"The Grimoire of the Underworld."
The words lingered.
Not because of how they were spoken, but because of how easily they were said—without emphasis, without ceremony, as though naming an ordinary thing.
Her smile ceased.
Not gradually.
Not awkwardly.
It stopped—as if the sound itself had been cut from the air.
The old woman lowered her head, the thin strands of silver hair slipping loose beneath her shawl.
Her shoulders relaxed, her hunched frame returning to stillness. In the span of a breath, she appeared once more like nothing more than a weary vendor resting at the edge of the street.
The surrounding moved on.
Footsteps passed. A cart rattled over stone. Lantern flames swayed gently behind their glass casings.
Nothing seemed out of place.
Yet the young man remained motionless.
"A…G..Grimoire?" he said quietly.
The word felt strange on his tongue,heavy, unfamiliar.
The woman did not answer.
His gaze drifted back to the book against his will. Up close, its color appeared deeper than before, the muted purple absorbing the lanternlight rather than reflecting it.
The faint patterns along its edges were clearer now, winding like delicate veins just beneath the surface. The emerald-hued lock rested at its center, smooth and unblemished.
Too pristine.
A subtle pressure gathered in his chest-not pain, not fear. It was closer to the sensation of being observed.
"You shouldn't stare," the woman said softly.
He looked up at her.
"When you do," she continued, her voice low and steady, "it begins to stare back."
The young man stared at the book for a moment longer, then let out a quiet breath.
"…Underworld.." he repeated.
He glanced at the passing crowd, at the warm lanternlight spilling across the stone, at the vendors still calling out to uninterested customers.
Nothing had changed.
Slowly, he straightened.
He smiled for first time.
"Amusing...,i thought it was a real Grimoire for a second " he said in a mockery way.
"So what is it supposed to be?" he asked, his tone lightening despite himself. "A fantasy story?,or a Children's Book?"
The old woman did not look up.
"Or," he continued, a faint edge of amusement creeping into his voice, "an old folk legend? The kind parents tell their children so they behave well?"
He maintained his smile.
"Your and this book's Appearance and the Seems a bit dramatic for a roadside vendor."
For the first time since speaking, the woman raised her eyes.
She did not look offended.
Nor amused.
"Do you know," she asked softly, "why such stories are told?"
He shrugged. "Because people like them."
"No," she said. "Because they last."
Her gaze shifted to the book.
"Stories survive when people forget their origins." She said With calm and cold voice.
He exhaled softly, shaking his head as his gaze drifted once more over the worn cloth and the strange collection laid upon it.
"It seems," he said lightly, "you like these kinds of fictitious legends."
The reaction was immediate.
The old woman's eyes widened unnaturally, the pupils shrinking as if struck by sudden light. Her hunched frame stiffened, fingers curling against the stone beneath her.
"Fictitious?!"
Her voice rose sharply, cracking through the murmur of the street. Several nearby passersby turned their heads, unease flickering across their faces before they hurried on.
He did not flinch.
Instead, he straightened, meeting her gaze with calm certainty.
"Legends," he said, "are just stories that outlived the people who knew the truth."
For a moment, she stared at him in silence.
Then her lips stretched into a slow, unnatural smile.
"No…" she said quietly.
"Legends are truths that learned to wait."
A faint, breathy laugh escaped her throat.
"Hehehe…"
Her voice grew sharper as she spoke, irritation seeping through each word.
"People these days do not believe in legends," she continued. "They mock them. Dissect them. Dismiss them."
Her smile widened.
"But legends do not ask to be believed," she said.
"They only ask to be remembered."
He scoffed softly.
"Remembered?" he replied. "Legends are just tools."
Stories meant to scare people—threats of injustice and punishment dressed up as myths."
The woman's shoulders trembled.
"Fear…?" she repeated, her voice dropping into something almost amused.
"Heh… heh…"
"Fear makes people run," she said.
"But denial…"
Her eyes gleamed.
"…denial makes them stay."
His patience snapped.
"Legends are lies," he said sharply. "You should not believe them this much old woman."
Her smile vanished.
"No," she replied, her voice low and deliberate.
"Legends are truths that learned how to wait."
He clenched his jaw.
"Tch." He turned away slightly. "If that's so," he said, "then you're telling me these legends are true?"
Her gaze drifted downward, settling on the purple book.
"When truth is dead," she said softly, "what survives is called a legend."
Silence followed.
The city's sounds seemed distant now, muffled beneath the weight of her words.
He sighed slowly.
"…I'm leaving."
He took a step away—then paused.
His eyes returned to the book one last time.
The title glimmered faintly beneath the lanternlight.
MYSTIQUE.
Before he could stop himself, he asked, "Before I go… tell me something."
The old woman looked up.
"What does the word Mystique mean?"
Her lips stretched wide into a grin far too broad for her frail face.
"Mystique…" she murmured.
She let the word linger.
"I already told you."
Her eyes shone with unsettling clarity.
"It is the Grimoire of the Underworld."
The street continued to move around them.
Lantern flames wavered behind glass casings, casting uneven patterns across the stone.
Footsteps passed nearby, close enough that the hem of a stranger's cloak brushed his sleeve. Somewhere down the road, a vendor called out, his voice hoarse from hours of repetition.
None of it felt distant.
Yet none of it felt close either.
"Underworld…" he said at last, his voice low. "Is this too a legend?."
"Legends are names given after forgetting," she replied. "This....is older than that." Replied Old lady.
He continued "Then why bring it here?" he asked. "Why put it on the street for anyone to see?"
"Bring?" she repeated.
A faint, humorless smile touched her lips.
"No. I am returning it."
His brow furrowed. "Returning it to whom?"
This time, she raised her gaze fully.
Their eyes met.
For an instant, the world seemed to dull around them. The noise of the street softened, as though pushed behind thick walls. The lanternlight flickered uncertainly.
Her eyes were calm.
Unblinking.
"Returning it to you....It's true owner..." she said.
The pressure vanished.
The young man exhaled sharply, unaware he had been holding his breath. His heart pounded in his ears.
"Me?!,True owner?!,I've never seen that book before tonight!," he said. "You must be mistaken.It's not mine!."
"That is true," she said. "And also untrue."
She reached out with one thin, trembling hand and pushed the grimoire toward him.
The cloth scraped softly against stone.
It stopped inches from his boots.
He did not move.
"I don't have money," he said quickly. "And even if I did, I don't want any trouble."
A faint smile tugged at her lips.
"Oh, child," she murmured. "Trouble does not care what you want."
The silence that followed her words felt heavier than anything she had said.
"…I'm going," the young man said at last.
He turned away from the cloth, irritation tightening his jaw. The night air felt colder now, sharper against his skin, as though the warmth of the street had withdrawn from that small corner of stone.
Behind him, the old woman's voice rose again.
"You may leave the Grimoire," she said calmly.
"But it will follow you.It has found you..."
His steps slowed.
"Don't be ridiculous," he replied without turning. "It's just paper and ink."
"Death is patient."
The words reached him clearly, spoken without force, without threat. That was what unsettled him most.
"I said I'm going," he snapped.
He took another step forward.
Then—
"You can leave this place," the woman said.
"But you cannot Escape the fate you have ahead in your life."
He became more nervous and scared.
She spoke again, her voice quiet, deliberate.
"Lumen Mystique."
The world lurched.
His breath caught sharply in his throat as he spun around.
"…What did you just say?"
The old woman was smiling.
Not broadly.
Not kindly.
It was the smile of someone who had been waiting for confirmation.
"How do you know my name?" he demanded, his voice rising despite himself.
The street seemed suddenly too loud, too close. His heart pounded, each beat echoing harshly in his ears. No one else nearby reacted. No one slowed. No one noticed.
The woman did not answer.
Her gaze drifted instead to the grimoire.
"The name you carry," she said softly, "was never yours alone."
A chill crept up his spine.
The old woman's smile lingered, but something in her gaze shifted.
Relief.
Not joy—relief, as though a burden carried for far too long had finally been set down.
"At last…" she murmured.
Lumen frowned. "At last… what?"
She exhaled slowly, her shoulders sinking.
"I have fulfilled the promise," she said, her voice quiet but firm, "that I made to that man."
His confusion deepened.
"…Man?" he repeated. "What man?"
For the first time, her eyes did not meet his.
Instead, she looked past him—beyond the street, beyond the lanternlight, as though peering into something far older than the city itself.
"A man who refused to be forgotten," she said softly.
Lumen's irritation flared. "You're not making any sense. Who is he?"
She turned back to him.
And smiled.
It was not mocking.
It was not cruel.
It was the smile of someone who had reached the end of a long path.
"You will understand," she said, "when remembering becomes heavier than forgetting."
A chill settled deep in his chest.
She leaned forward slightly, her voice lowering to a near whisper.
"I look forward to your growth," she said.
Her eyes gleamed.
"Chosen one."
His breath caught.
"What are you talking about?" he demanded. "I didn't choose anything!"
She straightened, the smile never leaving her face.
"No," she agreed softly. "But something chose you."
The lantern above them flickered violently.
"Bye," she said.
And in the space between one heartbeat and the next—
She was gone.
No movement.
No sound.
No trace of departure.
Lumen stared at the empty space before him, his mind struggling to catch up.
"…Hey," he muttered. "Answer me."
Nothing.
People passed by, laughing, talking, living—utterly unaware that anything had occurred. No one looked twice at the bare stone where the woman had been moments ago.
His gaze dropped.
The cloth still lay on the ground.
And at its center—
The book.
Resting silently.
Waiting.
MYSTIQUE.
Lumen swallowed hard.
"…A promise," he whispered.
The emerald lock pulsed once.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Like a heartbeat not his own.
She hadn't walked away.
She hadn't vanished into the crowd.
She had simply fulfilled her role—
And left him behind with its consequence.
Lumen stood alone beneath the lanternlight, the city alive around him, yet gripped by the quiet certainty that something ancient had shifted.
Lumen slowly lifted his gaze.
The moon hung above the city, pale and distant.
He looked at it for a moment.
"…What a strange day."