The room remained silent.
Arthur had found the Grave of Pages.
Arthur had returned.
Arthur had not returned unchanged.
That alone was enough to make Haruto want answers.
Unfortunately—
answers were in short supply.
The bookseller had become suspiciously interested in organizing shelves.
Belial had become suspiciously interested in the floor.
Neither was helping.
Haruto crossed his arms.
"...so what now?"
The bookseller looked up.
"Now?"
"Yes, now."
The old man thought for a moment.
Then pointed toward the door.
"You leave."
Haruto stared.
"What?"
"You leave."
The bookseller pointed again.
"Go explore the city."
"That's your advice?"
"It's excellent advice."
"No, it isn't."
The old man shrugged.
"Then ignore it."
Haruto was beginning to understand why Arthur had become a problem.
It was impossible to learn from this man without also inheriting his frustration.
A loud crash suddenly echoed from upstairs.
Everyone froze.
Another crash followed.
Then:
"OW!"
Silence.
The bookseller closed his eyes.
Slowly.
Painfully.
Like a man whose worst fears had just come true.
Haruto blinked.
"...what was that?"
The old man sighed.
"A mistake."
Another crash.
"DEFINITELY A MISTAKE."
Belial nodded immediately.
The bookseller pointed toward the ceiling.
"Stay here."
Naturally—
Haruto followed him upstairs.
Because following instructions had never been one of his strengths.
The second floor looked completely different.
Instead of bookshelves, it contained worktables.
Maps.
Charts.
Stacks of loose papers.
Research notes covered nearly every surface.
The room looked like a battlefield between knowledge and organization.
Knowledge was winning.
A ladder lay on the floor.
Beside it—
a boy.
Face-down.
Motionless.
Covered in books.
Haruto blinked.
The boy slowly raised a hand.
"...I am unharmed."
A book immediately fell onto his head.
"Correction."
The hand lowered.
"I am mildly harmed."
Belial started laughing.
The bookseller looked disappointed.
"Abel."
The boy sat up.
Slowly.
Several books slid off his shoulders.
He couldn't have been older than fourteen.
Maybe fifteen.
Dark hair.
Thin frame.
Round glasses.
An expression suggesting reality continuously failed to meet his expectations.
He adjusted his glasses.
Then looked directly at Haruto.
A pause followed.
A very long pause.
The boy narrowed his eyes.
Haruto narrowed his eyes back.
The bookseller immediately looked concerned.
"...Abel."
Too late.
The boy pointed.
"You are statistically impossible."
Haruto blinked.
"What?"
The boy stood.
Ignoring the books.
Ignoring the ladder.
Ignoring common sense.
"You crossed the Sea of Glass."
"Yes."
"The southern route."
"Yes."
"Without a caravan."
"...yes."
Abel looked horrified.
"As I said."
He adjusted his glasses again.
"Statistically impossible."
Belial immediately liked him.
"I LIKE THIS ONE."
"Thank you."
Abel nodded politely.
Then looked at the goat.
"You are also statistically impossible."
"THANK YOU."
Haruto rubbed his forehead.
This was going to be a problem.
He could already tell.
Abel began pacing.
Rapidly.
Like a scholar whose brain had encountered new information.
"You have no records."
"Apparently."
"You arrived recently."
"Yes."
"You possess an unidentified cloak."
Haruto froze slightly.
The boy noticed.
Of course he noticed.
Abel's eyes sharpened.
Like a hawk spotting movement.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
The scholar pointed.
"The cloak is important."
The room became quiet.
The bookseller folded his arms.
Watching.
Evaluating.
Testing.
Haruto looked at Abel.
"How do you know that?"
The boy frowned.
Then answered honestly.
"I don't."
A pause.
"I suspect it."
The honesty surprised him.
Abel walked toward a nearby table.
Digging through stacks of papers.
Books.
Notes.
More papers.
Somehow producing even more papers.
Eventually he found what he wanted.
A sketch.
Old.
Yellowed.
Carefully preserved.
Abel placed it on the table.
Haruto stepped closer.
Then froze.
Arthur.
Not the same sketch from earlier.
A different one.
This Arthur looked older.
Tired.
Yet smiling.
And standing beside him—
was a young bookseller.
Several decades younger.
The resemblance was unmistakable.
Haruto glanced toward Elias.
The old man looked away.
Immediately suspicious.
Abel pointed at the drawing.
"This appears in several records."
"Records?"
The boy nodded.
"Very few."
His expression darkened.
"Too few."
Haruto remembered Arthur's note.
People forget names.
The world forgets evidence.
Abel continued.
"The records become inconsistent after this point."
"What does that mean?"
The boy hesitated.
Then answered.
"It means history starts behaving strangely."
The room grew quiet.
Abel tapped the sketch.
"There should be more."
Another tap.
"There used to be more."
A third tap.
"There isn't."
Haruto's pulse quickened.
Because for the first time—
someone besides Arthur was describing the same phenomenon.
Not rumors.
Not legends.
Evidence.
The boy looked directly at him.
And asked the question Haruto had been avoiding.
"Who are you?"
Silence.
Haruto opened his mouth.
Then closed it.
Because for the first time since arriving in this world—
he genuinely wasn't sure how to answer.