The labyrinth of crowded streets in Raerno branched out in every direction, teeming with merchants, adventurers, and citizens beginning their new day.
Mirac advanced with a determined stride, moving through the crowd with the natural ease of someone who knows exactly where to place his feet.
'The Raid isn't far off now…' the boy thought, clenching his fist slightly. 'There will be countless Rogthars to face, and without knowing yet who is behind this whole affair, I have to be ready for every contingency like never before! My body has been tempered by years of hard training, my swordsmanship is by now well-established, and my control over Mana is nearly impeccable. However, these aspects might not be enough this time for the battle awaiting us… After all, at Carameo it wasn't easy to take down that horned Rogthar: between its unstoppable regenerative ability and that artifact capable of hurling devastating flames, defeating it already cost us an enormous effort. And if at the Raid we have to deal with an entire army of similar monsters—perhaps equipped with analogous weapons or commanded by even more dangerous entities—skill alone won't suffice…'
He drew a deep breath, then the logical thread of his thoughts grew denser and more calculating.
'Of course, things would be very different if I could freely exploit my mathematical powers. But a great many Guilds will take part in the Raid: there will be a sea of people, and with all that crowd around I won't be able to afford using my magical abilities. Or at least, not all of them…'
Mirac mentally weighed the nature of his capabilities, subdividing them with his usual analytical clarity.
'Up until now, my mathematical powers essentially fall into two categories: those that allow me to physically alter the objects I touch, and those that provide me with instantaneous information about what I see. Consequently, the informational and passive powers are the only ones I can freely exploit to gain a tactical advantage without running the slightest risk of being discovered.'
He paused briefly, turning the corner of a side street as the urban landscape slowly shifted around him.
'The problem is that the repertoire of analytical and passive powers I currently possess wouldn't be of much use in a situation like this. For that reason, I have to remedy it and make use of this day when I'm alone to acquire new abilities! And the only way to succeed is to master new theoretical foundations of mathematics, just as I've done in the past. And at the moment, there's only one place where I can manage that…'
An almost imperceptible smile formed beneath the mask.
His thoughts were perfectly clear.
After about ten minutes of walking, leaving the chaos of the center behind and veering toward the "Prosperous District" in the north-east of the city, Mirac's silhouette came to a halt in front of a building that stood out with a discreet yet imposing presence.
The façade of the structure, clad in polished light stone, was sober but decorated with elegant details, such as slender columns framing the entrance and arched windows that offered a glimpse of the building's interior.
'Here I am at last!' the boy thought, accelerating his pace almost imperceptibly until he reached the entrance steps. 'For a moment I was afraid I'd taken the wrong road…'
With a quick movement of his neck, he raised his head and his eyes went straight to the massive double wooden doors, where a carved sign gleamed in the morning light with golden lettering:
"Central Library of Raerno"
'There's no time to lose!'
Without hesitation, the masked boy climbed the few entrance steps and crossed the heavy solid-wood doors.
The air inside changed at once: the din of the city vanished, replaced by a solemn silence, dense with the unmistakable scent of old paper, glue, and polished wood.
Mirac stopped for a moment in the atrium, letting his eyes wander among the carved columns, the wrought-iron chandeliers, and that marvel of dark wooden shelves that stretched upward, watched over by a librarian behind an inlaid counter.
However, he was not there to lose himself in aesthetic contemplation.
With his mind still focused on the reason he was there, Mirac quickly looked around, assessing the layout of the atrium.
Instead of heading toward the back wall, where the five elevators stood recessed in plain view, the masked boy diverted his path toward the left side of the atrium, where a spiral staircase wound upward, coiled around a slender pillar of carved stone—the twin of the one that, on the opposite side, rose symmetrically along the right wall.
The choice was not casual.
'Better to avoid the elevators,' he thought, admiring the wrought-iron banister as he climbed the steps. 'They require an Identity Document to be operated, which means every use is probably recorded somewhere. Not that it's concrete proof of surveillance… but better not to leave unnecessary traces, especially after last night's conversation with Carmen.'
Synchronizing his breath with the dull sound of his own boots on the steps, Mirac thought back to the three hypotheses the woman had formulated about the hooded figure, and above all to her final advice.
'No change of habits, she said. So today I'll do exactly what I had planned, a free morning in the library. Just with more care than usual…'
Upon reaching the first floor, Mirac slowed his pace, letting his gaze slide over the rows of shelves that opened before him, until it settled on an engraved plaque marking the nearest section:
"History and Chronicles of Harmony"
The floor, unlike the silent atrium, buzzed with a modest bustle: a few students leafed through tomes propped against the shelves, while an elderly man with a book cart advanced slowly along the central aisle.
Mirac stepped slightly aside to let him pass, responding with a nod of the head to the man's brief look of thanks.
Taking advantage of that momentary pause right next to a secondary shelf, the boy decided to seize the moment: he reached out naturally, pretending to examine the dusty spines before smoothly extracting the first volume within his reach.
"Historical Atlas of the Fortified Cities of the Continent"
Mirac opened it, bowing his head as if he had suddenly been captivated by those old yellowed maps.
His attention, however, did not so much as graze the ink.
Behind the mirrored lenses of the mask, which shielded him from the gazes of others, his green eyes were free to wander without fear of being noticed, while his fingers turned the pages at regular intervals to keep the performance of the absorbed reader intact.
With barely perceptible movements of his head, similar to the natural sway of someone following the lines of a text, he scanned the surrounding space with cold precision.
He swept his gaze over the readers bent over the tables and the figures passing between the aisles, searching for a familiar face—perhaps that of a passerby he thought he had glimpsed more than once along the way, always at a certain distance.
Or better yet, for a familiar hood: that of the figure who days earlier had been secretly watching him among the shelves of Level -1!
And yet, no matter how deeply his gaze dug through the people around him, there were only perfectly harmless strangers, completely absorbed in their own business.
'No one suspicious, I think…'
Letting an almost imperceptible sigh escape behind the mask, Mirac closed the atlas with calculated nonchalance, slipped it under his arm, and resumed walking along the shelves at a placid pace.
'Well, what did I expect… I have no experience in the field of espionage, so I wouldn't even know how to recognize if someone is tailing me or not, especially in a crowded city like Raerno. But in case they really are keeping an eye on me, perhaps the very same person who watched me on Level -1, the last thing I want is for them to notice a suspiciously focused interest in a single subject. A detail like that could betray my nature as a Chaotic… On the contrary, I'd like to pass for a simple curious boy who spends his free morning browsing here and there in the library without any real purpose.'
Mirac cast another almost distracted glance at the shelves surrounding him, as if wanting to play the part of the ordinary curious visitor to the very end.
But having played the part of the idle loafer so perfectly, a vein of subtle irony worked its way into his thoughts:
'Heh, look how many conjectures for a simple trip to the library… But that's fine: after all, you can never be too careful!'
Shaking his head with a touch of ironic self-pity at his own paranoia, Mirac let a breath of laughter die in his throat.
After that, he continued along the same floor, passing the literature shelves, until he reached a more secluded section that was decidedly smaller than the others—composed of a mere three shelves.
The brass plaque this time read:
"Mathematics"
'Here you are!'
Mirac's heart quickened slightly as he made his way among the shelves, his eyes sweeping swiftly over the titles in search of something that could enrich his repertoire of powers.
It was then that his gaze settled on a volume with a rust-colored leather spine, carefully bound and apparently older than the surrounding books.
"THE ALGEBRA OF FORMS: Symbols and Geometry"
There was no doubt: that one was precisely the second of the Seven Sacred Volumes of Mathematics!
The work whose knowledge had literally shaken and rebuilt the foundations of that scientifically backward world.
And just as in the first volume, beneath the title appeared the name of the so-called "Father of Mathematics," engraved in smaller yet perfectly legible characters:
"Dave Arangot"
A cold shiver ran down Mirac's spine, rising all the way to the nape of his neck.
'Dave Arangot…' The name echoed in his mind with unexpected weight.
He remained motionless for a few moments, the book still resting on the shelf, his hand suspended in mid-air as if hesitant to touch it.
No clue, no piece of information gathered until that moment, had ever managed to shed light on the mystery surrounding the author—who was also his presumed father in his previous life—of those Seven Sacred Volumes of Mathematics so innovative for their time.
And even now, staring at that second volume, Mirac found no answers: only more questions that accumulated in silence.
'Dammit! No, this isn't the time to dwell on it,' he finally told himself, giving a slight shake of the head. 'I have other priorities today!'
Having driven that thought away, the boy returned his gaze to the second volume and stretched out his hand to take it.
But then he stopped short—his fingers a breath away from the tome.
'How strange…'
On the spine of every book in the library, at the bottom, a small ivory-colored paper label was glued, bearing a brief sequence of numbers traced in black ink: the shelfmark indicating floor, aisle, and shelf, so that every volume could find its place again after each loan.
But the spine of the Second Sacred Volume of Mathematics—the Algebra of Forms—was completely bare.
'No label?'
There was not even a trace of a tear, nor a smudge of glue: the rust-colored leather was smooth, as if no one had ever thought to catalog it.
'They probably just forgot…' Mirac concluded, glossing over that detail.
With a shrug, he dismissed any further speculation, finally slid the volume from the shelf, and held it together with the history book he had already collected.
Afterward, the masked boy let his gaze run over the other shelves of that tiny sector, searching for the Third Volume or any other tome from the same series.
But unfortunately, he found nothing but treatises on mercantile arithmetic, cadastral calculations, and basic manuals of geodesy.
That volume therefore seemed, to all intents and purposes, the only one of the Seven Sacred Volumes of Mathematics available in that library.
'Predictable, I'd say…' Mirac thought, smiling behind the mask. 'In a city like Raerno, swarming with warriors and adventurers, who would ever take an interest in studying mathematics?'
With that ironic thought for company, the masked boy left the three half-empty shelves behind and returned to the spiral staircase.
Upon reaching the second floor, Mirac slowed his pace just a little, letting his gaze run along the two corridors that opened symmetrically and mirror-like on either side of him: the Geography wing on the left, and the Monsterology wing on the right, exactly as he remembered them from his first visit.
He approached one of the massive Monsterology shelves, fishing out a volume at random, so long as it was thin enough not to burden him.
"Migratory Habits of the Creatures of the Ventaris Highlands"
He slid it from its place with a fluid motion and added it to the pile of books he already held firmly against his side.
Then, without delay, Mirac reached the third floor of the library, where, beside the Dungeology section, stretched the one dedicated to "Nature and Ecosystems," as indicated by the two polished brass plaques fixed at the entrance to the respective sectors.
The atmosphere here was distinctly different from the lower floors: the silence was denser, almost solemn, and the coming and going of people was almost entirely absent.
Wandering among the shelves of this new wing, he decided to add two more volumes to his pile to reinforce his cover.
He smoothly extracted a dense essay of ecological observations titled "Floro-Ecology of the Inner Sea" and, right beside it, a fascinating treatise on "Arcano-Evolutionary Botany: The Mutated Plants."
'Five books in total, distributed across completely different disciplines…' he thought with satisfaction, weighing the stack he held against his side. 'And since there's not a living soul up here on the third floor to watch my back, this isolated corner is the perfect spot!'
Having spotted an empty table in a quiet corner, illuminated by the warm light coming from an arched window, Mirac sat down, carefully setting the other four books aside—arranged so as to look like part of a genuine study session.
Then, with a mixture of curiosity and caution, he opened the mathematics volume right from the first page and began to leaf through it slowly…
'I have no way of knowing beforehand which notions might grant me active or passive powers… Therefore, to be safe, I'll have to examine every single chapter and assimilate every theoretical foundation available!'
* * *
{ IN THE MEANTIME… }
Not far from the Central Library, walking at a steady pace along the route that led to the "Iron District," Carmen and Blake proceeded side by side.
The air changed abruptly, thick with denser, rawer smells: the acrid smoke of coal, the red-hot iron, the lubricating oil, and the soot that settled imperceptibly on the skin.
The paving, visibly more worn than in the residential zones, bore the deep marks of the heavy freight carts that traversed it every day.
All around, the city's hum blended into a single, uninterrupted metallic beat: the steady rhythm of dozens of hammers striking anvils and the continuous hiss of the lit forges.
The woman had her red hair tied in the practical ponytail she had put up before leaving, and her stride maintained that measured, vigilant rhythm that distinguished her.
Blake, for his part, tried to keep up, looking around with an air slightly more relaxed than on the morning of the previous day.
"So… you were looking for a versatile weapon, right?" the tall, thin boy asked, cautiously breaking the long silence that had accompanied them so far. "Something that lets you adapt to more situations, given your class as a Swordswoman."
Carmen nodded almost imperceptibly, adjusting her glasses with two fingers. "Exactly. I don't need anything too ornamental or heavy. I need something balanced, reliable, and that responds quickly to changes of direction."
"I see…" Blake murmured, smiling weakly. "Well, I'm sure Thomas has just the thing for you."
At a certain point, the two turned the corner and emerged into a wide dead-end alley, finding themselves facing the soot-blackened façade and the steel sign of the shop located at the end of the street:
"The Dragon's Jaws"
Before approaching the door, however, Blake slowed his pace, stopping a few meters from the entrance.
Carmen stopped in turn, casting him a questioning glance.
The boy scratched the back of his neck, his expression halfway between embarrassment and seriousness.
"Um, Ananya… I'd like to ask you a favor before we go in," he began timidly. "Could you avoid mentioning to Thomas that I was in the hospital? And also the reason for my stay, please… I'm fine now, so I don't want him to worry for nothing…"
The red-haired woman observed him for a moment, her gaze sliding over the boy's sincere expression.
"As you prefer," she answered at last, limiting herself to a nod of assent.
With a sigh of relief, Blake resumed walking toward the entrance.
Reaching the massive reinforced wooden door at the end of the alley, the tall, thin boy pushed it lightly and entered together with Carmen.
The heat of the workshop enveloped them at once, along with the controlled roar of the dragon-head-shaped forge and the rhythmic clang of a hammer.
"Hey, Thomas!" Blake exclaimed in a lighter tone than usual, raising a hand in greeting. "I brought you a new customer!"
The young blacksmith was bent over the anvil, but he raised his gaze as soon as he heard his friend's voice.
He carefully set down the hammer, wiped his hands on his blackened leather apron, and approached, casting a curious look at the red-haired woman.
Blake immediately took the initiative and broke the ice with the proper introductions:
"Thomas, this is Ananya, Isaac's traveling companion. Ananya, this is Thomas, one of the finest blacksmiths in Raerno!"
Carmen inclined her head slightly in a sober nod.
"Pleasure. I'm looking for a light, balanced, and responsive sword. Preferably ready-made, if possible."
'A woman of few words, eh?' Thomas studied her for a moment, then nodded. "I don't have any urgent commissions this morning. I can spare you a bit of time. Come downstairs, and I'll show you what I have available."
Without adding anything further, the blacksmith headed toward the stone staircase that descended to the lower floor. Carmen followed him at a composed pace, leaving Blake on the ground floor.
The tall, thin boy remained near the workbench, distractedly observing the flames of the draconic forge.
The heat warmed his face, and for a moment he allowed himself a longer breath, almost nostalgic.
'We miss you so much, Old Man…'
Blake sketched a bitter half-smile, losing himself in the reflection of the flames.
That quiet lasted for a few seconds, until the sound of heavy footsteps behind him abruptly tore him from his melancholy.
Confident steps, accompanied by the light clink of a quality scabbard.
And then, that familiar voice:
"Tsk! Of all the nuisances I could run into…"
Blake stiffened.
His blood ran cold.
He turned slowly, incredulous.
It was the third time he had found himself facing him in the space of a few days, and yet his reaction was always the same:
"J-Joren?!"