Shura didn't leave immediately.
His hand paused on the door.
Then—his eyes shifted.
The notebook.
Still on the table.
For a moment, he simply looked at it.
Osiris had guarded it carefully.
Too carefully for something ordinary.
Shura stepped back.
Reached out.
Picked it up.
The cover was worn—but not damaged.
Used.
Not neglected.
He didn't open it.
Not yet.
Instead, his fingers tightened around it… before placing it back exactly where it had been.
Same angle.
Same position.
Unchanged.
"…Not now," he muttered.
Then he turned—
and left.
The street outside had returned to motion.
People walked.
Voices carried.
Nothing reflected what had happened.
Which meant—
whatever took Osiris…
didn't leave ripples.
Shura didn't slow.
His hand slipped into his coat.
The badge rested there.
Cold.
Silent.
But not meaningless.
"…Authority," he murmured.
The word lingered.
Splitting into questions.
Why did Mr. Saku give it to me?
What did Osiris mean by it?
His gaze lifted slightly.
"…What are you?" he added under his breath.
A tool?
A permission?
Or something that decides who gets removed…
and who doesn't?
Shura exhaled slowly.
"…First, I need to know who 'they' are."
A pause.
"System… organization… inspectors…"
Another step.
"…or something else entirely."
The further he walked—
the more the district changed.
Structure gave way.
The roads lost alignment.
Stone shifted unevenly underfoot.
Buildings leaned—not collapsed, but wrong.
Asymmetrical.
Unplanned.
Surviving instead of living.
Fewer knights.
Fewer guards.
Fewer rules.
Or at least—
fewer visible ones.
Shura slowed slightly.
Observed.
"…The lower district doesn't maintain order," he murmured.
"…It tolerates it."
That made it more dangerous.
Not less.
At the turn—
he saw it.
The library.
The structure stood taller than the surrounding buildings.
Brass-bound doors.
Open.
Always open.
No guards.
No barriers.
Just—
access.
That alone made it abnormal.
Shura stopped at the entrance.
Watched.
People entered.
People left.
No hesitation.
No scrutiny.
"…Strange," he said quietly.
Then he stepped forward.
The moment he crossed the threshold—
the air changed.
Heavier.
Not physically.
Mentally.
Like stepping into a place where thought carried more weight than movement.
A Knight stood near the entrance.
Still.
Watching.
His gaze shifted to Shura immediately.
Sharp.
Measured.
Not hostile—
but not casual either.
Shura slowed.
Then gave a slight bow.
Minimal.
Respect without submission.
The Knight didn't stop him.
Only nodded once.
But his eyes dropped—
to Shura's coat.
Then briefly—
to his hand.
To the hidden weight beneath the fabric.
Something flickered across the Knight's expression.
Quick.
Gone.
Shura didn't react.
He walked inside.
The interior was dim.
Not poorly lit—
intentionally so.
Light gathered over tables.
Over books.
Over the few who remained seated.
Everything else faded into shadow.
A man sat near the inner archway.
Thin.
Rigid.
Eyes that didn't wander.
They locked onto Shura instantly.
"…You're not from here," the man said.
His voice was rough.
Worn down by time.
"The lower district isn't where your type usually ends up."
He stepped forward slightly.
Blocking the deeper path.
"Registration," he added.
"Name. Origin."
Shura didn't flinch.
His hand moved calmly.
He pulled out a folded parchment.
Placed it forward.
"…Shura."
A small pause.
"…Registered under Galut."
The man took it.
Scanned.
Eyes narrowing slightly—
then lifting back to Shura.
Slowly.
"Galut, huh…" he muttered.
His gaze moved again—
coat.
posture.
eyes.
"You look like a noble," he said,
"but you don't stand like one."
Shura said nothing.
Didn't deny it.
Didn't confirm it.
He simply waited.
The man clicked his tongue softly.
"…Name's Gault."
He handed the parchment back.
"You could've gone to an academy," Gault continued.
"Upper tiers. Clean halls. Real teachers."
His eyes narrowed.
"So why come here?"
A brief pause.
"…There's nothing special to learn."
Shura's gaze shifted past him.
Into the shelves.
Into the rows of books.
Endless.
Quiet.
Waiting.
"…Then I'll learn nothing special," Shura said.
Flat.
Final.
Gault stared at him for a moment—
then let out a short, dry laugh.
"…You'll fit in," he muttered.
He stepped aside.
"Go in, then."
A pause.
"…Just don't collapse in a corner."
"Sleep matters more than knowledge down here."
Shura walked past him.
"…If my body didn't require it," he said quietly,
"…I'd skip it."
For a brief moment—
a faint smile appeared.
Small.
Real.
Then it was gone.
The deeper he walked—
the quieter it became.
Not empty.
The kind of quiet that absorbed sound…
rather than lacking it.
Only a few people remained.
Scattered.
Reading.
Writing.
Not interacting.
Shura's eyes moved across the shelves.
Titles.
Bindings.
Ages.
"…Why are there so few people here," he murmured.
His gaze drifted across the room.
No crowd.
Barely any interest.
A brief pause.
Or they don't understand the value of what's here.
His fingers brushed along a row of spines.
Dust lifted.
Untouched.
Forgotten.
A place with knowledge… left unregulated.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
No entry fee. No restriction.
And yet… no one comes.
His hand paused on a worn binding.
So how do people here survive without it…
A beat of silence.
…or am I the exception?
He moved again.
Slowly.
Scanning.
Not randomly.
Searching.
Patterns.
Categories.
Anything related to—
Authority.
Systems.
Control.
Disappearance.
Dust shifted again beneath his touch.
Old.
Untouched.
Useful.
Something shifted behind him.
Not sound—
the absence of it.
A presence.
Close.
Too close.
Then—
a hand settled on his shoulder.
Light.
Deliberate.
Not friendly.
Shura didn't turn immediately.
His body stilled.
Not frozen—
ready.
His mind moved faster than his muscles.
Who?