The sun was slowly setting, casting red and gold hues over the dirty alleys of the capital. The air was humid, heavy with moisture that clung to the skin.Isaac walked aimlessly, dragging his feet over the damp cobblestones still wet from the afternoon rain. His gaze was lost, fixed on nothing, but his thoughts were swirling.
He hadn't said a word since his encounter with the prince and the princess. The sensation that something had ignited inside him hadn't left.It wasn't pain. It wasn't a wound.It was… like warmth in the pit of his stomach, like a spark of light he didn't yet understand.
The memory of that hand placed on his battered body, of that invisible energy that had stitched his skin back together in seconds, played over and over in his mind.He didn't know this power.But he knew he wanted it.
The street he had entered was unfamiliar. No more shouting merchants.The stones seemed older, the houses more crooked, the windows veiled with filthy curtains. The smell was different too: the scent of paper, of dust… of silence.
His gaze stopped on a dark storefront, half-hidden between two ruined buildings. A wooden sign, blackened with age, creaked in the evening breeze.Writings of Ancient TimesIsaac frowned. He had never seen this shop before.And yet, he was sure he had walked here already.Something—a shiver, maybe—urged him to come closer.
🔔 Tling.A chime creaked in a silence so thick it seemed to cut the air.
Inside, the light was dim. A single lantern hung from the ceiling, casting a flickering golden glow. The air was heavy with the smell of leather, moldy parchment, and warm wax.
Mountains of books filled every corner, piled with no logic.Some stacks swayed, threatening to collapse at any moment.
— You don't look like a kid who reads, said a deep, gravelly voice.
Isaac jumped slightly.Behind a counter buried under scrolls, an old man sat still like a statue. His face was pale, his eyes a nearly translucent grey.
— Just looking, Isaac replied neutrally.
— No one comes in here just to look, the old man growled. Three copper coins. You pick a book from that pile. Not that one. Not the shelves. That one.
He pointed to a crooked pile at the back, wedged between two wobbly shelves.Isaac hesitated. He searched his pockets. Three coins, worn and dull. His last money.He placed them on the counter.
The old man slid them into his hand without looking.Then fell back into silence.
Isaac walked slowly toward the pile.Some books were so old their titles had vanished. Others were torn, eaten away by moisture.His fingers ran along the spines, hesitating. Nothing really stood out.
Until he saw it.A small black book. Cracked leather binding.No title. No markings. Nothing.But it seemed… alive.A cold breath ran up his arm as he reached for it.
He hesitated.And touched the cover.
A shiver ran down his spine.No pain. No shock.But a strange sensation—as if the book had recognized him.
He took it.The bookseller said nothing. But a faint smile, barely noticeable, formed on his face.
Isaac left without a word.The wind outside had changed. Colder.He held the book tightly against him.
He walked for a long time.Until he reached a forgotten fountain, near the ruined districts.
He sat on the cold stone.His hands caressed the cover. Slowly.Then he opened the book.
No introduction.No author's name.Just one sentence, written in fine golden ink, as if engraved:
"Energy is not a gift. It is a trace left by the soul."
He turned the page.Symbols. Complex circles. Drawings of human bodies.Lines traced on the chest, the stomach, the head.Paths.
Each page spoke of a concept he didn't yet understand—but he felt them deeply.
"The mind is the cradle of energy.""The body is a barrier. The inner world is a sea."
He kept reading.He didn't know for how long.
As he read, a familiar warmth rose within him.The one he had felt after being healed.But this time… it was expanding.
He turned another page.A strange symbol. A stylized eye. Closed.Beneath it, a single sentence:
"To look inward is to awaken what sleeps."
His heart started beating faster.The world around him faded.
He felt a pressure in his forehead, a distant humming.Not pain.A call.
And then, suddenly, it all stopped.
He came back to himself.The book was still there, open.The evening light had faded into darkness.The fountain was empty. The street silent.
But Isaac was no longer the same.
This book hadn't just taught him words.It had opened a door.Subtle. Invisible.But very real.
He closed it.And knew, without understanding why, that he should never show it to anyone.