Zhang Han Lu stopped an arm's length away.
Up close, Orion could see it—the faint distortion in the air around him. Not heat, but something colder, sharper, like reality itself bending in quiet deference. The candles in the chandeliers burned unnaturally steady now, their flames elongated and motionless, as if time had decided not to interfere.
Orion tightened his grip on the chair until his knuckles ached.
"What…" His voice wavered. "What kind of guidance?"
Zhang Han Lu's lips curved into that same chilling half-smile.
"Knowledge, boy," he said. "The only currency that matters here. Without it, you will be devoured before the next turning of the shelves."
He raised one pale hand, palm up, fingers loosely curled.
Nothing happened.
Then—
[SFX: **HUMMMMM**]
A faint glow kindled above his palm. Soft. Pearlescent. It grew steadily, coalescing into a perfect sphere the size of an apple. The light cast gentle reflections across the polished table, rippling like moonlight on still water.
"This realm," Zhang said, voice low and measured, "runs on imagination. Not the idle daydreams of your old world—but focused will."
The orb pulsed brighter. Colors churned beneath its surface—blues and violets, echoes of the stained-glass window that no longer existed.
"Vague thoughts birth weak illusions," he continued.
He flicked his wrist.
[SFX: **FSSSH**]
The orb blurred, edges dissolving into translucent smoke before dissipating into nothing.
Orion stared, breath held.
"But intense, crystalline focus…" Zhang's eyes narrowed.
[SFX: **THRUM**]
The glow reignited instantly—sharper, denser. The orb reformed, smooth and flawless, light pressed into solid shape. He guided it forward through the air until it hovered inches from Orion's face.
"This bends illusion into reality," Zhang said softly.
"Touch it."
Hesitant, Orion raised a trembling hand.
His fingertips met resistance.
Cold. Firm.
Like marble left in shadow.
It was real.
Undeniably, impossibly real.
Orion recoiled, heart slamming against his ribs. "How…?"
Zhang lowered his hand. The orb drifted back, settling gently into his palm before vanishing with a soft pop of displaced air.
[SFX: **POP**]
"The core of all power here," Zhang said. "Imagination is the root. Will is the blade that carves it into form. The more vivid your vision, the stronger the manifestation. The more precise your intent, the longer it endures."
Orion's mind reeled.
All those novels—the systems, mana pools, chants, sigils.
This was simpler.
Purer.
Terrifyingly open-ended.
Zhang watched him closely, amusement glinting in those depthless eyes.
"Now you try. Something small. A spark of light," he instructed. "Picture it clearly. Color. Size. Brightness. Hold it in your mind as if your life depends on it—because one day, it will."
Orion swallowed. His mouth tasted like copper.
"I don't… I don't know how."
"You do," Zhang replied simply. "You have spent years lost in stories of such things. Draw on that. Focus."
Orion closed his eyes.
Then opened them, staring at his upturned palm.
A spark. Small. Blue-white. Like a struck match.
Nothing happened.
He tried again. Harder. His brow furrowed, breath growing shallow. A faint warmth tingled in his fingers—but no light came.
Frustration surged.
He pictured it more vividly. The opening scene of his favorite novel. The protagonist's first awakening—a tiny star born in darkness.
[SFX: **TINK**]
A weak glimmer appeared.
Barely brighter than a firefly.
It hovered above his skin for two heartbeats—
[SFX: **FIZZ**]
—and sputtered out.
Orion gasped, exhaustion crashing over him like a wave. His arm dropped heavily, shoulder aching as if he'd lifted weights for hours.
But beneath the fatigue, something bright and fragile ignited in his chest.
Wonder.
"I…" His voice shook. "I did it."
Zhang Han Lu inclined his head, approval faint—but real.
"Barely," he said. "But a beginning. You will grow stronger with practice—or perish trying."
Orion flexed his fingers, chasing the ghost of warmth. Fear still coiled in his gut, but now it shared space with something electric.
Cautious excitement.
If this was real—if he could truly wield this—
Zhang turned partly away, robes whispering.
[SFX: **SHHHH**]
"Magic here is not limited to trinkets and lights," he said, gesturing toward the mist-ringed expanse. "With mastery, you may reshape surroundings. Raise walls from thought. Part the mists. Forge paths where none exist."
He glanced back, eyes narrowing.
"Alter flesh and form. Bend perception of time. Grasp abstractions—fate, memory, probability."
The chandeliers dimmed slightly as his presence deepened.
"At the highest levels," Zhang continued, "one may devour rival imaginations. Claim their manifestations as one's own."
A pause.
"Hence my title."
[SFX: **LOW, DISTANT PULSE**]
*Devourer of Fate.*
The chill returned, tempering Orion's thrill. This was not merely power.
It was predation.
Zhang stepped back toward his seat, the distance unfolding naturally again, space obeying his retreat.
"That is your first lesson," he said. "Heed it well. I will not linger to hold your hand."
Orion straightened, voice steadier than he felt. "Wait—what else? How do I—"
Zhang paused, already dissolving into shadow.
"Survive long enough," he said, "to ask better questions."
The chandeliers dimmed further. The mist crept inward once more, reclaiming the edges. The space between them stretched, the king at the end of the table growing distant—yet watchful.
Orion stood alone in the flickering light.
His palm still tingled.
And for the first time since waking, the vast library felt less like a tomb.
It felt like a beginning.