William wasn't disheartened by Mr. Ralph's refusal. He knew how to read the room, and more importantly, how to respect unspoken rules. Boundaries, after all, weren't always drawn with words. The way Mr. Ralph spoke — vague, almost evasive— made it clear that what he had been doing in that cluttered corner was not something he was ready to share. Not even with William.
Even if William had volunteered to clean, the professor's earlier phrasing—"I don't want it to be disarranged, let alone revealed"—was enough to signal that line not to cross.
He noticed, too, that Mr. Ralph was now hunched slightly over a notebook, pen dancing across the pages with the fluid, fast scribbles of someone who didn't want to lose a fleeting thought. It might have looked academic, but William instinctively sensed that this was something else entirely. His professor had mentally checked out of their conversation.
With his chin in his palm and his elbow resting against his knee, William allowed his thoughts to drift. There's still class later... Might as well find Leo and Elise. We haven't hung out this week.
He stood and gave a courteous nod. "Mr. Ralph, since you're busy today, I'll take my leave. Is it alright if I come back tomorrow?"
The professor looked up, pausing mid-sentence. His eyes blinked, briefly distant. "Ah… yes. I apologize. I didn't expect today to unravel this way. I told you I'd see you again today, and now… I just feel guilty."
William gave a small chuckle. "Don't stress over something so trivial, Mr. Ralph. I'll be looking forward to tomorrow. You mentioned a concept."
And with that, William exited the laboratory, his footsteps light, unaware of the veil he had just left behind.
The laboratory grew still. Mr. Ralph sat there for a moment, his pen hovering. Then he whispered to no one, "That's right. The concept for the fair…"
But what he had been writing wasn't an outline or a project blueprint. It was a journal— fragmented thoughts, restless confessions, formulae crossed out and rewritten in ink darker than it should be. Nothing academic. Nothing ordinary.
He pushed himself to his feet, leaving the notebook behind, and made his way toward the other side of the room. The scattered gears clinked underfoot. Beyond them was the half-opened door, leading to the small storage-like room he had always kept locked— except during these moments.
He opened the door fully. A strange energy shifted the air. At the center of the floor, a sigil burned faintly against the stone tiles — not with heat, but presence. It was shaped like a flower with twelve petals, and within each petal, an eye stared outward.
Or rather, inward.
Mr. Ralph felt his throat dry as the familiar sensation clawed into his spine— the feeling of being watched not by any being, but by something that understood him more intimately than he understood himself.
He muttered under his breath. "No matter how many times I perform this ritual, it never becomes clearer."
By the door sat a bucket— not empty, not clean. Blood, thick and already cooling, sloshed as he lifted it. The color was unmistakable. Owl's blood. The ritual demanded it.
He poured carefully, following the outline of the existing seal, each drop guided by memory and instruction from The Prophet, the book that had only three pages… yet could fill an entire life with questions. Without even realizing, he stood in the middle of the seal and placed a specific tool in front of him— the feather ink pen.
As he spoke the incantation, the blood shimmered, then turned colorless— not faded, but as if the concept of "red" itself had been erased. The seal beneath pulsed faintly, forming a ghostly, almost translucent impression that hovered above the floor.
He stared into it and sighed. "I really don't understand the change… If I'm right, this is my third attempt."
Wearily, he stepped back, wiping the sweat from his brow. But in his fatigue, he failed to glance behind the door— where more buckets sat, tucked into shadow. Some are near empty. Some with only a few drops dried into the edges. The count of them made it clear:
This was no third attempt.
There were many more.
After leaving the office, William's day unfolded in its usual rhythm. He spent the afternoon with Leo and Elise, basking in the warmth of their carefree banter before attending the scheduled mathematics and science classes. As the hours passed, however, the stimulation gradually dulled into a blur.
By the time the final bell rang, his brain felt as though it had been wrung dry.
"The day ended well… I guess," Leo muttered, slouched over his desk, forehead pressed against the cool wood. He was undoubtedly the most drained among the three, and his groan was half-defeat, half-contentment.
William leaned back in his chair with his eyes drifting toward the tall window that dominated the classroom wall. Through the glass panes, the world outside was painted with strokes of tangerine and crimson. The golden hues of the dying sun stretched over the city like soft fire, kissing the buildings, the trees, even the floor beneath them.
Dusk had almost arrived.
"Look," Leo said suddenly, lifting his head with sluggish excitement, "The sky's beautiful…"
And it truly was.
The clouds clustered across the heavens like they had been scattered by divine hands. In the center, a circular void had opened, as if someone had punched through the firmament itself. Through that strange hollow, the last rays of the sun filtered down in spirals of scarlet and bronze.
"It's like… some kind of miracle," Leo whispered, tone surprisingly reverent.
"I remember something," he added, sitting upright now, as if a distant thread of memory had yanked him from exhaustion. "There's a legend about a sky like this, right? One of the world's Seven Wonders?"
Elise smiled gently, brushing her hair behind her ear. "If that were true, then let's call it a blessing from the divine." She chuckled softly. "Though we both know those 'wonders' might be born from someone's wild imagination."
Sky…
William's attention narrowed. The image of the sealed room returned to him— the strange, eye-like pattern with twelve petals etched into the floor of Mr. Ralph's hidden chamber.
And then he remembered the phrase from the book.
Sky of Formulas.
A peculiar stillness settled over him, not of fear or awe, but of curiosity. A soft stirring at the edges of thought. Could this— this strange sunset sky— be connected? Was that phrase referring to an actual place… or a phenomenon? Or maybe—
His thoughts were interrupted by Elise's voice, calm and clear.
"We should head home. Night's coming."
Snapping out of his reverie, William turned toward her. She had already slung her purple backpack over one shoulder, her other hand fixing the hem of her blazer. Leo groaned but stood up without protest.
Together, they packed their things and exited the now-quiet room.
By the school gates, they paused.
The road forked at the exit— left toward Jundan Street, where the lanterns dimly flickered above worn cobblestones, and right toward the broader avenues lined with bustling cafés and the hum of horse-drawn carriages.
William waved as Elise and Leo departed to the right, their silhouettes fading under the lamplight until they vanished.
Then he turned left.
The air along Jundan Street was different—heavier, quieter. The sound of carriage wheels softened against the uneven stones. Gas lamps illuminated the path with a faint amber glow, their flames dancing in protective cages. The smell of old timber, oil, and city dust filled his senses.
William walked in calm silence, absorbing the muted beauty of the world around him. A passing carriage groaned by, pulled by a weary horse, its hooves echoing faintly.
Five minutes later, he arrived at the familiar entrance to Jundan Street proper.
There, just ahead, was the small platform where he'd met the children earlier that morning— the place where he'd left behind the wooden duckling, still etched into memory with its mechanical wobble and innocent wonder.
But just as he was about to walk past…
His eyes caught someone
A presence tugged at the edge of William's awareness.
From across the dim-lit street, beneath the quiet hush of flickering gaslamps, stood a man— still as a painting, yet oddly striking. William glanced for a moment, and a single thought crossed his mind:
He looks like a noble.
The man wasn't tall. In fact, he stood a few inches shorter than William— closer to the continent's average height. Yet his posture, the composed poise of his frame, exuded formality and old-world dignity. He wore a high-collared black shirt with an intricately ruffled neckline, tied neatly into four bows. A deep blue vest was layered over it, tailored to fit with almost ceremonial precision, and his trousers were of the same somber tone as the twilight sky. He looked out of place— no, not out of place—above it.
The breeze caught his dark, medium-length hair, causing it to sway softly as he stood, unmoving.
William slowed his steps as their paths crossed, but only briefly. He looked away, continued walking, and didn't glance back. The encounter was too fleeting, too silent to mean anything… or so he thought.
Unbeknownst to William, the man had stopped.
His fingers rested thoughtfully on his chin, supported by his opposite hand beneath the elbow. His gaze— ice blue and narrow— was fixed toward the distant silhouette of the Lilac Academy of Technology. But it wasn't admiration that filled his eyes. It was a calculation.
He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a single, aged sheet— folded neatly, but timeworn. It was no ordinary paper. Even from afar, anyone familiar with the likes of Mr. Ralph or William himself would have recognized it immediately. The texture, the ink, the subtle weight in the air around it— it was unmistakably one of those pages.
A page from The Prophet.
That book. That cursed, revered, mysterious tome. The same one Mr. Ralph spoke of earlier. The same one supposedly acquired by a professor within the Academy.
"Tch…" the man scratched his head, his expression twisted in frustration. Then, without care for the silence of the street, he let out an irritated cry like that of a child denied a toy. "How the hell am I supposed to find the book—or the one who holds it?!"
His voice echoed faintly between the alley walls.
The Academy was locked down tighter than most noble estates. He had no permit, no clearance, no false identity. He was neither a teacher nor a student— just a young man with a desperate need and a forbidden page in his hand. The Academy gates wouldn't open to someone like him.
He groaned. "Should I… sneak in at night?"
The thought disgusted him.
What am I, a common thief? He stared bitterly at the school's silhouette in the distance, its towers barely visible through the haze.
And even if he entered, what then? Would he wander its halls in the dark, knocking on doors, hoping to find a professor carrying an ancient book under his arm? It was laughable. Absurd. He sighed aloud at his own stupidity.
But even so…
Even so, he couldn't walk away.
His legs moved again— this time with purpose. Not toward the gate, but a more secluded part of the Academy's perimeter. There, beyond the wandering eyes of guards and students, stood a long stretch of red-brick wall. Moss and age marked it, but its height still threatened any outsider.
He reached the edge of the boundary.
No matter what, he told himself, I need that book.
Under the pale glow of the moon, he lifted his head— and for a moment, his eyes met its light. He unfolded the paper once more, letting the moonlight pour over its surface like sacred fire.
The contents revealed a title etched in a curled serif font, as if handwritten by someone centuries ago:
The Prophet's Calcination