The market no longer felt noisy.
Not to Haruto.
Not after that answer.
Arthur had been this man's student.
Not a legend.
Not a myth.
A student.
Someone who sat in front of a teacher and asked questions.
Someone who made mistakes.
Someone who learned.
The realization made Arthur feel strangely human.
The bookseller leaned back in his chair.
For a while, neither spoke.
The old man seemed content to let the silence settle.
Haruto wasn't.
"...you knew him."
The bookseller snorted.
"Unfortunately."
"That's not exactly an answer."
"It is if you knew Arthur."
Belial immediately nodded.
"THAT SOUNDS RIGHT."
The old man pointed.
"See? Even the goat agrees."
"I HATE HOW OFTEN THAT HAPPENS."
Haruto rubbed his forehead.
Somehow this conversation had already become exhausting.
The bookseller folded his arms.
"You want the heroic version?"
"There are versions?"
"There are always versions."
The old man glanced toward the sky.
As though searching through decades of memories.
Eventually—
he spoke.
"When I met Arthur, he was younger than you."
Haruto blinked.
Younger?
For some reason, he'd always imagined Arthur as old.
Ancient.
Weathered.
A man who had lived countless years.
Not someone young.
The bookseller continued.
"He arrived in Ardent with nothing."
A pause.
"No family."
Another pause.
"No records."
"No homeland anyone could verify."
Haruto's stomach tightened.
That sounded familiar.
Dangerously familiar.
The bookseller noticed.
Of course he noticed.
The old man missed very little.
"Sound familiar?"
"...a little."
Belial started laughing.
"A LITTLE?"
Haruto ignored him.
The bookseller continued.
"People thought he was a liar."
"What was he actually?"
The old man thought for a moment.
Then smiled faintly.
"A problem."
Haruto could believe that.
Immediately.
"Arthur asked questions."
The old man pointed toward the city.
"Questions about everything."
The roads.
The wells.
The farms.
The stars.
The laws.
The calendar.
Everything.
"He never accepted 'because that's how things are' as an answer."
The smile faded slightly.
"People hated that."
Haruto could also believe that.
Immediately.
Arthur sounded like the kind of person who accidentally started arguments simply by existing.
The bookseller reached into a drawer beneath the stall.
After a moment, he pulled out a thin sheet of paper.
Old.
Carefully preserved.
He placed it on the table.
Haruto looked down.
Then froze.
It was a drawing.
A sketch.
Simple.
Rough.
Yet surprisingly detailed.
The image showed a younger man sitting on top of a stone wall.
Messy hair.
Annoying smile.
A notebook balanced on one knee.
The resemblance was unmistakable.
Arthur.
For the first time—
Haruto saw his face.
Not an inscription.
Not a memory.
Not a message.
A face.
A real person.
Belial looked over his shoulder.
Then immediately groaned.
"OH COME ON."
"What?"
"HE LOOKS EXACTLY LIKE THE KIND OF PERSON WHO WOULD LEAVE MYSTERIOUS NOTES."
The resemblance was uncanny.
Arthur looked less like a legendary figure and more like a sleep-deprived university student who survived entirely on bad decisions.
Haruto found himself smiling.
Unexpectedly.
The bookseller noticed.
"That's one of the few sketches that survived."
Haruto blinked.
"Sketches?"
The old man nodded.
"Arthur drew constantly."
The words landed harder than expected.
Drew.
Not fought.
Not conquered.
Not ruled.
Drew.
For some reason—
Haruto immediately thought of sunsets.
Of mountains.
Of moments worth remembering.
The bookseller carefully tapped the corner of the sketch.
"He carried a notebook everywhere."
Haruto's eyes drifted toward the leather notebook inside the box.
The old man noticed.
Again.
Always.
"Not that notebook."
"Oh."
"That one came later."
Haruto frowned.
The mystery only deepened.
The bookseller sighed.
Then looked directly at him.
"Tell me something."
"What?"
"Why are you searching?"
The question felt simple.
It wasn't.
Haruto looked down.
Toward the letter.
Toward Arthur's cloak.
Toward everything he'd carried since arriving here.
Then—
toward the small blue stone inside his pocket.
His fingers brushed against it.
Smooth.
Cool.
Meaningless.
Yet not.
A gift.
For someone who didn't even remember him.
The answer came naturally.
"I made a promise."
The market seemed quieter.
The bookseller studied him.
Carefully.
Not judging.
Evaluating.
Eventually—
the old man nodded.
Just once.
A small motion.
Yet somehow it felt important.
"As long as you remember that..."
He looked away.
Toward Arthur's sketch.
Toward a student long gone.
"...you'll do better than he did."
Haruto froze.
The bookseller immediately regretted speaking.
That much was obvious.
Because the old man became very interested in organizing papers.
Suspiciously interested.
Haruto narrowed his eyes.
"What happened to Arthur?"
Silence.
A dangerous silence.
The bookseller's hand stopped moving.
Belial stopped joking.
Even the wind outside seemed to hesitate.
For the first time—
nobody had an answer.
And somehow—
that answer frightened Haruto more than any ruin ever had.