《Cursed Bloodline》 Chapter 1: Sollivan A breeze of cold air laden with a hint of dust passed through a small hole in a wooden wall belonging to an old, dilapidated house entirely made of wood that had started to decay due to its age. The house wasn¡¯t large inside, consisting of a very spacious room on the left side, which housed a hearth filled with cold ashes and burnt wood that had stopped burning hours before. On the opposite side of the wide room, there was a slightly large table filled with various books and paper scrolls, some worn and torn while others were new and preserved, holding the scent of fresh paper that lent an air of knowledge. Cough! Cough! A dry coughing sound spread from a small, short door across the wide room, filling the otherwise silent space with an eerie coldness and gloom. In a slightly smaller room adjacent to the wide room, which occupied most of the space in the old house, there was a wooden bed upon which a young man in his late twenties lay. His face was ordinary¡ªnot beautiful nor unattractive¡ªbut seemed pallid due to his very pale skin and the large dark circles under his closed eyes, which twitched slightly in a strange manner as if he were suffering from a disturbing nightmare. Suddenly, the young man opened his eyes to reveal pupils of a faint, brownish color devoid of the life that typically glows in the eyes of the young, making him appear like an old man who had endured the harshness of life. Exhale! The young man let out a long sigh as his eyes remained fixed on the ceiling of the room, which emitted a faint, almost imperceptible cracking sound. After a short moment of stillness, the young man moved slowly, pulling himself into a sitting position. He then scanned the room with a look filled with melancholy, finally stopping at a wooden wheelchair near his bed. With great effort and slowness, he extended his hand and grasped the armrest of the wheelchair, pulling his frail body with difficulty. The old, tattered mattress sagged and a part of it fell to the cold floor, but the young man didn¡¯t mind. He continued his struggle until he managed to pull himself fully onto the wheelchair. His breaths were harsh, and his face was taut, showing the difficulty of moving from the bed to the wheelchair. Huff! The young man let out a long, strained sigh, and his tense expression relaxed slightly. He adjusted his sitting position and placed his hands on the wheelchair¡¯s wheels, ready to push himself, but the fallen mattress blocked the path of the small front wheels. *Hmm...* The young man emitted a soft, mocking grunt, bending slightly despite his immobile legs. He was used to it, but he didn¡¯t care. He leaned down, picked up the fallen mattress, and arranged it a little before gripping the wheels of the wheelchair again and pushing himself towards the wide room. The wheelchair wheels emitted a harsh, creaking sound as they rolled over the worn wooden floor, and the chair itself wobbled slightly, making a squeaking noise due to its age. Despite everything, the young man¡¯s gaze remained calm and clear as if he felt nothing. ¡°The place is so messy¡­¡± The young man sighed wearily as he looked at the scattered books and items throughout the room. He didn¡¯t bother trying to do anything about it. He guided his wheelchair towards the cold, unlit hearth and picked up a small wooden board that he placed across his immobile lap. He grabbed some wood shavings and flint stones beside the hearth and began striking them together, producing tiny sparks that fell onto the shavings and ignited slightly. After gently blowing on the tiny flame, it grew to life. Quickly, he tossed it into the hearth and added more shavings to sustain the flame. He then placed small wooden pieces beside the hearth, and as soon as they touched the fire, they ignited, causing a puff of gray, acrid smoke due to the poor quality and cheapness of the wood. Nonetheless, warmth began to spread throughout the room, reducing the chill and loneliness of the grim old house. The young man¡¯s gaze froze for a moment on the fire consuming the wooden logs, growing bigger and spreading more heat, smoke, and a foul odor. Yet, his eyes remained fixed on the flame, the flickering tongues of fire reflecting in his dim, cloudy eyes. In that moment, fragmented memories surfaced in his calm mind. His name was once Sollivan Duskwraite, from a family of some noble standing. His family had served under the wing of the Golden Lion Empire for generations, achieving great honor that earned them respect and admiration from the citizens of their previous city. Sollivan himself was a talented fighter, surpassing both his father and grandfather in martial skills, making him the pride of the family with high hopes pinned on him. His grandfather had hoped Sollivan would outshine all his ancestors and become an imperial knight, achieving the highest degrees of glory and honor, directly serving the imperial family. ¡°The Golden Eye...¡± Sollivan muttered softly, words barely audible, as the reflection of the fire in his eyes dimmed strangely, unlike the rising flames in the hearth. He then let out a long sigh and pushed his wheelchair towards a nearby wooden chest by the hearth, containing sacks filled with grains and a few potatoes with mold-covered skins. He reached for a handful of potatoes, placing them beside his thigh on the chair, then attempted to grab a handful of thick wheat flour, but his hand halted suddenly. His distant memories stirred, awakening old sorrows within him, but he shook his head resolutely, pushing those troubling thoughts aside. He murmured with a sad tone, filled with bitterness: "It''s all over... everyone is dead... and I¡¯m paralyzed... no point in thinking about the past. I can''t do anything." A look of sadness crossed his pale face, but he ignored it and picked up a handful of flour, placing it in a rusty metal pot filled with soot stuck to the bottom. He added a bit of water, mixing it into a loose dough, then set the pot on the hearth. Then he moved to the other side of the hearth, took a small knife and a wooden board, and returned to the large table. He began peeling the potatoes and cutting them into small pieces. After finishing, he added the potato pieces to the flour and water mixture, then sprinkled a little salt to cut through the bitterness of the mixture. After a few minutes, the strange soup Sollivan prepared started to simmer. He took a ladle and a bowl, pouring half of it into the bowl for himself, then covered the rest with a round wooden disc to keep out insects and dust. After setting the ladle aside, he took a small wooden spoon and slowly pushed his wheelchair with one hand while holding the bowl with the other. Despite the difficulty of maneuvering the wheelchair in this way, he showed no anger or frustration. He focused entirely on guiding the wheelchair and protecting the soup from spilling and staining his tattered clothes.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website. When he reached the table, he placed the soup and spoon on it and smiled a faint smile, feeling a small sense of accomplishment. He secured his chair in place and began to eat slowly, finding a quiet satisfaction in the meal despite its poor taste. For Sollivan, this simple meal was a luxury compared to his daily existence. He often spent his days subsisting on hard, black bread and water, rarely tasting fresh vegetables. Meat was known to him only on the rarest occasions. After finishing his meal, Sollivan cleaned the table and returned the dish to its place after washing it with water. Ring! Ring! A loud bell rang out, jolting Sollivan¡¯s dull gaze, which was immersed in cleaning the cooking utensils. He raised his head with a sigh of frustration, resigned: "I¡¯m late again." He quickly pushed his wheelchair toward his small room, where he grabbed an old, slightly torn shoe. He struggled to put it on over his cold, helpless feet, then picked up a worn leather bag placed beside the bed. He pushed himself back toward the cluttered table filled with books and manuscripts and began sorting through the pile in front of him. He chose one new, clean book and an old, tattered one with its cover beginning to fall apart, then placed them carefully inside the bag to avoid wrinkling their pages. He secured the bag with a worn leather strap around his waist and attached it to the side of his wheelchair. He then moved toward the wooden door of the house, which was locked with a large wooden plank. He glanced around his home one last time to make sure everything was in order. After confirming that the fire in the hearth had died down and only a little smoke was rising from the small metal chimney, he took hold of the door handle. But he hesitated for a moment, pausing. He took a deep breath and opened the door. A light breeze from autumn hit him, carrying dust that irritated his eyes and a foul odor that filled the air. His face scrunched up momentarily at the smell, but he quickly pushed his wheelchair outside the house. Before him stretched a narrow alleyway, crowded with ramshackle wooden houses. Some were large, others small, while some jutted above single-story homes in disjointed arrangements. Smoke rose from chimneys, and the sound of barking stray dogs filled the air. A few domesticated chickens wandered here and there, pecking at the dirt-streaked ground, mixed with muddy puddles and remnants of human waste. Bark! Sollivan closed the door tightly behind him, then began to push his wheelchair through the narrow alley. The place teemed with passersby who had rough appearances and gloomy expressions. Most people wore faded gray clothes made of coarse linen, while a few were dressed in tattered or incomplete clothing. Some looked extremely dirty, with foul odors clearly emanating from them, indicating they were likely homeless, while others seemed more orderly despite the age of their clothing, maintaining a relatively acceptable level of cleanliness. Sollivan pushed his wheelchair with difficulty through the uneven and muddy ground. Dirty water and sticky mud clung to the wheels of his chair, and some droplets splashed onto his worn shoe and the bottoms of his pants. However, he showed no interest in it, continuing to push his wheelchair. His eyes scanned the people around him cautiously. Some shot him disgusted looks, while others blatantly spat to the side when his wheelchair blocked their path. ''As usual.'' He continued his way without lowering his guard. He had been robbed several times, and his bag had been stolen by unknown people before, so he held onto it tightly. Whenever he spotted a suspicious person, he would slow down and place his hand on the bag, cautious and wary. As he pushed his cart and scanned his surroundings, his gaze lingered for a moment on some dirty little children playing innocently, oblivious to the world around them. He smiled for a moment, but his mood quickly soured when he noticed one of those children who used to bother him, sometimes even provoking the other kids to steal from him or roughly push his wheelchair, causing him to fall once and injure himself. "Hmph, damn child!" Sollivan pushed his cart faster before the annoying kids could notice him. After putting a good distance between them, he took a deep breath, relieved to have left the place. After several minutes, the dirty, narrow alley improved as the number of houses decreased and side streets increased. The ground became cleaner, making pushing the wheelchair smoother, and Sollivan¡¯s pace quickened, as did the reduced, irritating vibrations. Sollivan continued to push his wheelchair, and after several more minutes, he completely left the filthy area filled with dilapidated buildings and poor people. Finally, he reached a main street, where part of the ground was paved with stones. The sides of the street were lined with bustling shops displaying a variety of inexpensive and luxurious goods. There were also fragrant restaurants releasing tempting smells into the crowded street, filled with people from various social classes. Some were dressed in fine clothes made of the finest silk and cotton, while others wore simple linen garments. From time to time, a line of guards could be seen, wearing thick leather armor reinforced with a layer of solid metal, and iron helmets protecting their heads and faces. Their armor was plain without any embellishments, indicating their low rank. Nevertheless, whenever people saw them, they made way for them with respect. Sometimes, some would move aside out of fear. The guards'' gazes were sharp, looking around with hawk-like eyes, capable of seeing everything. They didn¡¯t take any additional actions other than patrolling, but that was enough to keep people calm, making no one dare to cause trouble in the main street of the city. After half an hour of leaving his home, Sollivan finally reached his destination, a large shop with a huge sign hanging above its door reading "The Minor Library." He pushed his wheelchair and entered through the wide door of the shop, which was filled with the scent of books and old manuscripts. The large shop was filled with several big shelves full of different types of books and manuscripts, and there were some clean, well-arranged tables and chairs in the other part of the room. Near the entrance, there was a large reception desk where an elderly man in his late sixties was sitting, with a thick white beard and a small, pointed mustache, full of wrinkles beneath his eyes. He held an old book in his hands, reading it intently. When the elderly man heard the sound of the wheelchair, he raised his head slightly and looked at Sollivan with a calm and relaxed voice, "You¡¯re late as usual." He then folded the book and set it aside, looking at him with an expectant gaze. Sullivan smiled faintly and replied with a chuckle, "And as usual, I''m sorry." He then opened his bag and pulled out the two books he had brought, handing them to the elderly man who took them and set them aside. The elderly man asked in a very friendly tone, with some excitement, "Did you read the book I gave you?" Sullivan raised his eyebrows, holding back a faint chuckle, "It''s very good. I have to admit, you''ve outdone yourself this time. All of your previous books seemed ordinary compared to this one." The elderly man sighed with relief and looked at Sullivan with eyes that flickered with a bit of excitement, then spoke with a happy tone, "You know how to flatter this old man, but hearing your opinion really comforts me." This elderly man was Ellis Goodwin, the owner of the small bookstore where Sullivan worked. Despite being his boss and older by several years, Ellis treated him like a close friend. They would discuss many matters related to the store and their personal lives. Ellis''s passion was writing, and he had authored several books and manuscripts, often seeking Sullivan''s opinion before making them available in the bookstore. Sullivan smiled and pointed to the two books on the desk, "By the way, I finished copying this book. I hope you''ll review it." Ellis looked at the two books with a complex expression, then sighed deeply before speaking with a gloomy tone, "Sullivan, you really overwork yourself. I understand winter is approaching and you need money for supplies." Ellis opened his mouth to say more, but then paused and sighed again, adding, "You know what? There''s no need for me to say more. You''re too stubborn, and my words won''t change your mind." Sullivan''s primary work involved copying old books and creating new copies. He earned a few silver coins for each book he copied, sometimes a bit more if the book was lengthy or included detailed charts and illustrations. Although he earned a slightly higher commission, the job was demanding and time-consuming, often allowing him to complete only one or two books a week. A faint smile appeared on Sullivan''s face, full of gratitude, "Thank you for worrying about me, my friend, but don''t worry, everything is under control." Despite saying that, a look of helplessness appeared on his face, and he felt a tense sadness. ''I really hope so, I''m exhausted, physically drained, and mentally shattered. I only have a few years left to live, yet I''m still holding on and trying to enjoy what remains of my life, even though it''s just a messy piece of the puzzle.'' His emotions mixed for a moment, causing him to lower his head and gaze at his motionless feet with a blurry look. ''Winter is coming, and business is about to slow down. I still haven''t saved enough money. Also, peaceful winter is my most loved and hated season at the same time.'' Due to his inability to walk and the snow piling up, making it difficult to navigate his wheelchair, Sullivan spent most of the winter indoors, reading books and historical records that he loved so much. They were the only things that made him feel and see things he could no longer experience, even though they were relayed from others'' experiences. ... "Anyway, Sullivan, you can take a break. It''s still early, and the store won¡¯t be busy for a while. I¡¯ll handle the few customers who come in during this period." Ellis¡¯s concerned voice snapped Sullivan out of his scattered thoughts. He then raised his head and looked at the worried elderly man, feeling a warmth in his heart and sincerely thanking him, "Thank you, my friend. I think I¡¯ll be bothering you a bit. Haha!" "No need to thank me!" Ellis laughed and waved his hand, motioning for him to go. Sullivan pushed his wheelchair a few steps, and then he heard the sound of footsteps from a customer approaching. He turned his head slowly and glanced at the short person standing in front of the reception desk. His brows furrowed in annoyance. He felt his calm chest tightening and turning into a surge of anger, but these feelings only lasted for a moment before he returned to his usual calm, examining the face of the elderly woman with her wrinkled skin and the look of disgust in her eyes. The elderly woman didn¡¯t give Sullivan a single glance and walked towards the reception desk, where Ellis greeted her with all due respect. "How can I assist you, madam?" Chapter 2: Strange Book Despite the immense difficulty Sollivan faced in maintaining his composure every time his eyes fell upon the old woman¡¯s face, he stood beside the reception desk, watching her intently, driven by sheer curiosity. In the five years he had worked here, this woman had never once set foot in the shop. ¡®That wretched old hag... What could she possibly want? I doubt someone like her has any interest in reading...¡¯ He swallowed his words, grumbling sarcastically to himself, trying his best to keep his calm. Over the past five years, Sollivan had never felt such conflicting emotions as he did today. Just seeing the old woman stirred painful memories he had long buried in the depths of his heart. Quietly, he muttered as he stared with foggy eyes, filled with suppressed memories and emotions, "I hate winter." Six years ago, as winter approached, his family had been completely wiped out. He himself had been gravely injured, his life hanging by a thread. In the moment he was on the brink of death, drowning in despair, his sworn uncle, Leonard Winglet, had made the decision to sell all of the deceased family¡¯s belongings. He used every bit of the money to purchase expensive medicines to save Sollivan¡¯s life. Yet all he could do was barely keep him alive, leaving Sollivan paralyzed and significantly weakened. His uncle had told him he wouldn¡¯t live past the age of thirty. During that period, Leonard had fallen into a deep depression and indescribable sorrow, accompanied by an ever-present fear that the killers of his sworn brother would return to finish what they started by taking the life of his nephew. After much deliberation, Leonard decided to sever ties with Sollivan to ensure his safety. Yet his conscience wouldn¡¯t allow him to abandon him entirely. Instead, he entrusted him to the care of the family¡¯s oldest servant and her grandson. He handed them 200 gold coins and gave Sollivan 50 coins from what remained of the family¡¯s wealth, instructing them to leave the city, purchase a house, and start a new life. Whenever Sollivan recalled the long journey he had endured in the biting cold of winter, burdened by his injuries and the weight of his shattered heart, he felt an indescribable bitterness and humiliation that refused to fade. Sigh... He slowly raised his head, his gaze landing on the face of the old woman¡ªa face that bore the marks of a life of prosperity and comfort. ¡®That cursed old hag¡­ She took all the money my uncle gave her to help me and used it to build a residential complex in the slums and a hotel in the city. She earns hundreds of silver coins annually and only gives me two silver coins at the start of each month. I don¡¯t know if it¡¯s out of pity or fear that my uncle might find out she abandoned me. But whatever her motives are, it doesn¡¯t change the truth. She broke her promise and left me to rot and freeze in a decrepit room in the slums. And worse, she made me endure her endless complaints about how she had to spend a single gold coin to buy that crumbling house.¡¯ The deeper Sollivan sank into his bitter memories, the tighter his chest felt, leaving him unable to calm himself. Finally, he exhaled deeply, trying to banish the unsettling thoughts from his mind, and a faintly vacant expression spread across his face. He glanced at Ellis and the old woman, neither of whom noticed the rapid shifts in his expression during those brief moments. At that moment, the old woman''s voice abruptly interrupted his thoughts. "Do you buy books?" Her tone lacked any warmth or respect, as if her mere presence in the shop was a favor. "Hmph." ''Miserable old hag¡­'' he muttered under his breath, his tone tinged with anger. He turned his gaze to Ellis, whose brows furrowed slightly but who refrained from showing any extreme reaction. Ellis decided to handle the situation professionally, responding in a tone laced with mild sarcasm. "Yes, ma¡¯am. We buy books. But not everything with pages and a cover deserves to be called a book." "Fine." The old woman placed a rectangular object wrapped in cloth on the counter. She then removed the wrapping, revealing a thick book with hundreds of pages. Its cover was pitch black and incredibly thick, almost resembling a thin metal plate. Sollivan''s curiosity was piqued, but he couldn''t make out the book''s details clearly due to his lower position and relative distance. Even Ellis appeared intrigued as he picked up the book to examine it. At that moment, the old woman began to speak, trying to emphasize the book''s value. "This book belonged to an Arcane Master who stayed at my inn. That scoundrel paid for a whole year but disappeared for six months. He must have died in the war. In the end, we had to open his room, and all we found was this book. It¡¯s clearly something valuable." "Its value will be determined after inspection." Ellis said as he opened the book. However, the moment he did, his brows knitted together, and a strange expression spread across his face. This change didn¡¯t escape Sollivan, who grew even more curious and puzzled. After a moment of tense silence, Sollivan heard Ellis addressing the old woman in a dissatisfied tone. "This book is written in a strange language." Sollivan quickly pushed his chair toward the counter, approaching the old woman, who shot him a displeased look and stepped aside. She quickly responded, attempting to justify herself. "The language doesn¡¯t matter. It¡¯s still incredibly valuable! It belonged to an Arcane Master. Surely, it¡¯s an Arcane Masters manual. Do you know that even the cheapest one of these books, is worth over ten silver coins?" The look of displeasure on Ellis¡¯s face deepened, and he replied with an audible complaint. "Even if it is an Arcane Masters book, which I highly doubt, it¡¯s useless to anyone if it¡¯s written in an unknown language like this." "Let me see." Sollivan¡¯s voice, filled with curiosity, cut through the discussion. Ellis glanced at him briefly before handing him the book. The moment Sollivan took hold of the book, he was surprised by its weight, his hands dipping slightly under the unexpected heaviness. His eyes widened slightly as his curiosity deepened, especially when a faint, peculiar scent emanated from the book. He began examining it intently. Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator. The cover was pitch black, just as Sollivan had seen earlier, but upon closer inspection, he noticed raised decorations framing the edges. At the center of the cover was a strange symbol protruding from the surface, its texture rough like stone. Sollivan extended a finger to feel the unfamiliar texture, studying its details with intrigue. He opened the book slowly, his eyes falling on the first page, which was filled with strange writings in a deep blood-red color. The sight made him mutter in astonishment. "What is this?" His voice rose slightly in surprise, unaware of himself, as his gaze remained fixed on the book. Ellis looked over at him. "You¡¯re surprised too? It¡¯s just a bunch of random scribbles I¡¯ve never seen before." Sollivan didn¡¯t reply, remaining focused on the collection of ancient characters. Unlike Ellis, his shock wasn¡¯t merely due to the strangeness of the symbols; he felt a vague familiarity with them. A nervous expression crossed his face. ¡®I¡¯ve seen symbols like these before.¡¯ His eyes locked onto one character, and after a brief moment of thought, he recalled its meaning. ¡®This represents the letter B.¡¯ However, he couldn¡¯t decipher the rest of the symbols. Though Sollivan knew the vastness of the world, he was also aware of how few languages truly existed. Most people spoke the Common Tongue, while the remaining languages were either ancient or exceedingly rare. Despite the age and experience gap between him and Ellis, Sollivan¡¯s knowledge in this particular field was broader. While Ellis focused on literature, poetry, and history, Sollivan¡¯s interests revolved around the strange and extraordinary¡ªparticularly in the fields of medicine, languages, myths, and lost relics. His fascination stemmed from two primary reasons: the hope of finding a recipe or ingredient that could heal him, and his quest to reconstruct his damaged vein. After browsing through the book for nearly three minutes, Sollivan shook his head in disappointment and said to the old woman, "This book is worthless. The only notable thing about it is its cover. It¡¯s impossible for it to be an Arcane Master manual; it¡¯s far too thick and filled with writing without any illustrations." Hearing Sollivan¡¯s assessment, Ellis turned to the old woman and said politely, "I¡¯m sorry, ma¡¯am, but it seems your book isn¡¯t of much value. However, we can offer you one silver coin for it, solely because of its unique leather cover." A deep scowl formed on the old woman¡¯s face, and she complained in an irritatingly loud voice, "One silver coin? This is a valuable book owned by an Arcane Master , and you¡¯re offering me pocket change? It seems your shop¡¯s reputation is hardly deserved!" Despite her words, the old woman knew perfectly well that the book was worthless. Before bringing it to Ellis¡¯s shop, she had shown it to her grandson, a skilled Arcane Master who served in the city¡¯s joint guard force. After examining it, he told her it was just junk that no one would buy. Still, she was determined to sell it for a slightly higher price. The old woman¡¯s words sparked quiet anger in Ellis. A cold glint appeared in his eyes as he took the book from Sollivan¡¯s hands and handed it back to her, saying icily. "Here, take your book and find somewhere else to sell it. Our shop has high standards and doesn¡¯t deal in trash." The old woman¡¯s lips twisted in arrogance, and a grim look appeared in her eyes. She snatched the book and cursed loudly, "Miserable wretch!" Then she turned and stormed out in angry strides. But after taking a few steps past the door, she heard a calm voice call out to her. "Wait a moment, I¡¯ll buy the book for two silver coins." The old woman slowly turned back, her eyes filled with suspicion and scorn as she stared at the young man in the wheelchair. Ellis, too, cast a look of irritation and confusion at Sollivan. He was well aware of Sollivan¡¯s peculiar hobby of collecting rare and strange books and manuscripts, but he was deeply annoyed by the old woman¡¯s behavior. He said skeptically, "What are you saying, Sollivan? Why would you want to buy a worthless book like that?" Before Sollivan could reply, the old woman stepped closer and spoke in a brash tone, "I want three silver coins." Sollivan raised an eyebrow slightly, and despite everyone¡¯s varying looks directed at him, he replied coldly, "Two silver coins is all I¡¯ll offer. Take it or leave it; no one else is going to buy this trash for a higher price." Hmph! The old woman placed the book on the reception desk under Ellis¡¯s helpless gaze and flashed a mocking smile that made her features appear even uglier. She extended her hand, pointing toward Sollivan, and said, "Pay up!" Without looking at her, Sollivan turned his wheelchair and spoke in a cool tone, "You don¡¯t need to pay this month¡¯s dues. Consider them the payment for the book." At those words, Ellis¡¯s eyebrows arched in astonishment as he stared at Sollivan¡¯s back with bewildered eyes. Several questions flooded his mind. ¡®Dues? Do they know each other? But¡­¡¯ His confusion deepened as he recalled how both of them had acted like strangers upon meeting. Ellis quickly glanced at the old woman, who snorted in disdain before turning and leaving in a huff. Sigh! Ellis froze for a moment, then picked up the book and set it aside for Sollivan to collect later. But suddenly, something dawned on him, and he murmured softly, "Who exactly is Sollivan?" Though he had worked with Sollivan for many years, he had never heard anything about his family or origins. Even Sollivan¡¯s last name was a mystery, adding to his enigmatic nature. As Ellis pondered further, he decided to push the thoughts aside, his face returning to its usual calm and polite expression. He muttered quietly, "Everyone has their secrets, and there¡¯s no need to pry into them." These words weren¡¯t merely an attempt to reassure himself; they reflected his genuine belief. He understood all too well the complexities of relationships and the strangeness of people in this world. After all, he himself carried secrets he would never dare share with anyone, not even his closest acquaintances or friends. ... In a quiet corner of the library, behind a shelf crowded with books, Sollivan sat back, relaxing as he closed his eyes peacefully. He was unaware that his previous action, seemingly simple on the surface, had sent Ellis into a whirlwind of deep thought, making him reevaluate his stance toward him. "Where have I seen you before?" he murmured in a low, puzzled voice. He opened his eyes and looked at the library ceiling with a complex expression. I¡¯m sure I¡¯ve seen this writing before, but where? Was there something similar to it in his home? His confusion deepened, and the questions began to burn in his mind. He felt an intense urge to return home and examine the pile of books and manuscripts he had collected over the years in search of answers. But the thought of worrying Ellis or making him suspicious of his intentions stopped him. This is really frustrating. He sighed in exhaustion and closed his eyes again, trying to calm himself. His body relaxed, and he drifted into a peaceful nap. Time passed quietly, and the number of customers in the library gradually increased. However, despite his growing workload, Ellis didn¡¯t disturb Sollivan or ask for his help. He handled everything on his own. After an hour of comfortable sleep, Sollivan finally opened his eyes, gazing at the corridor between the bookshelves. He heard the footsteps of customers and realized he had been asleep for quite some time. I bet Ellis regrets his suggestion now, he thought with a faint smile, chuckling quietly. He raised his hands, adjusted his hair, and wiped his face to shake off the traces of sleep. He then calmly wheeled himself toward the corridor, where he noticed a man in his early thirties. The man had a noble appearance, dressed in elegant clothing, and stood before a bookshelf, carefully inspecting the books. Sollivan turned his head toward the reception desk, where Ellis was busy assisting customers, then approached the man in his wheelchair and spoke in a respectful tone. "Are you interested in the history of the Golden Lion Empire?" The man slowly turned around, his eyes slightly surprised. After a brief moment of hesitation, he replied, "Not exactly, but I¡¯m looking for historical books that discuss the era before the empire." Sollivan was surprised by the man''s request and asked in a skeptical tone, "Do you mean the Great Empire?" "Yes." Sollivan wheeled himself toward a nearby bookshelf and carefully examined the titles. After a moment, he picked up a thick book with a faded cover and handed it to the man. "The period you''re asking about was rarely documented. This book contains all the remaining recorded information about that era." The man''s eyes widened slightly, and a doubtful expression appeared on his face. "Really?" Sollivan chuckled lightly before smiling and adding, "You could say that, but most of what¡¯s in this book consists of mysterious legends, and the dates aren¡¯t very accurate. So, I wouldn¡¯t recommend relying on it as a scientific or historical reference." Hearing his response, the nobleman¡¯s concern eased. Sollivan had understood the reason behind his worry. Historical books and records were not something easily obtained or readily available. The few accurate books that existed were owned by ancient and powerful families whose histories spanned hundreds of years or were kept in the Imperial Library, which only a select few could access. So when he heard that the book was comprehensive and contained various historical information, he became deeply skeptical of its credibility. If what he had heard was false, it meant the shop owner was lying to him. But if it was true, then this book was of immense value and shouldn¡¯t belong to a place like this. After the strange tension between the two had settled, the nobleman asked again, "Do you have more books like this?" Sollivan replied, "Yes, we have a few more books and some simple manuscripts." "Show them to me." Sollivan led the nobleman to the bookshelves and pointed out a selected collection. After much examination and searching, the man left the library carrying three books and four old manuscripts, looking quite satisfied with his purchases. Without taking a moment to rest, Sollivan immediately approached another customer to offer assistance, guiding them to the appropriate books and fulfilling their requests. The day continued at a slow yet exhausting pace. As autumn neared its end, people began preparing for winter by purchasing their essential needs, including books as a source of entertainment. The shop filled with the voices of customers and unfamiliar faces, increasing the pressure on Sollivan and Ellis, who focused on serving customers while also keeping an eye on the store to prevent any theft amid the chaos. After long hours of grueling work, Sollivan finally paused in the middle of the shop, closing his eyes for a brief moment to take a short rest, while Ellis remained occupied with reviewing the day''s accounts and organizing sales records. "I''m heading out now," Sollivan said as he wheeled himself toward the reception desk. He glanced at Ellis, who was still buried in calculations, and smirked. "Looks like you''ll be here for a while." Ellis scoffed sarcastically, then grabbed two books¡ªone incredibly old and the other completely new and pristine¡ªand pushed them toward Sollivan with a teasing smile. "Looks like you have a long night of copying ahead of you. As for me, I''ll be asleep the moment I get home." Sollivan raised an eyebrow with a resigned smile, "You win this round." He wheeled himself away from the desk toward the door, but Ellis''s voice suddenly stopped him. "Wait a moment." Sollivan turned around to find Ellis holding the black book that had concerned him earlier that morning. Ellis smirked lightly. "It was a really tiring day, wasn¡¯t it?" Sollivan responded calmly, "I know." He placed the black book into his bag alongside the books that he will need to copy, then slowly left the shop. As soon as he stepped outside, a cold breeze greeted him, making him shiver. He lifted his head and looked at the sky, which was darkening as sunset approached, while thick clouds gathered over the horizon. ''The weather is getting colder ''. He guided his wheelchair through the familiar alleys, where shadows gradually spread, covering the narrow paths. After half an hour of moving through the quiet streets, he finally arrived at his humble neighborhood, which seemed less lively than usual. The passersby had disappeared, the chickens had returned to their nests, and stray dogs roamed here and there. His eyes wandered across the neighborhood until they finally settled on his doorstep, where a mysterious figure stood, their features obscured by the dim light. His brows furrowed slightly with concern, but the tension quickly faded as he moved closer to the door and recognized the person waiting for him. Chapter 3: Reading Between The Lines When Sollivan spotted the mysterious figure standing near the door, he quickened his steps, straining to see more clearly in the dim light. To his surprise, the figure was just a child¡ªnot yet in his teenage years. The boy was thin and slightly short, though his height seemed appropriate for his age. His small face lacked the softness and innocent gaze typical of children. Instead, he looked pale, his expression unwavering, and his eyes held a harshness that suggested an adult trapped in a child¡¯s body. This was not unusual in the slums, where most children were either orphans or had lost one parent, forcing them to seek work to support themselves or their families. Their young age limited their options to simple tasks: tending horses in stables, serving food in taverns, cleaning alleyways, or working as porters and errand boys in the markets. The child before Sollivan was Devlin, an orphan who had lost his parents long ago. Without hesitation, Devlin rushed to Sollivan¡¯s chair, gripped its handles, and pushed it toward the house. Sollivan said nothing, simply relaxing in his seat and catching his breath. Within moments, they reached the house¡¯s entrance. In Devlin¡¯s eyes, there was a faint glimmer of respect, despite the silence between them. Sollivan pulled out his key and unlocked the door before asking calmly, ¡°Will you manage this winter?¡± Pushing the chair inside, Devlin replied with gratitude, ¡°Yes, I¡¯ve saved enough to rent a room and buy what I need.¡± ¡°Good. You know where the empty water jars are, but light the fireplace first.¡± Gripping the wheels of his chair, Sollivan pushed himself toward the table cluttered with books and manuscripts. Without glancing at Devlin, he set his bag aside and began scanning the manuscripts, his eyes wary as he tried to recall where he had seen that strange language before. Meanwhile, Devlin walked to the fireplace, ignited a few flames, and watched as warmth slowly spread through the room. He picked up a half-melted candle nearby and lit it. Stepping toward Sollivan, whose features were gradually swallowed by the encroaching darkness, he placed the candle beside him, brightening the room¡¯s lighting. Without a word, he moved to a corner where several earthenware jars and small wooden bottles were stacked before quietly leaving the house. Sollivan lifted his head and glanced at the slightly ajar door. A cold draft slipped through, causing the candlelight to flicker and cast fragmented shadows across his face¡ªrevealing a complex expression. Devlin was no stranger to Sollivan. One could even say he was an unofficial servant, helping with tasks Sollivan struggled to complete on his own: fetching water from the communal well, buying necessities on stormy or rainy days, and other errands. In return, Sollivan gave him a small sum of money at the end of each week. Five years ago, when Sollivan had regained some strength, he began venturing outside his home, exploring the neighborhood and getting to know his neighbors. During that time, he met Devlin, an orphan who had lost his parents in a tragic accident, leaving him utterly alone. Soon after, vagrants took advantage of his weakness¡ªlooting his home, driving him out, and claiming it for themselves. At first, Sollivan paid no attention to the boy, dismissing him as just another troublesome street urchin. But as winter arrived, Devlin¡¯s frail body began to resemble a tattered corpse, gnawed by hunger and bitten by the relentless cold. Though Sollivan had trained himself to be indifferent, watching the boy¡¯s suffering stirred an unfamiliar hesitation within him. He saw himself in that small child¡ªboth had lost their loved ones, been robbed of their former lives, and left to rot in the world. Yet, Sollivan¡¯s circumstances had been slightly better. In the end, he decided to take Devlin in for the winter, despite not fully trusting him. At first, both were wary, treating each other with suspicion and caution. But as time passed, Devlin¡¯s fears eased, and Sollivan¡¯s guard lowered, allowing their relationship to improve. A deep sense of gratitude grew within Devlin¡ªSollivan had saved him from certain doom. In return, Sollivan found his loneliness slightly lessened and his daily struggles made easier during the harsh winter. However, he never intended to shelter the boy for long. When spring arrived, he taught Devlin how to survive and fend for himself, then cast him out to find his own work and shelter. ... Sollivan pulled a thick book from his collection and slowly opened it, revealing a small square compartment carved into its pages. At the heart of the hollow space rested four gold coins, glimmering faintly under the flickering candlelight. He hesitated for a moment before his fingers hovered over one of the coins. ¡°One coin¡­ that¡¯s all he needs to begin, but the risk of failure is still high.¡± At the age of thirteen, a child¡¯s Auraxis main vein fully develops, allowing them to train in martial arts and cultivate the energy of Auraxis within their bodies. However, before they can begin, they must first purchase a Vein Opening Pill, a special pill that helps them surpass their human limitations once they have trained their bodies sufficiently and advanced through the stages of the Body Strengthening Realm. Yet, the risk of failure remained significant, making Sollivan hesitate. Due to his own financial struggles, he decided to wait before making a decision. Each pill cost a single gold coin¡ªa hefty sum most people could not afford. As a result, many either never started training or began years later, only after saving enough money. This delay often stunted their progress, as they missed the optimal period for cultivation and lacked the necessary resources to advance. In the past, his uncle had given him sixty gold coins to cover his expenses, but within the first year, most of it was spent on medicines, herbs, and doctors in a futile search for a cure. For all the exorbitant treatments he endured, all he gained was a slight improvement in strength and a limited recovery of his lost vitality. Still, he refused to give up. Whenever he found something that might help, he bought it¡ªleaving him with a modest stock of rare herbs he had obtained by chance while working in the library.A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. Ironically, sixty gold coins were enough to let a poor man live comfortably, yet for Sollivan, they had done nothing more than slightly ease his suffering. ¡°No need to dwell on that now.¡± Pushing the book aside, he picked up a stack of manuscripts and began examining them carefully. Every document and book he flipped through contained valuable and diverse knowledge¡ªranging from rare herbal studies to legends of lost treasures and even the ancient history of his continent. However, books in this field were extremely rare, and some were written in unfamiliar languages or consisted merely of drawings without explanations. Through his personal efforts, he had meticulously annotated his own notes, allowing him to gain a broad understanding of many fundamental fields and learn bits and pieces of every language he had encountered. Because of this, he had recognized one of the symbols in the mysterious book earlier. Time passed slowly and quietly as Devlin went back and forth, carrying empty jars out and returning with them filled with water. Night fell, and the alleys darkened, but the scattered torchlights, though scarce, were enough to guide his way. Meanwhile, Sollivan remained seated, reading at a steady pace, reviewing the records and notes he had carefully compiled. It was his habit to organize his books and information, ensuring everything remained in order. After identifying the manuscripts worth scrutinizing, he began sorting through them with unwavering focus. By the time Devlin finished his work and left for his own lodging, minutes had turned into hours. The candle that had illuminated the corner of the room gradually melted away, leaving only a small stub. Around its base, hardened wax had accumulated, forming frozen droplets that resembled dried glue. Suddenly, Sollivan lifted his head. The candle flame flickered violently, casting shifting shadows across his face, illuminating his eyes with a rare gleam of excitement. In his hands was a large manuscript, its strange symbols filled with dozens of explanatory notes and annotations¡ªone that he had spent a long time deciphering. He set the manuscript aside, a satisfied expression settling on his face¡ªhis curiosity about the mysterious language had finally been sated. However, a slight pain throbbed at his temple, a dull ache from the mental strain he had exerted. Normally, he would begin transcribing any book he brought home as soon as he arrived, but this time, he had become entirely absorbed in deciphering the language of the black book, neglecting his usual work and losing precious hours of his time. Even so, he didn¡¯t mind much¡ªhe had found something truly worth his attention. ¡°I got so caught up in my research that I forgot myself...¡± Sollivan exhaled heavily, only for a faint growl from his stomach to remind him of his intense hunger. Without sparing the manuscript another glance, he pushed his chair back and wheeled himself toward the fireplace, where the dying flames flickered weakly, leaving behind only a few glowing embers. Quickly, he tossed in some dry twigs to rekindle the fire, then reached for the metal pot, lifting its lid. A strange aroma wafted up¡ªa mixture of the leftover soup he had made that morning, now thicker and more concentrated. He added some water to thin it out, waiting for the flames to strengthen before placing the pot over the fire. As the food slowly warmed, his gaze drifted to the satchel lying beside the table, and he muttered under his breath. ¡°What secrets do you hold¡­?¡± ... [Two Weeks Later] As the days passed, the once-clear sky grew heavy with dense gray clouds, obscuring the sun¡¯s warmth and bringing with them a biting cold. Snow fell relentlessly, blanketing the entire city in white. Layers of snow piled upon the streets and rooftops, transforming the once-thriving city into a desolate, lifeless expanse. Most shops had closed, and passersby became a rare sight. Even the stray dogs, known for their incessant barking and mischief, had disappeared¡ªeither retreating from the merciless cold or seeking shelter somewhere warmer. In one of the city¡¯s poorer districts, where silence hung thick over the alleys, a fireplace crackled inside a run-down house, spreading a faint warmth through its walls. Sollivan sat in his chair, staring at the book. Its cover was cool to the touch, its surface smooth yet oddly rough at the edges, as if resisting his grasp. Then he opened to its first page. Across the table, dozens of papers lay scattered¡ªsome crumpled or torn and tossed aside carelessly, while others were neatly arranged in a careful stack beside the book. In his hand, he held a sleek, sophisticated pen that stood in stark contrast to his surroundings. Crafted from a single smooth piece of black material, it fit perfectly between his fingers, its needle-thin tip housing an intricate mechanism that ensured effortless writing and preserved the ink. He wrote at an excruciatingly slow pace, pausing frequently to scrutinize the first page of the black book, as if attempting to unravel an impossibly complex cipher. After what felt like an eternity, he finally leaned back in his chair, exhaling a long breath before rubbing his wrist, which ached from the relentless hours of writing. Despite his clear need for rest, he straightened once more, picked up the organized papers, and placed them beside the sheet he had just finished. His expression hardened, shedding all traces of exhaustion or relaxation, as he began linking the fragmented words in his notes to those on the first page of the black book. With calculated precision, he pulled a fresh sheet of paper and resumed translating, drawing upon every word he had deciphered so far. Unlike before, when his translation had been hesitant and fragmented, the page now filled quickly with words, as though something had finally clicked into place. Sollivan lifted his head, a faint smile of satisfaction crossing his lips. A quiet sense of accomplishment seeped into his chest, warming him slightly despite the cold. His gaze dropped to the lines he had just transcribed, but his brow soon furrowed, his expression shifting to one of confusion. Then, in a cautious, expectant voice, he began to read aloud. ¡°Only blood seals the pact, only blood opens the gate.¡± His voice echoed in the silent room, carrying with it a strange, unshakable weight. His eyes flickered to the book¡¯s center, where symbols intertwined in an elaborate design, carved deep into the page, pulsating with an eerie, forbidden power. Even in the dim light, the ink shimmered in the darkness, whispering promises of strength. He continued reading, as though the words slipping from his lips belonged to a world not his own. ¡°With the essence of life, the veil shall be lifted¡­ Life for life, world for world, and the soul shall witness what no eye can see, tread where no foot has stepped. Each world has its door, beyond which lies the unknown¡­ If opened, horrors shall awaken. No light, no mercy, no return for the unready.¡± For the briefest of moments, the page beneath his fingertips pulsed faintly, its rhythm syncing with the uneasy beats of his heart. Yet the sensation faded too quickly for him to take notice. At last, his voice carried him to the final line, his words slipping into the air in an almost unnatural whisper, tinged with something sinister. ¡°Let but a single drop fall, and the threshold shall open¡­ Let your blood flow, and seal your fate.¡± Sollivan stared at the last sentence in silence, a tangle of disappointment and confusion swirling within him. The book¡¯s introduction was cryptic, elusive, as though it concealed a truth yet to be revealed. His eyebrows arched for a moment before he turned to the second page, which was filled with writing. Drawing upon what he had learned from translating the first page, he began analyzing the text. But within just five minutes, his expression shifted, and his brows visibly trembled. He flipped to the next page, and after two more minutes, his features contorted. He started flipping through the pages rapidly, eyes darting over the words, struggling to comprehend them. But something was wrong. After minutes of tense staring, Sollivan slammed the book shut with a muffled thud. ¡°This is nonsense!¡± he muttered angrily, his gaze flickering in every direction as he tried to steady himself. After reviewing the second page and the following ones repeatedly, he realized he could no longer translate a single letter. It was as if the words had transformed into cryptic symbols, completely different from those on the first page. This wasn¡¯t merely a change in language¡ªthe letters themselves were devoid of meaning, as though they were utter gibberish. ¡°All that effort... wasted.¡± A surge of frustration welled up within him as he recalled spending two silver coins on a book he couldn¡¯t even read. But the money wasn¡¯t what angered him the most¡ªit was the time he had wasted. Two whole weeks spent translating just a single page¡ªtime that could have been used for something far more productive. He took a deep breath, attempting to clear his mind of the nagging thoughts. Reaching for the paper on which he had written the translation, he stared at the last line with vacant eyes, his voice barely a whisper as he murmured. ¡°Let but a single drop fall, and the threshold shall open¡­ Let your blood flow, and seal your fate.¡± His gaze shifted to the black book resting on the table, lingering on its intricately designed cover. ¡°A drop of blood¡­ There are books and ancient manuscripts that only open with a blood imprint.¡± His eyes fell upon the engraved symbol at the center of the cover, recalling what he had read on the first page. His expression changed, and the curiosity that had faded beneath the weight of disappointment began to stir once more. Picking up the book, he ran his fingers over its cold surface, an odd look of anticipation crossing his face. He reached out with his left hand toward a small knife lying beside the table, studying its sharp, icy blade for a moment. Then, with quiet resolve and without hesitation, he pricked his index finger against the tip. A crimson drop welled up, slowly trickling down the metal before he set the knife aside and pressed his bleeding finger against the symbol at the center of the cover. He waited, his heart pounding with expectation and apprehension. The blood seeped into the engraving, staining its strange design. But¡­ nothing happened. Seconds passed. The center of the cover darkened with the deep red liquid, its shade pale in contrast to the book¡¯s abyssal black. Sollivan exhaled slowly. ¡®I shouldn¡¯t have gotten my hopes up¡­¡¯ he sighed again, this time in final resignation, and moved to withdraw his finger¡ªonly for his expression to twist in shock, his eyes widening. His finger wouldn¡¯t budge. It was as though it had fused with the book, refusing to move no matter how hard he tried. ¡°What now?¡± A tremor coursed through his chest, a blend of fear and unease sending a shiver down his spine. Yet, beneath the apprehension, other emotions began to creep in¡ªan inexplicable longing, a suppressed thrill, and an eager curiosity for what would come next. The sensation of being stuck didn¡¯t last long. It faded swiftly, allowing him to finally pull his finger away. But that no longer mattered. His focus remained locked on the book. The blood that had stained the cover was now being drawn into the engraved symbol, as if the book itself was drinking it. Then, the book trembled violently, its weight seeming to increase tenfold. Even Sollivan¡ªwho had long lost sensation in his legs¡ªfelt a faint illusion of crushing heaviness pressing down upon his paralyzed limbs. A pulse! The book quivered again, like the heartbeat of a beast roused from slumber. At that moment, an inexplicable dread flooded through Sollivan, his heartbeat racing in a desperate, frantic rhythm¡ªas though his body sought to flee, despite remaining utterly still. Yet, even amidst his overwhelming fear, he couldn¡¯t tear his gaze away from the glowing symbol at the book¡¯s center. It protruded further, its hue deepening into a mesmerizing crimson¡ªlike a deceitful flame, luring moths to their doom. A deafening throb! The ground beneath him shook violently, shadows rippling across the room like entities stirring from an ancient slumber. The fire in the hearth crackled, sending embers dancing into the air. Yet, the disturbance did not extend far¡ªthroughout the impoverished district, only a faint tremor was felt. The heart of the city, meanwhile, remained undisturbed, lost in its oblivious tranquility. But Sollivan cared for none of it. Not the tremors. Not the flickering shadows. All of his attention was consumed by that glowing crimson symbol¡ªone that no longer resembled a mere carving. It was an eye. A sinister, all-seeing eye, peering into the depths of his soul, unearthing secrets he didn¡¯t even know existed, whispering knowledge beyond his comprehension. And before he could fully grasp what was happening, an unseen force surged through him, yanking him into oblivion. His body collapsed, his head striking the table with a resounding thud. Darkness swallowed him whole.