Clyde slid the old journal back onto the shelf. As he did, a narrow slip of paper drifted loose and fell to the floor.
He frowned and picked it up.
The handwriting was rushed and uneven.
"If you are curious about mysticism, go to the library's back hall and take the book that is colored red."
It read like a prank, something meant to lure the foolish. Clyde almost discarded it, yet a strange pull tightened in his chest. Not fear, not curiosity alone, but an instinct he had learned not to ignore.
Against his better judgment, he headed toward the back hall.
The farther he walked, the quieter the library became. Rows of faded books lined the walls, their colors dulled by age, until one volume stood out immediately. A bright red book rested neatly on the shelf, placed at arm's reach as if waiting.
Clyde hesitated. Then he took it.
Behind him, iron groaned.
An old gate creaked open, the sound dragging through the hall like a warning that came too late. Clyde steadied his breath and stepped through before the gate could close again.
The room beyond felt wrong. Older than the rest of the library. The air was heavy, tinged with the faint scent of black tea. Shadows clung stubbornly to the corners, untouched by the dim lantern light.
At the center of the room sat Principal Aldric Nox Nocturne.
He was seated calmly in a wooden chair, teacup in hand, as though this meeting had been scheduled long ago. He did not look surprised.
"What is the meaning of this?" Clyde asked, forcing his voice steady.
Aldric lifted his gaze. His eyes were hollow, yet piercing, as if they saw far beyond the room itself.
"We are all foolish humans," he said quietly. "People believe the world they live in is a paradise. They live comfortably within lies."
Clyde's jaw tightened. "Then what is the truth?"
Aldric set his teacup down with deliberate care. The shadows around them seemed to deepen as he leaned back.
"I suppose," he murmured, "it is time you learned who I truly am."
Moonlight filtered through a tall window, cutting across his face. In that pale glow, he looked less like an educator and more like something carved from stone and silence.
"My name is Aldric Nox Nocturne," he said. "Tell me, Clyde. Do you believe in mysticism?"
Clyde swallowed. "No, sir. I don't."
Aldric nodded once, neither disappointed nor amused.
He reached toward the corner of his desk and picked up a dented tin can. With a casual flick, he tossed it into the air.
Clyde barely paid attention at first.
Then the can stopped.
It did not slow. It did not fall. It froze in place, suspended as if the world itself had forgotten gravity. The air tightened, pressing against Clyde's skin. With a sharp metallic crack, the can collapsed inward, flattening into a perfect silver disk.
Clyde staggered back. "H-how did you do that?"
Aldric held out his hand. The disk drifted gently into his palm.
"Lunar Ichor," he said. "An essence every human carries, though most never recognize it."
He turned and gestured toward a darkened hallway, one that seemed to stretch farther than the library should allow.
"Come," Aldric said. "There is someone you must meet."
Clyde followed.
They descended twisting corridors and a spiraling iron staircase that bled cold into his bones. At the bottom, blue light pulsed softly, slow and steady like a heartbeat.
Aldric pushed open a heavy door.
The workshop beyond was vast and ancient, filled with glass vials of swirling liquid, powders that glowed faintly, and journals bound in cracked leather. Machines hummed in low tones, powered by moonstone cores that flickered like trapped starlight.
At the center stood a man in a stained white coat. His hair was unkempt, his face lined with exhaustion, yet his eyes were sharp and kind.
He looked up immediately.
"A polite young man," he said with a faint smile. "Aldric, who is he? Strong presence. Don't tell me you're thinking of recruiting him into the Lunar Sentinels."
"The Lunar Sentinels?" Clyde repeated.
Aldric lifted his hand. A nearby wrench rose into the air, twisting slowly. "Every human carries Lunar Ichor. It is the source of mysticism. Mine is Abyss Ichor. Gravity obeys me."
The alchemist stepped forward. "Soren Nox Aldwych," he said. "Alkahest Ichor flows through me. I purify substances, stabilize lunar resonance, and guide ascendants through Baptism."
A faint projection shimmered behind him, waves of blue frequency rippling like breath.
"Each ichor carries its own frequency," Soren continued. "That frequency governs how power manifests and how the body synchronizes with lunar law. If it destabilizes, if it fractures or collapses, the ichor turns inward."
Aldric's voice lowered. "And the person becomes a Hollowling."
Clyde stiffened.
"They hunt hearts," Soren said quietly. "Something inside them is missing. Feeding fills the void for a time, but each heart strips away what little humanity remains."
Aldric's gaze hardened. "Some learn to hide. They walk among us. They wait."
Clyde forced the words out. "How do you kill one?"
"The heart," Aldric replied. "Nothing else ends it."
Before Clyde could speak again, the workshop doors burst open with a violent clang.
A guard stumbled inside, breath ragged. "Principal Aldric! A Hollowling in the Aqueous Channel!"
Aldric turned sharply to Clyde. "If you want to help, if you want to save people, choose an ichor."
He sprinted toward the exit.
Clyde shouted after him, panic slipping through his composure. "Do I get paid?"
Aldric's voice echoed back, irritated and distant. "Yes. Thirty pounds a month."
Then he was gone.
Clyde stood frozen for a heartbeat. Then he straightened.
"I want to join the Lunar Sentinels," he said firmly. "Can I choose my ichor now?"
Soren approached, placing a steady hand on his shoulder.
"Once you choose," he said, "your frequency binds to your ichor. From that moment on, your resonance shapes your fate. A single misstep can twist you into something unrecognizable."
The workshop lights flickered, as if listening.
"Your fate begins now," Soren said. "Clyde Nox Pvolae."