Tundra excused herself from the reading zone. An inspiration mixed with curiosity urged her to search for the literature on unorthodox spellcasting. She declined the guides’ offers to escort her. She told them to help Niran search for a few specific obsolete articles.

  She stared at a clock hanging on a shelf. Her two mentors had yet to return to the reading zone; she could not focus on her task nor determine her suspicion. She wandered around the library, scouting through sections that may interest her two mentors.

  Their absence troubled her. They must have been engaging in long, intimate conversations, private conversations she shouldn’t pry into. Yet she could not help but feel otherwise.

  Few other scholars wandered the library. Mechanical puppets cleaned the areas while radiant wisps organised disorderly books and scrolls. None could tell her to where her mentors had gone.

  Lady Iris could slip past even the all-seeing formation. If she wished to, none would find her. She could roam carefreely, doing whatever her heart desired. The way she leaned close, the way she whispered congratulations, the way she pressed herself onto and wrapped her hands around Tundra’s. She could do it all without anyone noticing, without anyone protesting.

  Her professor was only an acquaintance of Lady Iris, wasn’t she?

  Tundra was about to return when an inaudible gasp rang near her. Soft but unmistakable footsteps resounded a corner ahead. She tensed up and, holding her breath, walked toward the corner. Rows of thick books divided the world, and the naturally dim air curtained the others’ silhouettes.

  The atmosphere felt steamier than elsewhere. Soundless whispers lingered around but never attracted any attention. Only Tundra, the sole visitor, could feel her spirit shivering.

  She snuck close to the shelf, caring not to touch the books on it. She pinched her skirt, listening to the silence, trying her hardest to confirm what was happening.

  This was the public. She was no intruder into paradise. With a heartbeat skipped, she turned the corner. Pale mists blanketed the corridor. Hanging lanterns cast rays of light onto the centrepiece, but no spectre existed on the stage. The library was as quiet as it had been.

  Tundra touched her heart. What was rising like a tsunami was now subsiding. She swiped away the mists and smiled. All was well until a book slipped from its place and landed in front of her.

  She picked up the book. A literature about forbidden rituals. It recorded procedures for mystical rites, calling for fallen angels, sacrificing humans for longevity, imprisoning demons for their powers. The magnum opus of the book was the erosion of free will, the corruption of the ego.

  “There are no victims nor perpetrators, for none may act upon their wills. The invisible force demands their obedience; thus they dance to the tune of the unseen,” the author wrote. “They will not reject the sweet temptation. They will rejoice in their dizzying freedom. And they will become the perfect pawn for The Dark Lady.”

  Tundra’s hands trembled. She slammed the book shut. Its blank title, along with a single slit eye cover art, stared into her soul. Her fingers refused to let go of the book, whose author’s name she could not make out. The texts scrambled as if refusing to utter the name of its true creator.

  Was she losing her mind? Tundra looked around. There was no empty spot for the fallen book. She instinctively carried it with her. Even if she left it behind, it had already occupied her spirit.

  She slowly traced her path. Rows of unknown books looked down upon her. She fixed her eyes in front of her, refusing to glance at any book that might fall and induce her to pick it up.

  The passing scholars and puppets were nowhere. The wisps in the distance had vanished. She was in the darkness repelled only by the swaying lanterns, on a path illuminated only by the melting candles.

  When she stepped forward, a pair of footsteps resounded behind her. When she glided her hands through the air, a wisp of cold wind caressed her arms. When she looked down, a hazy shadow loomed above her.

  Her grip on the mysterious book tightened. She did not spin around to face whatever was following her. She increased her pace, her footsteps echoing in sync with the ones behind her. The winds grew colder, colder, and violently colder. Long, fine hair raised around her, coiling around her.

  Tundra broke into a sprint. Her voice held itself within her throat. Her magic refused to move. The invisible force commanded her to stop. Her legs grew wearier, her heart ready to give out. She stopped herself from closing her eyes, from blinking, from pushing against the restricting dark hair.

  The lanterns swung as if dancing to an unseen tune. The candles extinguished in pairs, shutting the stage light for the finale. What remained was the centre, where, behind a shelf, a slender arm reached out, shifting, tensing, waving as if resisting something.

  Even though she could no longer think, Tundra still remembered that arm. She spent her last burst of strength and jumped. She grabbed the arm and plunged to the ground.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  Iris caught her and shielded her falling pupil with her body. Tundra, her eyes already closed, could not see Iris’s messy, wrinkled clothes. She could not even notice the sweats and heat radiating from her mentor.

  She could only feel the coldness of the hair dissipating from her spirit.

  “Tundra!” Melan rushed in. “What happened to her?”

  Iris narrowed her eyes. “She was trapped in a pocket dimension. Fortunately, she merely fell asleep.”

  “But how could this be?”

  “The Academy has quite a history, has it not?”

  “An ancient inheritance?” Melan’s eyes shimmered. “Can you tell if she suffered any curses?”

  Iris closed her eyes and pressed her forehead against Tundra’s. A piercing chill seized her. Black hair strands rushed from Tundra’s shadow, aiming for Iris’s neck. She did not move. Illusory angelic wings sprung from her back. They shone with golden light that eradicated the terrible darkness.

  Tundra trembled. The frown on her sleeping face relaxed. She cuddled closer to her mentor, hugging her, fearing the warmth would escape if she did not grasp it.

  “She should be safe for now,” Iris said. “I can only do this much.”

  “You’ve already done enough, Lady Iris. Ancient magic isn’t something one can easily undo.”

  Iris kissed Tundra’s cheeks and handed her to Melan. “You return to Niran first. I’ll look around to find the traces.”

  Melan nodded. She carried her pupil and, her body morphing into a flash, shot away without any care for the brightening magic formation.

  When the air calmed, Iris in her lonesome lifted her chin and whispered for the Witch of the Black Sea. Time and space greyed out. The movement of the world stilled for the appearance of the hidden one. Only Iris, whose eyes turned abyssal, could move, could turn to face the wordless Black Light.

  “Did you know?” Iris said.

  “Your little pupil has caught the attention of the Shifting Eyes of Belief.”

  “Devoria? She tried to harm my people?”

  Black Light hugged Iris from behind, caressing her burning face. “It’s an opportunity.”

  “A curse.”

  “They are one and the same. That book is the trial as well as the reward. You believed in her, didn’t you?”

  “My Tundra will never lose.”

  “Then she will prevail. And she will gain prowess beyond her imagination.”

  Iris looked in the direction her pupil had disappeared into. She could sense the frozen bodies of her colleagues and students. They glowed like the last candles amidst the world of eternal darkness, enticing, alluring.

  Black Light sighed. “When the time comes, I can help them.”

  “You can have my Faith.”

  “I don’t need such payment. It is merely a way to stop you from regret.”

  “I … will never regret anything.”

  Deciding against speaking, Black Light gradually dispersed while the world resumed its flow of time. Iris reclaimed her indifferent expression and strolled forward, reversing Tundra’s path.

  She walked down a secluded path surrounded by towering shelves. Rows of perfectly kept books walled her within a labyrinth of inked letters, giving her narrow, intertwining roads whose signposts are flickering candles and old lanterns.

  The world existed only for her; others were merely decorative backgrounds. She waltzed through as if the scenery were beneath her, as if the world was becoming a blur. Her feet tapped rhythmically, leaving a glowing symbol every time she landed and flew up.

  The arcane letters connected into a line. Smaller rivers flowed from the main branch, producing leaves and flowers of runic alphabets. The wooden floorboard trembled as if making way for the world tree to sprout from beneath.

  Pillars of light rose to form a spiritual maze, one which existed above the material plane, above the perception of all but the most acute. Within here the closed books shimmered, their outlines detaching from their physical bodies.

  Iris drew forth her right hand. Her dress carelessly dissolved, revealing her scaled body. Her skin split, and slimy fins grew from her arms and legs. Her hair turned midnight, her eyes slit-like, and her fingernails unearthly slender.

  She opened her mouth, her jaw dislodging from its place. Her cheeks tore, but no blood spilt out. Thin, sticky membranes held her widening mouth together. She let out a musical screech, a deathly melody with which the unreal ocean surged.

  Her notes hit the glass-shattering high, shaking the magical field surrounding the library. Her song haunted the books within her world, charming their essences to escape their vessels. The spiritual outlines of the books, the spectre of knowledge, floated out from their binders and swirled around an invisible vortex, around Iris.

  She closed her mouth. Her long, barbed tongue slithered back within her, but her ghostly song did not cease. She enjoyed her own voice while observing the book spirits. They mindlessly went with her flow and showered her with their knowledge. They were of no interest to her.

  The protective formation awakened from its slumber. Bright light manifested on the floorboard, turning into cages which locked down the arcane vines. They interfered with the pathway of the rivers and forcefully cut through their flow.

  Iris ignored her crumbling spell. She focused her everything on the extraordinary. Her field of vision expanded beyond her reach, beyond the physical world. Her soul set itself ablaze while her thread of Faith vibrated with soundless prayer. She did not care how her chest hurt, or how her physical body struggled to keep its siren form.

  She only cared about one opportunity: a trap made for her.

  Within this library existed an ancient tome. It persisted across all ages, lying hidden inside the river of time, waiting for its successor.

  It was the only book that could resist Iris’s haunting song.

  Iris reached through the world, her fingers tearing apart reality, and grabbed the dusty tome with her bare hand. The current of time washed her palm, causing her scales to peel off and her arm to turn ashen.

  A flash of myriad history assaulted her mind. She dragged the book out from the river of time and ceased her movement. Her arm disintegrated, although the book remained unblemished.

  Iris fell to her knees while frowning. Her figure melted into her slime appearance. The Insignia of Concealment returned to her. The runic rivers vanished. The eternal voice concluded.

  Black Light waved her hand. The magical formation returned to serenity. A burst of chaotic energy flooded the floor, leaving no trace of the past behind.

  “Iris, you’re too much,” Black Light said. “Must you endanger yourself just to vent your anger?”

  “She violated me,” Iris said. “I do not mind falling with her.”

  “It seems you’ve already figured it out.”

  “I have my guesses. After all, there is no coincidence.”

  “All of the Five Catastrophes are dangerous.”

  “At least two of them will honour my promises.”

  Black Light shook her head. She stared at the book Iris was still holding onto. Though it was overflowing with traces of Divinity, she dared not carelessly have a taste.

  The scent of the Foreign Existence permeated its pages. It was not a book of this world. It was not an opportunity. It was a trial, a trap designed for Iris.

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