Chapter 184: The Road to Sampo (8)
Room 101.
No one really knew who started calling it that, but anyone familiar with the place called it by that name.
A bare room with nothing but a desk—not even a clock for decoration. Inside, an old man pulled out an inkwell and a quill pen.
Carefully, he dipped the quill into the ink and began to write across the parchment laid out on the desk.
Scratch, scratch—
Elegant hand movements. Classical penmanship.
In a world ruled by smartphones and keyboards, the letters born from the old ways were beautiful.
But the story they spelled out was anything but.
Someone’s death. The ruin of a place. The collapse of a world.
It was a judgment, in the sense that it delivered a verdict.
A chronicle, in that it recorded the past. A prophecy, in that it described the future.
But the old man didn’t care what people called it or what was written on the parchment.