Clyde slid the old journal back onto the shelf. As he did, a narrow slip of paper loosened from between the pages and drifted quietly to the floor. He frowned and bent down to pick it up. The handwriting was rushed and uneven, the ink slightly smeared as if whoever wrote it had been in a hurry.
"If you are curious about mysticism, go to the library's back hall and take the book that is colored red."
Clyde stared at the note for a moment. It sounded like a prank—something bored students might leave behind to lure someone into wandering the restricted sections of the library. Normally he would have ignored it without a second thought. Yet something tightened faintly in his chest. Not fear. Not curiosity alone. An instinct. A quiet pull that felt strangely familiar, like a whisper from somewhere deep inside him. Clyde folded the note slowly and slipped it into his pocket. Against his better judgment, he turned and walked toward the back hall.
The farther he walked, the quieter the library became. At first he could still hear the distant rustling of pages and the occasional scrape of a chair against the wooden floor. But step by step those sounds faded until the hall seemed to swallow them entirely. Even his own footsteps stopped echoing. The air felt colder here. Dust drifted lazily through faint shafts of lantern light, and rows of forgotten books stretched endlessly along the walls, their colors dulled by age. Brown. Grey. Faded blue. Until one book broke the pattern completely.
A bright red volume rested neatly on the shelf ahead of him. It was positioned perfectly at arm's reach, its cover strangely clean compared to the others around it. It did not look forgotten. It looked placed. Waiting. Clyde slowed his steps, studying the shelf carefully as though expecting someone to jump out and laugh at him for falling into a childish trick. Nothing moved. The hall remained silent. After a moment, he reached forward and took the book.
Behind him, iron groaned.
The sound dragged slowly through the hall like something awakening from a long sleep. Clyde turned sharply. An old iron gate hidden within the wall had begun to slide open, its hinges creaking as it revealed a narrow passage beyond. The darkness inside felt deeper than the rest of the library, heavy and watchful. Clyde hesitated only briefly before stepping through. The gate began to slide shut behind him with a dull metallic scrape.
The room beyond felt wrong. Older than the rest of the building. The air pressed heavily against his lungs, thick with the faint scent of black tea and dust that had not been disturbed for years. Lantern light flickered weakly along the walls, yet shadows clung stubbornly to the corners as if the room itself rejected illumination. At the center of the chamber sat Principal Aldric Nox Nocturne.
He was seated calmly in a wooden chair with a porcelain teacup resting in his hand, as though this meeting had been planned long ago. He did not look surprised to see Clyde standing there. Not even slightly.
"What is the meaning of this?" Clyde asked, forcing his voice to remain steady.
Aldric slowly lifted his gaze. His eyes were hollow yet piercing, like deep wells that reflected no light. They were not cruel. Not cold. Simply ancient in a way Clyde could not explain.
"We are all foolish humans," Aldric said quietly. "People believe the world they live in is a paradise. They grow comfortable inside lies."
Clyde frowned. "Then what is the truth?"
Aldric placed his teacup on the table beside him. The porcelain touched the wood without making a sound, yet something in the room shifted subtly as he leaned back in his chair.
"I suppose," he murmured, "it is time you learned who I truly am."
Moonlight filtered through a tall window behind him, casting a pale beam across his face. In that light he looked less like a school principal and more like a statue carved from stone and silence.
"My name is Aldric Nox Nocturne," he said calmly. "Tell me, Clyde. Do you believe in mysticism?"
Clyde swallowed. "No, sir. I don't."
Aldric nodded once, neither disappointed nor amused. He reached toward the edge of his desk and picked up a dented tin can. With a casual flick, he tossed it lightly into the air. Clyde barely paid attention at first. Then the can stopped. It did not slow. It did not wobble. It simply froze in place, suspended in the air as though gravity itself had forgotten the object existed. The air around Clyde tightened suddenly, pressing against his skin and lungs. With a sharp metallic crack the can collapsed inward, flattening into a perfect silver disk. Clyde staggered back in shock.
"H-how did you do that?"
Aldric held out his hand and the disk drifted slowly into his palm. "Lunar Ichor," he said simply. "An essence every human carries, though most never recognize it."
The words struck Clyde strangely. Not because they sounded impossible, but because they felt oddly familiar, like a forgotten truth lingering at the edge of his mind.
"In ancient times," Aldric continued, "people called it the blood of the Moon Goddess. They believed the moon was not merely a celestial body, but a divine presence watching over the world." Moonlight brightened faintly through the window as he spoke. "When the Moon Goddess fell, her blood did not disappear. It soaked into the land, into the oceans, and eventually into humanity itself."
Clyde listened silently.
"Every human born since carries Lunar Ichor," Aldric said. "Within their heart exists a spiritual structure known as a Lunar Sigil. It regulates the flow of that ichor and anchors a person's life to their body." He tapped his chest lightly. "Destroy that sigil, and the body dies instantly."
A faint chill crept up Clyde's spine.
"So when monsters are killed through the heart," Aldric added calmly, "there is a reason."
He stood and gestured toward a dark corridor stretching deeper into the hidden structure beneath the library. "Come. There is someone you should meet."
Clyde followed him through twisting stone passages and down a spiraling iron staircase that radiated cold through the soles of his shoes. Strange symbols were carved along the walls, some faded with age, others scratched violently as though something with claws had tried to tear them away. At the bottom of the staircase a soft blue light pulsed slowly like a heartbeat. Aldric pushed open a heavy metal door.
The workshop beyond was vast. Glass vials filled with swirling liquids lined long wooden tables. Bowls of glowing powders rested beside complex instruments that hummed quietly with energy. Several strange machines powered by moonstone cores flickered like fragments of captured starlight. The air smelled faintly of metal and herbs.
At the center of the room stood a man wearing a stained white coat. His hair was messy, his face tired, yet his eyes were bright and sharp. He looked up immediately.
"A polite young man," he said with a faint smile. "Aldric, who is he? Strong presence. Don't tell me you're planning to recruit him into the Lunar Sentinels."
"The Lunar Sentinels?" Clyde repeated.
Aldric lifted his hand and a nearby wrench slowly rose into the air, rotating lazily above the workbench.
"Every human carries Lunar Ichor," Aldric said. "But that ichor alone cannot manifest power. To awaken it, one must undergo Baptism."
Soren stepped closer, lifting a thin metallic card from a glass container. Its surface shimmered with intricate engraved patterns that glowed faintly blue.
"This is a Divine Ichor Card," Soren explained. "Each one contains the encoded sigil of a divine frequency left behind after the fall of the Moon Goddess. Thirty-two such sigils are known to exist."
He placed the card onto a small pedestal.
"During Baptism," he continued, "the card is dissolved into a concentrated ichor essence. The candidate adds a drop of their blood so their personal Lunar Ichor binds with the sigil's frequency."
A holographic projection flickered into existence behind him. It showed a glowing orb shattering above a human figure. Thousands of luminous particles flowed into the body, converging toward the chest.
"When the essence is shattered above the candidate," Soren said, "the particles enter the bloodstream and are drawn directly to the heart."
Clyde watched the image intently.
"The Lunar Sigil inside the heart absorbs the sigil pattern contained within the Divine Card. When the two fuse, they become something new."
Soren's voice lowered slightly.
"We call it an Astral Card."
The projection shifted, showing the sigil inside the chest transforming into a glowing geometric card-shaped structure.
"The Astral Card becomes the core of one's power," Soren continued. "It circulates Lunar Ichor throughout the body and allows the bearer to manifest abilities aligned with their sigil's frequency."
Clyde felt his heartbeat quicken.
"So the power becomes part of you."
"Exactly," Soren said. "But once an Astral Card forms, it can never be replaced. Attempting to bind another sigil will destroy it completely."
Aldric crossed his arms. "And when an Astral Card shatters..."
Soren finished the sentence quietly.
"...the person becomes a Hollowling."
Clyde stiffened.
"They hunt hearts," Soren said softly. "Because devouring another person's Astral Card temporarily stabilizes their own fractured one."
Aldric's gaze hardened. "But each heart they consume floods their body with stolen ichor, twisting their nature further until nothing human remains."
Suddenly the workshop doors burst open with a loud clang. A guard stumbled inside, breathing heavily.
"Principal Aldric! A Hollowling in the Aqueous Channel!"
Aldric turned sharply toward Clyde. "If you want to help—if you want to save people—choose an ichor."
He sprinted toward the exit.
Clyde shouted after him, panic slipping into his voice. "Do I get paid?"
Aldric's irritated voice echoed down the corridor. "Yes. Thirty pounds a month."
Then he was gone.
Clyde stood frozen for a moment before straightening his posture.
"I want to join the Lunar Sentinels," he said firmly. "Can I choose my ichor now?"
Soren stepped closer and placed a steady hand on his shoulder.
"Once you choose," he said quietly, "your Lunar Sigil will fuse with the Divine Card and form your Astral Card. From that moment forward, it will beat with your heart."
He looked Clyde directly in the eyes.
"Your power will grow from it."
"Your life will revolve around it."
The machines in the workshop hummed softly around them.
"Choose carefully," Soren said.
"Your fate begins now, Clyde Nox Pvolae."