The polarized white light, filtered by the Aetheric Shield over Silver Star Academy's main tower, cast hard, cold patches onto the obsidian walls. However, the logistics quarter felt like a domain utterly forgotten by this fabricated order—heavy copper pipes snaked along the walls like twisted metal pythons. Each surge of steam carried the sharp, acrid stench of phlogiston tar and machine oil. The overseers' harsh curses, mixed with the creaking of trolleys, echoed muddily between the rusted cast-iron supports.
Lionel Evans pushed a steam trolley. The backs of his hands were raw and swollen from moving books, and the newly worn calluses on his knuckles were a pale red. He had been a Logistics Serf for barely ten days. From dawn till dusk, he had been moving and logging texts labeled 'low-value.' The rough, brittle edges of the pages had already sliced several small cuts into his palms, hastily covered with dirty rags. The copper Logistics Serf badge on his chest was still cold with new casting, clashing with the polished, worn badges of the older serfs. Yet he gripped the trolley handle tighter—at least here, he didn't starve like in Cinder Town, and could occasionally touch the antique covers, feeling a faint resonance of something different, something real, within the paper.
"Lionel Evans?"
A familiar voice cut through the shroud of steam. Lionel Evans instantly stopped the trolley, looking up to see Elara Thorne standing nearby in her gray student uniform. She was clutching a crumpled piece of paper, her gaze fixed on the canvas covering his trolley. He paused, surprised, then quickly lowered his voice: "Thorne? I didn't expect to see you here."
Elara took a step closer. Her fingertip tapped the edge of parchment visible beneath the canvas—a pale green-gray stain, the signature Blight Residue she had seen detailed in The Rotting Earth Codex. "I was just passing the serf quarters. Are these books under your charge?" Her voice was as soft as flowing steam. "Do you sense anything… off about them? Perhaps heavy to the touch, or bearing strange marks?"
Lionel Evans' Adam's apple bobbed. He swiftly scanned the distance, noting the overseer who was currently lashing a slow-moving serf, then leaned in close. A trace of excitement, quickly suppressed, was in his voice: "You sense it too? Two days ago, I was sorting one—Cinder Town Chronicles—it featured glowing moss that allegedly 'fends off whispers at the ear.' The overseer said these books are 'tainted' and must be incinerated after steam-sterilization, but I feel like there's a truth hidden that they aren't telling us."
"Is the library's subterranean warehouse where these disposal books are stored?" Elara asked, her eyes falling on the ledger beside the trolley. The title Miscellany of the Great Fall was ominously prominent.
"Yes, but the warehouse door has an Aetheric Lock; serfs can only approach during sterilization." Lionel Evans looked at the brass pocket watch on his wrist. "I have to leave, or they'll cut my rations. If you want to know more, meet me tomorrow at the same time by the pipe behind the tool room—it's free of Aetheric Monitoring Nodes."
Elara nodded, watching Lionel Evans disappear into the steam. The books Lionel Evans handled offered a crucial fissure—a chance to access the forbidden knowledge sealed away by the Association.
The following evening, the Silver Star Academy library stood like a bronze behemoth bound in Aetheric Runes. The mechanical guard at the arched entrance scanned Elara's student ID (Tier-One Sympathist), its cold electronic voice warning her of the restrictions.
Elara entered the East Wing's Low-Security Zone. The shelf stacks, like cast-iron honeycomb, felt oppressive. She ran her fingertip along the gilt-edged title of a standard text.
"Over here." Lionel Evans' voice came from the shadow of a bookshelf. He was in his oil-stained serf uniform, clutching the canvas-wrapped stack of texts. He led Elara to the deepest part of the Low-Security Zone, right next to the main steam conduit, where the constant, loud humming vibration could mask their conversation.
"I slipped this one out while the overseer was changing the sterilizer's water." Lionel Evans uncovered a corner of the yellowed Folk Chronicles of the Great Fall. "Look here." He pointed to a page with crooked writing. "'The night of the Great Fall, the Stellar Core's light was wrapped in chains, dragging the un-Awakened into the slag heaps, while the Weavers in the sky used black threads to mend the fissure'—this refutes the Academy's 'Stellar Core Salvation' doctrine completely."
Elara's fingertips lightly brushed the page. Her Witch's Power coalesced into a faint green shimmer over the parchment—she could 'read' the despair: the struggle of the un-Awakened populace against the Abyss, a truth the Association had systematically erased. "This book is locked in the glass cabinet in the High-Security Zone?" She looked toward the West Wing, separated by Aetheric Glass, where the gilt-edged volumes held the darkest secrets.
"Yes. The administrator changes the disinfectant machine's steam valve every evening at six. That's a three-minute window without a patrol." Lionel Evans gripped the canvas, his knuckles white. "But the glass cabinet has an old-fashioned Gear-Lock, and I don't have the clearance to open it. And those books… be careful when you approach. Don't let your Aether get entangled."
Elara pulled a small glass vial from her pocket. Fine specks of Shadow Ember Moss glowed faintly in the pale blue liquid. "This is for you." She shook the vial. "A Clarity Tincture. It's three times stronger than the Academy's standard issue. Use it when you're cataloging late—it should save you from the overseer's abuse." She paused, then produced a fine steel wire from her cuff. "Tomorrow evening under the old Oak, I'll teach you how to use this to open the Gear-Lock—it leaves no trace. It will give you easier access to those books later."
Lionel Evans stared at the vial, his throat bobbing. This tincture would help him keep his job, and Elara's offer felt like an equal exchange, not charity. He carefully tucked the medicine into his inner pocket, then produced a paper covered in diagrams. "This is the High-Security Zone patrol route. The glass cabinet is behind the third row of shelves. The lock core has five tumblers. You have to finish it in under three minutes."
The evening wind, carrying the hum of the Cog-Powered Public Transit, blew into the cloister. Elara sat in the shadow of the old Oak, opening the Folk Chronicles of the Great Fall. The pages held too many suppressed facts: the Flint City artisans declared 'heretics' by the Association for studying strange symbols; the women of Cinder Town brewing moss soup to 'block out the voices in their ears'—all stamped 'low-value' by the Association, yet critical for her to complete The Rotting Earth Codex.
"Thorne." Lionel Evans' voice came from behind, still clutching the tincture. "In the Academy, if we look out for each other, we'll gain more leverage."
Elara turned, seeing the genuine resolve in his eyes. She remembered her own past self in Cinder Town—clutching at a small glimmer of trust in a desperate situation. She nodded: "Agreed. We watch each other's backs."
The Aetheric Shield filtered Silver Star City's light into an impersonal white, yet it could not penetrate the quiet alliance that had just formed between them. This was not a simple transaction; it was a Shadow Pact forged between two people pushed by fate, who, within this gilded cage, had found a companion to stand beside for the first time.