My uncle’s laboratory was a chaos that defied logic. Papers and scrolls were piled precariously high on every available surface, interspersed with jars containing plants, monster parts, and fragments of Others. Bones of varied and unidentifiable origins hung from racks or rested on counters alongside broken pieces of Machina, their exposed gears and wires glinting faintly in the dim light. Tools of every imaginable purpose—from surgical implements to devices that looked like they belonged in an alchemist’s fever dream—littered the room. It was less a workspace and more a physical manifestation of a brilliant, albeit unhinged, mind.

  In the center of this organized madness stood my uncle, Rodrick. A portly man with an air of constant motion, he was clad in a lab coat stained with various chemicals and substances. Thick protective goggles obscured most of his face, giving him the appearance of a mad scientist plucked straight from a storybook. He muttered to himself while meticulously pruning what looked like a bonsai tree—except this one glimmered faintly and exuded a faintly sour, metallic smell.

  With a snap of his fingers, the resonant toll of a clock tower bell echoed through the room. His focus on the peculiar plant never wavered as he ranted to himself, his voice rising with every word.

  “You’re a plant! You grow from eggs, not seeds! How? Why? What stimuli forces you to bloom when you lack pollen and nectar but instead lay eggs? How do you propagate? WHAT ARE YOUR SECRETS?!”

  He was halfway through grabbing a magnifying lens the size of his head when he suddenly froze. Slowly, he turned toward the entrance, his oversized goggles reflecting the light as he took in the sight of Winston, my mother, my father, and me standing in the doorway. For a brief moment, the room was silent except for the faint ticking of some unseen clock.

  “Ah,” he said, as if he’d only just realized we were there. “I have guests.”

  His tone was entirely too casual for someone caught mid-obsession over the reproductive mysteries of a mythical plant. Without missing a beat, he adjusted his goggles and waddled toward us, brushing off his lab coat as though it would somehow make him more presentable.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked, his eyes darting between us, though the question felt more rhetorical than sincere. Before anyone could answer, he added, “And if it’s about borrowing my pruning shears again, the answer is no. Last time, they came back bent. BENT!”

  “That was twelve years ago, Rodrick,” my mother interjected dryly, her ears twitching in irritation. “We’re here for Alexander.”

  “Alexander?” Rodrick blinked, finally focusing on me. He tilted his head, his expression equal parts curiosity and excitement. “Ah, my favorite nephew!”

  “Harsh. I’m one of what… nine brothers? What would the rest say about that?” I asked, raising an eyebrow at Rodrick’s proclamation.

  “Bah!” he waved dismissively, the exaggerated motion nearly toppling a precarious stack of papers. “They’d say you’re the only one who ever asked me why the moon turns reddish after the solstice’s celestial conference, only to shift to a pale yellow the day after! That’s why you’re the favorite.”

  I opened my mouth to respond, but my mother cut in, her voice sharp. “We’re not here for your riddles or your astronomical ramblings, Rodrick. You’re still at Soul Realm 5, yes?”

  “Yes,” he replied, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. “But why would that matter? And for the last time, Juliet, I am NOT lending you my shears again. Do you know how long—”

  “Will you shut up about the shears, you fat, overgrown, currently earless rabbit!” my mother exploded, her ears twitching furiously. Rodrick flinched, clutching his chest as if she’d struck him. “Alexander here needs training, and you’re the best option.”

  Rodrick blinked, clearly caught off guard. “Training? What kind of training? I’m a scientist, not a—”

  “If I do it,” my mother interrupted, ignoring his protest, “he invalidates his candidacy as a Walker and is forced into the military program. If Hubert does it, he’ll turn into a gambling addict before he learns how to swing a blade. But you? You get an assistant—someone to clean up this disaster you call a lab—and he gets the training he needs.”

  Rodrick’s gaze flicked between the three of us, lingering on me for a moment before landing on my mother. He crossed his arms, tapping his foot in mock contemplation. “Hmm. I see. So, you’re saying I get free labor and the chance to impart my vast and unparalleled knowledge? Tempting…”

  “It’s not free labor,” my father chimed in, his tone dry. “It’s supervised learning.”

  Rodrick’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “Supervised learning, you say? That does sound official. And the boy is already curious about the mysteries of the universe… Fine. I accept.”

  I barely had time to process his agreement before he pointed a stubby finger at me. “But don’t think this will be easy, young Alexander. I’m a demanding mentor, and I expect nothing less than complete dedication. If you fail to meet my standards—”

  “He won’t,” my mother said firmly, her tone leaving no room for argument. “And if he does, I’ll handle it. Now, can we get on with it?”

  Rodrick sighed theatrically, throwing his hands in the air. “Fine, fine. Follow me, Alexander. Let’s see what you’re made of—and don’t touch anything unless I say so. Some of this stuff bites.”

  ***

  Rodrick led me from the chaotic laboratory through a narrow corridor that opened into a vast, sealed-off complex. The sheer size of the dome above us was staggering, its surface etched with arcane runes and symbols that shimmered faintly, pulsing in rhythm with some unseen energy source. As my eyes adjusted to the space, I was struck by the sheer number and variety of weapons on display.

  Racks and walls bristled with every weapon imaginable—and several I couldn’t even begin to classify. Swords of varying lengths and designs, axes with intricately carved heads, spears that gleamed with enchanted tips, and flails that seemed almost alive as their chains shifted slightly. I recognized bows, crossbows, and daggers of all kinds, their edges polished to a deadly shine. Gauntlets reinforced with metallic plates sat next to shields adorned with glowing sigils.

  Then there were the weapons I couldn’t identify. A large sickle-like blade attached to a rope lay coiled like a serpent, its pointed counterpart resembling a wickedly sharp stick. Another contraption caught my attention—a massive sphere, seemingly inert, but every so often, spikes erupted from its surface in a violent burst before retracting just as suddenly.

  The most bizarre weapon, however, was a pendulum-like device that rotated and revolved with hypnotic precision. It swung around what appeared to be a glove embedded with glowing crystals, its movements creating a faint hum that resonated throughout the chamber.

  Rodrick clapped his hands, pulling my focus back to him. “Impressive, isn’t it?” His voice was tinged with pride. “This is the armory—a collection of every conceivable weapon design, from the practical to the absurd. Each one has been crafted, enchanted, or modified to test and challenge the wielder. Some of these are ancient relics, others are my own experiments.”

  “Experiments?” I asked, glancing warily at the rotating pendulum device.

  “Of course,” he said, smirking. “What better way to innovate than by breaking the rules of tradition? You’ll be trying a few of these today. We’ll see which weapon resonates with you—both literally and figuratively.”

  I took a step closer to one of the racks, my eyes lingering on a strange double-edged blade with an iridescent sheen. “How am I supposed to choose?”

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  “You don’t,” Rodrick said, stepping past me. “The weapon chooses you. Or rather, your mana and Arte will guide the choice. Your task is to figure out what feels right.” He gestured to the array of weapons. “Pick something. Anything. And don’t overthink it. Your instincts are better than you realize.”

  As I gripped the blade that had first caught my attention, a wave of unease swept over me. It felt wrong—terribly wrong. The weight distribution was completely off, with the bulk of it concentrated in the blade itself. Each swing felt like wrestling with an unruly beast, dragging me off balance with every movement. After a few awkward attempts to wield it, I shook my head and returned it to the rack.

  Rodrick chuckled, clearly amused. “Case in point. Your instincts are better than you realize. That was a grav-blade. It’s designed for those who can manipulate momentum and weight through their Arte. Without those abilities, it’s little more than a glorified hammer.”

  He turned sharply toward my mother, his eyes narrowing. “By the way, what Arte did he awaken to?” Before she could answer, he raised a hand and muttered, “Never mind, I just pulled his mirage field data.”

  His expression shifted into one of mild surprise, tinged with intrigue. “Paper Manipulation. B-grade. Interesting… Especially since he formed a pseudo-machina on his first activation.”

  My mother’s face froze, her usually composed demeanor cracking as her eyes widened. “He. Did. What?!” Her voice carried an edge that made even my father take a cautious step back.

  Rodrick, unfazed by her rising fury, waved dismissively. “You heard me. In his first mirage field, the boy created a paper pseudo-machina. A crude construct, but functional enough to meet the criteria. Frankly, I’m surprised he wasn’t immediately recruited into the Machina Division in Marr. They’re always on the lookout for latent talent.”

  “Rodrick,” my mother said, her voice low and dangerous, “why was I not informed of this sooner? Who accessed his field data without my consent?”

  Rodrick shrugged, his nonchalance only fueling her growing frustration. “Standard protocol, Juliet. Any candidate who shows potential in a specialized field is flagged for review. The Machina Division must’ve decided he wasn’t ready or that his Arte’s primary focus lies elsewhere. Either way, I wasn’t involved in the decision.”

  I shifted uncomfortably, caught between my uncle’s matter-of-fact tone and my mother’s barely restrained fury. “I didn’t even realize what I was doing,” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. “It just…happened. The construct wasn’t perfect, and I couldn’t maintain it for long.”

  “That’s irrelevant,” my mother snapped, her sharp tone directed more at Rodrick than me. “A machina on first access is unheard of. Even prodigies need time to refine their Arte before reaching that level.”

  “Exactly,” Rodrick interjected, leaning against a nearby table. “Which makes this all the more fascinating. It’s not just about raw talent, Juliet—it’s about potential. Your boy has plenty of it, but it’s untamed, untrained. That’s why he’s here, isn’t it? To figure out what he’s capable of and how to harness it.”

  My mother sighed, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. “Fine. But no more surprises, Rodrick. If there’s anything else you’ve uncovered about his potential, I expect to be informed immediately.”

  Rodrick smirked. “Of course, dear sister. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. The boy still needs to find a weapon that suits him.” He gestured toward the vast armory. “Go on, Alexander. Try again. This time, trust your instincts.”

  Searching through the armory again, I returned to the rows of weapons, this time driven by the lingering impressions from my Arte’s awakening. I started with another sword, recalling the elegant forms I had envisioned. Yet, as I held each blade, they felt... wrong. Foreign. The steel was too rigid, too unyielding. It couldn’t fold. It couldn’t flex. It didn’t give way.

  If it needs to flex…

  I turned my attention to a bow. Picking one up, I drew the string back experimentally, marveling at its tension and responsiveness. Before I could release it, Rodrick’s voice cut through the air like a whip.

  “Do not release that without an arrow,” he warned, his tone sharp. “You’ll snap the bow, and I’ll have your hide for it.”

  I nodded sheepishly and let the tension go. The bow felt closer to what I was looking for—something flexible, something that could bend and respond to force—but it still wasn’t complete.

  It needed to flex. To fold. To flow.

  The bow in my hands was only half of a puzzle that couldn’t be solved with brute force alone. It demanded a logistical mind, an understanding of how to bend, launch, and propel through subtlety and precision. The bow called to me not only for its power but for its grace, for its ability to yield, to stretch in ways that made the impossible possible. Yet, I knew I needed more.

  I began to approach my uncle's experiments, those cryptic projects he had mentioned before, with a mix of curiosity and skepticism. Many of them ended in disappointment—crude designs, complex for the sake of being complex. But then, my gaze landed on something different. The bow was just one weapon. What about my feet?

  I spotted what could best be described as a floating ball, unanchored, hovering in the air. Without thinking, I took a step back and gave it a strong kick. As soon as it was in motion, the ball began to spin, gathering ambient mana and miasma. Suddenly, spikes shot out from its surface, growing with an unsettling speed. A cold shiver ran through me, my instincts screaming that I should stop before it escalated further.

  Nope.

  I quickly backed away, feeling the aura of the weapon—it was a cruel joke, a nightmare contraption born from my uncle’s twisted mind. I didn’t want to imagine what would’ve happened if I’d kicked it harder.

  But then, something else caught my eye. A weapon that felt right. The moment it entered my domain, my Arte seemed to hum with approval, calling to it as though it had always belonged. It was a scroll. Unfurled on its surface were hundreds of paintings—each one collapsing into the next, blending together in an ever-shifting scene. The picture was of a battlefield, created from ink and paint, full of chaos and confusion.

  "Wondered when you'd find that one," my uncle's voice echoed behind me, his amusement clear. "Channel mana and miasma into it, just like the ball. You’ll see some... interesting effects."

  I smiled, feeling the weight of the scroll in my hands. It felt like the key—an object that could unlock my Arte’s true potential. The battlefield painted on the page seemed to pulse with life, waiting for the right energy to set it into motion. With both trepidation and excitement, I channeled my energy through the scroll.

  My surroundings were instantly flooded with a deep red, and before I could process it, the world around me was whisked away. I found myself standing in a hallway of infinite books. Shelves lined every side, filled with scrolls and records, stretching beyond my sight. The air was thick with the scent of parchment, dust, and a timeless presence.

  But the scene shifted once again, and I was thrust into the very battlefield depicted on the scroll. A warrior, clad in unfamiliar armor, charged at me with unrelenting speed. Panic seized me. I hunched down, bracing for the impact. But the warrior simply passed by me, as though I wasn’t even there.

  I turned toward the sound of laughter to my left, and another figure emerged—this one wielding a spear, its ornate gold inlays shimmering with cold light. In a blur, the spear plunged into the first warrior's stomach, blood spilling out in a dark, abyssal black that seemed to absorb all color around it. The black blood stained the ground, thick and oppressive.

  None of the warriors took notice of me. They were all too focused on their battle, too absorbed in the chaos of their world. But the warrior with the golden spear shifted, and with eerie precision, he pressed the spear to my neck. He lifted my head, forcing me to meet his gaze.

  “It’s been thirty-seven hundred years since I was last called to Dominus Demeterra’s demesne,” the warrior muttered, his voice dripping with disdain. “Even longer since it wasn’t the brat herself.” He paused, studying my trembling form. “You come here, to the past, breaking…” His voice faltered as he observed me, my body soaked in sweat and... less desirable fluids.

  “You have no idea what you did, do you?” His voice softened, not with sympathy, but exasperation. “Just coming of age, DD allows an Arte to manifest? How the hell did you access…” The rest of his words were lost in a garbled mess—clanging gears, chaotic noise that crushed my ears. My body recoiled instinctively at the sound, feeling the weight of the confusion and pain that echoed in my bones.

  He pushed the spear away with frustration. “An illegal entry into the archive. Wonderful,” he muttered.

  The environment shifted again. The battlefield dissolved, replaced by the calm of a tea house. The warrior’s spear remained, but his armor had transformed. He now wore a robe, bright orange, more vivid than anything I had ever seen. It was like looking at pure, unadulterated sunlight, impossibly saturated.

  I looked down at myself. My clothes, soiled from my earlier panic, were now replaced with a similar robe—but the color was abyssal black, matching the blood of the warrior. It felt wrong, the contrast between our attire and the serenity of the tea house.

  The warrior—no, the figure—motioned for me to sit. His voice was calm, but there was a weight to it, a gravitas that made the very air around us feel heavier. “I’m not going to ask how you acquired a manifest, nor will I turn you in. Just know this, boy— the devil’s contract you’ve unknowingly signed.” He seated himself on a pillow at the table, and a matching pillow appeared for me as he motioned to it.

  “I guess introductions are in order,” the warrior said. “I’m Vanitas. Emptiness Incarnate. One of the gatekeepers of the archive.” His words were delivered with authority, each syllable ringing like the toll of a bell. As he spoke, the world around him seemed to wither. Color drained from the room, sucked into him, leaving the space tinged with an unsettling gray.

  “And now–I’m your librarian. Whether you wished it or not.”