Osric's gaze settled upon the building before him.
The library appeared unassuming among its neighboring structures, its modest size concealing the wealth of knowledge stored within. Constructed from rough-hewn stone, the building featured a simple arched doorway as its entrance. Solid wooden double doors, fitted with an iron latch and an unadorned brass doorknob, bore signs of frequent use.
As Osric stepped inside, the scent of aged parchment and the faint, metallic tang of ink hung in the air.
Wooden bookshelves, devoid of any embellishment, scaled the walls from floor to ceiling. Upon them rested a multitude of literary treasures: a diverse array of books, some encased in worn leather bindings, others bound by time-tested string, and even delicate scrolls resting in protective cases.
The library was dimly lit, illuminated only by flickering candles that cast dancing shadows on the walls. The floor was paved with rough, uneven stone, softened by a smattering of worn carpets that lent the space a touch of warmth and comfort. Few patrons could be seen sitting at tables scattered throughout the room, lost in thought as they pored over the pages of books, their faces illuminated by the soft glow of candlelight.
Occasionally, the silence was broken by the sound of a page-turning or the scratch of a quill on paper as someone captured their thoughts in writing.
At the heart of the library stood a large wooden table surrounded by a collection of mismatched chairs. The walls whispered stories through the simple paintings and tapestries they bore; some vibrant with rich hues, others subdued and somber, yet all meticulously woven to unveil a narrative.
One such painting depicted a lone human warrior embroiled in a vicious battle against a multitude of monstrous, serpentine creatures. Each creature exuded a palpable menace, their bared fangs and unsheathed claws threatening imminent death. Yet, amidst the chaos, the warrior held his ground, his facial features twisting in grim determination and rivers of sweat streaming down his face. The bulging muscles of his arms and back showcasing the raw power he wielded, his sword slicing through the formidable foes, vanquishing the creatures one by one.
The second painting portrayed the relentless onslaught of the serpent-like adversaries, their hissing fury echoing through the canvas. Yet, the warrior remained resolute, his steadfast spirit belying the overwhelming odds.
In the third painting, the warrior's weariness became more apparent. The warrior's movements become sluggish, his breath labored, the burden of accumulated wounds weighing him down. But even amidst the torment, despite the agony, he refused surrender, his resolve unbroken, gritting his teeth and summoning every ounce of strength that remained.
In the final painting, the warrior unleashed a final, devastating blow, felling the remaining creatures. His triumphant roar echoed across the battlefield, only to be swallowed by the inevitable grasp of defeat. But in the aftermath of the brutal struggle, a carpet of green grass and vibrant flowers emerged, marking the close of an intense battle.
As Osric stood engrossed in the story unfolding before his eyes, he was approached by a middle-aged man, his hair tinged with the frost of age. Dressed in a simple robe adorned with a crisp white collar, the man exuded a tranquil air. Spectacles rested comfortably on the bridge of his nose, through which he peered at Osric.
"So, what do you make of it, young man?" His voice held a note of curious anticipation as he posed the question, waiting patiently for Osric's insight into the paintings' tale.
Osric absorbed the story of the paintings, his gaze never faltering from the images. "I see struggle. The story of the human experience. An unyielding battle against adversity, a fervent endeavor for survival amidst insurmountable odds. It's not about the end but the pursuit of one's convictions.”
The middle-aged librarian gestured towards the artistry, shedding light on the narrative. "Indeed, these paintings depict the famed Battle of Redworn Screek, where one of our esteemed Rank 3 elders laid down his life to fend off the onslaught of nagamen. The relentless struggle is a testament to his bravery, but what truly leaves an imprint on me is the final scene," he pointed towards the vibrant grass and blossoming flowers at the foot of the warrior.
"His conviction and hope for a better tomorrow didn't die with him; instead, they blossomed into new life, fostering the prosperity we relish today."
Turning his attention back to Osric, the librarian introduced himself, "Welcome to our humble abode of knowledge. I am the head librarian here. It's always a pleasure to see a new face. Is there something specific you're looking for?"
Osric scanned the array of books around him, revealing a glimmer of excitement in his eyes. "I am just browsing, but could you guide me towards the section dedicated to history?"
"Of course," the librarian replied, directing him to a corner on the ground floor. "You're free to browse and peruse through any books in this section. However, for the upper floors, you'll require prior permission, so don't wander carelessly. Also, remember to place the books back in their original location once you're done reading. You can borrow up to five books at a time for a period of two weeks."
Stolen novel; please report.
"In case you need any further assistance, the front desk is always available," he added, adjusting his spectacles.
"Thank you... umm," Osric trailed off, inviting the librarian to provide his name.
"Alastair. Alastair Fletcher," he supplied with a smile.
"Thank you, Mr. Fletcher," Osric acknowledged before setting off towards the history section, his mind eager to devour the wealth of knowledge.
***
Cain and Glucia strolled along the cobbled pathway, their steps echoing in rhythm as they made their way to the morning lectures.
"Ugh, I'm aching all over! Seriously, why do they have us train so damn hard? Yesterday's session was downright brutal," Cain moaned, his hand gingerly massaging his sore back.
"Quit your whining, Cain! It's not like you hear me complaining, do you?" Glucia shot back, rolling her eyes at his theatrics.
"That's just not fair, Glu. I'm still dealing with the pain from last week's drills. Plus, my old man didn't give me any breaks, even when I was grounded. Had to put up with additional training sessions with our household guards," Cain countered, a scowl marring his face.
At this, Glucia burst into sarcastic cry, ""Waaa, I'm so privileged! Oh, poor me! Life is so tough for me, I receive free training from my father, who happens to be the village elder! It's so hard!"
"I swear, Glu, I'm going to take you down one of these days," Cain threatened, albeit half-heartedly.
"Really? The same guy who got his ass kicked by Finn and his thugs? How can you puff your chest and make big claims when you couldn't even handle them?" Glucia retorted, a smirk playing on her lips.
Cian's playful demeanor faltered at this, his expression morphing into one of frustration and anger, "That was different, Glu. We were outnumbered. OUTNUMBERED! Wait till I gather my crew, Finn and his goons won't stand a chance."
The teasing banter faded, replaced by a more serious tone. Glucia asked, her voice laced with genuine concern, "How's he doing, do you reckon? Is he doing any better?"
"I'm not sure, to be honest. I haven't had the chance to visit him again," Cain admitted, his brows furrowed in thought. "Hey, would you like to hang out after our afternoon traning? We could grab a bite and maybe check up on him."
"I'd love to, Cian, but not today. I have to head back home early. My dad is attending a council meeting, and I've been tasked with looking after my little brother," Glucia replied, a hint of regret in her voice.
Cian nodded understandingly, "Alright then, we'll do it tomorrow with Osric. I know just the place where we can go." His previous joviality returning, a small smile lighting up his face.
***
Osric sat amidst the literary expanse of the library, his figure hunched over a mosaic of opened books. His eyes voraciously consuming the words on each page, devoured the words, the sentences, the paragraphs; each character a trail of wisdom he sought to follow. His gaze traced the contours of the letters, the curves and edges of the inked symbols, their silent voices merging.
"I think I have a good idea now," he murmured.
His understanding of the current world had been bolstered by Cain's accounts, but he had only provided him with common history.
Delving into history was akin to assembling a complex puzzle, recognizing and deciphering the factors and elements that had sculpted the world. By examining past events, ideas, and movements, one would understand the context in which they occurred, the motivations driving them, and the resulting outcomes. He was not merely reading; he was weaving. His thoughts, nimble and dexterous, were threading the strands of information into context.
Osric's foremost priority had been understanding the changes in the world. He cared little for advancements in the power system, emerging professions, or recently discovered recipes. For him, a thorough understanding of his environment was paramount, it was the foundation upon which he could then build, adapt, and thrive.
Other information could wait.
History offered a window to gaze upon the bigger picture, transcending the immediacy of the present moment and providing a wider look. To discern the patterns and trends that might have otherwise gone unnoticed, and to grasp how the past continued to weave its spell on the present.
Laying back in his chair, Osric rubbed his tired eyes, absorbing the wealth of knowledge he had gained.
"There are two neighboring villages near Silverglade. Each established by a separate Rank 5 powerhouse. Thus despite their proximity, they are mired in conflict, their disputes rooted in the desires of the powerful Rank 5 leaders who had established them. While trade does exist among them, it is minimal at best.”
The local politics in his own village had come into focus as well.
“The associations, groups formed by the collective power of the workers, working towards common goals, holds some degree of influence. Then there is the council, they resolving disputes and manage day-to-day issues that arise among the villagers. Elders, each with their unique factions, hold significant sway. But the village chief is the one who wields the most power, guiding the village through their decisions and actions.”
He also looked at the most recent information. He understood now why there were so few Rank 1’s in the village.
"The previous beast wave inflicted considerable damage. It's no surprise that there's a noticeable decrease in Rank 1’s. The bitter winter that followed right after would have only exacerbated the situation, leading to further loss of in forces."
He soaked in all the information he had available to him.
Osric understood it’s value.
In the harsh environment of the abyssal scavenger camps where he grew up, survival took precedence over everything else. Learning was a luxury that few could afford. But Osric had always made it his goal to learn.
The thirsty man knows the value of water, while a person surrounded by it cares little. Value was relative, for those living in abundance they often overlook the worth of what they possessed.
Thus, only a sparse few could be found within the library's confines.
Battle and carnage served as but a single path to realizing one's ambitions—straightforward, yet often less pragmatic. Knowledge instead offered a multiple alternative ways to achieve the same goals. A myriad of different pathways to attain the same objectives without the unnecessary bloodshed.
Brute force and strength alone limited growth; these were the hallmarks of mere pawns, often manipulated and used by those with greater understanding and foresight.
To not just participate in the game, but to take control, one needed more than just strength—they needed knowledge. The ability to strategize, to anticipate and understand the various elements in play, was as crucial as the physical prowess one possessed.
This crucial balance of power and knowledge was the defining line that separated the prey from the predator. The ability to act, not just react, to dictate the flow of events rather than merely be swept along by them.