The forest was a relentless sea of emerald malice, and Aren was drowning in it.
If one were to describe his current state, he looked less like a mystical "Keeper" of cosmic secrets and more like a scholar who had been unceremoniously tossed into a thresher. His lungs burned—a dry, jagged heat that tasted of copper and humid earth. Every step felt as though the world's gravity had taken a personal offense to his existence, tugging at his heels with invisible, muddy hands.
How troublesome, he thought, his mind flickering with a weary, sharp edge. I was promised a quiet life among ink and parchment, not a marathon through a slaughterhouse.
In his arms, the child was a weight of trembling silver and silk. The boy was unnervingly silent; his small, wolfish ears were pressed flat against his skull, and his breath came in hitching, jagged stutters. He simply clung to Aren's robes with a grip born of absolute terror, his tiny body marred by the cruel calligraphy of the forest—thin, red scratches from brambles and the dark, blooming bruises of a narrow escape.
Aren's hand, still stained with the drying crimson of the mother's life, moved with a gentleness that contradicted his internal grumbling. He rhythmically patted the boy's back, a steady, grounding thrum amidst the chaos.
"Voice," Aren projected, his mental tone sounding like a sigh stretched over several years. "Since you're so fond of diagnostics, find me a path. I need a shelter that doesn't involve a damp cave or a predator's stomach. Preferably in a direction where those 'thermal signatures' aren't."
"Calculating," the Voice responded, its resonance echoing in the back of his skull like a cold drop of water in a still pond. "There is a limestone overhang approximately 1.2 kilometers northwest. It offers a 74% increase in concealment, but the terrain is... less than ideal."
There is always a 'but' with you. Of course.
Aren adjusted his hold on the child, his eyes scanning the shifting shadows of the canopy. The silver-blue fur of the boy's tail was matted with dirt, a sight that tugged at a corner of Aren's heart he usually kept locked behind iron-bound covers.
"Hey, kid," Aren murmured, his voice a low, soothing silk. "I know you're trying to be brave. But you're getting salt and tears all over a very expensive-looking robe. It would be a real pity if I had to charge you for the cleaning."
The child flinched, then slowly, his large, watery eyes drifted upward. There was a devastating void in that gaze—the look of someone who had seen the final page of their world ripped out.
"What happened back there?" Aren asked, his voice softening until it was almost a whisper. "Before I found you... who were those men following you?"
The boy's lip trembled. He opened his mouth, but only a small whimper escaped. He buried his face back into Aren's chest, shivering as if the memory were a winter wind.
Aren didn't push. He simply tightened his grip and picked up the pace, his silhouette flickering through the trees like a ghost caught between the pages of a tragedy. The forest floor was a nightmare of tangled roots and the copper-heavy scent of death, but Aren's mind was already racing toward a solution.
"Voice," he projected, his thoughts sharp with a rare edge of panic. "I'm done with the 'wilderness experience.' Open the door. Now. We're going back to Level Zero, and the kid is coming with me."
He braced for the familiar shimmer of the golden railing to cut through the oppressive green. He was ready to trade this humid hell for the silent comfort of his velvet couch.
"Negative," the Voice resonated, its tone as flat and immovable as a tombstone. "The Library's threshold is not a sanctuary for the unvetted."
Aren stiffened, nearly tripping over a moss-slicked branch. "What? Excuse me? I'm the Keeper. I'm pretty sure 'not letting a child get murdered' falls under my general jurisdiction. Open the gate."
"You misunderstand your own authority," the Voice replied. "The Library is a record for the Worthy. As the Keeper, you are the Judge, the Librarian, and the Gatekeeper. You have not yet judged this child; therefore, his entry is prohibited. To allow an unjudged entity into the Axis of Neutrality is to contaminate the Record."
"He's a toddler, Voice! His 'intent' is currently limited to not crying while his world ends," Aren hissed. Behind him, the rhythmic thud-thud of boots was growing louder. The six humanoids were closing in.
"The Library does not account for age, only Essence," the Voice continued, relentless. "Furthermore, there is the matter of your own limitations. You are a Level Zero Keeper. You have mastery over only basic mana and self-preservation. You have not yet studied all the books on Level Zero, let alone reached Level One. And let me tell you, the books on different species might be kept on different levels by just a hair's breadth as compared to you, but for you? You can't reach those hair-thin above levels without mastering the previous level completely."
"What does my 'Level' have to do with opening a door?"
"Everything. This child is a beast-kin. To properly house him, you require access to the records of the lower floors. Specifically, Level +1, which contains records for lower beast-kin lineages. However, the boy's resonance suggests a lineage far more complex—perhaps linked to Level +2, where the records of beast-kin kings are kept."
Unbelievable, Aren thought, his mental voice dripping with the exhaustion of a man who just wanted a nap. Life really is unfair. You're telling me this shivering ball of fluff—who currently can't even handle his own tear ducts—is 'Level Plus Two'? A King's lineage? He glanced down at the child, who looked more like a half-drowned kitten than a monarch. I've spent an eternity in a void sweating over basic mana circuits and a self-healing basics book just to reach 'sturdy ceramic' status. Are you saying he's already stronger than me by virtue of existing?
"Incorrect," the Voice responded, its tone like cold moonlight hitting a blade. "He is not stronger than you; he was simply born further ahead. Even if it's just by a hair difference as compared to the Level Zero contents on Level Zero creatures. You started at the absolute vacuum of Level Zero. He was born with the biological inheritance of a Peak Predator."
The Voice paused, a logical beat echoing in Aren's mind. "However, potential is not performance. You have adapted your mana; you have 'written' your own strength. He is a higher-level being, but he cannot manifest his advantages, and because his current state is one of total knowledge, familiarity, and practice, he is—for all practical purposes—completely useless. He was born with higher advantages and reserves, but he cannot use them yet."
"And since you have not attained the clearance to read these levels," the Voice stated with chilling finality, "you cannot 'Keep' what you cannot comprehend. To bring him inside without knowing his Rank is a violation of protocol. Until you can categorize him—and until you are strong enough to impart knowledge to him and have access to the records for his kind and strengths—he remains a part of the outside world."
"So you're telling me," Aren's voice dropped to a dangerous whisper, "that because I haven't done my homework on 'Beast-kin Biology 101,' I have to stay out here in a slaughterhouse and fight six armed men with nothing but a 'sturdy ceramic' mana pool?"
"Precisely," the Voice replied. "A Librarian must be able to defend his collection. Consider this an unscheduled practical exam."
Aren let out a short, dry laugh—the kind that sounded more like a cough. The absurdity was almost refreshing. He was exhausted, his robes were ruined, and his "God-Butler" had just locked him out over a technicality.
Fine, he thought, his mind exhausted but running faster. Guess I'll have to rely on myself.
Aren's eyes narrowed as he shifted the weight of the child in his arms. Suddenly, something clicked in his mind.
So that's the 'why' of it, he thought, a dark, cynical amusement curling in his chest. He didn't need to know their specific names or the petty politics of their world to understand the scent of greed. Whether they wanted a puppet king, a biological battery, or simply to snuff out a rival lineage, the motive was as old as the books in his library. To those six men closing in, this wasn't a child—it was a winning lottery ticket that couldn't fight back.
A King's blood in the body of a helpless toddler... they aren't just hunting; they're trying to grab a god while he's still in the cradle. He looked at the boy's trembling ears and sighed. They think because he's weak right now, it's the perfect chance to keep him in the palms of their hands. How troublesome for them that I got here first.