Chapter 3: Reading Between The Lines

When Sollivan spotted the mysterious figure standing near the door, he quickened his steps, straining to see more clearly in the dim light.

To his surprise, the figure was just a child—not yet in his teenage years. The boy was thin and slightly short, though his height seemed appropriate for his age.

His small face lacked the softness and innocent gaze typical of children. Instead, he looked pale, his expression unwavering, and his eyes held a harshness that suggested an adult trapped in a child's body.

This was not unusual in the slums, where most children were either orphans or had lost one parent, forcing them to seek work to support themselves or their families.

Their young age limited their options to simple tasks: tending horses in stables, serving food in taverns, cleaning alleyways, or working as porters and errand boys in the markets.

The child before Sollivan was Devlin, an orphan who had lost his parents long ago. Without hesitation, Devlin rushed to Sollivan's chair, gripped its handles, and pushed it toward the house.

Sollivan said nothing, simply relaxing in his seat and catching his breath. Within moments, they reached the house's entrance. In Devlin's eyes, there was a faint glimmer of respect, despite the silence between them.

Sollivan pulled out his key and unlocked the door before asking calmly, "Will you manage this winter?"

Pushing the chair inside, Devlin replied with gratitude, "Yes, I've saved enough to rent a room and buy what I need."

"Good. You know where the empty water jars are, but light the fireplace first."

Gripping the wheels of his chair, Sollivan pushed himself toward the table cluttered with books and manuscripts.

Without glancing at Devlin, he set his bag aside and began scanning the manuscripts, his eyes wary as he tried to recall where he had seen that strange language before.

Meanwhile, Devlin walked to the fireplace, ignited a few flames, and watched as warmth slowly spread through the room.

He picked up a half-melted candle nearby and lit it. Stepping toward Sollivan, whose features were gradually swallowed by the encroaching darkness, he placed the candle beside him, brightening the room's lighting.

Without a word, he moved to a corner where several earthenware jars and small wooden bottles were stacked before quietly leaving the house.

Sollivan lifted his head and glanced at the slightly ajar door. A cold draft slipped through, causing the candlelight to flicker and cast fragmented shadows across his face—revealing a complex expression.

Devlin was no stranger to Sollivan.

One could even say he was an unofficial servant, helping with tasks Sollivan struggled to complete on his own: fetching water from the communal well, buying necessities on stormy or rainy days, and other errands.

In return, Sollivan gave him a small sum of money at the end of each week.

Five years ago, when Sollivan had regained some strength, he began venturing outside his home, exploring the neighborhood and getting to know his neighbors.

During that time, he met Devlin, an orphan who had lost his parents in a tragic accident, leaving him utterly alone.

Soon after, vagrants took advantage of his weakness—looting his home, driving him out, and claiming it for themselves.

At first, Sollivan paid no attention to the boy, dismissing him as just another troublesome street urchin.

But as winter arrived, Devlin's frail body began to resemble a tattered corpse, gnawed by hunger and bitten by the relentless cold. Though Sollivan had trained himself to be indifferent, watching the boy's suffering stirred an unfamiliar hesitation within him.

He saw himself in that small child—both had lost their loved ones, been robbed of their former lives, and left to rot in the world. Yet, Sollivan's circumstances had been slightly better.

In the end, he decided to take Devlin in for the winter, despite not fully trusting him. At first, both were wary, treating each other with suspicion and caution. But as time passed, Devlin's fears eased, and Sollivan's guard lowered, allowing their relationship to improve.

A deep sense of gratitude grew within Devlin—Sollivan had saved him from certain doom. In return, Sollivan found his loneliness slightly lessened and his daily struggles made easier during the harsh winter.

However, he never intended to shelter the boy for long. When spring arrived, he taught Devlin how to survive and fend for himself, then cast him out to find his own work and shelter.

...

Sollivan pulled a thick book from his collection and slowly opened it, revealing a small square compartment carved into its pages.

At the heart of the hollow space rested four gold coins, glimmering faintly under the flickering candlelight. He hesitated for a moment before his fingers hovered over one of the coins.

"One coin… that's all he needs to begin, but the risk of failure is still high."

At the age of thirteen, a child's Auraxis main vein fully develops, allowing them to train in martial arts and cultivate the energy of Auraxis within their bodies.

However, before they can begin, they must first purchase a Vein Opening Pill, a special pill that helps them surpass their human limitations once they have trained their bodies sufficiently and advanced through the stages of the Body Strengthening Realm.

Yet, the risk of failure remained significant, making Sollivan hesitate.

Due to his own financial struggles, he decided to wait before making a decision.

Each pill cost a single gold coin—a hefty sum most people could not afford. As a result, many either never started training or began years later, only after saving enough money. This delay often stunted their progress, as they missed the optimal period for cultivation and lacked the necessary resources to advance.

In the past, his uncle had given him sixty gold coins to cover his expenses, but within the first year, most of it was spent on medicines, herbs, and doctors in a futile search for a cure. For all the exorbitant treatments he endured, all he gained was a slight improvement in strength and a limited recovery of his lost vitality.

Still, he refused to give up. Whenever he found something that might help, he bought it—leaving him with a modest stock of rare herbs he had obtained by chance while working in the library.

Ironically, sixty gold coins were enough to let a poor man live comfortably, yet for Sollivan, they had done nothing more than slightly ease his suffering.

"No need to dwell on that now."

Pushing the book aside, he picked up a stack of manuscripts and began examining them carefully.

Every document and book he flipped through contained valuable and diverse knowledge—ranging from rare herbal studies to legends of lost treasures and even the ancient history of his continent.

However, books in this field were extremely rare, and some were written in unfamiliar languages or consisted merely of drawings without explanations.

Through his personal efforts, he had meticulously annotated his own notes, allowing him to gain a broad understanding of many fundamental fields and learn bits and pieces of every language he had encountered.

Because of this, he had recognized one of the symbols in the mysterious book earlier.

Time passed slowly and quietly as Devlin went back and forth, carrying empty jars out and returning with them filled with water. Night fell, and the alleys darkened, but the scattered torchlights, though scarce, were enough to guide his way.

Meanwhile, Sollivan remained seated, reading at a steady pace, reviewing the records and notes he had carefully compiled.

It was his habit to organize his books and information, ensuring everything remained in order. After identifying the manuscripts worth scrutinizing, he began sorting through them with unwavering focus.

By the time Devlin finished his work and left for his own lodging, minutes had turned into hours. The candle that had illuminated the corner of the room gradually melted away, leaving only a small stub. Around its base, hardened wax had accumulated, forming frozen droplets that resembled dried glue.

Suddenly, Sollivan lifted his head. The candle flame flickered violently, casting shifting shadows across his face, illuminating his eyes with a rare gleam of excitement.

In his hands was a large manuscript, its strange symbols filled with dozens of explanatory notes and annotations—one that he had spent a long time deciphering.

He set the manuscript aside, a satisfied expression settling on his face—his curiosity about the mysterious language had finally been sated.

However, a slight pain throbbed at his temple, a dull ache from the mental strain he had exerted. Normally, he would begin transcribing any book he brought home as soon as he arrived, but this time, he had become entirely absorbed in deciphering the language of the black book, neglecting his usual work and losing precious hours of his time.

Even so, he didn't mind much—he had found something truly worth his attention.

"I got so caught up in my research that I forgot myself..."

Sollivan exhaled heavily, only for a faint growl from his stomach to remind him of his intense hunger.

Without sparing the manuscript another glance, he pushed his chair back and wheeled himself toward the fireplace, where the dying flames flickered weakly, leaving behind only a few glowing embers.

Quickly, he tossed in some dry twigs to rekindle the fire, then reached for the metal pot, lifting its lid.

A strange aroma wafted up—a mixture of the leftover soup he had made that morning, now thicker and more concentrated. He added some water to thin it out, waiting for the flames to strengthen before placing the pot over the fire.

As the food slowly warmed, his gaze drifted to the satchel lying beside the table, and he muttered under his breath.

"What secrets do you hold…?"

...

[Two Weeks Later]

As the days passed, the once-clear sky grew heavy with dense gray clouds, obscuring the sun's warmth and bringing with them a biting cold.

Snow fell relentlessly, blanketing the entire city in white. Layers of snow piled upon the streets and rooftops, transforming the once-thriving city into a desolate, lifeless expanse.

Most shops had closed, and passersby became a rare sight.

Even the stray dogs, known for their incessant barking and mischief, had disappeared—either retreating from the merciless cold or seeking shelter somewhere warmer.

In one of the city's poorer districts, where silence hung thick over the alleys, a fireplace crackled inside a run-down house, spreading a faint warmth through its walls.

Sollivan sat in his chair, staring at the book. Its cover was cool to the touch, its surface smooth yet oddly rough at the edges, as if resisting his grasp.

Then he opened to its first page. Across the table, dozens of papers lay scattered—some crumpled or torn and tossed aside carelessly, while others were neatly arranged in a careful stack beside the book.

In his hand, he held a sleek, sophisticated pen that stood in stark contrast to his surroundings.

Crafted from a single smooth piece of black material, it fit perfectly between his fingers, its needle-thin tip housing an intricate mechanism that ensured effortless writing and preserved the ink.

He wrote at an excruciatingly slow pace, pausing frequently to scrutinize the first page of the black book, as if attempting to unravel an impossibly complex cipher.

After what felt like an eternity, he finally leaned back in his chair, exhaling a long breath before rubbing his wrist, which ached from the relentless hours of writing.

Despite his clear need for rest, he straightened once more, picked up the organized papers, and placed them beside the sheet he had just finished.

His expression hardened, shedding all traces of exhaustion or relaxation, as he began linking the fragmented words in his notes to those on the first page of the black book.

With calculated precision, he pulled a fresh sheet of paper and resumed translating, drawing upon every word he had deciphered so far.

Unlike before, when his translation had been hesitant and fragmented, the page now filled quickly with words, as though something had finally clicked into place.

Sollivan lifted his head, a faint smile of satisfaction crossing his lips. A quiet sense of accomplishment seeped into his chest, warming him slightly despite the cold.

His gaze dropped to the lines he had just transcribed, but his brow soon furrowed, his expression shifting to one of confusion. Then, in a cautious, expectant voice, he began to read aloud.

"Only blood seals the pact, only blood opens the gate."

His voice echoed in the silent room, carrying with it a strange, unshakable weight.

His eyes flickered to the book's center, where symbols intertwined in an elaborate design, carved deep into the page, pulsating with an eerie, forbidden power.

Even in the dim light, the ink shimmered in the darkness, whispering promises of strength.

He continued reading, as though the words slipping from his lips belonged to a world not his own.

"With the essence of life, the veil shall be lifted… Life for life, world for world, and the soul shall witness what no eye can see, tread where no foot has stepped.

Each world has its door, beyond which lies the unknown… If opened, horrors shall awaken. No light, no mercy, no return for the unready."

For the briefest of moments, the page beneath his fingertips pulsed faintly, its rhythm syncing with the uneasy beats of his heart. Yet the sensation faded too quickly for him to take notice.

At last, his voice carried him to the final line, his words slipping into the air in an almost unnatural whisper, tinged with something sinister.

"Let but a single drop fall, and the threshold shall open… Let your blood flow, and seal your fate."

Sollivan stared at the last sentence in silence, a tangle of disappointment and confusion swirling within him.

The book's introduction was cryptic, elusive, as though it concealed a truth yet to be revealed. His eyebrows arched for a moment before he turned to the second page, which was filled with writing.

Drawing upon what he had learned from translating the first page, he began analyzing the text. But within just five minutes, his expression shifted, and his brows visibly trembled.

He flipped to the next page, and after two more minutes, his features contorted. He started flipping through the pages rapidly, eyes darting over the words, struggling to comprehend them. But something was wrong.

After minutes of tense staring, Sollivan slammed the book shut with a muffled thud.

"This is nonsense!" he muttered angrily, his gaze flickering in every direction as he tried to steady himself.

After reviewing the second page and the following ones repeatedly, he realized he could no longer translate a single letter.

It was as if the words had transformed into cryptic symbols, completely different from those on the first page. This wasn't merely a change in language—the letters themselves were devoid of meaning, as though they were utter gibberish.

"All that effort... wasted."

A surge of frustration welled up within him as he recalled spending two silver coins on a book he couldn't even read.

But the money wasn't what angered him the most—it was the time he had wasted. Two whole weeks spent translating just a single page—time that could have been used for something far more productive.

He took a deep breath, attempting to clear his mind of the nagging thoughts.

Reaching for the paper on which he had written the translation, he stared at the last line with vacant eyes, his voice barely a whisper as he murmured.

"Let but a single drop fall, and the threshold shall open… Let your blood flow, and seal your fate."

His gaze shifted to the black book resting on the table, lingering on its intricately designed cover.

"A drop of blood… There are books and ancient manuscripts that only open with a blood imprint."

His eyes fell upon the engraved symbol at the center of the cover, recalling what he had read on the first page.

His expression changed, and the curiosity that had faded beneath the weight of disappointment began to stir once more.

Picking up the book, he ran his fingers over its cold surface, an odd look of anticipation crossing his face.

He reached out with his left hand toward a small knife lying beside the table, studying its sharp, icy blade for a moment. Then, with quiet resolve and without hesitation, he pricked his index finger against the tip.

A crimson drop welled up, slowly trickling down the metal before he set the knife aside and pressed his bleeding finger against the symbol at the center of the cover.

He waited, his heart pounding with expectation and apprehension.

The blood seeped into the engraving, staining its strange design. But… nothing happened. Seconds passed. The center of the cover darkened with the deep red liquid, its shade pale in contrast to the book's abyssal black.

Sollivan exhaled slowly.

'I shouldn't have gotten my hopes up…' he sighed again, this time in final resignation, and moved to withdraw his finger—only for his expression to twist in shock, his eyes widening.

His finger wouldn't budge.

It was as though it had fused with the book, refusing to move no matter how hard he tried.

"What now?" A tremor coursed through his chest, a blend of fear and unease sending a shiver down his spine. Yet, beneath the apprehension, other emotions began to creep in—an inexplicable longing, a suppressed thrill, and an eager curiosity for what would come next.

The sensation of being stuck didn't last long. It faded swiftly, allowing him to finally pull his finger away. But that no longer mattered. His focus remained locked on the book.

The blood that had stained the cover was now being drawn into the engraved symbol, as if the book itself was drinking it.

Then, the book trembled violently, its weight seeming to increase tenfold. Even Sollivan—who had long lost sensation in his legs—felt a faint illusion of crushing heaviness pressing down upon his paralyzed limbs.

A pulse!

The book quivered again, like the heartbeat of a beast roused from slumber.

At that moment, an inexplicable dread flooded through Sollivan, his heartbeat racing in a desperate, frantic rhythm—as though his body sought to flee, despite remaining utterly still.

Yet, even amidst his overwhelming fear, he couldn't tear his gaze away from the glowing symbol at the book's center. It protruded further, its hue deepening into a mesmerizing crimson—like a deceitful flame, luring moths to their doom.

A deafening throb!

The ground beneath him shook violently, shadows rippling across the room like entities stirring from an ancient slumber. The fire in the hearth crackled, sending embers dancing into the air.

Yet, the disturbance did not extend far—throughout the impoverished district, only a faint tremor was felt. The heart of the city, meanwhile, remained undisturbed, lost in its oblivious tranquility.

But Sollivan cared for none of it. Not the tremors. Not the flickering shadows.

All of his attention was consumed by that glowing crimson symbol—one that no longer resembled a mere carving. It was an eye.

A sinister, all-seeing eye, peering into the depths of his soul, unearthing secrets he didn't even know existed, whispering knowledge beyond his comprehension.

And before he could fully grasp what was happening, an unseen force surged through him, yanking him into oblivion.

His body collapsed, his head striking the table with a resounding thud.

Darkness swallowed him whole.