"How many times do I have to tell you? This book is worthless!" His voice cracked with impatience as he slammed the book onto the table. Dust, undisturbed for centuries, erupted into the air, swirling and dancing in the dim lantern light.

This man has no appreciation for history, I thought.

"Last week, you brought the same book, with the same question!" he barked, waving a dismissive hand as though I were some bothersome fly. "I told you everything I know. Now, begone!"

But it wasn’t me though.

"You never mentioned the part where this book can steal memories," I countered.

That got his attention. For a fraction of a second, his mask of irritation cracked, and an expression of raw surprise slipped through. Mozi turned sharply, leaning his elbows against the desk, fixing me with a stare so piercing it felt like he was rifling through my soul. “I’m listening,” he said, his voice lower.

I took a deep breath, feigning hesitation, and when I spoke, it was with a deliberately shaky tone.

“After spending a week consulting you about this book, I suddenly… forgot everything about our meetings. I even got lost trying to find my way back to your shop. It was like… like it had all been wiped clean from my mind.”

It was a lie.

“Rubbish! Absolute nonsense!” he snapped, his voice rising in pitch. Yet beneath the bluster, I caught it—a sliver of doubt weaving its way through his outrage.

“If you’re going to lie,” he sneered, “at least come up with a better excuse than that.”

I shrugged nonchalantly, keeping my tone light. “The only thing I could remember was your face. If you hadn’t stepped out of your shop now and then, it might have taken me a year to find my way back here.”

His eyes narrowed, scanning my expression like a jeweler inspecting a flawed gem. He was searching for cracks in my lie. Without another word, he grabbed the book, his fingers moving delicately over its worn cover. Slowly, he began flipping through the pages, each turn deliberate, as if the paper might crumble under too much pressure.

“Memory-erasing magic isn’t ordinary magic,” he muttered, his voice losing its edge and taking on a grave, thoughtful quality. “The Archiveline—the ones who meddle with memories—always leave traces. Symbols. Your memories weren’t just lost—they were taken.”

“Taken?” I echoed, letting a note of feigned shock creep into my voice, though his words were exactly what I’d hoped to hear.

“If your memories were taken,” he continued, “then it means there’s something in them that’s important. Something that Magia needed. And if that’s the case, it means you’ve already been where they wanted to go.”

He closed the book with deliberate finality, and when his gaze met mine again, it had shifted. No longer was it tinged with mere irritation. Now, suspicion burned there, sharp and dangerous, a warning wrapped in silence.

“Now you believe me, don’t you?” I pressed, holding his gaze with just the right amount of intensity.

“I don’t see any symbols here!” he snapped, his tone laced with irritation, but a hint of uncertainty lurked beneath his frustration.

“Maybe the symbols aren’t visible,” I suggested, lowering my voice, emphasizing each word with precision. “Just like the writing in this book.”

Mozi let out a heavy sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose as if my presence alone was giving him a migraine. “Listen,” he said flatly, his tone icy, “I don’t enjoy repeating myself, especially not to the same person twice. If you come back next week with this same nonsense, don’t bother. You won’t find this shop again.”

I raised an eyebrow, resisting the urge to smirk. What a temper. I thought the customer was supposed to be king? Still, as long as he believed my story, his attitude didn’t matter.

“So?” I finally pressed, my patience hanging by a thread.

“So what?” Mozi snapped, practically growling. “I don’t know!”

“What the hell?!” I nearly lost my temper but forced myself to stay calm, clinging to the thin thread of composure.

“Think about it!” His voice rose sharply, cutting through the dim stillness of the room. “A blank book, no writing, no clear symbols. How can anyone expect to know its history?”

I didn’t reply. Instead, I simply pointed to the cover.

For a moment, Mozi was silent, his expression shifting. Then, almost reluctantly, he pulled the book toward him. His eyes fixed on the faded cover with a newfound intensity, as though he were trying to unearth secrets he’d previously overlooked.

The book’s cover was like an artifact from a time long buried—a silent relic of an age that refused to reveal itself. Its colors, if they had ever been vibrant, had long since faded into a dull medley of ashen gray and earthy brown. The scent of age wafted up as he examined it—a damp, musty odor reminiscent of forgotten cellars.

In the center of the cover, faint and almost imperceptible, lay a symbol. It was a circle, enclosing a cluster of ancient letters, their forms blurred and indistinct, as though the very fabric of time fought to erase their existence.

Mozi leaned closer, his fingers lightly brushing against the symbol. His sigh escaped again, but this time, the frustration was gone. What replaced it was a weight—an unspoken burden.

“Kid, I don’t like guessing when it comes to history,” he murmured, his tone subdued, contemplative. “Everything I collect and sell has a history. A proven history.”

Proven? So it’s worthless?

He glared sharply, his tone commanding. “Listen carefully.” He jabbed a finger at the faint symbol on the book’s cover. “I can tell you this book is from the Second Echoes. Or maybe the Third. This symbol—these ancient letters—they resemble a corridor lined with bookshelves. It’s strikingly similar to the crest of the Alenxandria family.”

“Alenxandria?” I squinted at him.

“Yes, the Alenxandria family,” he continued, his voice lowering to a near whisper. “They were the first to gather books after the Archivers led their disciples to pillage the Law of Mahfudz. Those disciples? They were the ones who started the tradition of studying and preserving human knowledge. And one of their most devoted families was the Alenxandrias.”

“But… The existence of the Alenxandria family is just a myth. Nothing but rumor—legends passed down through hushed tales.”

“And why do you think that is?” I pushed, my curiosity dragging me deeper into the conversation.

“Because everything about them was destroyed,” he stated firmly. “They were slaughtered by their own subjects. Their mansion was burned to ash. Their books were looted and destroyed. Nothing remains but faint whispers.”

I glared at him. “If that’s true, why didn’t you tell me any of this from the start? Isn’t that critical information?”

“Didn’t I already tell you?” Mozi replied with a weary sigh, though steel laced his voice. “Everything about the Alenxandrias is a myth. What I just shared are drunken tales I picked up from an old vagrant at pub. Even in historical texts, their name appears in just a line or two—half of which is embellished fiction.”

“But…” my voice took on an urgent edge. “If this symbol really does belong to the Alenxandrias, doesn’t that mean some part of their legacy still exists?”

Mozi gave a thin, cynical smile, his eyes narrowing as if mocking my naivety. “Legacy isn’t about leaving something behind for others. Legacy is about leaving something within them.”

Then, almost lazily, he tapped the book’s frayed cover. “And there’s no shortage of conspiracy theories about this family. Every book they owned was said to bear their crest. But some claim their loyal followers removed all those symbols before torching the Alenxandria mansion. They scattered the books—some were destroyed, others hidden far away, beyond anyone’s reach.”

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

I swallowed hard, the weight of his words settling in my chest. “So all the symbols… they’re gone?”

“That’s what they say.” Mozi shrugged. “But you know what’s even more intriguing?”

I didn’t respond, waiting for him to continue, unwilling to interrupt.

“There are rumors,” he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush, “that one of the Alenxandria bloodline survived the massacre. They say that person is still alive… even now.”

His words hit like an arrow to my mind, lodging there with sharp precision. My gaze fell to the book in my hands, tracing the weathered creases and scars on its cover. An idea took root, cold and unsettling, gripping my thoughts.

“So…” I turned to Mozi, my voice low but laden with significance. “If this book truly belongs to that family, doesn't that mean it can only be written in—or read—by one of their descendants?”

Mozi’s grin widened, sly and almost taunting. “Exactly. Congratulations. You’re finally catching on.”

Then what’s the point of this damn book? I thought bitterly, frustration starting to bubble to the surface.

"Enough," Mozi said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "What I told you is just a legend. The Alenxandrias might not have even existed, and that symbol on the book might not belong to them at all."

I let out a long sigh and pulled the book back from the table. As I held it, my gaze wandered around Mozi's shop for the first time since I’d arrived. I realized I had been so focused on him that I hadn’t fully taken in the extraordinary surroundings.

The items scattered throughout the shop looked like treasures plucked from a thousand forgotten worlds, each one holding a story that could ignite the imagination. They weren’t merely ancient or dusty; they radiated an almost eerie sense of history, as if every artifact harbored a secret too heavy to share.

My eyes caught on a small statue encased in a glass orb. It was a mermain—a sea-dweller—holding a two pronged spear. The statue’s faded colors gave it a ghostly charm, its curling hair adorned with delicate traces of moss. When I tilted the glass orb, the moss shifted gently, mimicking the movement of hair caught in an undersea current.

“Do you like it?” Mozi’s voice suddenly broke the silence, startling me. I hadn’t even noticed him move to my side.

“This statue… what is it?” I asked hesitantly, pointing to the curious object.

“Mermains. They were the original inhabitants of these seas, long before the Wetlands were built. At least, that’s what history says.” Mozi’s voice softened as his gaze lingered on the statue. “This dome—the Orcicea Dome—exists because the mermains killed a creature that was destroying their waters.”

The dome… Orcicea Dome… My thoughts raced back to the sight I’d seen while fleeing the cave: the massive bones that supported an invisible energy field forming a protective barrier.

“What kind of creature did they kill to build the dome?” I asked, unable to contain my curiosity.

Mozi gave me a look that seemed to say, Shouldn’t you already know? “The creature was called Orcicea,” he finally said, his tone exasperated, like a teacher bored of explaining the same lesson. “A beast that terrorized these waters since the founding of Tytoal-ba. Imagine a giant whale, twice the size of the Wetlands. Its body was jet black, except for white rings around its eyes. Its teeth were sharp as daggers, but its behavior was like a rabid dog’s—reckless, violent, and relentless.”

I tried to picture it, though the sheer scale of such a creature was beyond comprehension.

“Long story short,” Mozi continued, “Orcicea went on a rampage for reasons no one ever understood. It destroyed everything in its path, slaughtered most of the mermains, and terrorizing Tytoal-ba.

Eventually, the king and nobles of Tytoal-ba struck a deal with the surviving mermains. Together, they united to take the beast down. Orcicea was bound, subdued, and then flayed. Its flesh was given to the mermains as payment, while its bones were used to construct the underwater dome that we now call the Orcicea Dome—a fusion of the creature’s raw power and the ingenuity of Tytoal-ba’s scientists.”

“And the mermains?” I asked?

“They left Tytoal-ba,” Mozi said flatly. “Their kingdom was devastated by Orcicea’s rampage. Most of them chose to help build a new haven—Wetlands—a refuge for exiles, outcasts, and those fleeing from the surface world. It was Tyan Flamino who led these surface dwellers to the Wetlands, acting as their guide and ruler.”I nodded slightly, processing all the information Mozi had just shared.

This guy is a walking encyclopedia. I’ll definitely come back if I have more questions.

“Does that mean there are ruins of the Mermain kingdom nearby?” I asked, my voice tinged with curiosity.

Mozi’s gaze sharpened, as if he were trying to decipher the motives behind my question. “The ruins exist,” he said finally. “They’re to the west, about 15 kilometers from here. Right where this statue was found.” He gestured toward the Mermain figure still in my hand.

I nodded slowly, imagining ancient, crumbled remains buried beneath the sea.

“But don’t even think about going there alone,” he added, his tone carrying a clear warning. “I recognize that look. You’re planning to explore that ruin, aren’t you?”

I raised my eyebrows, feigning ignorance.

“The outer waters are not to be trifled with,” he continued, his voice heavy with caution. “Do you know how many people haven’t returned from expeditions out there? And lately, I’ve heard the Alteker are guarding near the northern fringes. Something wrong in the sea.”

“Thanks for the information, Mozi,” I said finally, keeping my tone polite but relaxed. “I’ll be back soon.”

His eyes narrowed as he studied me, then he asked, “So, you’re just going to admire that Mermain statue? Not planning to buy it?”

I sighed inwardly. First, I’d been shaken down by a street vagrant, and now him? At least he’d given me something valuable in return.

I walked to the counter where Mozi stood, casually leaning against the scratched wooden surface. I placed the Mermain statue on the table without a word. His hand immediately rose, fingers spread to show five.

Five Rega, I guessed. I pulled out five gold coins, their surfaces engraved with the face of Andy Flamino.

Mozi accepted the coins calmly, as if their weight meant little to him. His quiet demeanor signaled that the transaction was complete and I was free to leave. Taking the statue and the book, I turned toward the door.

As I stepped out, the bell above the entrance jingled softly, marking my departure. The damp, briny scent of the undersea air greeted me once more, mixed with the ever-present tang of salt that seemed to seep into every breath.

Not only had I received answers to my questions, but I also left with a new addition to my collection. A small satchel swung from my shoulder.

Even if I was swindled twice today, coming to Mozi’s shop wasn’t a waste after all. I strolled down the narrow street, dimly lit by weak, flickering lamps. Going home seemed like the best choice. Next time I saw that hobo, maybe I’d treat him to a meal as a thank-you, I thought idly.

The faint murmur of distant voices drifted through the air, indistinct against the background hum of the city. Or maybe it was just the sea. Down here, it was hard to tell where sounds came from—everything felt muted, warped, like being underwater.

“...help…”

The word slipped past me, faint and fleeting, almost as if imagined. I frowned and kept walking, my thoughts circling back to the book I carried. That book’s useless in my hands, isn’t it? I mulled over the possibility of selling it.

“...help…”

The word again, a whisper barely louder than the shuffling of my own steps. I glanced around, but the narrow streets were empty, the dim light casting long, deceptive shadows.

I shook my head and kept moving, attributing the sound to my imagination. But as I passed by a narrow alley to my right, something made me pause.

A strange chill washed over me. The alley was cramped and dark, its jagged walls leaning inward like they were conspiring to block out the light.

I squinted into the gloom, and just as I was about to dismiss it, the whisper came again—clearer this time.

“Help… me…”

The voice was fragile, trembling, but it carried an unmistakable desperation.

My instincts screamed at me to keep walking. Don’t stop, they urged. This isn’t your problem. But my feet betrayed me, rooted to the spot. The whisper pulled at me, faint but insistent.

I swallowed hard and stepped closer, peering into the abyss of the alley. The air grew colder with each step, and my pulse quickened.

Then, just as I crossed the threshold, the voice shifted—clear, pleading, and so painfully human.

“Help me!”

The words rang out like a cry of anguish, freezing me in place. My breath caught, and the world around me seemed to narrow, every sound swallowed by the dark void ahead.

“Where are you?” I asked, feeling sweat bead on my temples. The darkness was suffocating, as though no light had ever been allowed to touch this place.

I kept walking, the cries growing clearer with every step. Then, finally, I saw it.

A figure crouched on the damp ground, shoulders hunched and trembling. Long, tangled brown hair spilled over its face. Its small hands rubbed furiously at tear-soaked eyes.

I squinted, straining to see through the oppressive darkness. A child? What could a kid be doing here? The place was silent, eerie, as if the world had stopped breathing.

I hesitated, my instincts screaming at me to turn back. But something about the figure felt… wrong.

“Hey, are you okay?” I asked, forcing my voice to remain steady. The figure didn’t respond.

I stepped closer, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. “Are you lost?” I asked, keeping my tone gentle.

Still no response. But then, slowly, its head tilted up, just enough for me to catch a glimpse of its face.

When it turned to look at me, I saw them—those eyes. Glowing red like embers, piercing through the dark.

I knelt cautiously, bringing myself level with the child. “Hey, are you lost?” I asked softly.

It didn’t answer.

I extended a hand, offering to help it stand. But it stayed where it was, silent.

It tilted its head further, staring at me with an expression I couldn’t read. Then, it smiled.

And then, everything shifted.

BANG!

A deafening noise rang out behind me, the impact vibrating through my skull. My body jolted forward as if violent blow that sent me staggering forward. Pain bloomed at the base of my skull, sharp and searing. My vision swam, the world tilting violently. Instinctively, I clutched the side of my head, only to feel something warm and wet trickling down my fingers. Blood.

My breaths grew ragged as the alley spun around me. Still, I managed to look up at the child.

It hadn’t moved, still crouched in the same spot. But now, a faint smile curled at the edges of its lips—cold,

knowing. I stumbled, my strength draining fast, and collapsed to the ground. My vision darkened, but I caught a glimpse of the child rising to its feet.

Then, another voice joined the fray, speaking to the child from somewhere behind me. I couldn’t make out the words—faint, muffled, as though submerged underwater.

As consciousness slipped away, I heard the child’s voice, bright and cheerful, almost as if it were laughing.

“I did it, mister! Aren’t you proud of me?”

And then, there was nothing but darkness.