The Scriptorium stood as a formidable, if slightly disheveled, edifice of stone and dark wood. Its windows were narrow, like watchful eyes, and the air around it smelled faintly of parchment and something ancient, something stagnant. To Aizen, it was not merely a building; it was a vault, holding the keys to understanding this new world's deeper currents.
He pushed open the heavy oak door. It groaned, a low, complaining sound, revealing an interior steeped in shadows. Tall, wooden shelves reached towards the high, vaulted ceiling, packed with an array of tomes. Scrolls lay coiled in alcoves, and strange, intricate charts were tacked to the few clear patches of wall. Dust motes danced in the sparse beams of light that pierced the gloom, making the air feel alive with forgotten stories.
A hunched figure sat at a large, scarred table in the center of the room. It was an old man, thin as a rail, with spectacles perched precariously on his nose. He was meticulously cataloging a stack of newly arrived scrolls, his movements slow and precise. This was the Scriptorium's caretaker, Master Elgan.
"Lost, little one?" Elgan's voice was dry, like rustling leaves, as he looked up. His eyes, magnified by his spectacles, were sharp with a scholar's immediate curiosity.
Alaric walked forward calmly, his small frame seemingly unbothered by the vastness of the room. He offered a practiced expression of wide-eyed wonder tinged with a solemnity that belied his age. "No, Master," he replied, his voice soft, almost a whisper, yet clear enough to carry in the quiet space. "I... I heard there were many books here. From my village, after the... the beast..." He let his voice trail off, a subtle hint of vulnerability playing on his features.
Elgan's sharp gaze softened, recognizing the plight of the refugees from the devastated village. He felt a peculiar, almost paternal pang of sympathy for this unnervingly composed child. "Ah, yes. The beasts. A tragedy. And you seek solace in lore, little one?" He gestured vaguely at the shelves. "Well, there are indeed many. What might a boy such as yourself find here?"
Alaric's eyes swept across the shelves, taking in the sheer volume of material. He saw titles hinting at local histories, regional bestiaries, rudimentary magical treatises, and chronicles of the various Northern Kingdoms. He felt a thrill of anticipation. This was far more than Borin's humble collection.
"Everything," Alaric stated, his gaze meeting Elgan's, a quiet intensity in his amber eyes. "I wish to understand everything."
Elgan blinked, a faint ripple of unease touching him. There was a depth in those child's eyes that was startling. Yet, the overwhelming feeling was one of profound, innocent curiosity. He felt a strange compulsion to indulge this peculiar youth, a vague sense that it would be... important.
"Very well, boy. You may sit. But touch nothing without asking," Elgan conceded, a rare softness in his tone. He found himself inexplicably drawn to the child's silent presence. He even offered him a stool by a window that overlooked a small, overgrown garden.
Aizen took his seat. He spent the next hours in a silent, methodical hunt. He did not read linearly. Instead, his eyes darted across spines, his spiritual perception sifting through the latent energies of the texts themselves. He could sense the focus of their authors, the weight of their knowledge. He quickly distinguished between superficial common lore and texts that hinted at deeper, more complex truths.
He started with the most comprehensive histories of the Continent, charting the rise and fall of empires, the lineage of kings, the strategic importance of various regions. Then he moved to detailed accounts of magical phenomena, noting the crude classification of spells, the reliance on incantations and gestures. He compared these with his own understanding of Kidō, silently critiquing their inefficiency, yet recognizing their potential for disruption.
He found mentions of powerful elder races, of ancient magic that predated human understanding, and of individuals who wielded powers that seemed to defy the common magical rules of this era. A particular fascination bloomed when he discovered fragmented accounts of "nexus points" – places where the very fabric of reality seemed thin, where immense, raw power could be drawn. He cataloged every detail, every rumor, every speculation.
Master Elgan, observing the boy from across the room, saw merely a quiet child utterly absorbed in books, a rare and welcome sight. He felt a burgeoning fondness for Alaric, a sense of having found a true intellectual companion in his lonely sanctuary. He even found himself offering the boy a piece of dried fruit, an unprecedented gesture for the reclusive scholar.
Aizen accepted the fruit with a faint, polite nod. He had secured his first major information hub. The knowledge contained within these dusty walls was far from complete, but it was a crucial foundation. He now possessed the basic understanding of the game board. Soon, he would begin to truly learn the rules. And then, he would rewrite them.
Weeks turned into a calculated routine for Alaric within the Dravograd Scriptorium. Master Elgan, increasingly fond of the quiet, intellectually ravenous child, granted him ever-wider access to the Scriptorium's collection. Alaric moved through the towering shelves with a methodical purpose, his spiritual perception now sharp enough to discern the 'age' and 'power' of the texts he sought. He prioritised ancient chronicles, obscure magical treatises, and detailed political maps over common bestiaries.
He learned of Elder Blood, a peculiar genetic mutation that hinted at dimensional travel and immense, untamed power. He discovered fragmented accounts of Conjunctions of the Spheres, events that had fundamentally reshaped this world and brought forth its monsters. He cataloged the intricate, often contradictory, doctrines of various mage fraternities and secret societies like the Lodge of Sorceresses. Each piece of knowledge was a new variable in the complex equation of his ultimate dominion.
His Kyōka Suigetsu was no longer merely a subtle nudge. He practiced. Carefully. When Elgan was deep in thought, Alaric would project a fleeting, simple illusion – a book seeming to levitate for an instant, a distant sound of a bell where there was none. Elgan would blink, dismiss it as fatigue, and return to his work, his perception subtly skewed, a testament to the illusion's growing potency. Alaric noted the ease with which a mind, expecting normalcy, accepted the impossible as a trick of the light or sound.
He began to identify potential pawns within Dravograd. His focus fell on a particularly ambitious, but somewhat unremarkable, young merchant named Torvin. Torvin dealt in rare minerals and magical reagents, always eager for an edge, but constantly thwarted by shrewder rivals. He frequented the Scriptorium to research trade routes and market trends.
Alaric began his subtle campaign. During Torvin's visits, Alaric would position himself nearby. When Torvin consulted a map, Alaric would allow a faint, almost imperceptible aura of 'insight' or 'opportunity' to emanate from a specific, often overlooked, trade route. He would subtly make a name or a location on a page seem more prominent, more alluring. He'd create fleeting, positive 'feelings' associated with certain business decisions, moments of inexplicable confidence that made Torvin dismiss caution.
Torvin, unaware of the unseen hand guiding his thoughts, found his fortunes inexplicably improving. A forgotten client would suddenly recall an old order. A risky venture would pay off unexpectedly. He started attributing his success to 'luck' or a newfound 'instinct.' He began to visit the Scriptorium more frequently, unconsciously drawn by the quiet boy whose presence seemed to sharpen his focus.
One afternoon, Torvin approached Alaric, a rare, genuine smile on his face. "Young master Alaric," he boomed, "your presence seems to bring me good fortune! I've just secured a shipment of rare fulgurite from the south, a deal I almost let slip. My gut told me otherwise!"
Alaric offered a small, polite nod, his eyes holding a depth that Torvin couldn't comprehend. Gut instinct. How quaint. He had merely ensured Torvin's focus remained on the fulgurite, subtly suppressing the doubts planted by a rival merchant. The fulgurite, Aizen knew from his readings, was a key component in certain high-level magical rituals that might become relevant later.
The threads were being spun. Dravograd, a seemingly chaotic marketplace of commerce and information, was becoming his first, true testing ground for large-scale, unseen manipulation. It was a complex dance, but Aizen reveled in it. Every successful nudge, every orchestrated outcome, was a step towards the complete control he envisioned. The Continent was a grand stage, and the unsuspecting players were already moving according to his unspoken script.