Adam's eyes locked onto the paper. Every tiny vein in his face stood still for a moment, as if the blood in them had frozen. Then, with a quick, nervous motion, he snatched the paper from Zal's hand.

  The gravity of a moment ago suddenly transformed into a childlike glee. Adam Jupiter, the serious, middle-aged tavern keeper, now hopped from foot to foot like a boy who'd found treasure.

  "I can't believe it, Zal! This... this this...!"

  Zal, still reeling from Adam's rapid shift in mood, asked anxiously, "What? What does it mean?"

  "Just let me tell you, damn it!" Adam shouted, waving his hand. "This... this is the White Dawn Library summons! Unbelievable! Your luck must be astronomically good to get something like this so soon after arriving!"

  "Luck is always defined from the observer's perspective. To one who has crawled out of a vortex of darkness, any cold light can seem like fortune."

  Zal repeated his question, now with more urgency: "So, where is this place?"

  Adam walked to a table and, with peculiar ceremony, pulled a chair back for Zal. "Sit first, my friend. Then I'll continue. This story... it's a story for sitting, not for standing in fatigue."

  Zal, somewhat cautiously, sat. Adam sat opposite him, his eyes sparkling with excitement.

  "The White Spire. The White Library. The White Press. It has many names. But the real story... the real story began like this."

  And Adam began to tell a tale that Zal, with every fiber of his being, felt was rooted in a deeper truth.

  "One day, a scholar—half-mad—emerged from the Primeval Forest. People didn't know who he was. His name was... Kael. When they found him, he was tainted by something 'cosmic.' He kept repeating one thing: 'Give me back my medicine... give it back.'"

  Zal held his breath. Kael. The same name the broken-minded Kael in the forest had given himself. This couldn't be a coincidence.

  "The people of ancient Cadmus took him to a monk. The monk refused at first. But when he saw his wretched state... he prayed. Suddenly, the sound of violent coughs erupted from Kael. Light shot from his eyes. And strange threads... spilled from his mouth."

  "Threads are always present. Only their form differs. Sometimes they symbolize connection, sometimes contamination."

  "The monk cried out before the people: 'We have witnessed a miracle! The demon's threads have left his body!' Kael fell unconscious. When he awoke, he claimed the sounds of the world had diminished for him... turned to 'silence.' He was transformed. He realized the answer to everything wasn't science. He joined the church and became the monk's disciple."

  Adam continued with details: Kael, the science-hater, became a full monk who, at age 71, founded the "Church Against the Unholy Light." He gathered many followers. And died at the age of 246.

  "His long life is a historical enigma. But his disciples, when asked the reason, would only say one thing: 'The Pure God showered His white light upon me to purge the unholy yellow light from me. I became more resistant to the sands of time.'"

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  Adam took a deep breath and went on: "But the real story began after Kael's death. He had three disciples: Wisdom, Science, and Zero-One."

  "The three possible paths of humanity facing the mystery of existence: acceptance of error, the pursuit of knowledge, or pure surrender."

  "Wisdom was philosophical. He saw truth in human error. Believed life was written, but changeable. Science sought to gather all the world's knowledge and believed man forged his own destiny. Zero-One sought only God and became a religious authority. Believed life was a straight, pre-ordained line."

  Adam explained that these three, after their master's death, embarked on a hundred-year journey: one north, one west, one south. And when they returned, they gave everything of themselves—body, mind, and knowledge—to the church.

  "With their bodies and minds, the church... transformed. It rose. Became suspended. From the fusion of their beings, a creature was born: The Sage of the White River. A mass of flesh and bone with a single face, inheriting all the knowledge of the three. A layer of plaster, then wood, covered it... and it was complete. That's how the White Press was born—a place suspended in the air, limited, and in perpetual learning."

  "And this is one possible answer to a great question: If you concentrate all of humanity's knowledge, all its faith, and all its wisdom into one point, what creature is born? Perhaps a god. Perhaps a monster. In this world, they call it: a library."

  Adam continued, now with controlled excitement: "This invitation... it's given only to nineteen people every three months. Each is taken there at different times over one month. Your luck must be incredibly, incredibly good." He smirked, gesturing to himself. "You found me with a good job, and it seems you've hit the jackpot of luck—invited to the White Library."

  Zal's brain, processing this convoluted tale, felt like it was emitting the sound of tearing paper. Exhaustion, hunger, and this deluge of information overwhelmed him. A long, uncontrollable yawn escaped his mouth. "Seems I really did hit the mountain of luck... but let's save the rest for tomorrow. You've been storytelling for hours."

  Then something happened that Zal didn't expect.

  The light in Adam's eyes went out. The childlike glee vanished. In one swift motion, he stood up, grabbed the collar of Zal's shirt, and hauled him out of the chair.

  "You think I've been wasting my time?" His voice was quiet, but full of suppressed rage.

  Zal, caught off guard, didn't even resist. Adam dragged him towards the stairs, hauled him up, and shoved him towards the servant's room. Zal fell onto the bed.

  Adam stood in the doorway, his chest heaving with anger and frustration. "Kid... don't forget when you go there... ask the right question. This opportunity... this thing always..." He stopped suddenly. Zal, succumbing to utter fatigue and bodily weakness, was heavy-lidded, drifting into sleep.

  Adam looked at him for a moment. The anger faded from his face, replaced by something resembling pity. He sighed. "Ah. I think he's asleep. I think... I talked too much." His voice was now soft and weary. "Well... better I sleep too."

  He closed the door softly and left.

  Zal lay on the bed in the dark room. His eyes were closed, but he wasn't asleep. In his mind, images swirled: Kael, tainted by something cosmic. Threads spilling from a mouth. Three disciples. And a library built from flesh, bone, and knowledge, floating in the air.

  The Thread around his wrist glowed with an amber light in the darkness.

  "And thus, Zal understood that luck is a dual concept. It can open the gates of paradise for you, or throw you into the maw of a monster born from humanity's own struggle to comprehend paradise. The invitation was not a gift. It was a test. And perhaps, another sentence. Tomorrow, he must decide: Will he go to meet the Sage of the White River, or will he remain in the halfway-landing of fear and the false safety of the tavern? Sleep offers no answers. It only takes him deeper into his own questions."