Kael was about to open Cause.

  His thumbs had already slipped beneath the page edges. The dark, matte cover seemed ready to reveal its contents.

  But the man interrupted him, his voice calm:

  “I wouldn’t advise you to read that one first.”

  Surprised, Kael looked up. The book still half-open in his hands, he asked, intrigued:

  “Why not?”

  The man, seated once more on the couch, picked up the bishop between his fingers. He rolled it slowly from one side to the other, thoughtful. Then, without looking at Kael:

  “Do you know what a cause is, young man?”

  Kael frowned.

  “I was asked a similar question this morning… A cause,” he replied, “is… what leads to a consequence.”

  The man stopped moving.

  A very slight smile—almost imperceptible—brushed across his face.

  “There, you’ve just given me the place a cause occupies. Not what it is.”

  He raised the bishop in front of him, like a strange prism, then continued, his tone still neutral:

  “A cause is not simply what precedes a consequence. It’s more subtle than that. More insidious, sometimes.”

  He leaned forward slightly.

  “A cause, in its essence… is an origin that is not always aware of itself.”

  “It is an intention. An impulse. A point of tension.”

  “Sometimes, it isn’t even an action. It’s a non-choice. An omission.”

  A silence.

  He slowly set the bishop down at the center of the chessboard, leaving it standing.

  “We believe the cause comes first. Always first. But tell me…”

  He interlaced his fingers, his eyes locked onto Kael’s.

  “What can come before a cause?”

  Kael remained silent. His gaze wavered. The question left him wordless.

  The man watched his silence, then answered himself, his tone unchanged:

  “A consequence.”

  He let the words hang in the air, sharp as a blade.

  “Yes. Sometimes… a cause is born from what it itself has produced. Or from an external consequence. That is where the vertigo begins.”

  “It is no longer a straight line.

  It is a circle.

  Vicious—or virtuous—depending on where one stands.”

  Kael slowly closed the book, his expression grave.

  “If you open Cause without understanding this,” the man went on,

  “you will be incapable of reading anything in it.”

  “Not because the text is complicated.

  But because you will be missing the foundations.”

  “That book will not speak to you…

  as long as you do not know how to listen.”

  He nodded toward the other volumes.

  “Start with those instead.

  Learn to ask the right questions before trying to understand the answers.”

  The man leaned forward slightly and picked up two books from the stack.

  He examined them for a moment, then handed them to Kael one after the other.

  “I would advise you to begin with these,” he said calmly.

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

  He offered The Fibonacci Sequence and the Golden Ratio first.

  “This one is fascinating,” he added.

  Kael studied the cover, intrigued.

  “And… what makes it so special?”

  The man paused, still holding the other book in his hands.

  “Because it allows you to see the beauty of the world…

  through the eyes of mathematics.”

  Kael frowned.

  “How is that possible?”

  The man smiled softly. He set The Perfect Shadow Theorem down on the table, then gestured toward the book Kael was holding.

  “The golden ratio, or phi, is a mathematical ratio. A proportion.”

  “In numbers, approximately 1.618.”

  “But what makes it extraordinary… is that it appears everywhere.”

  “In nature. In the human body. In art. In galaxies.”

  Kael listened, transfixed.

  “The spirals of shells, the arrangement of flower petals, the branching of trees, the vortices of cyclones… all follow what we call the golden spiral.”

  “A spiral that expands without ever distorting.

  Always according to the same logic. The same elegance.”

  He traced a circular motion in the air with his fingertips.

  “It is harmonious growth. Proportional. Natural.”

  “It gives the impression of a hidden order…

  as if the universe had been drawn with an invisible ruler.”

  Kael stared at the book, as though he were holding a secret in his hands.

  “Understanding that ratio,” the man continued, “is not just about doing calculations.

  It is about learning how to see.

  To notice what has always been there, but that we never knew how to look at.”

  Kael pondered his words for a few moments, then slowly turned his head toward the man still seated across from him.

  “Honestly,” he said, tapping the black cover with one finger,

  “this book here… The Perfect Shadow Theorem… is it really supposed to be a mathematics textbook?”

  A sarcastic smile crossed his lips.

  “When I skimmed through it earlier, I thought it had been written by a lunatic.

  Or a drunk.

  Maybe both.”

  The man stifled a small laugh, then sighed.

  “I must admit… that one troubles me the most as well.”

  He straightened slightly, his gaze fixed on the book.

  “The Perfect Shadow Theorem is a universal theorem.

  Like the golden ratio. It can be applied everywhere.

  To physical systems, as well as ideas, values, social structures…”

  “It is less an equation than a principle.

  A discreet law.

  A truth that hides itself in consequences.”

  Kael frowned, intrigued despite himself.

  “The principle is simple,” the man went on.

  “In any closed system—material, moral, or symbolic—a truth will always end up projecting itself somewhere. Appearing.

  Even if the system tries to conceal it.”

  He gently tapped the black cover of the book.

  “It may take the form of a behavior, a measurable effect, or an unexpected consequence.

  But this ‘Perfect Shadow,’ as the theorem calls it, is always faithful to the system’s true structure.”

  Kael opened the book to the first page, quickly reread the opening lines. A subtle shiver ran down his spine.

  “You mean…” he said slowly,

  “that everything we build… eventually leaves a trace?

  Even if we try to hide it?”

  The man nodded, without a word.

  “That every fa?ade, every lie, every imbalance… projects itself somewhere, sooner or later.”

  Kael gently closed the book.

  “…That’s kind of terrifying, actually.”

  “It is above all inevitable,” the man replied.

  “It is a reminder.

  That the truth of a system is not always where we look for it.

  Sometimes, it lies in what it produces, in what it rejects, in what it denies.”

  He straightened a little further in his chair and interlaced his fingers.

  “This theorem asks for one simple thing… and yet a difficult one: to observe consequences.

  Because it is there—in those resonances—that the true nature of what has been built is revealed.”

  He fixed Kael with a piercing gaze, devoid of hostility.

  “Learn to read shadows.

  They do not lie.”

  The man paused.

  His eyes lingered on Kael, sharpening, as though he were looking far beyond appearances—into the folds of his thoughts, into the blind angles of his mind.

  A silent inspection. Almost unsettling.

  Then he spoke again, his tone heavier.

  “And above all, young man…”

  A slight pause. Barely perceptible.

  “…never forget that the essential thing… remains unspeakable.”

  Kael did not answer. He blinked, suspended by those words. The man continued, his voice lower now, like a confidence passed outside of time:

  “That is where the theorem takes root.

  In what cannot be said. Only perceived.

  That which has no form—yet still casts a shadow.”

  Kael lowered his eyes for a moment to the book resting in his hands, thoughtful. Then he looked up again, a new light in his gaze.

  “I see more clearly now,” he said slowly.

  “I have to observe before passing judgment.

  To understand the shadow… before believing in the form.”

  He hesitated.

  “But… there’s something I’m wondering.”

  The man said nothing, waiting.

  Kael went on:

  “If a shadow can sometimes be misleading… does that mean the original form is a lie in itself?

  Or just… imperfect?

  A flaw, perhaps?”

  Silence received the question.

  Then the man answered calmly:

  “It is neither a lie… nor a flaw.”

  He slowly brought his fingers together in front of him.

  “A projected form is never deceptive.

  It is simply partial. Incomplete.

  It is our gaze that believes it is seeing the whole.”

  Kael frowned slightly.

  “It’s like… confusing a reflection with what it reflects?”

  The man nodded slowly, satisfied.

  “Exactly. It is not the form that lies.

  It is the interpretation that forgets it is seeing only an angle, a light, a moment.”

  He gestured toward the book with a slight tilt of his chin.

  “The Perfect Shadow Theorem does not teach that truth is vague.

  It teaches that every truth… is perceived through a filter.

  And that this must be acknowledged in order to move forward.”

  “Otherwise, one never sees anything beyond one’s own projection.”

  The man paused, letting the words settle in Kael’s mind.

  Then, in a lower voice—almost a confidence—he added:

  “The shadow is nothing but a consequence.”

  His gaze sharpened, still locked onto Kael, as if inviting him to pierce a far greater secret.

  “It is up to you to find its cause…

  so that you may truly understand it.”