The literature hall shimmered as if it breathed—vast, timeless, constructed not of stone but of thought. Shelves suspended in air without gravity held books whose pages fluttered though there was no wind. Words flowed like stardust across the walls, rearranging themselves silently. Ink dripped from unseen points in the air, forming symbols before dispersing again.
This was not a hall of learning.
This was a domain of intellect.
Shaurya took a single step forward, standing at the exact center of a circular sigil that glowed faintly like moonlit water. His posture was calm, not overly proud, not meek—balanced, centered, unforced. Like someone ready not to win… but simply be right.
Across from him stood the Guardian Spirit — the ancient, spectral scholar — robes woven from scripture fragments, beard flowing like pale fog, eyes deep with centuries of witnessed triumphs and failures. The faint aura of authority surrounding him didn't feel heavy—it felt inevitable.
