Silence is never the symbol of peace, especially from a place where fate provides no chances.

Under the light of the seven moons lies a dense forest, currently broad with tranquility. Yet danger waits for the fool to commit the first action.

Twigs snap under the unseen darkness, beneath the deadly forest. Evil intent pollutes the air, strong enough to make the weak faint. Wild "creatures" hide and wait patiently.

The bold one dared the challenge, a fool already with little knowledge of patience, gambling their way through bewilderment. One wild howl! Music of chaos begins, the test of domination starts.

The fool howled, and the night finally revealed the horror from the one who sang the first song. Because of it, the forest executed a sudden shift that could be felt in the air, silence was about to end.

The creature's howl immediately turned into a loud screech. A bold challenger became a surviving prey, caught by the expecting predator, taking its last breath.

The hiding wild should have learned from that.

Yet the return of silence was short-lived. Now that chaos had begun, it wouldn't be easy for it to end. Others lost their restraint and slowly began to emerge, howling starts, the real chaos had now formed.

Beneath the wilderness, at the edge of the forest, from the distance, a piece of civilization still functioned to this day. A three-story house stood distant and alone. One wonders why it still exists amidst the danger.

Back to the forest! Things didn't take long to escalate. The forest was no longer merely suffocating, now it was also just as deafening. A place that never welcomes the weak, yet devours the strong. The game of the wild, made by fate, reached its climax.

Many began to surface through the open field between the forest and the house. As they charged closer to the man-made structure, seeking the place, the protection provided by distance was soon about to end.

As they charged, the wall outside the house glowed with a light made from a drawn symbolic circle. Immediately, all the creatures stopped in their tracks, fearing to go further. As the light grew stronger, their bold attempts slowly vanished, forcing everyone to retreat into the darkness. The chaos continued… until the sun shone.

One pull of the rope and the bell made noise, it was time to wake up! Morning came, and the orphanage started its day the moment the children rose. Those who got up first prepared the equipment they would use for the day's chores, as the meal was not yet ready.

Tardiness was not an excuse. Mother Lilith stood at the stairs, waiting for all the orphans to come down. Late children were scolded, and since everyone knew who she was and what she did, no one dared try.

Yet footsteps could be heard coming down even during mealtime. One child was late, approaching Mother Lilith.

"Good morning, Hanabi," came the strict greeting. The other children who noticed felt worried for the one who was late.

"GOOD! Morning, Mother Lilith," a sleepy child replied, forcefully awakened despite still being half-conscious. Yet his fear of her was enough to make him fully alert.

"Meal tastes good today," Mother Lilith suddenly softened her tone.

Hanabi spent most of his days at the market, often as a beggar. Yesterday, the market had bountiful leftovers, which allowed him to bring a lot for the orphanage. Yet he had brought too much, almost collapsing from exhaustion before he could return.

"Try not to overdo your body this time, okay?" came a gentle advice with a false smile. Hanabi only nodded.

After leaving the orphanage, he knew he was earlier than usual while passing the peaceful road toward the market. Yesterday's event was rare, but one could always wish for a miracle.

Summer had just begun, but the morning already felt like afternoon as the sun shone too brightly. He was thankful for the invisible barrier that covered the kingdom, protecting its inhabitants from abnormal weather. Because of it, he didn't suffer from extreme heat.

Arriving at the market after almost two hours of walking, Hanabi noticed it felt quieter than usual. He passed through the roads and stared at the empty stalls. The place had many empty ones, as far as he remembered, and it had remained unchanged even the first time he came. Everything had returned to the way it used to be. Yesterday happened fast, and now it had vanished. He knew expecting such an event again was unlikely.

He arrived at the wet market, the place supplying vendors with the products they sold. He knew he wasn't too early, but the place was quieter than expected. The workers waited, lying around as they prepared for the arrival of supplies for sorting. They were late today, which was uncommon.

The market was too lacking in visitors to be useful for a beggar. based on his experience, this morning silhouette, he knew, wouldn't change much later in the day. Not wanting to wait, he decided to stroll past the market.

From there, stores exhibited their wares as he passed. Blacksmiths, restaurants, potion shops, magic shops, libraries, and more, yet Hanabi felt he wasn't welcome.

Going further, he reached one of his favorite places, where the strong were common: the Adventurers' Guild. Though he couldn't go near, he observed from a distance. He greatly admired the strong, wishing to become one of them someday.

Positive thoughts lingered even after returning to the wet market to sort the leftovers properly.

However, a noise of marching footsteps caught his attention from a distance. He saw a group of knights stop near him.

The wet market had a wide open field, and they were planning something. Hanabi was told to leave, which made him wonder what was going on.

From afar, a pursuit was unfolding. Five masked thieves were being chased by an army of magicians and knights toward the market. The knights' early arrival indicated their plan, and those in pursuit were extremely cautious. They planned to rely on entrapment, signaling just how dangerous the situation was.

Not far from the scene, an empty stall offered Hanabi a vantage point. Though he understood the danger, such an incident was too rare to miss.

Soon, the chase ended at that very spot. The thieves were surrounded, with no escape. The sheer number of knights and magicians showed the danger everyone faced. Even masked, the thieves' eyes betrayed their determination to resist.

The knights executed their plan, slowly shrinking the circle. The caution revealed just how serious the threat was, making sure resistance would be futile. The thieves, realizing their fate, exchanged silent signals and set up their own secret plan.

The knights advanced, one and another charging to tackle a thief. Yet the thieves didn't back down and executed their own counter.

Two knelt, pointing palms forward. Two others covered their eyes. The remaining thief raised his arm as high as possible. A blinding spark of light temporarily immobilized everyone, including Hanabi, though only affecting their vision. The two kneeling chanted fog magic to hide further.

Shortly after, the knights recovered and charged into the mist, unaware of the threat. Before anyone could react, a blast erupted from the thieves' location, engulfing the area. The wet market was completely destroyed, debris flying everywhere. Smoke covered the aftermath, hiding the devastation.

The child escaped, feeling terror course through him. Distant enough to avoid danger, he watched the destruction unfold. He left his backpack in panic, bringing only the pouch that had been thrown to him before he left. He continued to run, While his heart was pounding.

The water was unyielding, colder than it had any right to be, even under the summer sun. Hanabi’s fingers trembled as they sank beneath the surface, the chill crawling slowly up his arm, threading into his bones, a persistent reminder that even simple tasks could demand more from him than he felt capable of giving. The basin seemed heavier than it looked, as if the cold itself was pulling at him, pressing against his skin with a stubborn force that neither heat nor will could overcome.

Outside, the sun filtered through the window in a lazy stream of light that touched everything but him. He could feel its presence in a distant, mocking way, a gentle warmth that contrasted violently with the sharp bite of the water. Even dipping a hand in felt like punishment, yet there was no choice. The cold was more than physical, it invaded his mind, dulled thought, and dragged concentration down like a current that refused to release him. Every motion felt heavier, slower, as if his own body were resisting him.

He tried to focus on the rhythm of scrubbing each plate, on the feel of the cloth across the smooth surface, but even that fractured into fragments, slipping away before he could hold on. Thoughts fled in fragments, fleeting, incomplete, ungraspable.

He had been told to wash the dishes. No argument, no hesitation. A child could not refuse, not here, not in this place, not under these eyes. Yet he knew something deeper. Knowing a little did not make one wise. Blind obedience alone did not teach understanding, it only built quiet frustration that pressed on him like a weight he could not shift.

Each plate he held seemed to challenge him, reflecting the pale morning light in dull glints, almost daring him to give up. Washing them was not a chore, it was a mountain. At first, a few plates seemed manageable, but the longer he scrubbed, the more the task consumed him. Minutes stretched into something longer, repetitions multiplied, and monotony threatened to swallow him whole. His arms ached from the strain, the subtle burn crawling across his small muscles with every scrub. Small beads of sweat formed where the cold water met warm skin, an uncomfortable contrast. Even the simple motion of moving plates from the basin to the drying rack felt laborious, heavy, almost impossibly slow. His body was present, but it felt alien, a vessel for the will of others, rather than his own.

He rubbed the plates carefully, pressing just enough to clean them. His strength was too small to break them, yet the awareness of that weakness lingered, persistent, a shadow at the edge of his mind. Thoughts crowded him—questions he longed to ask, emotions he wished he could express—but none of it mattered. Obedience alone remained the rule. As he worked, his mind drifted, inevitably returning to the events that had brought him here.

A few days ago, the wet market had felt strange, off in a way he could not name. Not louder, not busier, just tense, stretched thin as if the air itself had been pulled taut and was waiting to snap. He had slipped behind an empty stall, pressing himself into shadow, careful not to be seen. From there, he saw them: knights, their polished armor reflecting sunlight in harsh, blinding flashes, moving with careful authority, silent but commanding. Behind them, magicians stood, hands faintly glowing with restrained power, faces set in grim concentration.

They had surrounded five thieves, leaving them with no way out. Hanabi’s eyes tracked every movement, small and cautious, drinking in the details. The knights moved with deliberate precision, their swords catching the light with each measured step. The thieves countered with skill, desperate but controlled, moving like dancers trapped in a violent choreography. Steel clashed, magic sparked, and the air itself seemed taut, vibrating with danger and careful calculation. There was violence, yes, but also structure, a dangerous order within chaos that was both mesmerizing and terrifying.

Then one thief’s eyes met his. Anxiety struck like ice, sharp and sudden. His focus shattered, replaced by a cold, rigid fear that settled deep in his chest. Before he could move, the thief raised an arm, and a flash of light erupted, swallowing everything around him. Hanabi toppled, disoriented, the world dissolving into blinding white, a jumble of noise and motion and heat. He tried to push himself up, tried to see, tried to think, but every sense screamed confusion and danger. Something struck the wall beside him. He squinted through the lingering brightness and saw it, a small pouch lying within reach. Ordinary, almost trivial, but nothing about this day had been ordinary.

The explosion came moments later. The shockwave tore past him, hot and violent, sending shards of wood and metal flying in a chaotic spray. Smoke climbed thickly into the sky, carrying the sharp scent of fire, ash, and dust. The market he had known was gone. Hanabi didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the pouch and ran, every beat of his heart echoing in his ears, every breath ragged, each step carrying him further from disaster. He felt the weight of the unknown pressing against him, heavier than any object in his hands.

The forest along the road to the orphanage offered a different kind of quiet, almost too quiet. The chaos behind him faded, replaced by the heavy presence of trees, the rough bark under his fingers, the earthy scent of moss, soil, and fallen leaves. He had walked this path before, sometimes wandering, sometimes searching, observing subtle changes in the forest that only revealed themselves to a careful eye.

There was a small cave hidden among thick undergrowth, just large enough for him, private and overlooked, a temporary refuge he had discovered long ago.

Inside, he finally allowed himself to breathe. His chest heaved and fingers tingled from the cold. The pouch felt light in his hands, yet solid.

Excitement mingled with cautious fear as he untied it.

At first, it seemed empty, so deep that even burying his forearm barely reached the bottom. Unease settled in his chest, sharp and insistent. Then his fingers touched something solid. Memory clicked, Mother Lilith’s magic purse, capable of holding far more than its size suggested. Perhaps this was the same.

He drew out the first item, a massive book, nearly half his size. Its weight pulled him to the cave floor, but he held onto it anyway, refusing to let exhaustion or surprise break his control. One by one, objects emerged, clothes, tools, items he could not name. The cave slowly filled, space shrinking around him, walls seeming to press inward as he surveyed the growing pile. Excitement mixed with exhaustion in a heady, disorienting rush. Relief washed over him briefly, fragile and fleeting.

After a short rest, he began returning the items to the pouch, moving with more deliberation. That was when he noticed another small pouch, tucked among the clothes, similar in color to the first. Curiosity overcame caution. He opened it. His eyes widened. The contents were impossible, almost unbelievable. He explored every corner, confirming again and again that what he held was real. Slowly, realization sank in. This was enough to sustain a lifetime. Even a small portion could draw dangerous attention. The weight of that knowledge pressed on him more than any of the objects themselves.

A sudden, cold wind brushed his face. For a moment, the cave felt impossibly still, peaceful almost, as if the world outside had paused. Then reality returned. The air was sharp for summer, carrying a subtle warning. Fatigue tugged at him, insistent, reminding him he had lingered too long. Every object, every breath, every thought pressed the same message, it was time to leave.

He stepped into the forest. Branches clawed at him, roots threatened to trip him, but he did not slow. Every step carried a mixture of exhilaration and fear. Leaves rustled underfoot. By the time he reached the orphanage, night had fallen. And there Mother Lilith was, arms crossed, waiting at the front door. Hanabi froze, empty-handed, no backpack, no excuse ready. Her presence alone carried weight, silent and heavy, enough to make him understand immediately. In that moment, there was no escape, no clever explanation, no relief. He was in deep trouble.

Chores never ended, or perhaps they simply piled up faster than anyone could finish them. The long summer hours stretched lazily over the orphanage, leaving each child with work that seemed unending, a rhythm of repetition that could drain the spirit as easily as the body. Today, a particularly unusual task awaited Hanabi. One chore had to be completed before nightfall, urgent enough that it could not be delayed. The laborers depended on the orphans to assist them, and failure was not an option.

Hanabi was not alone, though that offered little comfort. Others moved about, fetching water from the well and carrying heavy barrels and buckets that usually sat in the kitchen. Many containers were caked with dried mud, grimy reminders of the outside world, and each demanded meticulous cleaning. The sound of splashing water, clattering metal, and muffled chatter filled the air, creating a background rhythm that made the day feel longer than it was.

On paper, Hanabi’s role seemed simple, almost trivial. In reality, his small size made every movement monumental. Barrels that barely reached his shoulders were heavy, water sloshing inside them like liquid weight pressing against him. Each dip of his arms into the water made his fingers sting, a cold reminder that the task was not just physical but grueling in patience and endurance. After the barrels, the pile of dishes awaited him, still damp from morning use, each plate another weight pressing down on his small frame. He had learned long ago not to argue, not to complain. His opinion, like the lingering sweat on his brow, was best kept quiet.

He remembered returning late to the orphanage one day, fatigue dragging his limbs down as though the world itself resisted him. Lungs ached with every breath, and there stood Mother Lilith at the door, arms crossed, eyes sharp as a blade. It was a moment that always tested him, though she never spoke the rules aloud. Hanabi prayed silently, for mercy, for patience, for anything that would let him survive another encounter.

“Your excuse?” Her voice held a thread of sarcasm, delicate yet sharp, a warning veiled in civility.

Hanabi knew better than to speak too much; words could twist into punishment faster than a whip. He steadied himself, then told the story of the market: the chaos, the lost backpack, and the coins he had salvaged. Those coins were his secret, a fragment of truth wrapped in lies, a small anchor in the storm of his circumstances. Mother Lilith listened, her expression unreadable. Whether he had convinced her or not, the fact that he left without punishment felt like a miracle. She decreed that he remain in the orphanage, confined to chores, while the market remained unsafe.

By afternoon, the last barrel gleamed under the weak summer sun streaming through the windows. Now the dishes awaited him, their presence heavier than the barrels he had just conquered. Outside, older orphans returned from the forest, carrying bundles of logs, their faces tired but unscathed. Hanabi watched, concern etched in his small frame. The forest, even in daylight, was never truly safe. Shadows moved in ways that suggested menace, and every rustle could be a threat. Relief washed over him as they returned unharmed, their survival a quiet reassurance against the relentless weight of his own chores. Compared to the forest, the dishes were trivial, though they still seemed monumental to him.

His thoughts drifted back to the market, to the moment he had locked eyes with the thief. Panic had rooted him to the ground, and then a blinding flash had erupted, dissolving the world into chaos and noise. Something struck the wall behind him, a violent punctuation to the confusion. And then there had been the pouch. Ordinary in appearance, yet Hanabi sensed its value immediately. He never questioned where it had come from; survival had taught him that some gifts were not to be discarded, only cautiously accepted.

After a week of chores and quiet observation, Mother Lilith deemed the market safe again. Hanabi returned to his cave, the one sanctuary that felt wholly his own. Relief surged through him, mingling with a quiet happiness. This was not a reward for completed chores, but for reclaiming a space that was entirely his. He searched among the items he had stowed away, each as he had left it. The weight of possibility pressed down on him, even as a child, he felt the responsibility of the pouch and its treasures.

He carefully tidied the cave, returning objects to their places. Under his small feet, he noticed the first book he had taken. Massive, nearly half his height and twice as wide, it was unwieldy, heavy yet somehow light when handled with focus. A chill of unease crawled over him. Mother Lilith had taught him to read, but this book was unlike any story or lesson he had ever held.

Its cover bore no title. He opened it, hoping for some clue, only to be met with blank pages.

“What is this book for?” he muttered, frustration curling his small shoulders.

He intended to close it and return it to the pouch when a sudden glow erupted across its pages.

Light shimmered in soft rainbow hues, wrapping the book in a quiet warmth, revealing letters that manifested across the first page:

“WELCOME: to AKASHIC LIBRARY.”

Hanabi blinked, absorbing each word. The book continued, precise and deliberate:

Designation: Arcane Archive Interface.

Primary Function: To acquire, preserve, and analyze information derived from existing written sources within immediate proximity. Eligible materials include bound texts, manuscripts, inscribed artifacts, and encoded magical documents. All retained knowledge remains contingent upon the continued existence of the original source. Destruction of the source results in immediate revocation of corresponding data.

Service Scope: Analytical and Instructional Support.

This volume provides structured responses, comparative evaluations, strategic consultation, and systematic instruction based solely on accessible archives. Direct offensive spell deployment is restricted due to established magical limitations. Continued operation requires physical integrity. Severe water exposure or structural damage may impair functionality.

Expansion Protocol: Archive Dependency.

Cognitive capacity expands in proportion to the quantity and complexity of accessible written materials. Increased archival exposure enhances analytical precision and instructional depth.

Hanabi stared at the words, comprehension slow but steady. The book could answer questions, teach magic, and store knowledge, though much of it remained beyond him. Even partial understanding seemed a treasure worth pursuing.

The next page displayed a single word:

“INQUIRE.”

No explanation. Hanabi frowned, then said aloud, “Magic.”

The book responded, letters forming again after the glow faded. Options appeared:

Learn magic

Study magic

Discover magic

Curious, he tried to touch one with his fingers, but it remained unresponsive. Only verbal commands worked.

“The third,” he whispered, feeling a thrill of anticipation.

The page changed, displaying a simple circle with instructions:

“Put the palm inside the circle.”

Hanabi hesitated, uncertainty crawling through him. Slowly, he placed his hand inside. The circle glowed, scanning him, a sensation both alien and strangely alive. He remained still, trusting the process, sensing the book’s quiet intelligence.

After a moment, the glow faded, and the book turned to a new page. It displayed his own stats:

Name: Hanabi

Age: 5

Gender: Male

Potential for magic: High

Magic output: High

Potential for mana: High

Magic input: High

Arch potential: Low

Medium potential: High

Elemental affinity: All, main: Water

Overall potential: Inconsistent

Questions bubbled in his mind. What did “arch” and “medium” potential mean? Why was his overall potential inconsistent despite such high ratings?

A sudden noise outside, a snapped twig made him duck instinctively. The wind had been strong, knocking branches and dead twigs to the ground, but Hanabi’s heart raced anyway. Relief washed over him when he realized it was nothing, but the moment shattered his sense of security.

He considered leaving the cave, but it was the only place he truly knew to hide the pouch. Resolved, he gave the only command he could think of.

“Hide the cave.”

The book responded immediately. It floated, glowing brighter than ever, lights swirling in rainbow patterns. The cave was enveloped in a luminous bubble, shielding its contents, fulfilling his command. Hanabi exhaled slowly, feeling both triumph and cautious awe. His sanctuary, and all its treasures, were safe for now.

He sank to the floor, surveying the items again, letting the glow of the book reflect across the cave walls. Every cloth, tool, and piece of parchment seemed imbued with importance, their value no longer only in their use, but in the potential they represented. For the first time, Hanabi felt the true weight of responsibility, not as a chore, not as punishment, but as the holder of knowledge and power barely understood. The cave, quiet and still around him, had become a crucible for discovery, a place where even a small child could confront wonders beyond comprehension.