The meal had ended.
Demio stood slowly, pushing back his chair with a creak that lingered in the air. He wiped his rough hands and bearded chin with a cloth towel, eyes landing on Emil with a quiet weight.
"Lugi," he said, voice low but firm. "Be home later this afternoon. Got it?"
Emil turned to him. "Hm?"
His response came too fast, too uncertain. The moment the sound escaped his lips, he regretted it.
He searched—scrambled—for a memory, a thread, anything from Lugira's life that would explain the request.
Nothing.
Just silence. A silence that clung like fog.
Five seconds passed. Then six. Only the song of birds broke the stillness, sounding almost too deliberate, as if the world itself was trying to fill in a gap.
Demio narrowed his eyes. Not with suspicion, but with expectation. Routine. Fatherly pride.
"We had an agreement," Demio said. His voice was no longer casual—it had settled, grounded itself like the worn soles of his boots. "Once you finish the academy, you'd join me. Train in swordsmanship. Prepare for patrol work."
Swordsmanship.
The word struck like a dull bell in Emil's chest, echoing.
So that's it. The boy—Lugira—was set to become a guard. To follow in his father's footsteps. Another routine life in a world Emil didn't belong to. Another role to play with stakes he didn't yet understand.
"Yes, father," Emil replied with a slow nod, careful to meet Demio's gaze. "Don't worry. I'll keep that in mind."
His voice was calm, but his chest tightened beneath the surface.
Demio gave a grunt of approval, the kind of grunt born from worn hands and long days on duty. He turned and walked toward the door, leaving behind only the scent of sweat, iron, and sun-dried cloth.
Emil remained in place. His hand slowly clenched beneath the table.
Swordsmanship.
It wasn't just the word. It was the implication. In this world—where scrolls whispered magic, where time moved through foreign moons, and where every corner of reality felt dreamlike and off-kilter—was this a place that mimicked fiction?
Emil glanced at the gas lamp still cooling beside him. The flicker of its flame danced in reflection off the polished spoon near his plate. Just hours ago, he had awoken in a stranger's body, watched twin moons fade into a morning sky unlike anything on Earth.
Now he was being invited—expected—to wield a blade.
He lowered his eyes, whispering barely above breath, "Is this… a world out of the books I've read?"
No answer came.
Only the soft rustle of wind pressing against the thin wooden walls.
Emil quietly excused himself and returned to his room. His bare feet moved across the wooden floor with deliberate slowness. The planks creaked beneath him—long, drawn-out groans that echoed faintly in the stillness of the narrow hallway. Each step reminded him that this wasn't a dream, and this body wasn't borrowed—it was his now.
The house, though modest, was too quiet. The kind of quiet that made his instincts itch.
Then came the sound of hurried footsteps behind him, fast and light, like a small animal dashing through a field. Reflex took over. Emil's body leaned to the side with a precision no child should possess.
Something brushed past him.
"Gotcha!" a voice chirped.
Lumier.
She spun around with a mischievous grin, clearly proud of herself for nearly succeeding. Her long tunic fluttered slightly as she rocked on her heels, hands hidden behind her back. Her bright demeanor didn't quite match the dull hue of the corridor. It was like a candle burning cheerfully in a window during a storm.
"What were you doing?" Emil asked, his voice sharper than intended. He steadied his tone, but the edge remained.
Lumier pouted dramatically, then laughed. "You never notice when I sneak up on you. Today, I almost didn't either… What's gotten into you?"
Emil didn't answer. His heart still hadn't slowed. He wasn't scared—no. It was something worse. Conditioned fear. From raids. From ambushes. From knowing silence only lasted so long before something exploded.
"Anyway!" she chirped, twirling on her heel. "I'm heading to the library. Want to come?"
Library.
The word was simple. But in Emil's mind, it rang like a bell through fog.
Yes… a library. Quiet. Public. Innocuous. But if this world worked anything like his old one, then knowledge was rarely neutral. And often, the most dangerous things weren't hidden behind locked doors—they were bound in ink.
"I'll come with you," he said slowly.
Lumier blinked, surprised. "That fast? Are you sure?"
"I want to read. Catch up."
She leaned in, squinting. "Huh… weird. You never say that."
Emil forced a slight smile—controlled, calculated. "Guess I really woke up different."
That wasn't a lie.
Lumier giggled. "You sure did. Well, don't take too long. The cushion seat by the window gets taken if we're late."
She spun and skipped down the hallway, her bare feet thudding softly against the boards.
Emil stood still for a moment longer, then entered his room and closed the door behind him.
The air inside was cool, the scent of parchment and old fabric thick in his nose. He leaned against the wooden frame of the door, arms crossed, gaze drifting to the book still tucked under the hidden compartment.
He stood by the table, reaching in for the book. He stared at the title. Still not believing anything that is happening. He's a soldier, the military did not prepare him for any of this.
The worn cover met his fingers with a familiarity that unsettled him. Magic Scroll Activations. Even the title sounded like something a conspiracy theorist would whisper in an alleyway.
He flipped it open, letting the brittle pages speak in diagrams and symbols, inked in the same strange script that had somehow become legible to him.
Chapter VII: Catalysts and Conduits
Scrolls of lesser nature may be activated through sigilic tracing and mental incantation, provided that a conduit—either material or biological—is present. Conduits vary: a flick of copper wire, a lock of beast fur, or even a precise word whispered in the tongue of creation...
Emil blinked. He read the passage again. And again.
How could something feel so real and yet so fictional at the same time?
He turned the page.
"Luuuuugiiiii!" Lumier's sing-song call floated through the house, muffled by wood and distance, but unmistakably hers.
He snapped the book shut with a light thud and tucked it back beneath the drawer's panel. The moment sealed itself like it had never happened.
"Lugi! Let's go! You said you'd come with me to the library!"
Her footsteps were already nearing, soft but quick, like the padding of a cat on floorboards.
Emil inhaled deeply, rubbing the back of his neck as he stood. He gave one last glance at the drawer, now closed and ordinary again. The kind of drawer you'd never suspect hid anything important.
Then, with practiced ease—the kind only a soldier would have after decades of compartmentalizing—he forced the thoughts to the back of his mind and turned toward the hallway.
"Coming," he replied, voice calm. "Just needed a moment."
He stepped out, leaving the lingering scent of parchment and a sleeping mystery behind. For now.