Walking near the shelves full of books, Xenon could feel eyes following him again.
Curious ones. Questioning ones.
A few older readers looked up from their desks, blinking as though unsure if what they saw was real — a nine-year-old wandering through the adult section like he owned the place. One man even adjusted his glasses, pretending not to stare but failing miserably.
Xenon ignored them all.
His small footsteps were soft against the old floorboards, barely making a sound as he moved deeper into the maze of shelves. He was used to stares like that. People always looked too long at him, as if waiting for him to trip or do something odd — though he never did.
He stopped when he reached a section labeled Documentaries on Abilities and Aspects.
It was an old corner — the labels slightly tilted, the wood darker from age. The titles along the shelf glimmered faintly under the dim light: Essence Control and Manifestation, Studies of Shedding, Glyph Communication Theory. The words hummed with familiarity, though he couldn't remember why.
He stretched a hand upward, trying to reach one of the thicker tomes at the top row — but his fingers barely brushed the spine. He frowned.
For a nine-year-old, he was tall, but still not tall enough.
He glanced around. A few people were nearby — a young man flipping through a book of runes, an old woman muttering softly as she read. Xenon hesitated, wondering if he should ask for help. He didn't like asking. It always felt… unnecessary.
He glanced again at the glowing strip carved into the side of the shelf — a thin runic marking shaped like a small spiral. That was the Glyph Print.
He'd heard about it before.
Even though this was a world that still looked medieval — brick streets, oil lamps, wooden carts — they had access to things far more advanced in concept. The glyphs were the heart of it. Small magical symbols inscribed into wood, stone, or glass, capable of sensing essence and reacting to the human touch.
They were called processors of mana — tiny magical transmitters that translated intent into motion, thought into action.
Anyone could use one.
All it needed was a bit of essence.
Even children, even those who hadn't yet shed their core, could make it work — as long as they had enough energy to spark the link. The glyph would read their pulse, their pattern, and respond.
At least, that was what the books said.
But Xenon had never tried it himself.
Partly because he wasn't sure whether he had shed or not — and partly because… well, something in him didn't feel right when it came to essence.
He could still remember that day months ago — the brief moment when he felt something move inside him, cold and heavy and alive, like the world itself was pulling away from him. Since then, he had avoided anything that might wake it again.
He stood there now, staring at the glowing glyph, his hand hovering an inch from its surface.
It would be so simple to touch it. The glyph would hum, the runes would flare, and the shelf would lower the book to his height. That was how it worked. Everyone did it without thinking.
But something deep in his gut whispered otherwise.
He swallowed, his hand trembling slightly before he pulled it back.
It wasn't fear exactly — more like resistance, an instinct that screamed don't.
There was a wrongness to it. Not the kind that reasoned with words, but one that came from somewhere older and deeper — the kind that lived behind thought.
He sighed softly, pretending to study the shelf instead.
A group of students passed by, laughing lightly. One of them, a tall boy with red hair, noticed Xenon struggling and smirked. "Need a lift, little guy?"
Xenon ignored him. The laughter faded behind him a moment later.
He turned his attention back to the glyph.
It pulsed faintly, like a heart. The glow shifted from white to soft blue as if sensing his nearness. The light wanted him to touch it — to connect.
He could almost feel it on his skin already.
A whisper in his head. Not words, just the faint impression of them.
He clenched his fist and stepped back.
No.
Not again.
He didn't know why the idea of using his essence felt dangerous — only that it did. It was as though his power wasn't meant to flow out the way others' did. When he tried to imagine it, it wasn't light or heat or force he sensed — it was… absence.
A void pressing against the edges of his being, waiting for a crack to slip through.
He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.
No one around him noticed his hesitation. They were too busy with their books, their notes, their own thoughts. But Xenon could feel it — the faint hum in the air, the way the glyph seemed to tilt its glow toward him.
It wanted him to use it.
He turned away.
Instead of reaching for the rune, he stepped onto the lower shelf, balancing carefully on the edge of his toes. His fingers grazed the spine of the book he wanted — "Treatise on Core Structures." He stretched a little further, biting his lip in concentration.
Almost.
The tip of his finger hooked the edge of the cover — and the book slipped free with a soft thud, landing on his head before bouncing into his arms.
He winced. Then laughed quietly under his breath. "Got it," he murmured, brushing dust from the cover.
A few people looked his way again. He ignored them, flipping open the first page as he walked toward a corner table.
The text was dense, filled with diagrams of energy flow, handwritten notes in faded ink, and terms he didn't fully understand. But he read anyway, his eyes tracing every line.
The idea of "shedding one's core" — it came up again and again. To shed was to awaken. To shed was to gain control over one's essence, to move beyond the body's limit.
But what if your essence wasn't light or life?
What if it wasn't supposed to be freed at all?
He stopped reading, his fingers tightening slightly around the paper. For a moment, he felt something stir faintly inside him — cold and hollow, like the breath of a forgotten room.
He blinked and it was gone.
The air around him settled. The glyphs along the walls dimmed. Everything was still again.
He exhaled slowly, closing the book halfway.
Maybe he was just imagining it.
Maybe.
Still, he decided to stay a little longer — not reading, not thinking too much — just quietly turning the pages while pretending not to notice the faint pulse beneath his skin.