I took a deep breath and opened my eyes again.

  The silence inside the library thickened until it felt almost tangible. I could hear the faint rustle of my own thoughts. I reached out and touched the first thing I found—a rolled parchment, coated in dust and carrying the scent of ancient sandalwood.

  When I unrolled it, I found diagrams of slow, flowing stances.

  Tai chi.

  The text, written in delicate calligraphy, read:

  “Each movement is a dialogue between heaven and earth; the body is the bridge that unites them.”

  I hesitated for a few seconds, then stood and imitated the first figure. My arms trembled, my knees creaked, and my right foot decided to tangle itself with my left.

  “Ow!” I yelped, toppling sideways.

  A book fell directly onto my head. When I picked it up, I read the title:

  Balance and Harmony in Eight Movements.

  Yes, universe. I get the irony.

  Rubbing my forehead, I got back up and searched for something more… peaceful. A nearby volume discussed Taoist meditation—sitting in silence, following the flow of one’s breath until the mind emptied.

  That sounded easy.

  So I tried.

  I sat cross-legged, closed my eyes, and attempted to think about absolutely nothing.

  One second later, I was wondering whether Zenhaff ate magical mice or regular ones. Then I remembered I hadn’t had dinner. Then Akuma popped into my head. Then I got distracted by the terrifying possibility that I might be going cross-eyed with my eyes closed.

  I opened one eye to check how much time had passed.

  The clock beside me declared, with cruel honesty:

  Forty seconds.

  “I’m doomed,” I whispered, letting myself fall backward.

  Above me, the ceiling spun lazily, filled with golden dust drifting through beams of light. It looked like suspended rain.

  I stood again and wandered between the towering shelves.

  On a nearby bookcase, a violet-covered book shimmered faintly, as if calling to me. I opened it and discovered diagrams of energy channels—lines running through the human body like rivers of light.

  Ki.

  The text claimed that mastering it could strengthen the body, heal wounds, or even project the spirit beyond the flesh. I was fascinated…

  …until I tried to gather energy into my hands.

  Result:

  Zero power.

  Only a faint tingling in my fingers.

  Determined not to give up, I continued exploring. On a table rested a compendium on reiki, filled with illustrations of glowing hands hovering over bodies wrapped in light.

  Laying on hands to transmit healing energy…

  Sounds simple, I thought.

  I placed my hands over a bowl of water. Closed my eyes solemnly.

  “Transmit your energy,” the text instructed.

  I focused with all my might, imagining a warm current flowing from my chest down to my palms.

  The water bubbled.

  My heart leapt.

  “It worked!” I shouted, eyes shining.

  Then a frog—appearing out of absolutely nowhere—emerged from the bowl and stared straight at me. Its expression looked suspiciously like laughter. It hopped away, leaving tiny wet footprints behind.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  Some time later, I found a manual on acupuncture. Beside it sat a wooden doll covered in hundreds of tiny metallic points. It was unsettling.

  But also…

  Intriguing.

  I picked up a needle.

  “Just one poke. What could possibly go wrong?” I muttered.

  I inserted the needle into one of the marked points.

  Something inside the doll clicked.

  A hidden spring triggered—

  —and the doll shot a jet of black ink directly into my face.

  “What kind of sick joke is this?!”

  Ink dripped from my chin, staining my hands and neck. I could swear that somewhere in Nebenbei, Zenhaff was rolling on the floor laughing.

  After cleaning myself as best I could, I made my way toward the back of the library. There, a small altar rested beneath a carved wooden arch. Tibetan bells, metal bowls, and oil lamps were arranged with ceremonial care. The air vibrated with a subtle hum, as if an invisible presence were chanting a mantra.

  I sat before the altar.

  For the first time since entering the library, I felt a hint of calm. The sound filled my chest—slow, deep, resonant.

  I gently struck one bell.

  Its tone expanded, round and sweet.

  I struck another.

  The echoes intertwined, weaving an erratic yet hypnotic melody.

  For a fleeting moment, I had the strange sensation that the air itself responded to my movements. The dust suspended in the light swirled above me, forming ephemeral shapes.

  Encouraged, I continued with more enthusiasm, striking the bowls harder.

  The result was…

  Catastrophic.

  A monumental crash thundered through the room.

  The air roared. Shelves trembled. Books burst free.

  A storm of paper and dust engulfed me.

  When silence finally returned, I was buried beneath an avalanche of loose pages and open tomes.

  I coughed.

  “Well… I suppose that counts as summoning something.”

  Hours later, I returned to mr. Toshihiro.

  My body felt like lead. There was still ink on my forehead, book dust in my hair, and my fingers were numb from accumulated clumsiness.

  “This is useless!” I burst out, dropping to my knees. “Not one of those things taught me how to cast a single spell.”

  Mr. Toshihiro didn’t react. He simply inclined his head slowly, like someone listening to an old, predictable joke. His silence was so heavy my words felt as though they bounced off him and came back to hit me.

  “I see the library treated you kindly,” he said at last, with that infuriating calm.

  “If that was kindness… I’d hate to see what happens when it’s angry.”

  He nodded, as though my sarcasm contained a spark of wisdom.

  “And what did you learn?”

  “That I’m terrible at tai chi, my mind refuses to shut up for even two minutes, I can’t heal so much as a pebble, and needles are clearly a demonic invention.”

  I sighed in defeat.

  “In other words,” he replied evenly, “you learned that you lack patience, concentration, and confidence in yourself.”

  His eyes glimmered behind the mask.

  “Exactly what I wanted you to discover.”

  I bit my lip, swallowing the retort that rose to my tongue. I didn’t know whether to yell at him or thank him.

  Was this part of the plan?

  Make me stumble until exhaustion forced understanding?

  He rose. His movements were so measured that, as always, the air seemed to fall into rhythm with his steps. When he reached me, he placed a hand on my shoulder.

  The touch was light.

  But I felt a vibration beneath my skin, like a pulse.

  “Maki,” he said, his voice low, “spells will come. But first, you must cultivate the temple where they will reside—your mind and your body.”

  His voice didn’t sound entirely human. It carried something older, as though time itself spoke through him.

  “When your breath is clear as air, your heart steady as earth, your compassion deep as water, and your courage burning as fire…”

  He paused.

  The silence became absolute.

  “…only then will you be able to invoke true magic.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I simply exhaled and let my shoulders sag.

  “You’ve done enough for today,” he added, stepping back. “Go have dinner with Zenhaff, then sleep. Tomorrow is another day.”

  “Resting is for the weak,” I muttered, even though I could barely stand.

  Toshihiro tilted his head.

  “A weary mind does not meditate. It dreams.”

  He pointed down the corridor.

  “Go to bed.”

  I obeyed reluctantly. The hallway lay in shadow, dimly lit by floating lamps burning with a yellowish glow.

  Before turning in, I decided to stop by the library one last time. I only wanted to grab a book to review before sleep—something to make me feel at least marginally productive.

  I moved cautiously between the shelves.

  Then—

  A sharp thud shattered the silence.

  I turned.

  One of the volumes I had returned earlier lay on the floor, spread wide open. Its pages flipped violently on their own, as though caught in an invisible gale.

  The temperature dropped.

  I could see my breath.

  A low murmur rose from the book—a sound that did not belong to this world.

  The characters on the page began to glow from within. The light was pale, flickering unnaturally.

  Curiosity pulled me closer.

  Then I heard it.

  A lament.

  Faint at first.

  Then clearer.

  Words shaped like grief, spoken in an unrecognizable language. Each syllable scraped against the air, as though struggling to escape the paper and take form.

  A chill crawled down my spine. I stepped back.

  Yet I felt tempted.

  Drawn.

  Called to touch the book.

  To embrace it.

  To become one with it.

  I moved forward again, hypnotized by those voices whispering my name in a foreign tongue.

  “Maki!”

  At the sound of my name, I spun around and hurried toward the exit.

  At the end of the corridor, Zenhaff waited.

  Her silver eyes gleamed like blades in the darkness. Fur bristling. Tail rigid. Completely alert, staring past me—toward the shadows where the book still whispered.

  She was the one who had called out.

  I stopped beside her.

  “What are you looking at?” I asked softly, trying—and failing—to sound casual.

  She didn’t blink.

  For the first time, her presence didn’t feel mocking or playful.

  It felt solemn.

  Ready.

  “Go to bed,” she said at last, without looking away. “It’s late.”

  “What about you?”

  “I have unfinished business with one of those books.”

  Her voice was different. Controlled. Taut.

  Almost a restrained growl.

  Something flickered in her eyes—something I couldn’t quite name.

  Fear.

  Alertness.

  Or perhaps…

  Respect.

  I watched her for a moment longer, but her silence was an order that allowed no refusal.

  I walked toward my room with the uneasy sensation that something was watching me from the darkness of the corridor.