The Old Library

Vincent stepped off the polished path of Sector 3's central belt and into the forgotten fringe of Autumnvale's civilian quarter. Bodyguards, some of whom were cultivators, followed him without making their presence known. Here, the air carried dust instead of incense. Spirit lanterns buzzed unevenly, barely clinging to qi. Even the ambient energy felt thin—like light filtered through cheap glass. Women would occasionally give him glances and blush, but none dared approach because of his cold demeanor and imposing aura.

"Hmm, so this is where the lower class lives. I should sponsor more projects around this area and monitor it properly." Vincent also knew that many protagonists and their supporting characters came from areas like this. He would make a good first impression on the supporting characters if they saw him as kind and benevolent. One such character's family he was going to meet right now.

He stopped before a squat, red-brick building tucked behind an herb market and a cursed pawn shop.

Autumnvale District Mehra Private Library – South Wing

"Knowledge Is a Lantern. Please Return It On Time."

Inside, it was dim and warm. Paper-scented. Peaceful, in a brittle sort of way. Most shelves sagged under the weight of mundane tomes. A few low-tier spirit scrolls were sealed behind dusty crystal cases—barely glowing. The qi within their text had faded from overuse.

Spirit energy pervaded this world, but it had to be personally refined to be used in cultivation. Only personal spirit energy could be infused into techniques, artifacts, or contracts. While natural treasures—spirit fruits, rare minerals—held power, technology couldn't artificially infuse external energy into people or artifacts. So cultivation was always internal, personal, and spiritual.

Most cultivators followed one of two primary paths. Mind Cultivation enhanced memory, perception, intuition, and mental resilience—perfect for office work, research, legal affairs, or leadership roles. At higher levels, these cultivators could manipulate contracts, create logic fields, or influence others through refined aura presence. Body Cultivation, on the other hand, enhanced physical durability, speed, and combat strength. Fighters, guards, frontline managers, and enforcers typically chose this path. Though more immediately destructive, it was harder to maintain long-term due to the higher physical demands on the practitioner.

Then there were places they called ancient ruins. These, if discovered, were mostly taken over by corporations in that area. Artifacts and wealth inside such places could sometimes make a penniless beggar reach great heights and cause bloody wars among corporations.

"Liam will definitely gift me a ruin or two after he completes school, right? He must know of a ruin or two still undiscovered. I have to play this slowly with him… unless Liam does something to get himself expelled." Vincent thought to himself with a small smile. "But first, let me set the stage properly. If I let that boy run unchecked, he'll eventually become a real threat to me and everything I've built."

At the main desk, a man in his fifties adjusted a magnifying glass to repair a frayed binding with low-grade ink. His back was straight, but the tendons in his hands trembled slightly—from overwork, not weakness. A child beside him waited patiently to check out a scroll on "Basic Arithmetic for Grade Five."

"Apologies for the delay," the man said, stamping it manually. "Spirit sealers have been glitching again."

Vincent studied him. Thin but composed. Wearing a twice-repaired tunic with the collar pressed sharp. No trace of spiritual pressure—but the kind of man who believed libraries still mattered, even in a city ruled by CEOs and cultivators.

"Mr. Mehra," Vincent said softly, reading the engraved nameplate on the desk. "You're managing with a short staff and decades-old preservation techniques. Impressive, really."

Rina's father blinked. "I suppose that's one way to phrase it."

"A friend of mine once visited your library and praised you highly. He told me there was a very kind-hearted gentleman who was attentive and hardworking. A young man, actually—around college age. I'm sure he'll visit again soon to see how you're doing."

"Oh? A friend of yours? What does he look—"

"So I came here while I was exploring the area. After meeting you, I think I've found a good opportunity for investment. I'd like to buy a small stake in your library. I believe that with more support, you could achieve much more."

Mr. Mehra felt bewildered. Things were moving too fast for him to comprehend. His hands trembled slightly as he reached for the contract—not from age, but from the sheer impossibility of what was happening. A stranger walking into his failing library, offering partnership out of nowhere? Before he could voice his concerns, Vincent placed a crisp leather folio on the desk. Bound in fine leather and stamped with an official seal, Mehra eyed it warily.

"Wait, this is rather sudden. What do you even see in this rundown place?" His voice carried a mixture of hope and suspicion. "I also need to discuss this with my fam—" Before he could finish, he saw the purchase amount and nearly choked on his own saliva.

"There's a mistake. There must be a mistake in this contract, young man. Look at this amount. You could buy five libraries like this with that sum."

"There's no mistake. I see tremendous potential in this place—in you. I believe you'll use this investment wisely."

The old man felt deeply moved. To think someone would recognize his efforts at this stage of his life. Yet something nagged at him—this stranger's confidence, the way he moved through the world like someone who'd learned to navigate by reading the spaces between words. Still, the offer was real, the contract legitimate. It would be ungracious not to accept.

"Then… then I'd like to discuss this with my wife first… sir."

"Of course. Please call her as well, partner," Vincent said with a warm smile.

They lived above the library, so it wasn't long before his wife came hurrying down with him. She took one look at the elegant stranger, then at her husband's shell-shocked expression, and immediately knew something extraordinary was happening. After reviewing the contract several times—her hands shaking as she traced the numbers with her finger—they had to accept that this was really happening to them. This was more surreal than winning the lottery.

"Haha, see? You always tell me to hire someone else to do the work," the old man said to his wife with a triumphant grin.

"But sir, we still don't know your name… or about this friend of yours," Rina's mother asked, ignoring her husband's smug expression.

Vincent smiled. "I'm just a man who hates watching good libraries deteriorate. I'd prefer to remain anonymous for now." The words came easily—he'd learned long ago that people trusted modest explanations more than grand ones. He pulled out a simple business card with only a phone number printed on it. "But if you ever need to reach me about the library, use this number. And remember—if that young friend of mine stops by, do treat him well. He speaks very highly of your family."

Though the old couple were curious, they didn't press further. If he could offer such an amount so casually, he must be a prominent businessman. Such people cared greatly about their reputation and wouldn't resort to underhanded methods. Right?

"Oh, where are my manners? Why don't you come upstairs? I've made shahi paneer today," Rina's mother said, beaming with pride.

"What a shame. I'll definitely visit in a few days. You must prepare it for me then," Vincent said with genuine disappointment. It truly was his favorite Indian dish after butter chicken. His neighborhood aunt who had immigrated from India with her son would often cook for him, knowing he was an orphan.

"Oh, don't worry. She can always cook it," the old man said, earning stern looks from both Vincent and Rina's mother. The amount of work that went into making it was considerable.

Vincent chuckled. "Alright then. I'll be in touch."

He walked out of the modest library and reflected on the old couple's endearing behavior. Perhaps the original Vincent would have been like that too, if circumstances had been different. He remembered the orphanage director's kind eyes, the way she'd tried to shield them from the worst of their circumstances. Or his childhood friend who'd shared his meager bread rations without question. Simple gestures. Honest people trying to make the best of what little they had.

Vincent paused at the memory, then shook his head. Those days had taught him to read people, to survive by understanding what others needed to hear. But dwelling on what might have been served no purpose now.

"The system skills seem to work better than I expected," he muttered to himself as he approached the black Mercedes where David sat, scanning the area vigilantly.