Chapter 125 Avatar of Harmony (3)
The corridors of the Atlantis Tower always whisper secrets. However, far beneath them, below the teaching rooms and laboratories, lies a nameless library. This place is not recorded in official archives nor marked on any map. Fitran sat there, nestled between towering wooden shelves that almost brushed against the low, arched ceiling. The rough wooden surface, adorned with ancient carvings, was faintly covered in dust and black moss, creating a cold texture framed by the flickering glow of candlelight. Within those cabinets lay neatly arranged aged scrolls, some bound with fragile, cracked leather ribbons, while others were rolled and held together by fading and fraying golden ties.
The entire space was enveloped in the damp aroma of old paper, mingling with the scent of wax and herbal roots stored in small wooden boxes tucked away in the library's hidden corners. The porous stone walls, cold and wet, surrounded the area as if guarding the tightly locked secrets within. The deep black marble floor, speckled with fine gravel from broken stones, absorbed footsteps and sounds, making every movement feel silent yet heavy, as if the stones themselves held the memories of a forgotten time.
Fitran sat there, surrounded by cabinets filled with scrolls penned in blood and obsidian ink. The only sound was the low, rhythmic ticking of an antique clock, counting down the breaths of a forgotten world, alongside the smooth scratch of a quill on aged parchment. The candlelight hanging from the wall lanterns cast flickering shadows on the rough stone walls—shadows that moved slowly like the silhouette of something not entirely real. The light danced softly across the cracked surfaces, creating mysterious patterns akin to whispering incantations. The air in the room felt cold, but without the piercing dampness; it was heavy with the aroma of antiquity and mystery, as if every corner held the footprints of the past and secrets buried for centuries. The parchment in his hands felt rough and fragile, its edges beginning to peel, while the ink glimmered like crystallized blood in the darkness.
The candlelight casts his shadow on the stone wall, resembling a figure that isn't entirely real. Weariness marks his face, not from physical exertion, but from a soul burdened by too many secrets. In his hands, he clutches a parchment page that remains untranslated. The writing on it writhes like a live worm, avoiding meaning.
Soft footsteps echo silently in the dim corridor.
Hugo appears, draped in a dark gray robe, his hands grasping an ancient scroll bound with frayed golden ties and torn. His eyes pierce through the darkness, yet shadows of deep doubt linger—scars of a past that have never truly faded.
"You called for me, Fitran?" Hugo asks, his voice heavy yet calm.
"I'm trying to read this fragment. But every time I almost understand, the words fade away—like gazing at the face of a god in a dream that vanishes when awakened into silence," Fitran replied, his eyes still fixed on the blank parchment, his voice nearly a whisper filled with despair.
Hugo paused for a moment before placing the scroll on the moss-covered stone table, which resembled an ancient monument aged thousands of years. A single piece of rough and cracked gray marble, its surface layered with slime from the eternal moisture seeping into its pores. The table felt cold and heavy, as if bearing the weight of the hidden power contained within the fragile skin of the scroll.