Arcanist In Another World-Chapter 65: Interlude

“Head Scribe,” the man said.

“Pardon?” Basil squinted at him.

“You will address me as the Head Scribe, for I’m not one of the businessmen you’ve dealt with in your prior line of work,” the man said with mild disappointment. “And it will do you good if you’re to remember the teachings you’ve been through in preparation for your work here. You did take the courses, did you not?”

You’re a fool, Basil. A giant, excited, perhaps a little clever, fool!

“I’m terribly ashamed, Head Scribe.” Basil dipped his chin low, clasped his hands in front of him, and admitted his wrong. “You will see no such mistake for a second time.”

“Mistakes are bound to happen,” the Head Scribe smiled slightly. “Just take your lessons and keep to your word. You will find that even history is full of mistakes of those who came before us. This way.”

He led them through one hall after another until they were deep in the Golden Cathedral. Walls upon walls of sacred frescoes gave way to silent stretches of dark, followed by long, arduous steps that wound deeper and deeper still. At one point Basil labored with the idea of asking the Head Scribe about certain things he witnessed on their way here, but decided to stay quiet since he feared he might ask the wrong questions with all the excitement burning in his chest.

This won’t be your last day. What were the teachings? Patience. That’s the first one. Patience and calm.

“The Warden’s Library has a long history behind it, and it is for a reason we keep it hidden from the eyes of men who bear certain desires and ambitions,” the Head Scribe said, waving a hand to the empty, cold walls around them. “Only those who carry the Warden’s mission upon their shoulders can enter inside. Only those who proved themselves the Scribes of the Second Daughter can pry into its secrets.”

Praise the Holy Warden, Basil prayed silently, with eyes closed in devotion.

“I shall guide you only for this once,” the Head Scribe said, and stopped by the walls. There was nothing around them but the silent blocks of marble, painted in lusterless black, set seamlessly upon the foundation and stretched for as long as the eye could see.

Where’s the entrance?

Basil frowned out at the dimly lit hallway. They had taught an awful lot of different topics during the courses but hadn’t mentioned a single time about where one might enter the Warden’s Library. When asked, the tutors made it clear that they would get their answers if they could take upon the mantle of a Warden’s Scribe by completing their First Trials.

“Wish, and it shall reveal itself to you,” the Head Scribe said and tapped a finger on the cold walls.

Something clicked, followed by the sound of gears rotating as that particular marble block began receding inside. Golden lights shimmered and fell to cover the newly opened hole on the wall, crisscrossing into characters that seemed somewhat familiar to Basil. He blinked as he felt a force pulling at him.

The Head Scribe was watching him with a faint smile as if he expected the reaction. He then gently, but with such strength that betrayed his wrinkled face, pushed him toward the golden lights.

Basil stumbled toward the wall, and just as he winced in anticipation of the impact, he became… weightless.

He drifted on like a leaf taken by the morning breeze, onward through a passage of golden lights, stomach dropping, fingers tingling…

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It took him a disorienting moment to come to himself, and when he did, the golden lights were gone, and he was in another place.

He was inside a giant Library.

“This…” Basil shuddered, mind still dizzy with blinking lights. Sprawling before him were rows upon rows of bookshelves, hundreds and thousands of them lined perfectly across the domed space, illuminated by enormous manastones hanging from the ceiling.

Under their light, he couldn’t even see a speck of dust fluttering around him. The air was clean. Too clean that his chest burned with the freshness of it.

“Take a deep breath. It should help with the dizziness,” the Head Scribe said, sounding greatly pleased with himself as he looked at Basil from a step beside him.

When did he…

Basil shook his head as his mind spiraled to make sense of the situation. He had just been pushed to a gate that shimmered out of nowhere and was met with Haven’s Reach’s most ancient library sprawling before him. Compared to that, having the Head Scribe appear beside him like a whiff of smoke should’ve felt only normal.

I’m shaking. This… No. Get a hold of yourself. You’re in the presence of the Head Scribe!

He sucked in a long breath and held it in, hoping it would alleviate the thumping sound of his heart beating in his ears. When that didn’t help, he turned helplessly to the Head Scribe and bowed slightly.

“I still remember my first time. Times… were different back then,” the Head Scribe sighed as he peered out into space ahead. It was with a certain weight in his face that he started toward the bookshelves, eyes dreamy and distant.

Basil followed the old man like the tails of his coat, always a step back, never quite tearing his eyes away from the books around him. There were hundreds of them in pristine condition, hard leather covers catching the lights of the manastones, inviting alluringly to Basil for him to take a look at their pages.

Slowly, as he took sight of them, it occurred to him that they were in the Classes section, where each letter had its own set of shelves filled with numerous books and further divided by Traits.

This is history… Classified history of the classes and traits!

There he saw the Warrior section, separated into dozens of shelves all under different Traits, each Trait having about ten to fifteen books under its name. Further ahead was the Berserker section, similarly crowded with innumerable books. The [Frenzy] Trait caught his eye during his passing, as it only had four books.

Berserker (Pre-Trial). Vanguard (First-Trial). Bloodbound (Second-Trial). And War… torn for the Third Trial? It must be one of those Traits that limits the number of class choices you’d have after each trial.

Basil had heard of these traits in the courses. Supposedly, some traits ran deeper than others. They came from the blood of one’s heart and never changed. It was like a pathway set from the very beginning, which could give the Class owner a clear idea of their future, but there was a catch. Historically, these classes almost always had dangerous and deathly Trials.

He trailed the Head Scribe in silence, his boots making not a sound on the polished stone floor. The grandeur of the library tugged at him with every step, yet there was no one else in sight. Only them. No rustle of pages, no whispering scribes. Just the crystalline hum of the manastones far above.

“Is it always this empty?” Basil dared to ask, voice just above a whisper.

The Head Scribe nodded slowly. “I’m afraid time hasn’t been kind to us. Our numbers have diminished, but there is one thing that hasn’t changed. We still value solitude and, more importantly, focus.”

Basil tried not to let the sheer scale of the place distract him again, but it was impossible. Every shelf he passed held something astonishing—records of long-lost Traits, names of Classes whispered in myths. Some titles shimmered faintly in the light, written in languages he had only seen carved into the stones of the Cathedral's inner sanctum.

Then the Head Scribe led him to a door by one of the few empty walls to the side and gave him a silent look before he clasped the knob.

“We are entering the Unrestored Wing,” the Head Scribe said heavily. “A place we had no time or courage to tend to. But as a Warden’s Scribe, you must see it, so you learn to stay away from it.”

Above the knob, there was a sigil. The Eye of the Eyeless depicted in its wavering form, stabbed through by the Blessed Father’s sword that shone as if it felt the Head Scribe’s touch. The door creaked loudly open. They entered inside.

The air changed.

The lights grew dimmer. Dust crept in where before there had been none. The walls here were darker, and the stones beneath their feet no longer shone. The little manastones cocked into the torches flickered uncertainly, casting long, thin shadows between shelves.

They were older here, thicker, their wood swollen with time and blackened in places. The books were fewer as well, their bindings brittle, their titles unreadable to Basil’s gaze. A coppery scent lingered faintly in the air. Burnt parchment and something deeper, like scorched oil.

They turned corners and strolled from between the old shelves until they came across a lone shelf leaned against the back wall. Taller than the others, its top crowned with a cracked golden plaque that read in curling letters:

ANCIENT CLASSES AND TRAITS

Basil froze.

The entire shelf—its books, its framework—was charred. Pages curled into cinders. Leather covers cracked open like dry bark. Where once there must have been rows upon rows of irreplaceable tomes, now only ashes remained in thin grey drifts along the bottom.

“This…” Basil gasped. “What happened?”

The Head Scribe did not answer right away. His gaze lingered on the destruction for a while, then, slowly, he said, “A thief.”

“A thief?” Basil frowned. That didn’t make any sense. The Head Scribe himself had told him just moments ago that only those who carry the Warden’s mission upon their shoulders can enter inside. “But you’ve told—”

“Yes,” the Head Scribe said grimly. “I’m aware of the things I have told you. That’s exactly the reason why I wanted to show our newest member this shelf. I wanted you to learn that even if we so dearly wish to believe otherwise, there are people in this world who want to harm our godly works, and some of them have the means to do so.”

“But how?” Basil’s voice quivered. “And when? A brazen attack on the Blessed Father’s Church… Not just any church, but the Golden Cathedral itself! This should’ve made the headlines in the newspapers.”

“It didn’t,” the Head Scribe said. “Two days ago, someone broke into the Warden’s Library, and they stole two books of the known Ancient Traits from this shelf and set the rest to fire. This matter will be kept as a secret until the Church finds the culprit.”

“Two Traits?” Basil muttered. He didn’t even know how many ancient traits there were or what an Ancient Trait truly was, but seeing as the Head Scribe looked willing to talk about them, Basil would gladly oblige. “May I ask what those Traits were?”

“Veil and Resonance,” the Head Scribe said with a heavy voice.

Great names. Ancient sounding names, surely, only I have no idea what they mean.

“Take a look,” the Head Scribe said just then, pointing at a half-burnt book on the ground. “That was the book belonging to the Trait of the ‘Fateless.’ That should give you an idea of what an Ancient Trait is.”

Basil turned incredulously to the Head Scribe. He couldn’t believe the man would let him check an Ancient Trait even if it’d been burnt.

He’s letting me take a look? I think I’ve made it too obvious that I’m dying to know more!

A shiver ran down Basil’s spine. He mentally slapped himself to get a hold of his emotions, then walked carefully over to the burnt bookshelf, his heart thumping in his chest. He gave one last look to the Head Scribe to make sure he didn’t hear wrong, but relief washed over him when the man gave him a nod.

Good. We’re doing this… then.

Leaning down, he took the burnt book. Ash sat thickly over what remained from its cover. He brushed them off, and holding his breath, he held the cover. He didn’t know what he expected to see. Perhaps strange characters would stab at him from inside the pages. Or an ethereal presence would suddenly try to crush his soul. Far as he knew, anything was possible since it involved the Forsaken, but the curiosity that tingled his fingers pushed him to open the cover.

“Ah!” Basil gasped, his hands trembling. He blinked, once—twice—hoping his eyes deceived him.

But the pages remained blank.

“How is this possible?” he said, louder than he intended. “There’s nothing here!”

The Head Scribe nodded slowly, unsurprised. “Indeed. That is their nature. These volumes were recovered from the ruins scattered across the Broken Lands. Relics of the Ancient Era. To this day, no one has found a way to unlock their contents.”

“And now someone’s stolen them?” Basil’s frown deepened. “You think they knew how to read them?”

“I can’t say,” the Head Scribe's voice was quiet now, taut with unease. “But I pray it was mere curiosity that led them.” He turned toward the scorched remnants of the shelf, eyes distant. “These books... We do not know what sleeps within them. Only that some secrets stay buried for good reason.”

Secrets, indeed.

Basil closed his eyes. The first day of the rest of his life… hadn’t started the way he’d imagined.

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