Chapter 89: Losing his Mind

“Ah,” Tibbar sighed, rubbing his long grey ears. “Nothing feels better than coming back home to a vault full of gold. I am never going to the Upper City again, Silvester. Nobles are crazy, mages are useless, and their parties are terrible for my blood pressure.”

“You did well tonight, Tibbar,” I said, setting the leather-wrapped iron book on my workbench. “Go get some rest. We have a lot of work to do tomorrow.”

“You too, little master,” Tibbar said, standing up and heading toward his small bedroom behind the showroom. “Do not stay up all night staring at that empty book.”

“I won’t,” I lied smoothly.

Once Tibbar’s bedroom door closed and the shop fell into total silence, I picked up the iron book and walked down the stone stairs into my basement cellar.

The dragon-fueled forge was still glowing with a dim, warm orange light in the corner, keeping the stone room comfortable. I set the book on my wooden table, pulled down my magnifying loupe, and sat down on my stool.

I opened the cover, staring down at the first blank page under the yellow oil lamp.

“You are hiding something,” I whispered to the empty paper, tapping my finger against the dark iron binding. “And I am going to find out what it is.”

I walked over to my heavy wooden workbench, setting the iron book down right in the middle of the dark surface.

I pulled down my magnifying loupe over my eye and activated my Locksmith’s Eye skill one more time.

The golden structural lines covered the book once again. I checked every single millimeter of the iron cover, the spine, the binding thread, and the parchment paper itself.

Nothing. There was no hidden mechanism, no magic trap, and no secret compartment hidden in the spine. It was just a book made of high grade iron and fine parchment paper.

I pulled my loupe back up and sat down on my wooden stool, resting my chin on my hand.

“Why?” I muttered out loud to the empty room. “Why build a lock that can block an entire army of grand mages just to protect blank pages?”

The silence of the cellar was the only answer I got.

I picked up a feather quill from my ink stand, hovering the tip over the first blank page of the book. I tapped a tiny drop of dark black ink onto the corner of the paper, watching to see if the ink would dissolve, transform, or react in any strange way.

The ink just sat there, soaking into the parchment fibers like ordinary ink on ordinary paper.

I let out a tired chuckle, shaking my head. “Maybe Marquis Aaron was right. Maybe I am just staring at an ancient piece of trash.”

I closed the iron book, wrapped it in a clean linen cloth, and placed it inside my heavy iron safe beneath the bench. I turned the three dial combination lock, hearing the solid mechanical click that meant my workshop was secure.

I stood up, stretched my tired arms, and walked back up the stairs into the warm shop.

Tibbar was sitting at the counter, sipping his hot tea with his long grey ears drooping over his cup. He looked at me with a tired smile.

“Put it away?” Tibbar asked.

“I thought you’re on your room. Well, yeah,” I said, pulling my dark coat off and hanging it on the wooden rack by the door. “It is put away.”

“Good,” Tibbar said, setting his cup down and wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “Tomorrow is going to be crazy. Word is going to spread that you opened the Marquis’s box and saved the banquet. People are going to come from all over the province to buy locks from us.”

“That means more work for you, Master Assistant,” I joked, walking toward my small bedroom in the back of the shop.

“More work means more gold!” Tibbar cheered softly, wiggling his tail. “Now go to sleep. You look like a zombie boy.”

I smiled, closing my bedroom door behind me. I lay down on my bed, staring up at the dark wooden ceiling beams as the quiet sounds of the city outside settled into the night.

The banquet was over, the gold was earned, and my shop was safe. But deep down, as I closed my eyes, I knew that the silent threat of those black threads was far from finished.

Three weeks passed since the night of the palace auction.

Three long, exhausting weeks of working hard during the day and losing my mind during the night.

During daylight hours, The Earthen Vault ran smoothly. The news of what happened at the palace had spread like wildfire, and customers flooded through our doors every single morning.

But every night, as soon as the last client left and the heavy wooden shutters were bolted shut, I retreated down to my basement cellar.

The cellar was quiet and cool. The dragon core furnace hummed in the far corner, sending out a steady, warm heat that kept the damp air away. Sitting at my wide oak workbench under the soft yellow glow of an oil lamp, I spent hours staring at the black iron book.

I tried every single method I could think of.

During the first week, I relied entirely on my Locksmith’s Eye skill. I pulled down my magnifying loupe, activated my golden mana, and examined the paper fibers down to the tiny level.

I spent four hours on page one, searching for hidden mana signatures, faint spell lines, or invisible layers built into the parchment.

Nothing appeared.

The parchment looked like totally normal, ancient hide paper, completely uniform from top to bottom.

“Still staring at that blank paper, little master?”

I jumped slightly and looked toward the basement stairs. Tibbar was standing on the bottom step, holding a small brass candle holder in one paw and rubbing his tired purple eyes with the other.

He was wearing an oversized green sleeping cap that flopped over his left ear, and his fluffy grey slippers made soft scraping sounds against the stone floor.

“It makes no sense, Tibbar,” I said, setting my magnifying loupe down on the wooden table. “I have scanned every inch of the first ten pages. The fibers are completely clean.”

Tibbar let out a long sigh and walked over to my table. He set his candle down and leaned over the open book, his long grey ears twitching as he stared at the pale parchment.

“If I did not know any better, I would think that book insulted your ancestors,” Tibbar said, tilting his head. “You have been glaring at it for six nights in a row. You look like a corpse that forgot to fall over.”

“A book like this does not just exist for no reason,” I replied, tracing the smooth metal edge of the iron binding. “Someone used four layers of soul steel chains and a living conceptual seal to lock this thing. You do not build a vault like that just to hide a blank notebook.”

“Maybe the ancient author was just crazy,” Tibbar suggested, crossing his arms over his chest. “Rich people do weird things all the time, Silvester. The Marquis bought a golden brush for his cat last month. Maybe some old archmage spent his fortune building a metal book just to fool future generations.”

I shook my head. “No. The dark thread mana around the lock was real. The mercenaries who died at the palace were real. There is something in this book, and I am going to find it.”

Tibbar patted my shoulder gently with his paw. “Well, you will not find it tonight if your eyes fall out of your head. Go to sleep, little master. We have twenty safe orders to fill tomorrow morning.”

The second week was even more frustrating, mostly because I started bringing dangerous magical chemicals into the basement.

I bought several rare reagents from the local market, spending nearly five silver coins on specialized supplies. I bought pulverized moonstone powder, liquid silver solution, and elemental fire dust. I believed that if the text was hidden by high grade concealment magic, applying the right magical catalyst would force the hidden runes to glow.

On Tuesday night, I carefully dusted the third page of the book with bright blue moonstone powder. The powder settled onto the parchment like fine glowing snow. I focused a small thread of my golden mana into the paper, hoping to trigger a reaction.

Right at that exact moment, the wooden trapdoor at the top of the stairs creaked open.

Tibbar stepped down into the cellar carrying a wooden tray with a plate of dry oat biscuits and two mugs of warm water. “I brought you a late night snack, Silvester, because you forgot to eat dinner again—”

Tibbar stopped talking as the fine, floating dust from the moonstone powder drifted toward his snout.

His long grey nose twitched once. It twitched twice.

“Wait,” I said, my eyes widening in realization. “Tibbar, do not—”

“AH-CHOO!”

Tibbar sneezed with enough force to shake his entire body. A massive blast of air shot from his snout, hitting the open book directly.

Enjoying the journey? Don’t let the adventure stop here!