[11:47 AM — Late Autumn, 17°C, light wind, overcast sky]
The last thing he remembered of Earth was the dusty scent of old paper.
The municipal library was quiet that morning — the kind of quiet only broken by the distant shuffle of an old man's slippers against carpet and the muted ticking of a wall clock that had been three minutes slow since the 90s. Outside, grey clouds had swallowed the sun, draping the world in that dim, sleepy light that made books feel warmer to the touch.
In the west wing, under the towering oak shelves that smelled faintly of lemon polish and history, a man in his late thirties — 178 centimeters tall, black hair streaked faintly with silver strands despite his age — was balancing on a stepladder. His shoulders were lean from years of lifting stacks of books, not weights. His hands were calloused in the way only librarians' hands could be — not from labor, but from thousands of turned pages.
He had no family waiting for him at home. No friends to meet afterward. Only the comfort of returning to these shelves each day, brushing dust from spines, and quietly existing in a world of paper and ink.
That was why he didn't notice the danger until it was already too late.
The ladder groaned beneath his weight — a long, splintering creak that should have been a warning. But his mind was elsewhere, lost in the faded illustrations of a First Edition 1912 Atlas of the Eastern Trade Routes.
The top shelf shuddered. Leather-bound encyclopedias, thick enough to stop a crossbow bolt, slid forward like a collapsing cliff.
Thud.Crash.Thud.
An avalanche of knowledge came down.
He didn't scream. Instead, he released a quiet, almost resigned breath."…Fitting, isn't it?" he murmured to no one.
The weight crushed him in an instant, the air forced from his lungs. His vision darkened, not with fear, but with a strange warmth — the comforting scent of ink, dust, and aged parchment filling his last conscious breath.
And then there was nothing.
When his eyes opened again, the world was not the same.
The first thing he noticed was the sound — or rather, the lack of it. No ticking clock. No faint hum of fluorescent lights. Only stillness, heavy and absolute, as though the air itself refused to move.
He lay on his back upon warped, splintered floorboards, their surfaces rough with age. The scent of rot and mildew filled his nose, sharp and unpleasant after a lifetime of clean paper and polished wood.
Slowly, he sat up. His head felt… light, almost detached from his body, as if every movement belonged to someone else. His hands — pale, long-fingered — were unmarred by bruises or blood, though he remembered the crushing weight vividly.
His gaze lifted to take in his surroundings.
Cobwebs drooped from the high rafters like neglected curtains. The ceiling beams were bowed with age, their edges chewed by years of rainwater seepage. A single cracked window leaked a shaft of muted daylight into the room, illuminating the slow drift of dust motes in the air.
The wind outside whispered through unseen gaps in the wall, carrying the scent of damp earth and distant pine trees. Somewhere far away, a crow called once, then fell silent.
"This… isn't the hospital," he muttered, his voice rough and unused.
No answer came. Only the creak of the old boards as he pushed himself to his feet. His balance felt unsteady — not from injury, but because his body felt different. Lighter. Younger, perhaps, though he hadn't the time to check.
He walked toward the broken doorway. The frame sagged, its hinges rusted, but beyond it stretched a wilderness. Tall, untamed trees swayed gently under the grey sky, their branches whispering secrets to the wind. A narrow dirt path led away from the shack, vanishing into the forest.
That was when it happened.
In the still air before him, something flickered — faint, translucent, as if reality itself had developed a thin layer of glass.
A line of text appeared in glowing ink, hanging in the air like a page torn from some unseen book.
[System Initialization…][Binding to Host: Complete][Welcome, Librarian.]
He blinked. "…Pardon?"
The text shifted, rearranging itself with quiet precision.
[World: Murim][Designation: Wandering Library Sage][Primary Functions Unlocked: Generate | Copy | Analyze]
His brow furrowed. "Murim? Like… the old martial arts legends? Rivers and lakes… sect wars…?"
The panel pulsed faintly in acknowledgment.
It should have been overwhelming.It should have made his knees weak.Instead, he sighed, shoulders loosening as though this were all mildly inconvenient.
"…If this involves people swinging swords at me, I'm not interested," he said flatly. "I was a librarian. Not a swordsman."
The system gave no answer, but the faint glow of the panel lingered in the corner of his vision.
He looked out at the forest again, then down at the warped floor under his feet. For all the questions screaming for answers, only one truly mattered to him at that moment.
"…Do you have books?"
The panel pulsed again. Somewhere in the air, a soft chime rang — like the turning of a page.
The question had barely left his lips before the air itself shifted.It was subtle at first — like the pause before a sentence, or the stillness in a library when someone turns a page too slowly. The faint scent of pine and rain outside faded, replaced by the familiar dry aroma of aged parchment.
The floating letters before him pulsed once.
[Starter Package Granted][11 Core Martial Disciplines — 220 Common Martial Arts Manuals][Item Type: Physical | Unique | Non-Reproducible][Destruction Authority: Librarian Only]
His eyes widened — not with shock, but with the slow-burning interest of a man being offered something worth more than gold.
In the space between heartbeats, reality rippled like the surface of a pond. A large wooden crate — weathered but intact — materialized directly before him, landing on the warped floorboards with a heavy thunk. The impact sent a small cloud of dust puffing up around his ankles.
He crouched instinctively, resting one long-fingered hand on the lid. The crate was cold to the touch, smelling faintly of cedar and oil — the kind of careful preservation only a true archivist would recognize. His breath caught, not because of the mystery, but because something deep in his chest already knew there were books inside.
"…Don't tell me…" he murmured, running his thumb along the seam of the lid.
When he pried it open, the sight nearly stole his voice.
Rows upon rows of meticulously bound volumes stared back at him.Some bore thick leather covers stamped with gold characters. Others were bound in silk, their spines painted in soft earth tones. Each title was written in calligraphy so precise it could have been drawn with a ruler in the calligrapher's mind.
They weren't all the same size. Some were palm-sized pocket manuals, others wide as a dinner plate and thick enough to use as a doorstop. But they all shared one thing — a faint, quiet hum in the air, like the heartbeat of knowledge itself.
He reached for the first book on top — "Tiger Step Form" — and paused. The surface was warm, almost alive. He opened it carefully… only to blink in confusion. The words shimmered faintly, almost daring him to try and copy them.
On instinct, he reached for a scrap of paper from his coat pocket, took out a stub of a pencil, and began to transcribe the first line.
The paper came up blank.
A voice — calm, almost like a librarian's own tone — echoed in his mind.
[Copying prohibited. Only Librarian-authorized readers may view content.]
He leaned back, exhaling through his nose, a faint smile ghosting his lips."…So that's how it is. You're precious, aren't you?" he whispered, almost as if speaking to the book itself.
One by one, he began lifting the manuals out, stacking them on the dusty floor. He didn't rush. He didn't toss them carelessly. Each was handled with the reverence of a priest moving relics — the pads of his fingers brushing over the spines, eyes scanning each title, cataloging them in his mind.
"Iron Palm Basics… Four Winds Breathing… Crane Step Balance… River Flow Strike…"
By the time he'd removed the last volume from the crate, the floor before him looked less like a ruin and more like the beginning of something sacred.
He sat back on his heels, surveying the collection.The 11 Core Martial Disciplines were all here — and each discipline had exactly 20 manuals, making 220 in total. Every book was pristine, with good paper grain and sharp printing. The bindings were tight. Not a single page was wrinkled.
Even in this run-down shack, their presence felt… dignified.
The wind outside shifted again, pushing a faint chill through the cracked window. He barely noticed. His focus was entirely on arranging the books.
"…Alphabetical order," he decided, voice barely above a whisper.
And so, he worked.He didn't have shelves. He didn't have a proper desk. But that didn't stop him. He laid the books in neat lines along the floor, grouping each discipline in its own section.
The Fist Arts manuals were placed near the door — the kind of thing he thought should be easily accessible to beginners. The Sword Arts were stacked near the window, where the light could touch their spines. The Internal Energy scrolls — thick and complex — he placed in the far back, almost like the hidden treasure of the room.
It took him forty-seven minutes to arrange them all, not because there were many, but because he refused to rush. Each time he placed one down, he adjusted it until the spine faced perfectly outward, the edges aligned in exact, straight lines.
When he was finished, he sat cross-legged on the dusty floor, surrounded by silent guardians of knowledge.
The system's interface pulsed faintly in his vision, but it didn't intrude.For a moment, there was only him, the books, and the faint whisper of wind outside.
He closed his eyes and let out a slow breath."…This… this is enough," he murmured to himself. "I don't care if the roof leaks. I don't care if the walls fall down. If I can read… I'm alive."
Somewhere deep within, he felt the system stir — not with commands, but with a question.
[Host seems… unmotivated?]
He chuckled quietly, his voice low and dry."Unmotivated? No. You're just offering the wrong rewards. When I'm reading a book, that's when I'm most alive. That's why, when you offered these… all I wanted was a quiet space to enjoy them."
And with that, he leaned back against the crate, closed his eyes, and simply breathed in the scent of ink and paper — ignoring entirely the creak of the old walls, the broken door, and the ruin that surrounded him.
For now… he was home.
[2:16 PM]
The system's interface pulsed softly in the corner of his vision, like a candle glow against the gray gloom of the shack.
[Reward: Basic Bookshelf Set (11 units)][Material: Treated Pine | Capacity: 50 Volumes Each | Durability: 99%]
There was no flash, no explosion of light, no otherworldly fanfare.Instead, reality simply… accepted their presence.
Eleven tall, empty shelves now stood around him in an uneven circle — some leaning slightly due to the warped floorboards, others perfectly upright like silent sentinels. They smelled faintly of fresh-cut wood, and the golden hue of the pine seemed to fight the dimness of the afternoon light.
He stood slowly, brushing dust from his trousers, and took a step toward the nearest shelf. He was a man of average build — five-foot-nine, with narrow shoulders and slightly calloused hands from years of handling old paper. His hair, black but messy, still carried a faint crease from when the bookshelf had crushed him hours earlier… or perhaps a lifetime earlier.
He reached out, fingertips grazing the smooth wooden surface.
"…Not bad," he muttered, voice low, as though speaking to an old friend. "Sturdy joints. Even grain. They'll hold."
Without hesitation, he went to work.The first thing he did was drag the nearest shelf closer to the wall, using the tips of his shoes to nudge it into place. The floor groaned in protest, the boards bending slightly beneath the weight. Outside, the wind whistled through a gap in the window frame, sending a cool breath across his neck.
One by one, he positioned the eleven shelves along the perimeter of the room.
The arrangement wasn't random — nothing he did with books was ever random.He began on the left side of the shack, near the door, placing the shelves for Fist Arts and Palm Techniques where they'd be easiest to reach for beginners.
Next came Footwork and Body Movement Arts, positioned opposite the door so that the first thing any visitor would see was the path to agility.
Blade Arts and Sword Arts went to the wall with the most sunlight — a deliberate choice, for he always believed that weapons-based manuals should be studied in light, not shadow.
The Internal Energy manuals were placed furthest from the entrance, at the back of the shack, as though guarding the heart of the room.
By the time he reached Throwing Techniques, Archery, and Staff Arts, the shelves seemed to have claimed their own corners.
The final two — Defensive Arts and Hybrid Styles — stood near the center of the back wall, forming a subtle symmetry that pleased his eye.
[3:08 PM]
The books were still stacked neatly on the floor where he'd left them, waiting patiently like students before their first lesson. He crouched, picked up Iron Palm Basics, and slid it onto the Fist Arts shelf — top left corner, first position.
From there, the world outside ceased to exist.
His hands moved with practiced precision — no wasted motion, no careless tossing. Each manual was dusted gently with the sleeve of his shirt before being placed exactly where it belonged. His lips moved now and then, whispering the title under his breath as though committing it to a mental catalog.
The wind outside grew colder, and a faint patter of rain began to tap against the roof. Water seeped through a crack near the far wall, dripping onto the floor with slow, steady beats. He didn't move to fix it. His focus was absolute.
By the time the one hundredth book slid into its new home, his knees ached from kneeling, but he ignored it.
When the final volume — Silent Crane Step — was placed on the last empty slot of the eleventh shelf, he stepped back and exhaled slowly. His eyes roamed over the room.
The transformation was subtle, but undeniable.Where there had once been bare, dusty walls and warped planks, now stood rows of neatly ordered shelves — each filled to capacity with knowledge that no one else in this world could touch.
And in that moment, the system's voice returned, warmer than before.
[Arrangement Complete — Award Granted][Passive Library Function Added: Auto-Clean][Passive Library Function Added: Dust Repellent][Additional Reward: Structural Repair of Facility]
It began almost immediately.The shelves straightened on their own, their edges aligning perfectly. The air grew fresher, the musty scent of rot fading into the faint fragrance of polished wood. Dust vanished from every surface.
Outside, the shack's walls shifted — the wood smoothing, cracks sealing, shingles on the roof snapping back into place. Broken glass reformed in the window frames, clear and without smudge. The warped floorboards beneath his feet straightened until they were flush and solid.
By the time thirty minutes had passed, the run-down shack was no more.
In its place stood a small but pristine medieval-style library, the kind one might find hidden deep within the stone halls of a king's castle. The walls, once warped and cracked, now gleamed with dark, oiled wood paneling carved with faint sword marks — not from battle, but as deliberate decoration, telling silent stories of duels long past. Above the bookshelves, sections of the walls were adorned with mural-like paintings depicting martial arts scenes — a master mid-strike, a disciple bowing, armies clashing on mist-covered mountains.
The floor was laid with smooth timber planks, polished to a soft sheen. The shelves themselves seemed warmer now, their golden pine frames contrasted by the deep, shadowed alcoves in which the books rested. A pair of tall, arched windows let in beams of late-afternoon sunlight, scattering across the room in golden dust motes — though the new Dust Repellent function meant the air was spotless.
Soft, high-backed wooden chairs with leather cushions sat in a corner near a circular table, the perfect spot for quiet reading. The faint scent of polished wood mixed with aged paper filled the air, wrapping the room in a comforting embrace.
The overall atmosphere was one of cozy grandeur — a place both welcoming and reverent, where silence was not empty but sacred. Stepping inside felt like stepping into a different time entirely, a fantasy sanctuary untouched by the chaos of the world outside.
The system's voice, warmer than before, returned to deliver its final announcement:
[New Passive Buffs Acquired]
Invincibility (Library Zone) — No harm can come to the Librarian or books while inside the library.
Passive Intimidation (Library Zone) — Host will emit an aura that suppresses aggression and compels respect from all visitors.
He stood in the center of the transformed space, hands in his pockets, letting his eyes wander over the sword-mark carvings and painted martial murals. The corner of his mouth lifted ever so slightly.
"…Perfect," he murmured.
And for the first time since awakening in this strange Murim world, he smiled — not a grand, triumphant smile, but the quiet satisfaction of a man who had everything he needed within arm's reach.
The golden light of the afternoon sun had mellowed into a softer amber glow, casting long slants through the tall arched windows. Judging by the shadows, it was nearing 5:40 PM — that lazy hour when day hesitates before surrendering to evening. Outside, the wind carried the faint scent of pine and damp soil from the surrounding hills, rustling through the dry grass that clung stubbornly to the earth.
Inside the newly born library, it was warmer — not from any visible fire, but from the way the oiled wood and shelves seemed to hold sunlight in their very grain. The murals caught the light differently now, each painted figure frozen mid-motion: a swordsman caught in a sweeping cut, a spearman bracing against a phantom wind, an old master seated beneath a plum tree, eyes closed in meditation.
The man who now owned this place — or perhaps was owned by it — stood in the center aisle between two long rows of shelves, hands resting loosely in his pockets. His shadow stretched out behind him, long and solitary. His hair, dark and somewhat unkempt, caught just enough of the amber light to seem faintly bronze at the edges. The system's presence had gone quiet for a while, letting him absorb the transformation, but he could feel it lingering — like a thought that wasn't his own, waiting to be voiced.
Finally, he broke the silence.
"So," he said, his tone even, as though asking about the weather, "what now? What exactly is my… mission here?"
His voice carried in the room more than he expected. The high ceiling gave it a faint echo, like words spoken in a temple. He almost regretted breaking the stillness.
The system answered in its calm, almost too-patient tone.
[Primary Directive Assigned: Become the Variable of Fate]
The man frowned slightly, turning his gaze toward the closest mural — the one of the spearman, caught forever in his poised defiance. "…Variable of fate?" he repeated slowly, the words tasting strange in his mouth. "That's poetic. But vague."
[Clarification: Host is to become the uncertainty in all predetermined futures. To act without the chains of prophecy, logic, or expectation. To force change simply by existing.]
"…Sounds exhausting."
[Acknowledged. Difficulty level: unpredictable.]
He exhaled softly through his nose, the faintest smirk twitching at the corner of his lips. "You do realize," he said, walking toward one of the empty chairs in the corner, "that I'm not exactly the type to… save the world."
[The world does not require saving. It requires… imbalance.]
He sat down, leaning back slightly, eyes drifting up toward the sword-mark carvings along the wall. His mind wandered — not toward grand destiny or noble ideals, but toward the thought of a quiet evening, the smell of paper and ink, and the comforting weight of a book in his hands.
"…And if I don't feel like doing anything?" he asked after a long pause.
[Then the world will still change. Your choices are the catalyst.]
The room fell quiet again, save for the faint whisper of the wind outside and the occasional creak of the building settling into its new form. The library didn't feel like a mere building anymore; it felt alive in some way — not breathing, but watching.
He let his head fall back against the chair, eyes half-lidded. "Fate, variables, the future…" He gave a soft, almost amused sigh. "Honestly, all I wanted was a place to read in peace."
For a moment, there was no response. Then:
[Acknowledged. Secondary Directive: Protect the Library.]
Now that, he thought, was something he could live with.
The sun had almost dipped behind the western ridge, casting the valley in a soft blue haze. It was 6:08 PM by the old clock mounted above the reading desk, its brass frame dulled by age but still ticking with perfect rhythm. The temperature had shifted — the kind of crisp coolness that hinted at night's approach. Outside, a chorus of cicadas had begun their steady song, joined by the distant croak of frogs near the marshland.
Inside the library, however, it was timeless. The air no longer carried the faint bite of dust, nor the musty scent of disuse. Instead, it smelled faintly of cedar and aged paper, a warm blend that settled into the lungs like comfort itself. The light within was golden — not the weak remnants of sunset, but a steady, gentle illumination from lanterns that hung along the walls. Each one flickered softly, their flames dancing behind glass in a way that made the shadows breathe against the murals.
The man — Seojin, though no one here yet knew his name — rose slowly from the chair, his movements unhurried, as though testing the weight of the silence. His frame was lean but not frail, standing at around 178 centimeters. His dark hair still carried the faint bronze glint from earlier, though the light was shifting to a richer, warmer tone now. His clothing — plain, slightly worn trousers and a loose cotton shirt — looked comically ordinary against the regal wood and stone of the medieval-style shelves.
He walked toward the center of the main hall again, running a hand along the polished wood of the nearest bookshelf. Each row was now filled — eleven shelves in total, one for each core martial discipline, their spines forming an unbroken wall of knowledge. The books sat perfectly aligned, their bindings intact, their pages crisp, as if they had never been touched by time. And in a way, they hadn't.
"Not bad," he murmured to himself, almost like a shopkeeper surveying his wares at closing time.
From nowhere and everywhere, the system's voice returned — neither warm nor cold, but threaded with something deliberate.
[Reminder: Host has accepted the Starter Package — 220 common martial arts manuals, arranged into 11 core disciplines. Condition: uncopyable, indestructible except by the Librarian's will.]
Seojin smirked faintly. "You make it sound like I'm the warden of a prison for books."
[Correction: Anyone may read these books, but their choice to learn will determine the shape of their fate. You are not their jailer, Seojin. You are their merchant. You provide knowledge, but the cost and the consequences are theirs to bear.]
He paused mid-step, turning his head slightly toward the shelves as if seeing them anew. "A merchant, huh?" His voice held a faint trace of curiosity, as though the title carried weight he hadn't yet considered.
The system continued without pause.
[Primary Directive stands: Become the variable of fate. Secondary Directive: Protect the Library.]
Seojin tilted his head, narrowing his eyes slightly at the murals above. "Variable of fate…" he repeated, his voice quieter this time. "It sounds dramatic when you say it like that."
[Mission clarity: Your presence must create uncertainty. Your decisions will lead to futures even the heavens cannot predict.]
His lips curved in the smallest of smiles, though it never quite reached his eyes. "Uncertainty, huh?" He turned toward the nearest window, watching the horizon as the last sliver of sun disappeared. "What if my choice is to just sit here and read?"
[Even then, fate will change. Your existence here is already altering the flow.]
For a while, Seojin said nothing. His gaze drifted over the rows of lantern-lit shelves, the polished floor, the murals, the sword-mark etchings along the beams — all details that made this place feel alive in ways that words couldn't fully catch.
"…You know," he said at last, "when I was alive before… reading was the only thing that made me feel—" He stopped, searching for the right word. "—like I was breathing. Not just existing, but actually alive. If you offer me a quiet space, and books… that's all I'll ever ask for."
The system was silent for a moment, as if processing not the words, but the sentiment. Then it spoke again, with something almost like… acceptance.
[Acknowledged. The Library is yours to shape. But know this — the quieter your life seems, the louder its echoes will become.]
He chuckled softly at that, rubbing the back of his neck. "That sounds suspiciously like foreshadowing."
[Observation: The host possesses mild genre awareness.]
"…Now you're just messing with me."
The air in the library seemed to grow warmer, though the outside wind had turned cold. Somewhere beyond the walls, an owl gave a low, hollow call. The night had truly arrived.
Seojin moved toward the reading desk, pulling out the old chair and sitting down. He let one hand rest over the nearest book spine, tracing the gold lettering with absent fingers. Whatever "variable of fate" truly meant… he had a feeling that his so-called quiet life had already begun pulling on threads he couldn't yet see.