Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

There was a familiar taste of iron in his mouth.

Chase awakened abruptly, blinking lethargically up at the blurry darkness over his head.

True awareness, however, crept in slowly. Like melting wax, it trickled down his head and neck, pooling into the crevices of his chest cavity and spreading to fill his hollowed out limbs, melding into their empty carcasses until it took shape of something resembling a body.

It felt like a foreign, distant concept – that body. His body. A trick of a mind - a lie made up to fill the emptiness. And yet, the sham persisted: dragging him back to those suffocating confines. The wax bubbled and popped, weeping red and fleshy, as nerves and senses sparked back to life. One by one, they sunk their tendrils in, igniting and spreading, like flames eating away at tinder, until the material world started to truly feel like one.

His head felt heavy. Somewhere at the base of his skull, a dull throbbing beat along the incessant drum of his heart. His skin felt like it was pulled taut over his aching, cramping muscles - overstretched to the point of breaking. The remnants of the cold sweat (and other fluids) made it prickle and itch, like thousands of tiny needles piercing it whenever he as much as shifted in place.

The pressure of it and the sensations made the tips of his numb fingers twitch madly. An urge, an almost primal, uncontrollable desire rose – to dig his fingers into the skin, under it, to let those restless claws loose to slice through the layers of tissue, so he could chase that itch away, or until he could just tear it all off-  

He ignored it. It helped, that even his bones felt too brittle to move.

His eyes felt dry. He blinked, though it did not help. His gaze refused to focus. There was a faint ringing in his ears – the only audible sound in the dead silence surrounding him. And the smell – a stench of filth, so overpowering, that the persistent taste of stale blood coating the inside of his mouth was nearly forgotten as he breathed it all in.

While his mind dully registered the smell, his body couldn’t help but react to it. Every next inhale made something in his chest rebel and convulse. His throat closed up as he choked on the rising bile. Gagging and coughing, Chase barely managed to roll himself onto his side, feeling every nerve receptor lit up at the movement, sending fire through his body. He ignored it, too busy heaving, spitting saliva and stomach acid down his chin.

His throat burned. The surface under his forearm was uneven. One of his arms landed on something wet and furry, elbow sliding on a strangely shaped mound. The fingers of the other hand closed in around something both smooth and brittle, and it crumbled away into dust under his convulsing grip. The raw, potent stench rose once more and with it the awareness that his own body felt sticky and disgusting- Chase gagged.

Somehow he managed to drag himself to his feet: knees skidding on the cluttered and moist surface; feet sinking with a wet suctioning -squelch- , before finally finding purchase on smooth stone.

In this upright position his head spun. Blindly, Chase stumbled away on numb, trembling legs, until one of his arms brushed against something solid, leaning against it. His labored, ragged breathing sounded far too loud: bouncing off the rocks, echoing the rush of his own heartbeat in his ears. Chase pushed himself along the wall. He was not sure where he was going. All he knew was that he did not want to stay here any longer – in the dark cold place, where air reeked of death and decay.

So, Chase walked. He moved slowly, led by instincts alone. With every step something at the bottom of his stomach unclenched and settled. The nausea abated, as he concentrated on putting one foot in front of another. Deep in the shadowed embrace of the stone enclosing all around him, there was no sense of time or true direction. He was not sure how long he walked and where exactly he headed – in the dark, every hall looked alike, every turn led nowhere. Until, there was something different.

Light, cold and harsh, filled his vision. Chase squinted.

Some distance away, a narrow shaft of light bisected the long stretch of darkness, illuminating the surroundings, painting everything in tones of blue. Chase walked slowly towards it, coming to a stop just at the edges where the light spilled over the pristine stone floors, watching as dust motes fluttered across it in a slow wave.

Goosebumps broke out across his body, when a faint breeze brushed against his trembling, itching skin, bringing a momentarily sense of relief. Like a hound catching scent, his head rose, inhaling greedily. Chase closed his stinging eyes and stepped into the light.

He did not need to see to feel the fresh air of open space, nor did he need it to hear the gentle ripple of water lapping against the stone. His bare feet felt the change from smooth cut floor, to a rougher rocky surface. After a few steps, one of them met nothingness, where it paused for a brief second.

The first touch of ice cold water sent a violent shiver of shock up his body, but Chase did not stop his descend down the wide steps of the pool. He concentrated on other sensations instead: the gentle pull of water against his calves; the sound of water splashing, echoing in the air; the thin layer of algae that felt velvety soft under his feet. When water hit his hips, he started to shiver. When it reached past his ribs, his chest involuntarily constricted, trapping his next breath in his throat. But he did not stop. Only when water engulfed his neck, did he pause to take one deep breath- before going under.

In the weightless quiet and cold, for the first time since awakening, Chase felt some semblance of calm.

He could feel his body hanging, undulating ever so slightly with the slow movement of undercurrents in the depths of the pool. The ringing silence that became his background noise was muffled by the water, turning into a deep hum that vibrated at the base of his spine.

(In this expanse of silence and darkness, it was the closest he could ever be with the cosmos now – where he was nothing, but a speck.

Where he was everything, but it.) 

However it didn’t take long for the cold to seep too deep into his bones and for the darkness to creep to the edges of his consciousness - like a shadow slowly encroaching from behind. Hovering. Waiting. The meditative hum warped and deepened, now sounding more like distant screams and whispers, slithering up his spine and into his ears. The gentle embrace of water turned into oppressive pressure, grasping at his body, eager to drag him deeper, down down down-

He emerged explosively, gasping for breath. The whispers and screams fell away, replaced by splashing of water, as he pushed himself towards the shallower part of the pool. His toes gripped at porous stone, propelling him forward faster, until he could finally stand up. When water was just below his chest, he stopped to catch his breath, swaying in place as the surface settled. Hanging his head, he cupped some water to wash his face and eyes and swirling another mouthful to chase away the stale taste of iron and lingering bitterness.

When he finally opened his eyes, he paused.

In the rippling surface, something looked back at him.

Clouds of grime swirled around his half submerged form, twisting and moving like live appendages belonging to some underwater being. The layers of filth were slowly sloughing away from his body, dragged away by the undercurrents. Amidst it, a grey apparition of a face, hidden in the shadowy curtain that was a tangled mop of a hair, stared up at him with a wide-eyed gaze - eyes more serpentine yellow than rich gold, flat and- not quite there. 

Chase blinked. The reflection blinked back.

One of his arms that was resting on the surface bobbed into his line of view. His gaze slid over to it. The forearm was streaked with dark colors that stood stark contrast to what little skin was visible. The skin itself was so pale, it was almost translucent – like the thinnest sheet of rice paper, stained by wayward ink. He could see the blue lines of veins painted just under the surface: like tiny riverbeds, snaking around the map of valleys made of tendons and muscles, until they were overtaken by fallen the dark reds of autumn leaves.  

Chase stared. He could not recall how and when he had been injured. Yet there was fresh blood welling up in a small wound gouged deep in his upper arm. It trickled slowly down to his elbow, mixing with dirt and water.

From his peripheral, he could see the reflection staring at fresh blood with unabated hunger.

It took little concentration to push energy towards it. He watched dispassionately, as the ragged edges of the small wound stitched itself together, smoothing over, not leaving even a memory of itself behind. Chase ran his fingers over it, smudging blood and grime.

It took some time to loosen all the clinging muck on his body and hair. Eventually the previously crystal blue water around him grew darker and cloudy, while his skin turned pale pink and numb, from being rubbed raw with cold water and harsh fingers. There were still some stubborn dark streaks on his skin and gunk deep in the bed of his fingernails. But when he stepped out of the pool, he was much cleaner then when he stepped in. No longer did he resemble a walking wraith.

After the icy water, the air felt warm against his shivering skin. Running fingers through his hair, to squeeze the excess moisture and untangle some of it, Chase paused briefly. There was a bundle of cloth on the ground next to the pool. Some distant, little nagging voice at the back of his mind prodded him to pick it up. The silky cloth unraveled, rippling blue and black, smelling of clean fresh herbs and warm fur.

His fingers itched a little where they held the robe and a shiver run down his spine. The silk was soft. Some part of him balked at the thought of it touching his skin. The same little voice piped up again, admonishing him something about decency. Chase’s cheek twitched.

Since when did decency matter to him? His state of nudity hardly bothered him. And it wasn’t like he cared if anyone saw him in this state.

(Not that there even was anyone around to see him.)

And yet, the little voice insisted, mocking the idea of Chase Young walking about in the nude and catching a cold. Chase’s cheek twitched again, more violently.

He threw the robe over his body, just to make that voice quiet. Ignoring the repulsive way it clung to his wet shoulders and how it instantly got soaked under his hair, leaving an unpleasant chilly sensation. He didn’t bother to tie it close, letting it hang off of him freely.

Decency. Hah. What was the point in caring about that?

There was none.

There was no point in caring about anything at all.

The air grew colder. The numbness in his limbs spread upwards. Chase turned away from the water.  The sound of wet feet on stone floor echoed in the open space of the pool hall, as he exited it, delving back into shadowy maze of corridors in the deepest underbelly of the Citadel.

Was he in the southern or eastern parts? Lower levels or underground ones? He wasn’t quite sure. At some point all the halls that he once personally oversaw being carved into the mountain range, blurred into one another over the decades. Every intricate etching on every rare stone pillar; every elaborate mosaic wall and painted mural; all the precious gems and metals used for decorations; everything that he once chose to adorn his hard won and hard earned lair - his home – had lost its shine and meaning.

What did they matter? If in the end, everything could be destroyed at the flick of a claw?

So, Chase walked, letting his gaze slide unseeingly over the walls of a corridor after corridor, passing doorway after doorway. Restless feet taking him nowhere, without any real purpose, no real reason, other than not to linger, not to stop.

(Lest he stopped and the shadow of thoughts, lurking just out of his peripheral vision, got a chance to ambush him.

Lest he stopped and the distant ringing in his ears morphed into whispering wails that would haunt him as long as he was awake. 

Lest he stopped and was left to face the flat-eyed beast, watching him from the fleeting reflections.

Waiting for him to slip.)

Chase walked, until his hair was no longer wet and his body started to ache again, even through cold numbness. He paused only when one of his legs cramped painfully, forcing him to lean against the nearest surface to let the annoyance pass. His eyes wandered around another non-descript hall he found himself in. There was little in the way of light this deep in the mountainside, but his night vision was better than assistance from any torch. Still, it took him two or three passes to notice a corner of a door; partially visible behind a turn just a few steps away.

It almost merged with the wall, so dark it was. Chase even wondered if he was imagining it, but the door was still there after a few long blinks. A swirl of magic peaked at his approach: shaking itself off and reaching towards him in greeting, before settling back into the magical background noise. Like a sleepy guard dog greeting its returned owner. That confirmed Chase had been here before. Not that he could actually recall.

The set of heavy double doors were carved out of volcanic rock and reinforced with black metal supports. Even in the darkness the polished surfaces gleamed like obsidian. There were small pale stones set along its edges, with etchings scratched in-between them – some sort of spell, but Chase could not decipher its purpose right away. Something about perseverance, perhaps.

Putting his hands on the unexpectedly warm surface, Chase pushed the doors open.

‘Ah… that’s right. A library.’

Indeed it was. Though perhaps, it would have been more appropriate to call it an archive.

The room beyond the doors was big and dark, lined with several rows of heavy shelves chiseled from rock that towered over his head and stretched far into its depths. The rush of air that hit him was dry and mildly warm, smelling a little bit dusty and stale. Like it has been years since anyone aired out the place. Distantly he wondered, if anyone even remembered that this room was here - he certainly seemed to have forgotten. The citadel had several libraries and archives – out of necessity and practicality. He wouldn’t be surprised if there were dozen more rooms like this, scattered all over the citadel, forgotten and discarded as soon as they served their purpose.

A cold draft hit his back, making him shiver and prompting him to move.

When Chase stepped inside, the room grew brighter: pale crystals set along the walls and sides of the shelves lit up, bathing everything in a soft white glow. A normal precaution in the isolated closed off space containing fragile and easily flammable objects – especially in the mountain that contained a volcano. Chase squinted, but the mellow light was designed with sensitive vision of his warriors (and his own) in mind, so it was easy to adjust to, allowing him to finally see properly.

The place was cluttered. Beyond countless tomes of books and scrolls filling the shelves, there were numerous various odds and ends tucked away in between them. Chests locked tight and shoved away to gather dust at the lowest of shelves; artifacts displayed under glass cases and sealed with spells; a few strange carvings or even seemingly simple common objects just sitting there deceptively innocuous.

Chase barely paused to squint at a rock the size of his fist, briefly skimming the label written in a scratchy hand in a dialect he didn’t recognize, before continuing on.

Library or archive, in the end it turned into more of a storage space for all the knowledge and items that either couldn’t be categorized into main libraries, or were just too obscure or of no particular use to him, but still valuable enough to keep a hold of.

The tiny voice thrilled something about dragons and their tendencies to hoard.

Chase snorted. He might have inherited many draconic traits, but uncontrollable hoarding was not exactly one of them. Only logical practicality and distaste for waste. Though, he supposed, there was little sense to label any of it now. In the end it all became clutter that just occupied space, and at best it could serve as a distraction, if anything.

A few rows further down, the shelves abruptly ended. In the cleared out space in what appeared to be center of the room, stood several heavy chiseled tables and chairs. Every surface was occupied with towering book stacks and packed chests, overflowing with paper and scrolls. Clearly this served as someone’s workspace. It seemed like one of his servants had been in the middle of cataloguing, but left in a hurry and never finished this task, leaving all of this out.

Chase looked over some filled out papers and a few open books, dragging one finger through the thick layer of dust covering everything. Brushing it off, Chase tilted his head at one of the chests on the table where one of the books was caught under the unclosed lid. With a careless flick of Chase’s finger the lid shot open, thumping noisily against a spine of a book in a tower behind it.

Slowly, like a great ancient tree, the whole stack tittered and swayed, breaking apart as heavy tomes knocked over everything in the surrounding tables in a thundering cascade of objects.

All Chase could do is close his eyes and accept the inevitable.

When the dust settled and the last paper fluttered to the ground, everything was covered in a layer of grey. Including himself. Chase started to regret not closing his robe. He grimaced at the gritty feeling against his skin. Wiping his face with his sleeve, he blinked away clumps of dust stuck on his eyelashes.

All around him was carnage; not every book made it out intact, judging by some lone crumpled apart covers and rivers of pages spilling like guts everywhere. A couple of chests and boxes got knocked over, throwing their miscellaneous contents into the mix. Several small statuettes that were previously hidden in between the stacks now were strewn around in pieces, sharp shards tearing through delicate paper. He wondered if any of them were cursed. Nudging one of them with his foot didn’t reveal any answer.

Holding in the urge to sneeze, Chase decided that perhaps it was time to make his way out. However just as he turned around, one of his feet slipped on a wayward scroll that found its way onto his path, skidding across the dusty surface until his toes jabbed right into a sharp corner of a chest.

Not expecting that, Chase cursed from sheer surprise, hissing under his breath as he hunched over to grab onto the assaulted appendages. The pain was negligible, a passing sharp spike that had already faded, and yet, it was as if it yanked something loose in him. With a fierce roar, like a disturbed slumbering beast, anger swelled in his chest – so strong and intense, that it tore through the numbness.

CRASH!

Everything around him went flying: the books, the chests, even the heavy chairs and tables were sent screeching on their sides into the opposite wall, cracking on impact and shaking everything around. Dust danced through the air once more, tinting everything in grey. Chase breathed heavily, flexing his hands, feeling skin ripple as scales and claws threatened to pop out. He stared sightlessly at the grey wall and debris, pupils contracting, before focusing sharply.

Slowly, Chase straightened out and made his way towards the strewn over pile between the tables and shelves. He crouched, pushing everything aside carelessly, eyes narrowing as he uncovered what was beneath.

A book. A big heavy black book, with red designs and dark grey accents, and what seemed to be a green gem set in the middle of its hard cover.

It looked like any other book, but in the sea of muted greys, the sheer vibrancy of its colors stood out. The black was deep as the night, the reds were as vibrant as blood and the green gem was polished and gleaming, as if glowing from the inside. The red circles and spirals drew an eye, making it almost impossible to look away. Chase stared, as if spellbound, his hand stretching out to let his fingers lightly touch it.

A tingle run up his arm. His fingertips felt warm.

The book was real.

But how could it be? Surrounded by the grey that covered absolutely everything in sight, even him, and yet the book itself was spotless. It was impossible. Even the best perseverance spells eventually faded without proper maintenance, everything in this long forgotten room was a proof of that. Considering it was literally in one of the stacks - it had to be at least a little bit dirty. And yet, it was not.

It was almost as if the book dropped into existence just now, or… it had not been here as long as the others. When everything eventually succumbed to the pervasive dust - it did not, because it did not have enough time to. But no one had been here before him, the spell was a proof of that. It didn’t make sense, it was – an anomaly.

Chase froze.

An anomaly. Yes… it was something unusual. Something new and different, in this unchanging sea of dull monotony, that became his existence.

A mystery.

Chapter Text

The book was not a part of his collection.

Trrr-dk. Trrr-dk. Trrr-dk.

Chase drummed his fingers against the cover of the registry, his gaze not really focused on the words in front of him, but rather staring through the page, lost in thought.

It has been almost a week since he found the book.

In his brightly lit office, in a more clearheaded (and dust-free) state of mind - the strange wild urgency that overtook him back there in the underground, seemed far away now. Though, not completely gone. If anything, that jittery instinctual gut feeling had settled in the pit of his stomach with a heavy certainty that felt far too final.

Chase furrowed his brow, feeling his mouth tense against the press of his knuckles.

When he decided to indulge that sudden curiosity about this… ( anomaly- anomaly- an anomaly-) inconsistency, the bigger, more rational part of him had expected the answer to be a simple one. Maybe the book just had a particularly strong perseverance spell cast upon it? Maybe one of his servants did leave it in the storage recently? Maybe his interpretation of the room’s guarding spell had been inaccurate?

(Maybe all of it was just conjectures and hasty conclusions of a paranoid mind – instincts going haywire - After all, it wouldn’t be the first time, nor the last-)   

Small, innocuous details. Mistakes that slipped by. It happened on occasion, rarely, but it did. In the lives of immortals, overlooking small things and forgetting details was an inevitability he had reluctantly learned to accept. Especially when it came to possessions.

As years went by, his collections grew too big to manage by himself. He had lost count of how many books he had misplaced and lost, before he caved in and delegated most of the work to some of his more academically inclined servants. Sifting through the old and the constantly incoming acquisitions was a time-consuming, unending task. More often than not, they came with new conquests: whenever Chase defeated his enemies or challengers (whether they joined him or were killed) their belonging were often transferred into his ownership.

And even as the world changed and conquests became rare events (thus greatly slowing down the income rate of new items) there were still over a millennium worth of books and other items. There were bound to be some slip-ups, no matter how studious and diligent his servants were. After all, aside a few rare exceptions, most of them were warriors first and scholars second.

Still it didn’t mean they were incompetent.

Every item in this citadel was recorded, especially the books. Cataloguing usually consisted of first determining if the items were worth of any use, be it practical and even recreational. During this initial stage there would be a general record of them – when and how they came to be in his possession, the number of items in the same bundle and their state. From there, if the item was deemed useful it would be studied more closely, if not, it was discarded.

If they passed muster, they would be ranked by level of value, interest or usefulness. After that they would be recorded in the Accessions Books, supplied with more details, like the information on its appearance, summary of contents, authors, creators and other distinguishable features. From there, they would be sorted either into the libraries (for books most likely to be used), or into archives and storages (mostly for safe keeping).

Aside from more specialized registries, this was the general system used for every object brought into the citadel. So, when Chase pulled up the registry of the storage he found the book in, he expected it to be noted somewhere. However there was zero mention of a book matching its description in the registry, nor was it in the list of the initial assessment of the items batch he found it in.

When Chase summoned one of his servants to grill them about who was responsible for cataloguing those, the warrior had averted their gaze, either deep in thought or to avoid his displeasure.

“If I recall it was Nisaba, Master.” The panther answered after a few minutes of thinking. “She was trying to clear out the backlog of books that had yet to be evaluated.”

“And why did she leave the task unfinished?” Chase had asked irritably, trying to recall the face to match the familiar name. 

The panther had flinched, its head lowered and ears pinned back.

“…She… was one of those who were released from duty, Master.”

… Ah. Right. That would certainly explain it.

Chase had pressed his lips tightly together, but sent off the servant with orders to assign someone to clean up the storage and finally deal with that backlog. He considered ordering them to overhaul all forgotten storages too, since they were there. If anything, just to make sure there were no more surprises laying forgotten somewhere. And it would give the many idle paws something to do.

After that, Chase extended his search to the registries of others archives, storages and libraries – despite already suspecting that none of them would yield any satisfactory results. There were books close in appearance, with partially similar features, but none of them were a perfect match. The repeated use of location spells revealed that those books were all in their places.

When it seemed that there were no logical answers to be found in the most obvious places, Chase decided to turn to the book itself to search for clues. After relocating to his personal office, he set off to study the book more closely, instead of just briefly skimming through some of its pages.

It quickly became apparent that this… anomaly was hiding far more surprises, than even he could have suspected.

The book was no thicker than the width of his palm and yet it appeared to contain far more pages than its size suggested. Every time Chase opened it, the order of the pages changed randomly. Sometimes they only shuffled places, but other times he would notice pages he had never seen before appear out of nowhere. On a few occasions almost half of the pages would be absent, and yet there would be no change in the book’s outer appearance. Beside this variation of inner-dimensional spell, the paper itself also had an ‘all-tongue’ spell woven into it – a translation tool to allow anyone who read this book to understand its contents, no matter what language it was written on and what language the reader was fluent in.

Neither of those spells were a particular surprise. There were a great number of old books and scrolls that utilized similar spells, for their great convenience. What was surprising, however is the fact that both of those high level spells were used together successfully in one book.

Chase could not claim expertise on the art of book-binding and its associated magicks, but he learned enough to know what was required to create and maintain a book such as this.

Complex spells of this variety, required a skilled caster and an appropriate vessel. Not every common object can contain magic successfully, so makers usually used specific materials that had ability to absorb and hold magic like that. For paper, its magic containing properties also depended entirely on the type of trees or plants it was created from, and it could vary wildly from species to species. For the binding cover, there were a lot of variations, from cloth to leather, and each carried its own unique properties that had to be considered. Even thread and binding agents (like glue and sap) played a role in the magical harmony of the book.

And even if the vessel was of high quality, the spells themselves tended to be highly dependent on the caster’s power levels and skills. Usually one had to compromise on the lower grade of the spell to make it more manageable to cast. Which meant that the results were not usually this grand in scale. At best, most people of an average power level would only be able to hide around a dozen of pages at most, in the dimensional space of the book. The typical number usually fell around 2-3 pages, considering that the caster also needed to tie in conditional requirements to unlock them. So, to see an unknown number of pages shuffling around like a magical deck of cards was certainly rare.

Translation spells were even trickier. With languages constantly evolving and branching off, even the most proficient of spells tended to lag behind. Concepts and connotations might get lost in time, rendering some words obsolete and making it harder to find more modern equivalents, thus leaving them basically untranslatable. Chase could attest to that himself: one of his prized possessions was a magical scroll from Ancient Sumer that contained a similar translation spell, in an effort to persevere its contents, and yet it took him centuries to decipher even a half of it (even after learning what little of ancient sumeric that he could).

In comparison, the translation spell in this book felt… alive, like a constantly shifting, adaptable little worm wiggling somewhere at the back of his mind. Chase was sure that it was a high-grade spell that would be able to translate anything in this book.

That is, as long as there was something to translate.

The contents of the book itself was something between a historic record and an instruction manual centered around an ancient Japanese Clan that practiced a unique form of Ninjutsu. At least that was what Chase managed to gather through fractured tidbits of information.

When Chase first skimmed through the pages, he noted the faded text on many of them, but chalked it up to the book’s possible old age. But that conclusion fell apart as soon as they begun to change on him. Several of the same pages he came across previously were never in the same condition. Sometimes random words or even entire sentences would be missing. Several times he noticed entire passages would vanish or be replaced by completely different ones he had never seen before. Like with shuffling, there did not seem to be any rhythm or reason for it.

But at least those pages contained some information. A few times Chase came across entirely blank pages, with only the faintest of ink smudges on its corners to even hint on the fact that at some point there was something written on it. In an almost startling contrast, there were also pages where the text was completely blacked out by big splotches of ink, scribbled by a frenzied hand. The ink on those was so vivid and dark; it almost seemed like it was freshly spilled, though when Chase touched it - the paper was bone dry.

All of that led him to another discovery that only cemented the book’s unknown origins.

-snap-

Chase closed the registry with a sharp inhale, tapping it against his knee as his gaze turned upwards. He pressed his fingers to his lips, trying and failing to contain a faint grimace of distaste just from remembering when he first came across the offending pages.

Surely, if any of his servants slipped this book into the citadel they wouldn’t have allowed it to remain… defaced like that. Scribbles, doodles, crude caricatures and various notes littered the pages. Not only in the margins and empty spaces, but sometimes overtaking the text and proper illustrations themselves, like rogue agents of chaos.

It caught him off-guard; seeing those tiny ink-blot warriors with swords, ganging up on a faded illustration of sea-serpent amidst the painted waves. Staring at them made something in his old, long-buried (but not forgotten) memories stir.

He was never really a bookish type.

When he first arrived to the temple, they taught him how to read. Chase was excited to be finally able to learn about the world and its stories: about all of those amazing legendary warriors of old; about people who reached beyond the mundane and achieved great things; about how one could become like them. But it didn’t take too long for him to discover that he lacked the patience required to sit still and stare at paper for long periods of time. Oh, he absorbed the information fairly quickly; it was the endless pondering and visualization that did not appeal to him.

During long, boring lessons filled with dusty scrolls, under the supervision of equally dusty-old temple scholars, Chase would inevitable be caught doodling tiny fighting figures on those precious paper relics and scolded till his ears bled. His smart-ass remarks about being able to learn more out there on the battlefield (or at least in the training hall) were met with punishment worse than death. A week of meditation and reciting suttas while staring at a rock wall, with no physical training. To his young self it was akin to torture. Needless to say, Chase learned not to get caught again after the first few times.

Guan was different. Chase teased the other endlessly when he learned that the solidly built youth he considered an equal amidst all the other disciples - was such a bookworm. Guan did not have a problem with burrowing himself in the scrolls, devouring stories and legends for days to no end. Chase was sure if he didn’t drag the other out to train; Guan would have withered away and grew old and dusty, like his favorite scrolls and books.

They spent quite a number of carefree days, hiding out on nearby fields, with Guan reading out loud to Chase and him needling the other into reenacting those battles of legends.

(Of course, those days came to an end far too quickly.)

Chase remembered being surprised Dashi was not one for the books either. Like Chase, he was very quick to absorb information, but unlike Chase, who wanted to put to use what he learned, what Dashi wanted was to test the knowledge itself. To question everything, to pick it all apart until he could learn it from inside and out, so he could figure out how to break it, to change it, to bend it to his will and push it to its limits. He recalled a particular incident when Dashi destroyed several very old, very precious scrolls and an ancient relic, all just to prove some sort of theory to the old Masters. He remembered being impressed by the older disciple’s ability to make the Grand Master turn into a very particular shade of puce he had never seen before.

To this day, Chase was not sure who the old monks were aggravated more by, Dashi or him.

(They were never aggravated by Guan. Their perfect little monk.)

So it wasn’t like Chase was obsessed with keeping the books in immaculate condition. If anything, some part of him even considered it a charming little flaw to have: like a small insignificant attempt of someone eager to leave their mark on the world. There were plenty of books with such imperfections in his collections, but his servants made sure to keep them contained away from the main parts of the content itself, to keep text readable. There were even various restoration methods developed that helped remove this type of vandalism.

Though, Chase pursed his lips thoughtfully, he couldn’t rightfully call it vandalism. At first glance, yes it appeared to be so, but the closer he looked the more it became obvious that some of those little notes and doodles were not done frivolously.

Chase had to raise an eyebrow when he encountered a text in dark red ink ‘DON’T USE EXPLOSIVES!!! SWAMP GAS!!!’ scrawled along the border of a page that had partial information about a monster that appeared to have relocated to a swamp. Along it was a caricature of a warrior in bits and pieces, with X in the eyes of its decapitated head, as a doodle of creature chewed on its severed hand holding a tiny round bomb.

Many similar notes also read more like a supplement to the original paragraphs: warnings, critiques and extra instructions. Clearly, this book went through many inexperienced hands; inheritors and students of this obscure clan’s techniques and teaching. And as they learned, those same hands made sure to continue the tradition of imparting updated information on future generations, by making such… unorthodox additions, during their ownership of the book.

And… quite recently too.

Chase’s heart beat a little faster as his eyes turned away from the ceiling, towards the table in front of him, where the book sat open on a stand. Luminescent lime yellow, purple-ish indigo and pinkish red - unnaturally bright on muted beige and earth colors, effortlessly drew one’s attention. No matter how much he squinted at it, it was still there, glaringly obvious: lines made by a modern marker, looking as if they were freshly drawn just a few minutes ago.

FIRST! #1

But how could any of it be possible?

How could a magical book that belonged to some ancient Clan and its inheritors - one of whom had it in their possession as recently as the last 2 centuries - find its way into a pile of old relics deep in the underground storage of this Citadel?

Especially when no one could have entered the Land of Nowhere?

His eyes drifted from the neon lines to meet a dark-brown gaze, as if it held all the answers.

The portrait was almost an afterthought after the discovery of markers, but it was another strange part of this puzzle that raised more questions. Amidst all the illustrations, it stood out because it was a portrait of an actual person. Most images in the book were done in a distinct older Japanese style of Yamato-e, with several personalized twists that spoke of several different painters, but they all depicted people as ambiguous human forms with no discerning features or wearing masks and full face coverings. However, the portrait looked more modern, done in a style not entirely dissimilar to the European ones of Baroque or Rococo periods. Such a befuddling shift in style, and yet it was also clearly made for this book.

The portrait was of a severe-looking man on a dark backdrop. He was dressed in a red and black kimono that complimented his warm complexion and underlined his wide, sturdy looking chest and shoulders. His hair was greenish brown; long enough to be gathered into a tight topknot that only accentuated the sharp square-ish features of his face. It almost looked like the man was clenching his jaw, making the lines of it and his sharp cheekbones even more pronounced. The eyes under the thick eyebrows were big, but dark and heavy-lidded as their owner looked down his wide, proud nose at the viewer. The color of them was deep dark brown, almost reddish in the light, with small amber flecks meticulously painted in, to make it look like they glowed with embers.

It was certainly a contrast to the bright cheerful colors underneath it.

Both of these recent discoveries, made all previous information he learned about the book seem less urgent. Any time he opened the book, Chase found himself leafing through it, until he found this page again. Unlike others, it remained unchanged every time he came across it, and yet Chase lingered every time: studying both the man and the marker lines over and over, memorizing that particular shade of brown and vibrant indigo-purple. 

Chase set the registry aside, leaning closer to lean his elbows on the polished surface of the table. Setting his chin in one of his hands, he pressed the fingers of another to the page. He could feel the grainy texture of the paper and barely noticable bumps and flecks of paint, as he traced the edges of the portrait lightly. The now familiar feeling of a warm tingle rose in his fingertips, slowly spreading across his palm, making it feel like he dipped it into a bowl of tepid water.

Who was this man? Was ‘First’ his title? Perhaps he was the author of this book, or just its first owner? Maybe he was the founder of this Clan? Maybe all of the above? Maybe none of it? Whatever it was, one thing was for certain - he was important.

Chase could see it. It might have been just a portrait, but even captured in stillness, Chase could recognize that gaze: eyes of someone who had to make tough decisions and live with their consequences. And not just consequences in regards for his own life, but for the lives of others. Those were eyes of a leader; he had little doubt about that. A man who had been defined by the hardships and tribulations; someone who fought tooth and nail to come out on the other side intact. And in the depth of those dark eyes, beneath a veneer of a hardened man, lurked something wounded and perhaps broken.

However, in the harsh strokes of a brush, something else lingered in the deep lines of that downturned mouth, in the dark shadows under those intent eyes. Something Chase couldn’t name, but feel on the tip of his tongue, like a fleeting tang of sour sweetness.

One of his fingers traced the arc of the man’s brow. It was slightly furrowed, making it look as if the man was a bit angry - or perhaps disappointed? - as he looked on. To some it might even look like the man was judging the on-looker, and yet his stern gaze still drew one’s attention, making it impossible to look away. Even Chase felt himself being drawn to those eyes, again and again. Like a moth beckoned to a flicker of flame, or a leaf drifting on currents as they carry it deeper, into the dark whirlpool hidden beneath the deceptively still surface, and all it would take to be swallowed whole, was

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