The Book

Unlike before, Aether was hurled from the mirror violently the moment the memory ended. His feet struck the ground hard. He staggered back, gasping. His chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven bursts; his eyes were bloodshot, his hands trembling. He ran his fingers through his hair, trying to shake off the lingering sensations. The memory still clung to him like cobwebs.

Below, through blurred vision, he saw Anna and Elara. They were walking toward a mirror, their outlines fading as the surface shimmered.

"Wasn't that a fascinating end?" came the whisper, cool and bemused, slicing through Aether's disoriented haze.

He turned, still catching his breath. "It wasn't the end… What happens after he went with that… thing—?"

Before he could finish, the whisper pressed down with an oppressive aura. It felt like the weight of the ocean crushing his chest.

His knees buckled slightly. Clutching his arm, teeth clenched, he tried to speak, but his own voice caught in his throat.

"I-It was good," he stammered, conceding. "I got everything I needed. I… I understand."

The aura lifted slowly, like storm clouds parting. Aether exhaled sharply, massaging his shoulder, lips pressed into a thin line.

For a moment, he stood there, staring into the mirror.

His thoughts drifted to home—or what little he could still remember of it. Fleeting flashes of laughter and warmth surfaced, then faded like smoke.

"Hm," he muttered, brushing them aside, shielding himself from the ache. "I'll need a detailed explanation of Rasvain energy," he said at last, voice steadier.

The whisper flickered like a shadow in the wind. It raised a single translucent finger, pointing into the darkness.

"A book. Over there, watch out—it's still a whisper…"

Aether followed the gesture, squinting. At the far edge of the bibliotheca, a faint glint caught his eye. He stepped forward cautiously, leaning over the platform of sartorial levitation beneath him. The floor stretched far below.

His gaze fell to the figures below. Anna and Elara vanished into the mirror, their reflections rippling out of sight. His jaw tightened.

Then he saw him—Ryuji.

The man walked alone, his movements stiff, uncertain. Even from this height, Aether could see the fatigue etched into his face. Ryuji looked like he hadn't slept in weeks—pallid skin, hollow eyes.

Aether tilted his head. Something about the sight made his brow furrow.

"Huh," he murmured, almost lost in the quiet. "That outfit… I've never seen him wear that before."

Ryuji was dressed like a ghost from another time. A long, dark coat draped over his frame, layered and sharp at the seams, hiding the shape of his body beneath it. A broad hat shadowed most of his face, but Aether caught the edge of his jaw—tight, clenched. His katana hung at his sides.

Aether narrowed his eyes. "He looks like a man about to disappear."

Then he noticed the sword.

Still there. Still his.

But something about it—

"That katana feels…" Aether trailed off, pulse quickening.

There was an aura to it—sharp, deliberate, lethal. It wasn't just a weapon. It was a declaration. Cold. Unflinching. Absolute.

"What are you mumbling about?" the whisper asked, voice touched with dry amusement, drifting closer under the distant glow of mirrors.

Aether didn't respond right away. He straightened, hands in his pockets, eyes still locked on Ryuji.

"That katana," he said quietly. "It's not just a weapon. It's the manifestation of pure intent. Like it was made for one thing, and one thing only, and that's scary."

As he said it, Ryuji paused below, as if sensing the gaze. He glanced up briefly, expression shadowed.

Aether frowned, arms crossed. "How's he even standing like that? He looks ready to collapse."

The whisper didn't reply. Its form simply faded into the dim.

"Would you care to witness a memory of a man who walked the same path as that one?" it asked suddenly, voice soft but laced with an unsettling undertone.

Aether didn't flinch. "No."

He raised his voice, clear and firm. "Show me the book."

The whisper gave a low, amused hum. "Not that book… a book," it corrected, then began gliding into the dark.

Aether followed. The ground fell away, replaced by the floating sensation that always came in this place.

Below, Ryuji continued walking alone—small and steady against the endless expanse. Aether looked down at him and let out a short, dry chuckle.

"You'd think he's headed to the same place I am."

Then, more to himself: "Wait… is he actually?"

The journey ended abruptly. The whisper motioned toward a dimly lit space. Unlike the rest of the realm, this one was barren—no mirrors. Just a solitary desk bathed in golden lamplight. The glow carved a small haven out of the surrounding dark.

Aether tilted his head. "A lamp? Here?" He stepped forward, voice low. "Too bright for all this dark…"

He reached for the chair, fingers brushing its worn surface. But when he turned back to the whisper—it was gone. Swallowed by the dark.

"They really do love their theatrics," he muttered, eyes lingering on the lamp. Its light flickered, casting erratic shadows across the room.

He looked down. A book lay open on the desk.

Blank pages. Every one of them.

His brow furrowed. He eased into the chair. The hum of the lamp was the only sound.

Then a voice shattered the stillness:

"You."

Aether whipped around. Ryuji stood at the edge of the light, stepping forward slowly, draped in silence.

"I remember you," Ryuji said, calm but heavy. Each word dragged invisible weight behind it.

Aether stood sharply. "Yeah. Leonardo—"

He stopped. His words faltered as his gaze caught something new.

Bandages wrapped Ryuji's right arm, the fabric frayed at the edges as if hastily applied. The bandages ran up to his shoulder, and though the top of them was faintly stained, they protruded faintly.

"Aether," he corrected softly. "I'm Aether."

Ryuji tilted his head, gaze unblinking. "You were called Leonardo just a week ago, weren't you?"

His tone was more observation than question—quiet, but exhausted.

Aether blinked. "Yeah… it's a long story."

Ryuji gave a faint nod. "It always is." He gestured toward the chair with a worn movement, like a man who had lived a century in seven days. "Move."

Aether hesitated, then stepped aside as Ryuji lowered himself into the seat—slow, deliberate, heavy.

Aether studied him.

Ryuji's face carried the invisible lines of someone aged far beyond his years.

Not the wear of time—but something else.

A revelation?

A burden?

Whatever it was, it hung around him like a shroud.

"You've changed," Aether said quietly, almost to himself.

He didn't speak further. He only watched as Ryuji reached for the book.

"It's always a long story," Ryuji repeated, nearly inaudible beneath the lamp's hum.

The sound of a page turning broke the silence.

"A long story," he murmured again.

He stared at the blank pages, turning one after the next. His brow creased. Lips parted as if to speak, but nothing came.

"There are no words?" he asked at last, slow and uncertain.

He turned another page.

"You'll have to be more specific, I think," Aether said, leaning against the desk with folded arms. His tone was light, but tension shimmered beneath it. "That's how this place operates."

Another page turned.

"I haven't changed," Ryuji muttered suddenly, responding to Aether's earlier remark. "You just never knew me well enough to see the whole picture. But from where I stand, looks like you're the one who's changed."