Mr. Bloom rose quietly and made his way to the expansive library. There, he reached up to a high shelf and drew down several large, rolled-up parchments tied with crimson ribbons. He laid them gently on the broad wooden table before Tom and his father, untying each ribbon with care. As he unfurled the ancient sheets, the flickering candlelight revealed the most magnificent maps they had ever seen—intricately drawn lines, delicate shading, and vibrant colors that seemed to leap from the parchment.
The first map presented a sweeping view of the known world, its three major continents immediately commanding attention. On the right side lay the largest landmass, clearly labeled "Ginden." Its outline was bold and imposing, stretching into three substantial plateaus connected by thick, earthen isthmuses that met at a single, prominent point. According to small, carefully penned annotations, that point was home to a mysterious people shrouded in legend and guarded jealously by the neighboring nations. No path led inward from the rest of the world, and crude icons of barred gates marked the forbidding boundaries. The lower reaches of Ginden plunged into an icy expanse, the continent's frostbitten tail curling down toward the South Pole. There, tiny clusters of dwellings suggested a hardy, isolated populace whose customs and ways remained as frozen in time as their tundra homeland.
Directly north of Ginden lay another landmass of more moderate size, ringed entirely by the symbol of a thick, impenetrable barrier. This continent functioned as a sprawling prison, its jagged walls confining every magical creature known to humankind—every sentient being not born of flesh and bone. Historical notes in the margin hinted at a great war in which humans from all corners of the globe united to subdue these beings and seal them away. Yet the Empire of the Sun had never fully chronicled this chapter, leaving villagers and travelers alike to speculate wildly about the true nature of the imprisoned beings and the battles that had led to their downfall.
Beneath that grim island of confinement lay an archipelago of untold magnitude—tens of thousands of islands peppering the open sea. Only a few dozen rose large enough to merit charting, and of those, the most prominent lay closest to the prison continent. Here spread Meimea, the second great continent, its shores connected to a narrow land bridge resembling a frame around a vast, central inland sea. Legends etched in the margins spoke of the islanders' miraculous adaptation to the sea's depths: gills and lungs working in harmony, allowing them to traverse their own waters without ever mingling with the exiled "sea people" locked away to the north.
To the west of Meimea lay the fabled Great Ocean—an expanse of water so broad that the journey from shore to shore would occupy a ship for an entire year. At its heart churned the Eternal Death Zone, a roiling belt of unceasing storms marked by swirling cloud symbols and lightning bolts flung across the map.Beyond these perilous waters loomed the last and mightiest land: the Great Sun Continent, ruled by an empire so vast that a single ray of its influence touched every corner of the map.
A second, more detailed chart focused on that very Sun Continent. It depicted countless roads and rivers, yet two cities dominated the landscape. At the northern heart stood Yorinma, the imperial capital, its gleaming palace spires sketched with gold ink and encircled by high walls. Just beside the palace sat the Great Monastery, its domed roof crowned by a finely drawn statue of the goddess, arms outstretched as if blessing the city below. Along the western coastline, closer to Ginden's distant shores, lay Nyantra, the empire's principal port. Here, a flurry of ships and docks was illustrated in painstaking detail—sails filled with imagined wind, laden cargo vessels, and the promise of distant trade routes stretching far beyond the horizon.
At the base of the scrolls, a great mountain rose sharply from the surrounding plains, its craggy summit crowned with a single, stylized house symbol. Below that emblem, in neat calligraphy, was written the name of Tom's own village, nestled against the mountain's foot like a bird seeking shelter beneath its parent's wing. The mountain's steep slopes were etched with winding trails and tiny clusters of huts, each more remote than the last, all meticulously detailed on the third map.
"Beautiful maps," said Tom, leaning in so close that the flicker of candlelight danced across his features. "Where did you get them from, Old Bloom?"
The old man—or "Old Bloom," as every apprentice called him, by his own design—surveyed the young faces gathered around the table. He took another slow draw on his pipe, watching the embers glow before exhaling a series of perfect purple smoke rings that drifted lazily upward, illuminating the fine lines of age on his cheeks. He set the pipe aside with a deliberate clink, then puffed his broad lips into a grin.
"Listen well, kid," he rumbled, his voice rolling like distant thunder. "From this day forward, you can call me Boss, or Teacher, or Master—whatever suits you best. After all, you work for me now."
"Anyway," Mr. Bloom began, leaning forward, "a messenger from another continent once stayed in our village with the intention of trading for some of our finest wares—woven silks and carved ivory trinkets. You've heard of the Blonds, that notorious caravan of traders? Well, they bungled the whole deal, driving the price sky-high and scattering our stock before the messenger could secure anything. In spite of the chaos, he insisted on leaving us with these maps as a token of his gratitude, and your great-grandfather was quick to accept them." He reached out and carefully straightened a smaller inset map of Izu, its coastal inlets and volcanic peaks rendered in exquisite detail. "When he returned some seasons later, the original artist drew this particular chart especially for us, capturing every hidden gorge."
Mr. Bloom rolled the largest parchment back toward them, his finger hovering above a winding red line. "I asked you all here tonight because I want you to understand the full scope of the journey ahead. I've mapped every possible stop—ancient waystations halfway up the mountain, abandoned shrines lost to moss and time, river fords where the current runs swift—and even marked where we'll rest each evening." He paused, lips curling into a smile as he tapped the route leading out of the village. "We set out in exactly one month."
Tom frowned, his brow creasing in concern. "A month's a long time to wait."
"True enough," Bloom conceded, tapping the map where a narrow valley curved around a sheer cliff face. "But we've arranged a special torch-signal system with the mountain people and they confirmed that they'll be ready for our arrival anytime in the next two months. And the village head is eager to prepare them a proper gift before we set out."
A hollow knock echoed through the library's high-ceilinged chamber, the sound bouncing off rows of ancient tomes. Mr. Bloom paused in mid–ink stroke, his quill hovering above the parchment.
"Who is it?" he called, his voice steady despite the surprise.
"It's me," came Jacques's calm reply from the threshold. "The village head is here. He wants to talk to you."
Mr. Bloom's eyebrows lifted. and told Jacques, "Very well—let him in."
Jacques moved aside, and the heavy oak door creaked open. The village head—an imposing figure in a dark cloak, his silver-streaked hair tied neatly at the nape—stepped across the threshold, nodding a respectful greeting to the small group gathered around the table. Lantern light danced in his keen eyes as he approached.
Once he stood before Mr. Bloom, he inclined his head and spoke in a low, urgent tone: "Zolan, there's a problem with the visit to the mountain."
Mr. Bloom's calm demeanor shifted only slightly. He reached out, lifting his carved wooden pipe from a nearby shelf and filling the air with a faint, earthy aroma. With a steady hand, he poured fresh water from a crystal decanter into a delicate glass and slid both offerings across the table. "What happened?" he asked, his gaze sharp and unblinking.
"The Blonds want to send some of their own boys to the village, and they should arrive in about a month," the village head announced, his voice heavy with concern.
"Good heavens, Emilio!" Mr. Bloom exclaimed, the wooden cup slipping from his fingers. It clattered against the stone floor, water splashing in all directions. Candlelight danced across the scattered droplets, and a hush fell over the room as everyone turned to watch.
Emilio—the village head—lifted a hand in apology. "They told you what their status is?"
Mr. Bloom crouched to mop up the spill with a scrap of parchment. "No, not yet," he admitted, glancing up through narrowed eyes.
"Nobles, apparently," Emilio said, settling onto a nearby stool. He produced a small box of flints, struck one sharply, and lit his pipe. The rich, sweet aroma of burning leaf curled upward. "But not of the highest class. They're… mid–rank, by all accounts."
Bloom rose, offering Emilio a fresh glass of water. The flame of the lanterns flickered across the crystal, casting prisms of light on the walls lined with maps and scrolls. He placed the glass before the village head and stepped back, his expression inscrutable.
Emilio tapped the bowl of his pipe and exhaled a wreath of smoke. He raised the glass to his lips, then paused, as if kneeling before an altar. With a half–wry smile, he inclined his head toward the painted image of the great goddess mounted above the fireplace, as though seeking her blessing for what he was about to say. Then he took a slow, deliberate sip.
"In any case," he continued, setting the glass down with a gentle clink, "I will not be able to accompany you on this journey. And you must depart tomorrow."
"Tomorrow's too soon," Mr. Kay protested, his voice wavering with frustration. He ran a hand through his graying hair. "My eldest son is coming to visit, and I'd rather to be with him and not leave."
The village head's stern gaze cut through the flickering lantern light. He folded his arms over his cloak and spoke with measured authority. "You don't grasp the gravity of our situation, Kay. Not only will you not be going tomorrow—you won't be going at all. We are invoking Procedure 4574124."
At the mention of the code, Mr. Kay's face drained of color. He understood all too well: the mine would be shut down at once, all machinery silenced, every lamp extinguished. The order carried the weight of imminent peril.
"We will cease operations immediately," the village head continued, voice low and unwavering, "and conceal every piece of our technology until those Blond bastards have departed our lands. You are to remain here and oversee the shutdown—every bolt, every mechanism, every secret tool must be hidden or destroyed."
A tense silence fell. Mr. Kay swallowed hard but said nothing, the conflict between his duty to his family and his duty to the village writ plain on his lined face.
Mr. Bloom stepped forward, brow furrowed. The maps lay unfurled across the table, their red-ink route still fresh against the parchment. "And what of the mountain?" he asked quietly, anxiety flickering in his eyes. "We've planned for weeks—what happens now?"
The village head's gaze shifted to Bloom, his eyes narrowing in resolve. He drew a deep breath, letting its weight settle over the small assembly. "You and Tom will proceed alone," he declared, "and you must descend before those people arrive. No delay. No backup. Only you two can ensure this mission succeeds while the rest of us protect the village's secrets."
"How many emergency procedures are there, anyway?" Tom asked the village headman.
"Only one."
"Then why this strange number?" Tom pressed.
"That's Bloom's business," the headman replied. "He set the number."
"Well," Mr. Bloom said, flushing with embarrassment, "there's a special reason only those who reach the rank of head miner are allowed to know." And with that, he ended the conversation.
But between us, he simply made up that number when his master asked him to devise an explosive-sounding name for an emergency procedure.