Allen held a large stack of books, slowly moving under the bookshelf. Most books had never been organized. Old Bu hadn't sorted them; they lay scattered in haphazard piles across the floor. Flipping through revealed many slightly damaged volumes. None had been repaired, all jumbled together in a heap.

Books were precious here, sourced only through slow copying. Even these damaged old tomes were valuable. Frequent page-turning caused small cracks on covers. Left unrepaired, bigger issues arose over time: pages falling out, glue breaking. It often started with such tiny flaws.

Perhaps Old Bu was too old for strenuous tasks. This might have indirectly led him to quit and return home. Before leaving, he left no word upstairs—only a long letter on the library desk. It was sealed with wax bearing his personal stamp. The seal displayed a single elegant letter "Bu" in Continental script.

Other servants said Brad was 74—a long life for an ordinary person. In peaceful times, reaching 70 without awakening any Frenzy counted as longevity. He’d spent 30 years here, dedicating half his life to this library. Naturally, he felt reluctant to leave. Yet he believed in natural turnover. He finally departed the book repository he’d built with his life’s effort.

Though he loved everything here, he had to let go.

His letter contained no wasted words. Only instructions for repairing books and organizing shelves. Over ten pages, elegant handwriting filled every inch. He seemed to recall every book, noting exact placement for each type. The final page was personal.

Dear Administrator,

I am Brad, former librarian here. I’m truly grateful you’re taking my place. I left a terrible mess and feel deep shame. This letter is my apology for my irresponsibility.

I served 30 years. The job was comfortable—just organizing books. But my body declined. I refused to accept aging, yet time stole my strength. I couldn’t even climb ladders to shelve books. Only then did I realize I was old. Reflecting on thirty years, I saw a life of little achievement. I wanted to leave but couldn’t abandon this library or my stable life. So I stayed. Finally, old age caught up. My son’s return and this frail body gave me reason to retire. Now you take my post. I worry about these books. Hence this detailed shelving guide. Thank you for coming. Again, I apologize for the mess.

With utmost gratitude,

—Old Bu

July 6, 1763, Common Era

This was all the old librarian left behind.

Allen mixed glue with paper paste, gently brushing it over a crack. Once air-dried, it would be fixed. He’d repeated this for three days, so his hands moved skillfully. These were the last damaged books.

"Sister Lotus!~ Still repairing books?" A crisp voice came from the doorway—Cariana.

The library was open to all servants. They could borrow freely after logging it with the administrator. Cariana was a maid here. Unlike others who only rested and chatted, she loved learning and literature. She visited often. Though not the only borrower these past days, she was the most frequent. Familiarity turned her into Allen’s first friend in the mansion.

When Cariana asked Allen’s name, he gave his made-up alias: Lotus. She knew nothing of this, though the name felt odd—too short. When she asked his age, Allen told her plainly: counting his childhood plus lost memories, he was 23. Cariana doubted it at first. But after his firm assurances, she accepted it. Allen looked barely sixteen—a little quirk of his.

Cariana was 18, appearing much older than Allen. Yet she called him "Sister." Awkward at first, she grew used to it. Allen’s speech and demeanor resembled a 17th-century ascetic monk. His plain clothes and humble tone made him seem like someone who’d attained enlightenment, detached from the world.

When Cariana helped, Allen always thanked her seriously. When she asked advice, he’d explain slowly like a teacher, seeming devoid of liveliness. Yet sometimes he’d burst with energy. Mention "The Snail" novel, and he’d rave about the plot, eyes sparkling with stars as he critiqued it. Then Cariana felt he mentally returned to his true age—like a little sister sharing favorite things. But such moments were rare. Mostly, Allen stayed the silent ascetic. Cariana found it frustrating.

"You’re finally here. Help me." Allen stacked books into small rectangular blocks.

"This is 'The Snail'—the one you flipped through yesterday. I repaired it. Shelve it in row φ, sixth shelf, third compartment. I’m too short. I’ll ask the carpenter for a new ladder soon." Allen spoke head-down, organizing Brad’s unshelved books.

Allen was much shorter than Cariana, so she handled high spots. She didn’t mind. She often visited the library. Three days ago, she discovered Allen and clung to him day and night. He was fascinating—and undeniably cute. With Old Bu, she’d only asked about obscure texts. But Allen seemed like a porcelain doll. Motionless, he might be mistaken for a toy. Though no doll wore ascetic-style shirts and trousers.

Cariana wanted to understand Allen better. Why so wooden yet intriguing? He seemed to know every book here, recalling titles and authors instantly. His insights amazed her—they felt leagues beyond her own.

Cariana thought "The Snail" was just rebellion against the world, criticizing the author’s era. But Allen showed her its true depth. The snail rebelled and compromised, its uncertainty revealing real character. Cariana missed the details: the heavy shell was a disguise. Surface strength hid inner fragility. He didn’t escape death but secured happiness for his companions. Facing oppression, he gave everything. Under his natural enemy’s final pressure, he joked goodbye. He left gracefully like a sage, giving humans under Demonic Race domination a space to heal. Cariana never expected such meaning in a seemingly simple novel. It deepened her curiosity about Allen—but answers eluded her.

"Thank you, Cariana. You’ve been a huge help," Allen said with a smile.

"I’ve said it before, Sister Lotus—don’t say thank you! It makes us seem like strangers!" Cariana huffed, annoyed he still hadn’t changed after days together.

"Ah, sorry!" Allen replied.

"And don’t say sorry either!" Cariana sighed helplessly.

"By the way, Cariana—did you come for something? Isn’t it before your break?" Allen quickly changed the subject.

"Ah! I forgot while moving books! Tonight the master and two young masters return. We’ll all line up at the entrance to welcome them. Dress formally!" Cariana explained. Allen’s monk-like clothes hadn’t changed in three days. Even the butler sent her to remind him.

"What?! They’re coming back?!" Allen exclaimed in surprise.

"Do you know the master?" Cariana asked.

"...I don’t know them..." Allen replied.