a cluster of vehicles smashed together as if they had collided at full speed from every direction.
A pickup truck sat sideways, its front end crumpled into the grille of a sedan.
Another sedan had flipped partially onto its side.
One SUV had crashed into a streetlamp, airbags burst open like pale balloons.
And one car, a silver Toyota, was lodged halfway through the front window of Reeves' Hunting Supply, headlights still flickering desperately.
Several engines hissed.
A small fire crackled under the hood of a red minivan, licking the pavement and dripping flaming oil.
Maria whispered, "Oh my God…"
Caleb slammed the cruiser into park.
Both deputies jumped out.
Maria flicked on her shoulder radio.
"Dispatch, this is 3-Charlie, we have multiple vehicles involved in a collision at Fairview Main and Maple. Possible fire hazard, requesting EMS, fire department, and additional units immediately."
Static.
Then: "Copy, 3-Charlie. Units en route. Proceed with caution."
Caleb already had his flashlight out, scanning the smoking pile of wrecks.
"Hello?!" he shouted. "If anyone can hear me, call out!"
Only the sound of crackling fire and the ticking of cooling metal answered.
He checked the first vehicle, a pickup.
The driver's door hung open.
Seatbelt unbuckled.
No driver.
Maria moved to the sedan wedged against it.
Driver's side window shattered.
Glass everywhere.
Airbag fully deployed.
But the seat was empty.
No blood.
No body.
Maria felt a chill creep up her spine.
"Caleb… where is everyone?"
He didn't answer.
He stormed toward the SUV smashed into the streetlamp.
The headlights flickered off.
Then on again.
Then off.
He yanked the door handle.
Empty.
"…This doesn't make sense," he muttered. "These crashes are fresh. One of these cars is still running."
Maria's flashlight swept across the street.
Shards of glass, a baby stroller lying on its side, groceries spilled across the pavement, a phone screen cracked against the curb.
But no people.
No voices.
Not even a moan.
"Hey!" Caleb called, louder, more desperate. "Anyone!?"
His voice echoed through the empty town square.
Nothing answered.
Maria swallowed hard. Her throat felt dry.
She turned toward the hunting shop.
The Toyota was still halfway inside it, its back tires spinning weakly as if the engine had only recently died.
The shop lights were still on.
She stepped closer, gun holstered but hand hovering over it.
"Cover me," she whispered.
Caleb nodded, raising his flashlight and scanning the street.
Maria approached, boots crunching on shattered glass.
She reached the Toyota's driver's door and pulled it open carefully.
Her breath caught.
"…What the hell…"
On the driver's seat:
a neatly folded flannel shirt.
Jeans.
On the floor by the pedals:
a pair of worn work boots, laces undone, positioned exactly as if someone had been wearing them, as if someone who had simply vanished mid-step.
Maria's voice shook.
"Caleb… there's nobody in here. Just clothes. Like someone evaporated."
Caleb moved beside her, shining his light inside.
His jaw dropped.
"…That's not possible," he whispered.
---
The video froze on the final frame, Maria's trembling hand, the empty boots, the impossible absence.
The feed cut to black.
Franz lowered the tablet slightly, letting the silence sit heavy in the command center.
He cleared his throat.
"Emergency services arrived within the hour. They found the entire town completely deserted, no bodies, no survivors. Only dozens of piles of clothing scattered across the streets, homes, and businesses. All consistent with… with worn garments abruptly vacated."
A ripple of unease moved through the operators gathered behind Leonard.
Franz continued:
"Obviously, a disappearance event on this scale triggered our automated anomaly filters. The Foundation intercepted the sheriff's call logs, scrubbed the networks, and within twenty minutes our containment teams secured the area."
He tapped the tablet again.
A new interface loaded, pristine, clinical.
Maps. Time stamps. Surveillance grid overlays.
Franz spoke with a stiffness that told Leonard he already knew this was an 001 incident.
"We established a ten-kilometer containment zone around the town and took over all traffic routes. After consolidating digital evidence, we reviewed the town's CCTV system and… we found this."
He pressed play.
The screen changed.
---
The surveillance footage switched to a grainy black-and-white feed inside a small-town convenience store.
A bored-looking cashier leaned on the counter, scanning items one by one with the lazy pace of someone at the tail end of an exhausting shift.
Across from him, a middle-aged man in a flannel jacket unloaded the last of his groceries.
The audio was faint, but the microphones caught enough.
"Crazy weather lately," the customer said, setting down a bottle of milk.
"Yeah," the cashier muttered, dragging the scanner across a cereal box. "Storm warnings again. Think it'll hit us this time?"
"Probably not," the man chuckled. "Knowing our luck, it'll miss us and flood the next county instead."
A beep, another beep. A normal conversation. A normal night.
The customer reached for his wallet.
And suddenly froze, fingers spasming violently.
"A… ah- AAAHHH!" he screamed, voice cracking into raw terror.
The cashier jerked upright. "Sir? Are you-"
But then he began to scream too.
Both men clutched at their legs, at their arms, as if something beneath their skin was burning them alive. The customer stumbled back, slamming into a rack of chips, sending bags cascading to the floor.
"IT HURTS, IT HURTS, WHAT'S HAPPENING!?"
The cashier looked down and the camera clearly caught it.
The man's shin, visible where his pant leg rode up, was turning gray. Not just pale. Stone.
The petrification crawled upward in seconds, spreading across his knee, his hip, his chest.
He tried to scream again, but his jaw locked, frozen mid-cry.
A sharp crack echoed through the store.
His body turned fully rigid, and then collapsed into a cloud of dust, like a statue smashed by a hammer.
Only his clothes and boots remained, falling in a loose heap over the powder that had been a human moments earlier.
The cashier didn't even have time to run.
He petrified from the hands upward, his arms turning into jagged stone, his neck stiffening until his head snapped back unnaturally. His scream cut off mid-breath.
A second later.
CRACK.
He disintegrated the same way.
His shirt drifted down slowly. His apron fell flat. His shoes stayed neatly where he'd been standing.
The store went silent.
The camera kept rolling.
Nothing else moved.
---
Léonard's expression didn't shift. His voice, when it came, was cold and steady:
"They all died from petrification… and were swept away like dust. The effects of…"
"SCP-001. The Black Moon," Franz finished grimly.
The room fell silent.
Every operator, every analyst, every agent in OoTA turned their eyes toward the Administrator.
Léonard didn't speak for several seconds.
He simply stared at the frozen frame of the disintegrated cashier's clothes on the monitor, expression unreadable, the white glow of his eyes dim and razor-focused.
Then:
"…And Nu-1?" he asked quietly.
Franz straightened. "They're already en route to the incident site as we speak. ETA two hours until they establish a full perimeter lockdown."
Léonard let out a slow exhale, not frustration, not fear, just calculation.
"Summon the O5 Council," he said, stepping away from the table. "Emergency meeting in twenty minutes."
No one spoke.
No one questioned it.
No one dared.
The Administrator turned, coat brushing lightly against the floor, and walked out of the command center without looking back.
The doors hissed shut behind him.
---
Twenty minutes later, the lights of the Administrator's office dimmed automatically as the secure holo-screens activated.
Thirteen silhouettes appeared one by one, the members of the O5 Council materializing in floating windows arranged in a semicircle around Léonard's desk.
Franz stood at his right.
Graves stood at his left.
Both silent.
Both tense.
Léonard sat back in his chair, hands folded, his expression calm but unreadable.
When the last screen flickered into place, he finally spoke.
"Alright," he said quietly. "You've all been briefed. I want to hear your thoughts."
A pause.
Then O5-7 leaned forward slightly, her voice measured but uneasy.
"This is… the first direct manifestation of SCP-001 since the Manhattan Crisis."
O5-6 nodded once.
"That aligns with all historical tracking. This is the first confirmed event of this magnitude."
Silence fell again, heavier than before.
Finally, O5-3 cleared his throat and addressed him directly.
"Boss… what's the current progress of Nu-1 regarding SCP-001?"
Léonard did not answer right away.
His fingers tapped once on the desk.
Then he exhaled slowly.
"…They wiped out Sin Nombre," he said. "Every last trace of that GoI. They destroyed the cult dedicated to SCP-001."
A beat.
"…That's it."
Not a single Council member spoke.
Even through the screens, the weight was palpable.
O5-1 finally broke the silence, her tone calm but firm.
"Well… considering their target is a conceptual, extra-real entity that exists outside our universe's reality, I'd say eliminating Sin Nombre is already an achievement."
Léonard's eye twitched.
"But it's not fast and effective enough," he said, sharper now. "This thing just killed 1,136 civilians. An entire town disappeared in minutes. We need to neutralize it quickly, before it escalates."
Again, silence.
Franz and Graves exchanged a brief glance, both noticing the tension in his voice.
Then O5-1 spoke again, softly this time.
"Boss… with respect. SCP-001 is not something that can be killed 'quickly.' It is not a threat you defeat with speed. It requires patience. Time. A lot of time."
The room chilled.
Even the holo-screens seemed to dim.
Léonard stared at the table for a moment, remembering something, something from the wiki he had read before all of this.
Slowly, he raised his head.
"I think all of you already know," he said quietly, "that there are multiple universes, correct? With their own versions of the SCP Foundation."
O5-1 nodded immediately.
"Of course. That was established years ago."
For a moment, Léonard's pupils contracted.
Wait… there are actually other Foundation universes?
Like… for real? Not theoretically?
He hid his surprise as best he could.
O5-1 continued, her tone curious now:
"Where exactly are you going with this, Boss?"
Léonard inhaled sharply and forced himself to remain composed.
"In one of those universes," he said, "the Foundation was created by its Administrator, known as The Counterbalance. Or SCP-001-Cage."
No one spoke.
He continued.
"His ability was immortality. He was immune to the effects of SCP-001… or, rather, he would be the last person in his universe to die from its effects."
The Council listened.
No interruption.
No skepticism.
Just silence.
"And he succeeded," Léonard said. "He killed their version of SCP-001."
Eyes widened across the screens.
"But," Léonard added, voice low, "to do that, he had to disappear from history until around the 90th century."
O5-3 flinched.
O5-9 muttered something under his breath.
O5-1 leaned forward again.
"And what happened to his universe?"
Léonard looked them dead in the eyes.
"The entire human population died. Every living thing. The universe was wiped clean so that he could kill 001."
He let the words settle.
Then he asked, slowly:
"So tell me… do you really want to wait until every life in our universe is destroyed before we can kill that bastard?"
The effect was immediate.
You could have heard a pin drop.
Even the air vents seemed to stop for a second.
The O5 Council, thirteen of the most powerful people on Earth, were completely silent.
The weight of SCP-001 "The Black Moon" hung above them like a guillotine.
O5-7 cleared her throat hesitantly.
"…Boss, perhaps we could… try following the research path of that other Administrator. The one who managed to kill their SCP-001. Maybe their method can guide us."
Leonard thought for a moment, then nodded.
"You're right. The first and most logical direction would be the Wanderers' Library."
He exhaled slowly. "But unfortunately, the Foundation doesn't have access to it."
The moment he said that.
The room shifted.
Not physically, but in the behavior of the Council.
Thirteen of the most powerful people on Earth suddenly avoided eye contact.
Franz looked at the ceiling.
Graves stared at his boots.
O5-2 pretended to fix her microphone.
O5-4 coughed into his sleeve for no reason.
Leonard narrowed his eyes.
"…What?" he asked slowly.
Absolute silence.
Then O5-1 finally spoke, defeated.
"The Foundation doesn't," she said.
"But the O5 Council… has always had access."
Leonard stared at them.
They all looked painfully guilty.
"…Alright," he said, voice dangerously calm. "Who here has entered the Wanderers' Library more than once since working under me?"
For three long seconds, nobody dared to move.
Then.
Every hand went up.
Every single one.
Even Franz.
Even Graves.
Both men raised their hands like schoolboys caught stealing candy, eyes fixed anywhere except on Leonard.
Leonard blinked.
"…"
They shifted awkwardly.
He rubbed his forehead.
"You all could have told me," he muttered. "I look like an idiot now."
No one corrected him.
He sighed.
"Fine. Tomorrow, I'll go with Resh-1. If anything urgent happens, you'll know where to find me."
O5-1 nodded.
"But Boss… since it will be your first visit, just avoid damaging anything, attacking anyone, or removing a book.
The Library tends to punish those things.
Violently."
Leonard nodded once.
"Understood. Meeting adjourned. Return to your duties."
The screens flickered out one by one.
Silence settled in the room and this time, it belonged entirely to him.
---
Morning came cold and pale over the stone courtyard of the Administrator's manor at Site-01. Frost still clung to the grass, and the world felt unnaturally quiet, as if even the air knew today was not a normal day.
Léonard stepped outside in his usual attire:
a formal black suit, white shirt, long dark coat flowing behind him like a trailing shadow.
Waiting for him was Resh-1 Group One.
Twenty operators.
Graves at their head.
All standing perfectly still.
The moment Léonard appeared, they straightened and spoke in one unified voice:
"Boss."
Léonard nodded once. "Morning."
Two more figures hurried out of the manor behind him, Franz and Mei Lin, both carrying documents, both clearly tense.
They stopped at his side.
Mei Lin swallowed, then said softly:
"Boss… please be careful."
Franz added, "Yeah. The Wanderers' Library isn't dangerous in the usual sense, but… it's unpredictable. Stay sharp."
Léonard smirked lightly. "Relax. I'm just going to read."
Graves shifted slightly at that, just enough for Léonard to notice the silent disbelief radiating off him.
A black armored SUV pulled up, engine low and smooth.
The rear door opened automatically.
One of the operators stepped aside to let him in.
"Boss, vehicle's ready."
Léonard glanced once more at Franz and Mei Lin.
Both looked stiff, uneasy, like parents watching their kid walk into a dragon's den.
He adjusted the cuff of his sleeve.
"Hold the fort," he said.
Both answered in unison:
"Yes, Boss."
Léonard entered the SUV.
Two operators slid in beside him without speaking, one to his left and one to his right, forming a living wall of armor and discipline.
Graves took the front passenger seat.
The door shut with a heavy, secure clunk.
"Move," Graves ordered the driver.
The SUV started rolling, wheels crunching over gravel as it descended the long curved driveway, toward the forest road that would eventually lead them to the entry point to the Wanderers' Library…
The interior of the SUV was dim and silent, lit only by the soft blue LEDs built into the doors. The hum of the engine was steady, the road a faint vibration beneath their feet.
Graves in the front, rifle between his knees, head slightly turned so he could speak without taking his eyes off the windshield.
"Boss, before we enter, I need to brief you on a few things."
Léonard didn't look away from the window. "Sure. Go ahead."
Graves inhaled.
"There are eight rules you need to follow if you want to stay alive inside."
He raised a gloved hand, counting them off one by one:
"One, Do not take what is not yours.
Two, Keep your Library card safe.
Three, Familiarise yourself with Ways.
Four, Limit your possessions.
Five, Stay clear of named places.
Six, Avoid messing with Library Staff.
Seven, Know your enemy.
Eight, Survive."
The last word hung in the air like a warning.
Léonard raised an eyebrow. "I see."
He let out a slow exhale.
"Also, let's avoid the Serpent. I really don't feel like dealing with it."
Graves nodded immediately. "Agreed. Best not to draw its attention."
Léonard tapped a finger against his knee. "How long until we reach the Way?"
"Ten minutes, Boss."
Graves glanced at the rearview mirror.
"The closest one is under permanent OoTA guard. 24/7 perimeter. No civilians anywhere near it."
Léonard leaned back in his seat.
"Good."
Outside the window, the American countryside stretched endlessly, rolling green fields, forests still wet with morning dew, abandoned barns catching the sun, mist rising like ghosts from the ground.
The SUV sped through it all, a streak of black steel cutting across an empty road, heading toward a door that wasn't supposed to exist.
Ten minutes later, the convoy rolled off the empty highway and through a rusted metal gate marked with a faded cattle brand. A sprawling ranch stretched across the prairie, golden fields waving under the morning wind.
Wranglers and cowboys paused mid-task as the black SUVs approached, feeding horses, repairing fences, leading steers across dusty ground.
Each one raised a respectful hand at the sight of the convoy, then returned to work as if nothing unusual had happened.
It was all a mask.
Everyone here was Foundation.
The vehicles stopped in front of the main ranch house, an old, sturdy building made from varnished timber and stone.
The front door opened.
An elderly man stepped out, backed by two younger men in ranch attire. All three walked forward with disciplined posture.
Léonard exited the SUV first, Resh-1 fanning out around him like a moving wall of steel.
The three ranchers stopped, then dropped to one knee before him.
The old man bowed his head deeply.
"Welcome, Administrator."
His voice was rough but carried unmistakable respect.
"I am the captain of Special Detachment Four, operating under OoTA. My family has guarded the Way for seven generations."
He gestured to the two young men.
"These are my sons, also agents of OoTA. It is our honor to receive you."
Léonard studied them for a moment, then spoke calmly:
"You have served me well. You have my gratitude. I intend to reward your loyalty."
The old captain's eyes widened, hope flickering through his weathered face, before he forced himself back into professionalism.
"Administrator… humbly, I have a request."
Léonard nodded. "Speak."
"Allow my sons to accompany you inside the Library."
His voice trembled, not from fear but pride.
"They know the territory within eight hundred kilometers around the Way. Every path, every danger, every creature. Their guidance will keep you alive."
Léonard considered it.
Then: "Very well. I accept your request. Have them prepare."
The captain nearly beamed.
He turned sharply toward his sons.
"What are you waiting for? Go! Get ready!"
The two young men leaped to their feet and sprinted into the house at full speed.
The captain straightened, then addressed Léonard again.
"Sir… allow me to show you the path to the Way."
Léonard gestured lightly.
"Lead on."
The old man moved with surprising agility.
With a swift motion, faster than someone his age should manage, he snatched a chicken from a coop as they passed.
They entered the ranch house, a surprisingly luxurious interior. Oak floors, polished stone countertops, expensive rugs from the Middle East, walls covered with old photographs…
This was not the home of a simple cowboy.
Administrator's note:
…I'm funding your budget too well, old man.
They crossed through a back door into the rear garden. A red wooden barn stood alone, paint peeling slightly from years of sun.
The captain opened the barn doors.
Inside…
A single stone well sat at the center of the room. No animals. No tools. No hay.
Just that ancient, impossible well.
Without hesitation, the old man gripped the chicken's head and twisted it clean off with a pop, like opening a wine bottle.
Warm blood spilled.
The captain murmured incantations in a language that shouldn't exist, something far more older than English.
He let the blood fall into the well.
For a heartbeat, there was only silence.
Then.
FWOOOM-
A green light erupted from the depths, flooding the barn with an eerie glow.
The air vibrated.
The hair on Léonard's arms rose.
The Way was opening.
Léonard stepped forward, boots crunching softly against the barn's wooden floor as the green light pulsed from below.
He leaned over the edge of the well.
A blinding emerald glow surged upward like a living thing, washing over his face. Even with his inhuman eyes, he had to narrow them against the radiance. The air smelled of ozone and old paper, like a lightning strike inside a library.
He straightened, a faint thrill flickering through his chest.
So this is it… the Way to the Wanderer's Library.
Behind him, hurried footsteps echoed.
The captain's two sons emerged, now fully transformed from ranch hands into elite OoTA operatives. Their casual posture was gone; replaced by rigid discipline.
Full tactical gear.
Visors down.
Weapons slung.
Their presence was sharp enough to cut the air.
Nothing about them looked like the men he'd seen a few minutes ago.
Léonard turned to them.
"Good. You two, your names?"
The taller one stepped forward first.
"Sir, Daniel."
The second followed immediately.
"Sir, Damien."
Léonard nodded slowly.
"Very well. Daniel, Damien, lead the way."
Daniel stepped to the edge of the glowing well, boots inches from the pulsing green void. He turned back toward Léonard one last time.
"Sir… this way."
And without another word, he jumped.
Damien followed a heartbeat later, vanishing into the emerald light.
Graves looked at Léonard.
Léonard looked back.
A silent exchange passed between them.
Then Graves took a breath, tightened his grip on his rifle and leaped into the well.
Léonard stepped up to the edge, the green light swirling like a vortex beneath him.
"…Alright."
He bent his knees and dropped straight into the light.
The world dissolved into green.