The Grand Archive of Eiren had endured wars, fires, and centuries of dust, yet never had it felt so fragile. Knowledge lined its towering shelves—bound in leather, silk, and fading gold—but that morning, wisdom itself seemed under siege.
Scholars filled the circular hall, divided not by walls but by belief. Their voices clashed like iron upon stone, echoing beneath the domed ceiling. At the centre stood an ancient pedestal bearing a single tome, its pages yellowed, its script written in an era when truth had not yet learned to hide behind power.
"This manuscript must remain sealed," declared High Scholar Morvain, his voice sharp with authority. "Unrestricted knowledge breeds disorder."
Across from him, a younger philosopher scoffed. "No, it breeds freedom. You fear chaos only because you profit from obedience."
Murmurs spread, growing louder, heavier. Students clutched notes like weapons. Followers aligned themselves behind teachers, not for understanding, but for loyalty.
The Tome of Origins—once meant to illuminate—had become a prize.
Kim Soo-min stood near one of the outer shelves, partially obscured by shadow. Unlike the others, she had no emblem, no faction's colour pinned to her robe. Her presence was quiet, deliberate. She had arrived not to argue, but to observe.
Her eyes moved not to the tome, but to the scholars themselves.
She noticed how Morvain's hand trembled when he spoke of control.
She noticed how the younger philosopher quoted selectively, omitting lines that spoke of responsibility.
She noticed fear disguised as righteousness, ambition masked as protection.
While voices rose, Kim Soo-min gently opened a lesser manuscript—an overlooked commentary written by a nameless scribe centuries ago. Its margins were filled with questions, not answers. She found comfort in that.
"Knowledge," Morvain continued, "must be governed. If every truth is laid bare, society will fracture."
"And who decides which truths survive?" another voice demanded.
The hall erupted again.
From the upper gallery, unseen by all, Shino Taketsu observed. He leaned against the stone balustrade, his presence as light as a passing thought. His eyes held no anger, only a familiar weariness. He had seen this pattern countless times—when wisdom grew old, it feared its own children.
He did not intervene.
Not yet.
Below, a student stepped forward impulsively, gripping a copy of the tome's translated excerpts. "My brother died because this knowledge was hidden!" he cried. "You call that order?"
Gasps rippled through the hall. Guards shifted uneasily.
The argument had crossed from philosophy into blood.
Kim Soo-min closed her manuscript.
She stepped forward—not hurried, not hesitant.
Her movement alone drew attention, as though the room itself sensed a change in rhythm. She did not raise her voice when she spoke.
"May I ask a question?"
The request was so simple that it startled the room into silence.
Morvain frowned. "And who are you to interrupt this council?"
"No one of consequence," she replied calmly. "Which is why my question may matter."
A few scoffs escaped, but curiosity held stronger than contempt.
Kim Soo-min gestured gently towards the ancient tome. "You claim this knowledge must be guarded. Others claim it must be freed. Yet neither speaks of understanding."
She looked around the hall, meeting eyes without challenge.
"If this knowledge is true," she continued, "why does it require chains? And if it is dangerous, why was it written at all?"
Silence fell—not imposed, but earned.
The scholars exchanged glances. Some frowned. Others looked away.
Morvain opened his mouth, then closed it again.
From above, Shino closed his eyes briefly. Not in relief, but in recognition. He had once asked the same question, long before names and eras mattered.
A senior archivist finally spoke, more softly than before. "Because… truth without wisdom invites ruin."
Kim Soo-min inclined her head. "Then perhaps the problem is not the truth, but who believes themselves wise enough to own it."
The tension did not vanish, but it shifted. The sharpness dulled. What remained was discomfort—the kind that forces thought.
Outside the Archive, word of the confrontation spread quickly. In courtyards and lecture halls, students debated not the tome itself, but the question that had pierced the argument. For the first time, the Scholar Wars felt less like a battle to be won, and more like a mirror held too close for comfort.
That evening, as the hall emptied, Morvain remained behind. He stared at the tome, his reflection faint in the glass covering.
"Power disguised as protection," he murmured, unsure whether he was condemning others or himself.
From the shadows near the exit, Kim Soo-min paused. "Knowledge does not corrupt," she said quietly. "Fear does."
He did not reply.
She left without another word.
Shino watched her go, unseen. The fracture had formed—not in stone or institution, but in certainty. And such fractures, he knew, spread faster than rebellion.
The Scholar Wars had begun.
Not with fire.
Not with steel.
But with a single question no one wished to answer.