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Chapter 58 - The Curator

The old man's voice, a powerful, dust-raw bark, echoed in the grand hall, demanding an answer. He held the heavy spade not like a tool, but like a battle-axe, its sharpened edge glinting in the dim light. His eyes, burning with a fierce, paranoid intelligence, were locked on the three figures on the balcony.

"We're not here to hurt you," Kai called down, his voice steady, his hands still held open and away from his saber. "We were just looking for shelter."

"Shelter?" the man scoffed, his wild white hair seeming to bristle. "Is that what you call it? Skulking in the shadows like thieves? The things that hunt in this new world don't skulk. They scream. They tear. They kill. So I ask again: who are you?"

Beside Kai, Ben's silver-lit eyes were narrowed in concentration. His Insight was active, peeling back the layers of the man below, feeding him a stream of data that was far more revealing than any answer the man could give.

[Alistair Finch]

[Level: 1 (Civilian)]

[Status: Malnourished, Exhausted, Obsessed]

[Notes: Possesses deep, esoteric knowledge regarding local historical anomalies. Displays no direct combat skills, but his high state of agitation and singular focus make him unpredictable. He is protecting the excavation site.]

"His name is Alistair Finch," Ben murmured, his voice so low only Kai and Elara could hear. "He's not a fighter, but he's... fixated. On whatever is in that hole."

Kai processed the information instantly. Not a threat, but a keeper of secrets. This changed everything.

"Professor Finch?" Kai called down, taking a calculated risk. "You were the head of this department, weren't you? The curator?"

The man, Alistair, flinched as if struck. The spade lowered a few inches, his ferocious glare softening into one of pure, stunned confusion. "How... how could you possibly know that?"

"We're not thieves," Kai continued, deciding to press the advantage. He and Elara began to descend the grand staircase slowly, their movements calm and deliberate. Ben followed a few steps behind. "We're like you. We're looking for things. Things that don't belong."

Alistair's eyes darted from the saber at Kai's hip, to the twin blades on Elara's back, and finally to the strange, bookish intensity in Ben's gaze. The cornered-animal look in his eyes began to fade, replaced by a flicker of something else: understanding.

"The anomalies," Alistair breathed, the word a reverent whisper. "The Echoes. You've found them too, then. You're... you're like me."

"We are," Kai confirmed, stopping at the bottom of the stairs, a safe distance away. "We came here for the same reason you're digging. We're trying to understand what's happening."

Alistair looked from their faces to the hole in the floor, then back again. The frantic energy seemed to drain out of him, leaving a man who looked ancient, bone-weary, and utterly alone. He let the spade fall to the floor with a clatter.

"For thirty years, I was the curator of this collection," he said, his voice now quiet, filled with a profound sadness. "I studied the strange little stories of this campus. The objects that didn't fit. A cavalry saber that hummed on cold nights. A book in the library that was always warm to the touch. A compass in the archives that never pointed north. I called them 'convergences.' Points where the veil between... well, between this," he gestured to the ruined hall, "and that," he pointed to the glowing Tome visible in Ben's pack, "was thin."

He knelt back down by the hole, his hands brushing dirt from a flat, metal surface he had just uncovered. "When the sky broke and the world changed, I knew. The convergences were waking up. I've been here ever since, trying to protect them. To unearth them. This one..." he patted the metal plate, "this one is the oldest. The university's first time capsule, buried in 1888. But it's not a time capsule. It's a vault. And it was built to contain an Echo."

He had just confirmed everything the diorama had shown them and more. This man was the key.

The moment of connection was shattered by a sound from outside. It was a high-pitched, metallic shriek, filled with a familiar, wounded rage.

The Harrier.

It was circling the building, its cries a clear, auditory hunt for the prey it had lost. Alistair's head snapped up, his face a mask of pure terror.

"It's back," he gasped. "The Silent Death. It's been hunting around this building for two days!"

The shriek came again, closer this time, followed by the sound of something heavy scraping against the slate tiles of the roof, right above the grand hall's massive, grime-covered skylight.

It had heard them. It knew they were inside.

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