The underground room felt tighter once Scotch began talking.
Not because of fear—
but because of weight.
He leaned both hands on the table, eyes fixed on the map.
"The Mantle isn't just a place," he said. "It's a layer. Beneath the world you walk on. Beneath the crust. It's older than cities. Older than borders. And below it are two more layers or civilizations."
Volow listened without interrupting.
Marga glanced at Volow. "It's real. And it doesn't treat outsiders kindly."
Scotch nodded. "That's the danger."
He tapped the map again. Several markings circled an empty region near broken mountain lines.
"I don't know the exact entrance," Scotch admitted. "Anyone who did is either dead or hiding. But this area—" he pointed, "—has signs. Old Veil disturbances. Collapsed ground that shouldn't collapse. People disappearing without tunnels."
"You're from the Inner World… so how did you reach the surface?"
Marga answered.
"Inner World people can," she said. "But not like this."
She leaned against the shelf.
"Inner World people don't find entrances," she explained. "They make them. Temporary tunnels with their veil. They open, they close. Clean. No trace."
Scotch nodded. "Exactly."
Marga looked at Volow. "For crustfolk—people born up here—it's different. You can't just stumble into the Mantle. The world doesn't allow it."
Volow looked back at the map. "Then how was this path made?"
Scotch hesitated.
"That path," he said slowly, ""was created long ago. By someone with power to tear up the whole world."
Volow's eyes sharpened.
"If tunnels can be made," Volow said, "why don't I make one?"
Scotch let out a dry breath. Almost a laugh.
"No," he said. "You can't."
Volow didn't look offended. Just curious.
"You'd need Veil pressure strong enough to rip the world open," Scotch continued.
"Not brute force alone. Absolute control."
He took a slow breath.
"Endurance to keep it from collapsing.
Power to rip the world open and hold it there while everything nearby tries to tear itself apart. And power—so much power that the land, the air, the Veil itself fights back, trying to crush the path closed."
His voice dropped.
"Someone as strong as the Solem King."
The room went silent.
Volow felt something cold settle in his chest.
"If that's true," he said, "then whoever made that path wasn't human."
Scotch looked up.
"You know him very well," he said.
Volow froze.
Marga didn't move.
"The only person who ever created a stable path to the Mantle," Scotch said, "was Pine."
Silence hit hard.
Volow's mind snapped backward— a flashback of his training.
Pine standing behind him.
Pine correcting his stance.
Pine saying,
"Everyone has it,"
"An internal force. We call it Veil."
The memory sharpened.
"Veil isn't magic," Pine continued.
"It's pressure. Energy. Presence. It exists inside every person."
"Most never feel it."
Volow remembered struggling to breathe under invisible weight.
"Some people awaken it," Pine said.
"Some learn to control it."
"And that's where the gap begins."
The ground felt heavy again.
"Veil can increase strength. Speed. Impact."
"With control, it can manipulate pressure… gravity… resistance."
Volow clenched his fists in the memory.
"Weak Veil users survive."
"Strong ones dominate."
"And a very few—"
"—reshape the world around them."
The memory shattered.
Volow blinked back into the room.
"…Pine did all that?" he asked.
Scotch nodded once. "Alone."
Marga exhaled slowly. "He is a monster."
Volow's chest felt tight—not fear.
Understanding.
If Pine could do that…
then everything he taught Volow wasn't just training.
It was preparation.
Scotch rolled the map back up.
"I don't know what waits for you in the Mantle," he said. "And I don't know why Pine trusted you with this path."
He looked directly at Volow.
"But if you go looking for answers—about your mother, your town, or yourself—this is where they start."
Volow nodded.
Not because he was ready.
But because he already knew he wouldn't stop.
Outside, the world stayed quiet.
For now.
The streets of Skytop were narrow, winding, and loud with morning chatter.
Young Scotch walked lightly along the paths, a bundle of scrolls under one arm, a satchel slung across his shoulder.
His hair was short, but his eyes were sharp, scanning houses as he passed. Every so often, he stopped at a door, knocked gently, and smiled.
"Please… just this once," he said, tilting his head politely at a middle-aged man leaning on his doorway. "I'll return it soon. I promise. Soon as I… win the lottery."
The villager narrowed his eyes. "The lottery?"
"Yes," Scotch said, bowing slightly. "I know it sounds silly, but I don't want to trouble you more than I must. Just this once."
The man shook his head, muttering, but handed him a coin. Scotch thanked him with a small nod and went on his way.
He repeated this again and again—door after door, house after house, always polite, always smiling. Villagers whispered about him behind closed shutters. Lazy, careless, untrustworthy.
Some even suspected he stole.
But the truth was different.
Scotch studied. Old books. Scrolls banned by the authorities. Ancient manuscripts no one dared touch. He spent nights reading, studying history, forbidden knowledge. So the authorities thought he was a nuisance.
He barely had time to earn money.
Most of the coins he borrowed from villagers went to those in need—orphans, widows, people who had nothing.
He kept the good he did hidden.
Only the debts and delays were visible.
So the villagers also thought he was a nuisance.
One afternoon, as young Scotch was walking in the village carrying a bundle of scrolls, a group of villagers stepped out from the trees.
"You lazy fool! Pay back what you owe!" one shouted.
Scotch raised his hands. "I… I will. I just—give me a moment. Please."
A punch hit him in the stomach. He stumbled. Another struck his back. He fell onto the grass.
Scotch struggled to rise,
"I don't want to fight!" he shouted. "I give what I earn to others—why do you—"
Another blow silenced him. He gasped. And then the villagers left.
Later that day Scotch walked along the river near the forest, sad, saying to himself, "it's not like i don't want to pay them, I just don't have anything, one day i will give everyone whom I owe more than anything, just see"
Suddenly some masked people surrounded him from no where and started attacking him
Scotch cried for help, but no one was there.
The masked men were about to kill Scotch
And then—a shadow fell over him.
"Leave him!"
Scotch blinked. A man had appeared at the edge of the clearing. Calm. Tall. Eyes as sharp as blades. Veil energy flickered faintly around his hands.
"Who are you?" Scotch stammered, still on the ground.
The masked men didn't listen. They struck at the newcomer—but it was useless. He moved like the wind, precise, every motion lethal.
Within seconds, they were disarmed, knocked aside, no fatalities.
Pine stepped forward.
Pine stepped forward.
"Are you hurt?" he asked, voice calm but commanding.
Scotch scrambled to his knees, brushing grass off his clothes. "I… I'll live. They do this often. Authorities… they don't like what I do. They want to get rid of me."
Pine's eyes narrowed. "Who were they? Why are they attacking you?"
Scotch hesitated, then shook his head. "It's… usual. They send these masked men often because I try to learn what they want to keep hidden. But i've survived before. Lucky, I guess."
Pine's gaze hardened. "Survived? Look at you!" He gestured at Scotch, his hands trembling slightly. "Explain."
Scotch took a deep breath, then slowly lifted his shirt. Faded scars ran across his torso, jagged and deep. Some looked old, others fresh. He took off his shoes, showing the cuts and bruises on his legs.
"They're always in a rush to kill me," he said softly. "I don't hide it. They don't like what I do. And… they see me as a problem. So they attack."
Pine froze. His sharp eyes traced every scar. "How… how are you still alive? Why are you still not listening to them "
Scotch met his gaze steadily. "If you're addicted to something… truth, knowledge… even dying feels like an achievement."
Pine exhaled slowly, almost in disbelief. "You're insane. You could've been dead a dozen times already."
Scotch shrugged lightly, still smiling faintly, not arrogantly, just… honestly. "I want to know. I want to understand, why the world works the way it does."
Pine didn't understand what he meant.
Pine studied him for a long moment. "So you… risk your life for knowledge."
"Yes," Scotch said. "And I'm willing to keep doing it."
Scotch studied Pine for a long moment, then straightened slightly, brushing his hands over his clothes.
"…By the way," he said, tilting his head politely, "what's your name?"
Pine looked at him, still wary. "Pine."
Scotch nodded, as if the name carried weight. A small smile appeared on his face. "Pine… thank you. Truly. I don't know anyone who would step in like that."
Scotch was happy—because it was the first time someone had ever stood up for him, and he could hardly believe it.
Pine shrugged, glancing at the scars again but saying nothing.
"I… I want to thank you properly," Scotch continued. "If you have the time, come to my place. Just for a night. I insist."
Pine raised an eyebrow. "Your place? You live out here?"
"Not far," Scotch said, smiling faintly. "I owe you this much. And perhaps… we could talk. A little."
Pine hesitated, then nodded. "Fine. One night."
Scotch bowed slightly, a gesture of respect.
"Thank you."
Scotch opened his door, unaware that the knowledge he carried
was about to claim its first protector.