Jorvik stepped into the House Maddach library, his boots making no sound against the polished marble floor.
The air was dry, and the smell only filled with strong smell of old parchment with hint of aged leather.
The library had only one slitted window, behind the librarian, giving him a cool breeze behind his back, and allowing airflow while keeping the other parts of the library dry.
This is the first thing that anyone would have noticed.
It was not a place for reading.
It acted more as a vault, a place of knowledge meant to be taken, studied elsewhere, and returned in silence.
The only source of light came from the mana lights embedded high in the walls, and the side of the bookshelves.
Their artificial glow casting a cold white light over endless rows of bookshelves.
Near the ceiling, small vents allowed thin streams of air to circulate, ensuring the room never grew stale.
Jorvik moved past the entrance and approached the front desk, where the librarian—a middle-aged man with tired eyes and ink-stained fingers—sat, scratching notes onto a parchment.
He glanced up, pushing his reading spectacles up his nose.
"Lord Jorvik," the librarian greeted, his voice carrying the same hushed reverence as the library itself. "Didn't expect you here tonight."
"I was looking for a book," Jorvik said.
The librarian chuckled. "I would hope so." He leaned back slightly. "What do you need?"
Jorvik named a book.
"Principles of Weapons Engineering."
He had made sure to name a book that was in the far sides of the library.
One that would take time to find.
The librarian frowned, tapping his chin. "That's in the lower archives. Give me a moment." He rose to his feet, his robes swaying as he walked deeper into the library.
As soon as the librarian disappeared behind a shelf, Jorvik quickly turned, as he looked around for the correct shelf.
His eyes followed the shelves until he reached a section not far removed from the entrance: the Martial Archives.
Here, the books were bound in thick leather, their titles engraved in gold, silver, or inlaid with mana-infused script.
He ran his fingers over the spines, searching until he found what he was looking for.
Weapons Around Me
The author's name stood out in bold: Mahmud Ibn Khalid.
A warrior of the Sultanate of Qarashar, a nation that paled in comparison in size and power, and within the Empire's jurisdiction.
Jorvik had heard the name before.
Mahmud Ibn Khalid was famous not just in the Sultanate, but even in Imperial circles.
His book was more than just a treatise on weapons—it was the culmination of a lifetime spent studying the art of survival against overwhelming force.
And no story defined him more than the one recorded in Imperial histories and sung in Qarashari ballads alike.
It was said that Ibn Khalid and his men, on a mission deep in contested lands, had encountered an Imperial Knight.
Not just any knight—one armed with the Empire's finest mana firearms and weaponry.
The battle should have been over in moments.
But it wasn't.
Though the knight's firepower cut through them like like knife through butter, Ibn Khalid rallied his men, adapting on the fly, using their terrain, their knowledge of the desert that they were so familiar with, alongside their sheer tenacity to turn the battle into something the Empire had never expected.
When the dust settled, the knight was alive. But his firearm spent, and his energy ran out.
Most of Ibn Khalid's men had died, but they had won. They had captured an Imperial Knight—a feat considered impossible at that time.
Till this day, no one has been able to replicate that moment.
His subordinates had wanted the knight dead.
It was the only logical and just course.
But Ibn Khalid refused.
He spared the knight's life.
And that decision saved his own.
For only a day later, a squadron of Imperial Knights arrived, prepared to avenge their fallen comrade.
Had they found their ally dead, none of Ibn Khalid's men would have survived.
They would have been reduced to ashes that would have been then mixed in with the sands of the desert, never to be found or remembered again.
But instead, they found a warrior who had not only won but had honored the laws of war.
The Knights spared him and his remaining men, and he returned to the Sultanate a legend.
Even in the Empire, his name was spoken with respect.
Not as a conqueror.
Not as an enemy.
But as someone who had done the impossible and lived to tell the tale.
It was a thick book, heavier than he expected.
As he pulled it from the shelf, the absence of its size caused the books beside it to shift, some leaning precariously.
A hollow space remained where the book had been.
A problem.
Jorvik let out a sharp breathe.
He reached into his bag, retrieving another book he had brought with him.
A novel, completely unrelated, but similar in size. He slid it into the gap, but the fit wasn't perfect.
There was still a noticeable space.
Footsteps.
The librarian was returning.
Jorvik thought fast.
He pulled the replacement book back out, tore several pages from the middle, folded them, and wedged them into the space before setting the book back in.
The illusion was crude, but it would have to do.
He turned, dropping the book in his sling bag.
"Here we are," the librarian said, placing the engineering book on the table beside him. "Took longer than I thought."
Jorvik glanced up, feigning casual interest. "Appreciate it."
The librarian folded his arms. "Engineering, huh? Didn't peg you for the type."
Jorvik shrugged. "Just a hobby."
The librarian chuckled, shaking his head as he returned to his desk.
Jorvik closed the martial book and tucked both books under his arm, heading for the exit.
Just as he reached the door, he felt the librarian's eyes on him.
Something was off.
Jorvik kept his expression neutral, stepping through the doorway without a pause.
Behind him, the librarian remained still, staring at the shelves as if trying to remember how they had looked before.