Rantaro sat at his cluttered desk, the faint glow of his desk lamp casting long shadows over scattered sketches and crumpled papers. His latest canvas rested on an easel nearby, an abstract blend of blues and yellows that somehow mirrored the quiet longing in his chest.
Despite the loneliness, art was Rantaro's anchor. Each brushstroke felt like a whisper to the world, a silent plea to be seen and understood. He often found himself painting late into the night, as if the stillness could bring clarity to the chaos in his mind.
He sighed, leaning back in his chair and running a hand through his unruly curls. His reflection in the window looked back at him, his bangs framing a face that held too much introspection for someone his age.
"Maybe I should try," he murmured to himself, glancing at his phone. The idea of reaching out to someone—a friend, a fellow artist, anyone—had been swirling in his thoughts for weeks. But each time, the fear of rejection won out.
The sound of a distant siren outside broke his reverie. The city was alive, bustling with connections and stories. Somewhere out there, Rantaro believed, was someone who might understand him, someone who could look at his art and see the depths he poured into it.
With a deep breath, he picked up his phone and opened a local art community app he’d downloaded but never used. His fingers hesitated over the screen before typing a short message:
"Hi, I'm Rantaro. I'm an artist looking to connect with others who share a passion for creativity. Let’s talk about art, life, or whatever inspires you."
He hit send before he could overthink it.
For the first time in a while, Rantaro felt a spark of hope—a tiny flicker that maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t have to face his solitude alone.
A couple hours have passed since he posted that to a forum but it has yet to garner any replies. He sighs in frustration and decides to go outside for the first time in months.
The cold air hit Rantaro’s face the moment he stepped outside, a brisk reminder of how long it had been since he left his tiny apartment. The city seemed both familiar and alien, its streets alive with chatter, laughter, and the hum of passing cars. He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his worn jacket, his fingers brushing against a crumpled bus ticket he’d forgotten about.
His feet carried him aimlessly, the sound of his sneakers scuffing against the pavement drowned out by the world around him. He passed bustling cafes, their windows fogged with warmth and conversations he couldn’t hear. For a moment, he envied the people inside, surrounded by friends, by connection.
Turning a corner, he found himself in front of a small park. The bare trees stretched their skeletal branches toward the gray sky, and a few scattered benches sat empty. He wandered toward one, brushing off a thin layer of frost before sitting down.
Rantaro exhaled, watching his breath puff into the air. He pulled out his phone, half-hoping for a notification from the forum. Nothing. He let out a frustrated groan and leaned back, staring at the sky as if it held answers.
With nothing left to do he decides to take a walk around his neighborhood when he notices a garage sale.
The idea of exploring his neighborhood felt oddly refreshing, if not slightly daunting.
As he wandered down the familiar streets, he noticed a cluster of people gathered around a driveway a few blocks away. Brightly colored signs reading "Garage Sale" were taped to lampposts, fluttering slightly in the chilly breeze. Intrigued, Rantaro made his way over.
The driveway was packed with tables and boxes overflowing with items: stacks of books, old electronics, mismatched kitchenware, and a variety of curiosities. People milled about, chatting and haggling over prices. It felt lively, like a small pocket of community he had forgotten existed.
Rantaro hesitated at the edge of the sale, unsure if he should join in. But then his eyes caught something—a wooden crate filled with dusty art supplies. His curiosity piqued, he approached and knelt to sift through it.
There were tubes of oil paint, some half-used but still vibrant, alongside a handful of brushes with weathered handles. A few blank canvases leaned against the crate, their edges slightly yellowed with age. At the bottom of the pile, he uncovered a sketchbook with a leather cover.
Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.
He picked it up, running his fingers over the textured surface. It looked old but well-kept, as if it had been someone’s cherished possession. He opened it and was met with pages filled with sketches: portraits, landscapes, and abstract patterns, all beautifully detailed. The final page had a note scribbled in the corner:
"Art connects us all. Keep creating, no matter what."
Something about the words struck a chord in Rantaro. He felt an inexplicable pull toward the sketchbook, as if it were meant for him.
“How much for this?” he asked, holding it up to the woman running the sale.
She smiled warmly. “For that? Let’s say five dollars.”
Rantaro fished a crumpled bill from his pocket and handed it over. “Thanks,” he mumbled, clutching the book like a newfound treasure.
As Rantaro lingered near the crate, his eyes wandered to a thick, leather-bound book resting on a nearby table. It looked out of place among the knick-knacks and secondhand trinkets, its ornate cover adorned with faded gold embossing. Intrigued, he reached for it, feeling the weight of the tome in his hands.
The edges of the pages were gilded, though tarnished with age, and the spine creaked softly as he opened it. Inside, the pages were filled with intricate illustrations and handwritten text, the ink slightly faded but still legible.
The first page bore a title in an elegant script:
“The Codex of Hidden Inspirations”
Beneath the title was a small note in the same flowing handwriting:
"To the seeker of truths and dreams, may this guide light your path."
Rantaro’s brow furrowed as he flipped through the pages. Each section seemed to explore a different theme: creativity, connection, perseverance. The illustrations were mesmerizing—sprawling landscapes, swirling patterns, and faces filled with raw emotion. Scattered throughout were passages of advice, quotes, and strange riddles.
One passage caught his eye:
"When the artist’s heart falters, let them borrow the dreams of others. For in shared visions, the spark reignites."
The words resonated deeply, as if they were speaking directly to him. It wasn’t just a book—it felt like a treasure trove of inspiration, something meant to guide a lost soul like his.
“Find something you like?” the woman running the sale asked, her voice breaking his reverie.
Rantaro looked up, clutching the book. “This... how much?”
The woman hesitated, her gaze softening as she looked at the tome. “That’s a special one. Came from my grandmother’s collection. She used to say it had a way of finding the right owner.”
He frowned, unsure how to respond. “So... how much?”
She smiled. “It’s yours, free of charge. Something tells me you’re exactly the kind of person who needs it.”
Rantaro blinked in surprise. “Are you sure? I—”
“Take it,” she insisted, her smile widening. “And promise me you’ll keep creating.”
Unable to argue, Rantaro nodded, tucking the book under his arm alongside the sketchbook. “Thank you,” he said, his voice quieter than he intended.
As he walked home, he couldn’t stop thinking about the tome. It felt like a gift, a challenge, and a mystery all at once. And for the first time in a long while, Rantaro felt like something—no, someone—was guiding him toward a brighter path.
Rantaro stood in the dim light of his apartment, his heart beating a little faster as he opened the tome once more. The weight of it in his hands felt almost prophetic, as if it were urging him to uncover something far deeper than the surface of its pages. His fingers trembled slightly as they turned the thick, old pages, the creak of the spine echoing through the room.
As he flipped through the contents, his eyes were drawn to an intricate, unsettling illustration near the center of the book. It depicted a dark, swirling circle surrounded by cryptic symbols. A ritualistic text ran along the edges of the image, written in a language that felt ancient and forbidden.
Rantaro leaned in closer, his breath shallow as he began to decipher the words. Though the text was unfamiliar, there was something oddly familiar about its rhythm. It was almost as if the words were calling to him, urging him to understand them.
He scanned the passage:
"The Circle of Binding: A Rite to Invoke the Denizens of the Abyss"
A chill ran down his spine as he read further. The ritual was described in great detail—how to draw the circle, where to place the offerings, and the specific chants to recite in order to summon demons from the deepest pits of hell. At first, he thought it was some kind of elaborate myth or story. But the more he read, the more it felt... real.
The tone of the text shifted as he reached the final lines:
“To summon the ancient beings of the infernal realms, one must sacrifice what is most precious, surrendering their soul to the void in exchange for power beyond comprehension. Should you wish to face the darkness, the circle awaits.”
Rantaro's hands shook as he closed the book, a cold sweat beginning to form on his brow. The words seemed to echo in his mind, and his heart pounded in his chest. What had he stumbled upon? Was this some kind of joke? Or was this real—real enough to actually summon something?
He glanced nervously around his apartment, the shadows cast by the dim light feeling more oppressive than usual. Was this a test, a temptation? It seemed absurd, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was pulling him toward something far greater than he could understand.
Rantaro set the tome down, his mind racing. He didn’t believe in demons, of course. He was an artist, not some occultist. But the power described in the book... it was undeniable. What if this was the key?
His thoughts began to spiral. Maybe he had always been searching for something outside of himself to reignite his creativity. Perhaps this... ritual could give him the inspiration he so desperately needed. Or maybe, it would lead him down a path from which there was no return.
He had a decision to make.