In the beginning, there was only Nothing.
Not the void as we understand it, but a silence beyond time, an absence without space—a being-less existence. A nameless, boundless abyss where not even the idea of darkness could dwell, for even shadows require light to define them.
From Nothing, nothing is born. And yet, under the weight of its own eternity, the Nothing shuddered. That disturbance—an echo with no source, a tremor with no cause—gave rise to Chaos, "Vanull-rath." Not an entity, but a throbbing, unstable vastness, brimming with raw, unshaped potential.
Chaos was the first breath of existence, an ocean of disjointed possibilities, where all things were and were not, all at once.
And from within this Chaos, something remarkable occurred: movement.
Where there had been no direction, now came impulse. From impulse, Conflict was born—an eternal clash between forces that did not yet know their names, but already sensed they were opposites.
It was the birth of Duality.
From this first clash emerged two primordial forces: Pózhar, the Position — an affirming force that pushes forward, defines, structures, raises. Velkar, the Opposition — a reactive force that challenges, destroys, dissolves, liberates.
They were neither good nor evil. They were necessity—and yet, futility. Like the heartbeat of a world yet to be born, and yet, destined to perish.
From the violent dance of Pózhar and Velkar, the first forms emerged—not willed into being, but shaped by the friction of clashing forces: Matter, pressed into shape by Pózhar.
Time, unraveled by Velkar.
Space, carved out by the struggle between advance and retreat.
Consciousness, an accidental spark between pressure and rupture.
Thus, the universe came to be—not from a plan, but from a conflict.
Not out of love, but out of tension.
Not from gods, but from chaos.
The First Ground—the Root World, as the ancients called it—was formed from the ashes of that first battle. Its skies were woven from Chaos's torn veils. Its mountains raised by the accumulated weight of Position. Its abysses clawed out by the impatient talons of Opposition.
And that is why everything that exists carries within it the seed of conflict.
Every star holds the urge to explode.
Every being harbors the doubt that shapes it.
And every act of creation is, first and foremost, a battle won against Nothing.
Only after all things came to be did Light emerge—"Lux-Lu-Rath", the first conscious radiance, not mere illumination, but revelation. Light that knew itself as light. And as every revelation calls for a boundary, its counterforce was born: "Ca-Tez-Rath", the Darkness—not the initial Nothingness, but the cloak that denies, that veils, that hides what does not wish to be seen.
Light showed the way, but it was Darkness that taught the mystery.
And so balance became not just confrontation, but a choice.
Every act of creation, every idea, every life—a taut thread stretched between the revealing and the concealing, between rising and collapse, between Pózhar and Velkar, between Lux-Lu-Rath and Ca-Tez-Rath.
And in the end, everything that exists…
…only exists because it keeps resisting the pull of the Nothing.
✦ ✦ ✦
"Truly, no matter the realm… myths about creation are never dull."
The words slipped out in a slow murmur, my fingers still resting on the rough cover of the ancient book—its surface marked by dry veins, years of dust, and dark stains left by time.
I sank a little deeper into the creaking wooden chair, letting the backrest cradle me as I laced my fingers behind my neck. The book, still open, lay on my lap, its yellowed pages trembling in the lazy breeze filtering through the poorly sealed window.
"Shame Alexander was never that into creation tales…" I said lightly, a crooked smile tugging at my lips. "If he had been, he'd have an entire arsenal of theories to compare with the nonsense he loves to invent."
My gaze drifted toward the ceiling of uneven stone, tracing the thin cracks that ran across the beam joints. The ceiling looked as old as everything else in that room.
In Asgardia, there were many stories about the birth of the world—myths, legends, philosophical treatises, and the ramblings of mad old men—but the most widely accepted among scholars and sages was the Kauren-Rath, or The Conflict of the First Voices.
Before me, the oak table—stained, chipped, and slightly wobbly—was buried beneath a chaotic pile of books. Some had torn covers, others lay open at pages marked with ribbon bookmarks, half-scribbled notes in the margins, my own annotations in graphite and charcoal. Loose papers peeked out from between volumes, some crumpled, others held in place by makeshift weights: smooth stones, an empty teacup, even a small sheathed dagger.
"Vanull-Rath, Lux-Lu-Rath, CaTez-Rath..."
I repeated the names slowly, as if tasting each syllable with my tongue. There was a ritualistic rhythm to them, like they were meant to be chanted by priests in front of forgotten altars.
"These people really knew how to dramatize the birth of the universe."
I turned back to the book, sliding my finger along the passage I had just read, as if trying to absorb every word all over again.
"If everything starts with conflict... maybe that's why no one can ever escape it."
A heavier sigh slipped out of me as my free hand rose to my hair, still loosely tied with a makeshift lace. A few stubborn strands had already fallen along the sides of my face, irritating my vision, but I didn't bother with them.
"Shame this library doesn't have any truly important books."
Ten days had passed since I arrived at the Waiting Field—not counting the day of arrival. And in those ten days, the library had become my home. After long debates with the old librarian—spectacles cracked, posture irritatingly rigid—and after repeatedly notifying Kyle, including more than one formal note, I finally secured permission to use the quarters reserved for the librarians.
The building opposite the library wasn't luxurious, but it had what I needed: a firm bed, a writing space, and most importantly, it was less than a minute from the main entrance. My original quarters, on the other hand, were a half-hour walk away—and that round trip was a lifetime wasted when there were books waiting to be devoured.
Contrary to expectations, no one dared to disturb me. Maybe out of respect, maybe fear, pity, understanding, maybe they were plotting something, or maybe no one cared about me anymore. Who knew? The library was quiet... and empty.
The few times I heard footsteps among the shelves, it turned out to be lost squires or someone just cutting through to avoid the sun outside. Most didn't even know there were extra rooms, like the map room or the section of scrolls written in ancient tongues.
Most of the books were... mundane. Manuals on the most commonly spoken languages on the continent. There were also didactic volumes:
— Foundations of Military Etiquette
— Northern Lunar Calendars
— Basic History of the Two Grand Duchies and Arch-Duchies
— Non-Magical Animals and Their Simplified Taxonomy
Among the less ordinary titles, I found a few introductions to fencing, simplified guerrilla manuals, guides on hunting with natural traps, books on poisons and their antidotes, elemental alchemy, basic magic, and sacred, demonic, and spiritual powers. None of them delved too deep—never enough to train an apprentice, much less a master—but they offered just enough to pull someone out of ignorance.
There were also records on the Black Forest, the Family, a few old accounts of conflicts and anomalies within the kingdom, especially in the Forest, and even loosely structured theories about the expedition to the Sea of Darkness.
I closed my eyes for a moment, soaking in the ceremonial quiet of the place. Dust hung in the air, dancing in thin beams of light that filtered through dirty windows. The wooden shelves creaked occasionally, as if the books themselves were breathing in solitude.
Outside, the leaves of nearby trees rustled softly, but inside the library, there was only the sound of pages turning. My pages.
Reading, these past days, had been my armor against anxiety, against the memory of what I'd left behind and what I still had to face. Yes... for me, opening a book was like breathing safely. And here, in this quiet sanctuary of paper and ink, no matter how disorganized or limited it was... I was at peace.
But, like all things in life, peace doesn't last forever.
The sound cut through the silence like a dagger tearing ancient parchment:
"And to think it was true!" A high-pitched, slightly shrill voice burst into the library just as the doors swung open with an unnecessarily loud creak.
The echo of the words scattered through the silent corridors like stones tossed into a still pond.
"He really spent ten whole days in the library!?" the same voice called again, now laced with mockery.
Others followed right behind, like a swarm of noisy young bees. Ten, maybe eleven. It was hard to count precisely without even lifting my eyes from the book.
"Yeah, no one's seen him anywhere else."
"When we went to his room, they said he'd moved out!"
"The rumors are true: he's a library rat."
"And to think he's the patriarch's son."
With each new phrase, another layer of disdain joined the growing chorus. The voices echoed between the shelves like an informal trial, staged by children dressed as soldiers.
"He really spent a year and a half in the forest?"
"Must've been hiding like a rat, wandering until he got lucky and found a way out."
"Yeah, yeah, that must be it. How else would someone survive that long in there if not for sheer luck?"
"Right?"
"And then there's that bastard Nikolas..."
"Nikolas? Who's that?"
"The bastard who's been in there for, what, three or four years now."
The harshly youthful chorus drew closer, their steps too light to take seriously... and yet loud enough to wound the sacred silence of that place.
'Why won't they just shut up?' I thought, trying to anchor myself in the only thing that still brought me peace. 'Don't they know this is a library?'
My eyes didn't move. I stayed there, a deliberately indifferent statue. I plunged back into the book, like someone closing their eyes in the middle of a storm and pretending it'll pass if ignored.
"Hey."
I ignored it. Not hard to do. The sound already felt too distant to matter.
"Oi."
Again, nothing. Not even a flicker of reaction. My hands held the book tightly, my eyes scanning lines I wasn't really reading anymore.
"Are you deaf or something?"
"Don't you hear us calling?"
Their words grew angrier, as if my silence itself was an offense.
The silence that followed was brief. One of them stepped forward with heavier, impatient steps. I felt it through the faint, yet unmistakable vibration of the wooden floor.
Then, without ceremony, he reached out and yanked the book from my hands.
The sound of the paper tearing away—dry, harsh, brutal—was like a slap across the face.
The sudden absence of weight between my fingers pulled me out of the trance. I looked up slowly, like someone surfacing from the depths with lungs full of silence.
"What the hell is so interesting in here that you can't even pay attention to people?" the boy asked, waving the book in front of me like some ridiculous trophy.
He was thin, with eyes too sharp for his own good and a crooked smile—the kind that only survives when it has an audience.
My breathing stayed calm. Still seated, I straightened my spine slightly and let the silence stretch between us. The boy hesitated, as if expecting an immediate response. He didn't get one.
Then I spoke, in a tone calm and sharp as a well-honed blade: "Didn't anyone teach you it's rude to snatch something from someone's hands without asking?"
The general murmur ceased, as if everyone was trying to figure out whether that was a threat or just a polite reprimand. But I kept my eyes on him, my gaze plain with fury.
"And furthermore…" I continued, rising slowly, the movement almost lazy, "…if you're that desperate for attention, I suggest looking for a mirror—not a library."
I extended my hand calmly, palm open toward the book. I said nothing else. I just stared.
The boy in front of me hesitated. His eyes narrowed, weighing whether to give in or double down. For two long seconds—hours, in that tense silence—he stared back, brow furrowed. At last, he huffed and shoved the book back into my hand, the slap of his fingers on the cover quick and annoyed.
"Just 'cause you're the patriarch's son, you think you're someone, huh?" he muttered with contempt, crossing his arms like he was waiting for backup.
'Seriously? That's his argument?' I thought, incredulous. Judging by how the others clustered around him, he was clearly their leader and had to be at least twelve. And that was the best insult he could come up with?
'If it were Carlos, he'd already have said something like: "Not my fault you were born in a pigsty while I got a palace." Or, "Oh right… you weren't even born in a cradle."'
A small laugh slipped out of me at the thought. Light, almost accidental—but enough to ignite the eyes of the crowd around us.
"You think this is funny?!" the leader snapped, his cheeks flushing red with anger. "Am I that ridiculous to you, that you laugh in my face?!"
Before I could reply, I felt a heavy hand land on my shoulder.
"Hey, kid," growled one of the others—a taller boy, maybe thirteen. His fingers tightened on my shoulder, like he was trying to measure my reaction. "You gonna apologize or what?"
"Yeah, that's right!" another chimed in. "Because of you, we lost a whole year! A year! Waiting for someone like you to finish that damn forest!"
"That's what the knights said!" someone added. "That we couldn't leave this place until everyone came out of the forest."
They began to surround me slowly, forming a stifling semicircle of voices, accusations, and inflated childish egos.
That was when the boy who had returned my book raised a hand in an almost theatrical gesture.
"Wait, wait!" he said, with an air of false compassion. "Let's not make life harder for our dear friend... he must've suffered too, right? The forest is dangerous, after all."
Some of the others looked visibly confused, as if unsure whether he was actually defending me or just setting the stage for something worse.
Then he pulled up a chair and sat in front of me, legs crossed, his expression far too serious for a child his age.
"Let's do this," he began. "You put in a good word for us with the patriarch, say we're talented, promising... and we won't make your life difficult around here. How about it?"
I stayed silent for a second. Not out of fear. I was... surprised.
I couldn't help it. It was so childish—so stupidly childish—that I couldn't hold back the laugh. It burst out of me without warning, shaking my body, springing out of my throat like a tightly wound spring set loose.
"Hahaha! Oh... sorry..." I wiped a tear with the back of my hand. "You guys are actually serious about this?"
"Laughing again!?" the leader jumped up from the chair. "You think this is a JOKE!?"
"Relax, relax!" I raised a hand, still chuckling. "I'm taking you very seriously! Really! Look, if we're going to speak highly of you, how about asking for gifts too? Hm?"
I began counting on my fingers, theatrically: "A silver sword... a private fencing tutor... no, better yet, an alchemy master! And why not a holy baptism too? Oh, and mana crystals! Preferably rare ones! That work for you?"
The leader seemed to ease up, convinced by my seriousness.
"Glad to see you're a reasonable person."
"Reasonable? Of course I am! I would never…" I said, but my voice began to drop, heavier, slower. My eyes weren't on the boy anymore, but on what was moving behind him. "I would never... mock you. Or lie or deceive…"
The creature drew closer, leaping from a stack of books to a low counter.
"Never send someone to hurt or threaten you, or let my beastly friend treat you as food…"
"Beastly fri—what...?" the big one behind me muttered, slowly withdrawing his hand from my shoulder.
"That one." I nodded toward the shelves.
They all turned at once, eyes widening.
At the top of a bookshelf, standing tall, was a wolf pup. Its coat was silvery-gray, nearly white, and its eyes... gold, like sunlight on sharpened blades. It didn't growl. It didn't bark. It just watched—but the air around it felt... heavy.
Then it bared its teeth. Slow, white, sharp. And the energy in the room shifted entirely. The silent library turned into a field of tension.
"Is... is that yours?" one of the boys whispered, stepping back.
"Axel," I called softly.
The wolf jumped to the floor with a soft, controlled thud, landing like a living shadow. The boys stepped back, and now, the semicircle that had trapped me opened instinctively.
"W-What kind of animal is that...?" murmured the boy who had held the book.
"A pup," I replied, brushing the dust off the book's cover as I reclaimed it. "But he's hungry. And he doesn't have much patience for people who shout in libraries."
Axel stepped forward. Just once. But it was enough to make two of the boys jump back.
"I-I think we've said what we needed to!" the leader stammered, trying to keep his composure, but clearly sweating.
"Good. So have I." I closed the book. "Now, if you'll excuse me... I have a lot of reading to do. And my inner 'library rat' is starving."
They slinked away one by one, muttering half-apologies and pretending to still have their pride, while Axel watched them go with unblinking eyes.
When silence reclaimed the room, he came over and lay beside me, resting his snout on his front paws.
"Good boy," I whispered, stroking his head.
And for the first time since I entered that library, the peace I found... tasted like victory.