The City Hall Library stood like a monument to forgotten time.
Its stone pillars rose toward the ceiling, etched with carvings that had dulled with age. Tall windows let in pale afternoon light, illuminating floating dust motes that drifted lazily between shelves stacked with centuries of recorded history.
Lisa stepped inside, her footsteps echoing softly against the marble floor.
She headed straight for the History Section.
Rows upon rows of thick books greeted her—leather-bound spines cracked from age, titles stamped in fading gold ink. She scanned the shelves quickly, fingers brushing over dates, names, and places tied to the city's past.
If Sarah Good really existed… there has to be something more than a footnote.
She pulled down the first book.
Foundations of the City
It mentioned Sarah Good once.
"A woman accused of witchcraft, burned at the stake for heresy."
Nothing else.
Lisa flipped through another book.
The Rise of Terry Philips
Pages upon pages dedicated to the man credited with building the city—his architecture, his influence, his vision.
Sarah Good was absent.
Another book.
Another dead end.
Every historical record repeated the same shallow narrative:
Sarah Good was a witch.
Sarah Good was burned.
End of story.
Lisa exhaled sharply, frustration creeping in.
That symbol didn't survive centuries just to be meaningless.
She approached the front desk.
The librarian—a middle-aged woman with thin glasses and neatly tied hair—looked up politely.
"Can I help you?"
"Yes," Lisa said. "I'm looking for information about a woman named Sarah Good."
The librarian blinked. "Sarah Good?"
"She was accused of witchcraft in the 1400s."
The librarian studied Lisa for a moment—her plain coat, professional demeanor, badge clipped to her belt. Lisa didn't look like someone chasing occult myths.
Still, the librarian typed the name into her computer.
Three results appeared.
She frowned. "That's… odd."
"What is it?" Lisa asked.
"These are the only records we have," the librarian said, turning the screen slightly. "But they're the same three books you've already checked."
Lisa felt her stomach drop.
"So that's it?" she asked quietly.
The librarian shrugged. "As far as public records go."
Lisa thanked her and stepped away, mind racing.
Plan A failed.
Which meant—
Plan B.
Force Reid to talk.
She turned to leave—
And froze.
A familiar voice spoke behind her.
"You won't find her story up here."
Lisa spun around.
The grey-hooded man stood between the shelves, face hidden in shadow.
Her pulse spiked. "You again."
"There is a book about Sarah Good," he said calmly. "Just not where people are allowed to look."
Lisa hesitated. "And why would you know that?"
"Because history doesn't like uncomfortable truths."
He turned and began walking.
"Wait!" Lisa said. "Where are you going?"
"To where stories are buried."
Against every instinct drilled into her as a detective, Lisa followed.
They passed a staff-only door.
Then another.
Finally, they reached an old elevator tucked away behind filing cabinets.
The man pressed the button.
The doors creaked open.
They stepped inside.
The elevator descended far longer than it should have for a single basement floor.
When the doors opened, darkness greeted them.
The basement smelled of dust and neglect.
Dim ceiling lights flickered weakly, barely cutting through the shadows. Spider webs stretched across beams like forgotten curtains. The silence felt heavy—oppressive.
"This place isn't on any map," the hooded man said.
He led her to a single bookshelf standing alone.
Only five books sat on it.
Lisa scanned them one by one.
Nothing.
Then—
The fifth book.
Her breath caught.
The Book of Creations
She pulled it free.
The cover was worn, its edges frayed, but the title remained clear.
Flipping through the pages, Lisa's hands trembled.
There it was.
A detailed account of Sarah Good's life.
Not a witch.
A grieving woman.
A scholar.
A wife who tried to bring her murdered husband back using forbidden knowledge.
Her eyes widened.
And then she saw it.
A drawing.
The Eye-Circle Symbol.
Beneath it, written in old ink, was its true name.
Lisa's heart pounded.
She looked up—
The hooded man was gone.
"Wait!" she called out.
No response.
She swallowed and clutched the book tightly.
I need light. I need air.
She hurried back toward the elevator, knowing one thing for certain—
This case wasn't just about murder anymore.
The atmosphere at the Northern Shrine crackled with anticipation.
"Next match," Itsuki announced, "Kenshin versus Tsubasa."
The crowd shifted.
Kenshin stepped into the ring, twin swords resting at his sides. His grip tightened instinctively as he glanced at the faint cracks along the blades—scars from the battle against the four-armed demon.
Across from him, Tsubasa stretched his shoulders.
With a sharp sound, wings burst from his back, feathers glinting like polished steel.
The barrier shimmered into place.
"Begin!"
Tsubasa took off instantly.
The ground cracked beneath the force of his ascent.
He circled above Kenshin, wings slicing the air as razor feathers fired downward like bullets.
Kenshin reacted on instinct.
Clang! Clang!
His twin swords flashed as he parried each feather, sparks flying with every impact.
"You're fast," Kenshin muttered.
Tsubasa smirked. "You're slow on the ground."
Kenshin thrust his blades outward—
Flying swords shot through the air toward Tsubasa.
But Tsubasa twisted mid-flight effortlessly, weaving between them as if dancing.
"You'll have to do better than that!"
He dove.
Feathers rained down again.
Kenshin blocked, but each impact sent vibrations through his arms.
Something felt wrong.
Too much recoil…
Tsubasa swooped low, slashing with his wings.
Kenshin crossed his swords to block—
CRACK!
A piece of metal shattered.
Kenshin's eyes widened.
His blade was chipped.
He jumped back, heart pounding.
The demon fight… I overused them.
Tsubasa didn't give him time.
He shot forward again, wings spinning like blades.
Kenshin swung—
Another crack.
His second sword fractured.
"Damn it—!"
Tsubasa slammed into him.
Feathers pierced through Kenshin's torso, arms, and legs.
Pain exploded through his body.
He hit the ground hard.
Blood stained the ring.
"Kenshin!" someone yelled.
Chiaki raised her hand instantly.
"That's enough! Stop the match!"
Tsubasa landed, breathing hard, wings retracting.
Kenshin lay still, sharp feathers protruding from his body.
Maids rushed in, glowing hands sealing wounds and pulling feathers free.
Itsuki stepped forward. "The winner is Tsubasa."
Applause echoed through the shrine.