While ascending the spiral stone staircase coiling toward the 4th Floor, the soft echo of their footsteps broke the tower's silence.
Alphonse, whose mind was still furiously dissecting the interaction on the floor below, finally voiced his deduction.
"If they truly possessed Storage Rings capable of freezing the flow of time within them," Alphonse spoke softly to his two lieutenants without looking back, "it means the Ancient Era civilization in this world did not merely utilize magic as an offensive tool or to manipulate the basic elements."
Alphonse narrowed his eyes, piecing together the puzzle.
"They manipulated the laws of physics and tore through the very fabric of space and time. This civilization once stood at the absolute pinnacle of astonishing advancement, before some unknown cataclysm struck them, dragging everything far back to this current point."
As soon as they set foot at the top of the stairs, the scenery of the 4th Floor welcomed them with a layout vastly different from the floors below.
This room no longer displayed glass showcases of artifacts. On the left side, there was a row of long wooden counters dedicated exclusively to the transaction of spellbooks. On the right, heavy double metal doors were tightly shut, adorned with an inscription indicating it was the closed hall for Mage Qualification Exams.
Meanwhile, dominating the center of the floor, stretched a remarkably expansive library filled with tall wooden shelves packed with literature.
The demographic on this floor was much sparser and highly exclusive, almost entirely populated by individuals wearing mage robes bearing various emblems.
Alphonse's eyes instantly locked onto the rows of library shelves. On the other hand, Vrischil's gaze fixed upon the metal doors of the examination hall.
"Alphonse," Vrischil reported with her signature tactical rationality. "I will observe the evaluation process in that hall. It is critically important for us to firsthand determine the power standards and evaluation parameters of the mages in this city."
Alphonse nodded in agreement. Ascertaining the average strength of potential enemies or allies was the foundation of every combat strategy. He then turned to Arcus, silently asking with his eyes where the Sagittarius intended to go.
Arcus snorted softly, flicking his cloak with his trademark theatrical flair.
"I shall accompany Vrischil," Arcus answered casually, leaning against a marble wall. "Reading piles of rotting paper is far too mundane for a free-spirited man such as myself."
"Besides, I wish to see with my own eyes whether the mages in that hall can impress me with their little tricks... or if they'll only succeed in making me laugh," Arcus smirked arrogantly.
Parting ways with his two comrades, Alphonse walked alone into the library area. The distinct scent of aged parchment, dust, and dried ink immediately filled his senses.
He navigated the aisles of bookshelves until he found a round desk in the corner of the room. Behind that desk sat an eccentric old man serving as the librarian.
His body was draped in a wool cloak far too thick for the climate inside the tower, and a pair of spectacles with incredibly thick round lenses perched on the bridge of his nose, making his eyes appear vastly disproportionate to his face.
Utilizing the remnants of his salvaged aristocratic authority, Alphonse approached the desk.
"Excuse me," Alphonse greeted in a polite yet commanding tone. "Where might I find historical literature discussing the Ancient Era specifically?"
The old librarian looked up. He scrutinized Alphonse for a moment from behind his thick lenses, then raised a single, trembling, wrinkled finger. He pointed toward the farthest wooden shelf in a dark, quiet, and rarely touched corner of the room.
Expressing his thanks with a slight nod, Alphonse walked toward the designated corner. His fingertips traced the spines of books caked in thick dust, brushing away clinging cobwebs.
Suddenly, his movement halted upon a book bound in black leather that was beginning to peel and rot with age.
Engraved on the front cover, in fading gold ink, was the title: The Chronicle of the Torn Sky.
Alphonse pulled the heavy tome, blew the dust off its cover, and opened it beneath the glow of the nearest crystal lamp. The initial pages presented text written in archaic prose.
His eyes narrowed slightly as he read the descriptions of the Ancient Era's golden age. The writing did not exaggerate, yet what it depicted was truly astounding.
The book chronicled how human civilization and other races in the past were capable of forging colossal ships out of metal that did not sail on water, but rather navigated the sea of stars in the heavens.
There were records of continent-scale magic spells capable of wiping mountain ranges flat or cleaving the oceans with a single swing of a staff.
On the following page, Alphonse discovered a legend dedicated to the figure of the 'Ancient Elven Queen'—a ruler said to possess the power to invert the very cycles of nature to create an eternal spring for her people.
However, as Alphonse turned to the subsequent page, the tone of the chronicle shifted drastically.
The majesty and golden glory evaporated without a trace, replaced by suffocating despair. A rough, dark, hand-drawn illustration dominated an entire page.
The illustration depicted the sky literally tearing itself apart, forming jagged black rifts above the continent.
The text beside it explained the genesis of a cosmic tragedy.
The Invasion of the Abyss.
A dimension of darkness was torn open, and demonic entities descended upon the world of Orion. The chronicle stated that the power of these Abyssal creatures was so massive and unstoppable that they obliterated the advancements of civilization in a mere matter of years, plunging the majority of the continent into an ocean of blood.
Alphonse's breath caught in his throat as he read the final paragraph of that chapter.
Just as the world stood on the absolute precipice of total annihilation and all hope had been fully extinguished, the book recorded an event of awakening. From the ashes of despair, ten majestic existences arose, later known in history as the 10 Guardians.
Through a series of epic battles—which unfortunately were not recorded in detail—these ten majestic heroes successfully shattered the main gates of the Abyss.
They forced the demonic legion to retreat into the darkness of their dimension, leaving behind the shattered remnants of civilization, which now had to crawl back up from absolute zero to rebuild a new world.
The silence of that library corner bore witness to Alphonse's thirst for answers. With his heart beating slightly faster, he turned the page of The Chronicle of the Torn Sky, preparing to read the most crucial section: the epic battle that ended the Abyssal invasion and, most importantly, the true identities of the ten heroes known as the 10 Guardians.
However, instead of finding continuation text, his fingertips merely brushed against the torn remnants of paper at the base of the binding.
The pages containing the conclusion of the cosmic war had been forcefully removed. Not by the decay of age, but by the hands of someone who had deliberately ripped them out.
Alphonse's brow furrowed deeply. He meticulously examined the remaining final pages, hoping to find a fragment of information. There was absolutely nothing.
However, as he flipped to the back of the rotting leather cover, his eyes caught a single line of text almost entirely faded in the bottom corner. A simple name left behind by the author: Eon.
Unwilling to surrender to this dead end, Alphonse carried the worn book back to the desk of the eccentric old librarian.
"My apologies," Alphonse said in a calm, controlled tone. "Does this library house any other specific literature discussing the '10 Guardians'? This book appears to be missing several of its pages."
The old librarian paused his writing. He looked up, adjusted his thick-lensed spectacles, and stared at Alphonse with a profoundly bizarre look—as if the handsome young man before him had just asked for directions to the sun.
"You wish to know about the 10 Guardians?" the librarian asked, his voice hoarse and quiet. "Not the 4 Gods?"
Alphonse was slightly stunned. A wild question sparked in his mind. Why does the history believed by this librarian only remember the number four, and not ten? There is a massive narrative gap among the inhabitants of this world.
However, he kept his expression flat. He maintained his aristocratic smile and nodded slowly. "Yes. The 10 Guardians."
Sighing heavily, as if indulging an eccentric young man obsessed with bedtime fairy tales, the old librarian raised his hand. He pointed toward another aisle of shelves, just as desolate as the previous one.
"Search the shelf at the far end over there. There is an ancient poetry collection titled The Ballad of the Ten Stars."
Alphonse immediately headed to the designated location. It only took him a few minutes to locate a thin book bound in faded blue cloth. He opened it.
This book was not a rigid historical record, but rather a collection of epic poetry describing the Guardians as if they were living constellations that descended from the heavens to pass judgment upon the demons.
Although written in verse, the metaphors within provided a remarkably vivid depiction of the sheer scale of their power. As Alphonse read stanza by stanza, his mind's eye visualized the terrifying colossal might.
Sylvegard, The Emerald Cradle
This forest was not born from a seed carried by the wind,
But arose from the womb of a torn earth.
When ancient roots ripped through the soil,
Green vines slithered wild.
Binding tight. Choking life.
No water nourishes this land.
Only the blood of the demon legion seeping slowly into the roots.
Now, beneath the towering shadow of the colossal Treant,
This forest stands as a monument,
Guarding a mass grave that blossomed into life.
Luminas, The Faceless Light
Its arrival was not heralded by hymns of praise,
But by a blinding light that tore the heart of night.
As the silence shattered, the heavens spewed judgment.
A thousand blades of light roared down.
Piercing flesh. Pulverizing earth.
No mercy for those who bear sin.
For behind the majestic beating of the angel's wings,
It was not the warmth of salvation that descended to greet,
But the shadows of death that froze the soul.
Zephyroth, The White Tempest
The gale that swept this land was no mere foul weather,
But a holy roar that froze the blood.
As giant white wings cleaved the storm,
A shadow darted. Lunging. Tearing flesh.
Even an entity as mighty as a Demon Lord was forced to its knees,
Its arrogance shredded by the fangs of the tiger lord of the sky.
No remnant of resistance was left on the battlefield,
For when the sovereign of the storm descended the arena,
Death arrived as swiftly as a freezing breath.
Gajapati, The Zenith Behemoth
The earth did not tremble out of fear,
But wailed as the colossal weight began to march.
When its gargantuan tusks were raised.
The dark clouds above were torn asunder.
A single step fell, crushing the land.
Stone cracked. Walls collapsed. Crumbled into dust.
For the demon legion cowering behind the arrogance of their fortress,
No defensive tactic held any meaning.
All was destroyed and leveled to the ground,
Crushed beneath the march of the elephant that knew no hesitation.
The hammer of logic struck Alphonse's mind once more. These poems depicted the forms of the Guardians as colossal giant monsters and titanic holy entities.
As he visualized the power scale of those gargantuan creatures, his memory was violently dragged back to the traumatic moment in the Akashic space.
The image of the Cosmic Eye entity staring at him from the empty void—the eye that had siphoned his energy dry and chilled him to the bone—flashed across his mind again.
Did that eye entity possess a power scale equivalent to the creatures described in this poetry? Or did that eye belong to one of the Guardians?
With his heart pounding—a mixture of tactical anticipation and the creeping horror lurking in the back of his mind—Alphonse turned the page rapidly. He wanted to find the final six stanzas of poetry to uncover the remaining six Guardian names.
His hand's movement froze in mid-air.
The next page... was violently torn out.
The jagged edges of the paper were the only things remaining of the rest of the book. The existence of the other six Guardians had been systematically eradicated from those pages, exactly like what had happened to the chronicle book earlier.
Alphonse let out a harsh breath. His jaw clenched.
Behind his monocle, his golden eyes narrowed sharply, suppressing his rage. His grip on the edges of the dusty book tightened until the cloth cover nearly tore. He was deeply infuriated. Frustration boiled in his chest.
The most crucial facts regarding the history of this world—the identities of its past rulers—had been deliberately erased, systematically censored by someone.
Attempting to compose himself, Alphonse forced his hand to skip to the epilogue closing page, which was the only page still intact at the back.
The epilogue text stated that after the great war concluded, all the races worshipped these 10 Guardians as their savior gods. However, unfortunately, the majority of those majestic entities fell into a deep slumber, while several others vanished without a trace, leaving the ruined world to the survivors.
Alphonse closed the poetry collection with a tangled mix of frustration and awe. As he flipped the book to place it back onto the shelf, his eyes caught the back cover of The Ballad of the Ten Stars.
He discovered a mystery carved into the connecting thread of the two books he had found.
In the bottom corner of the cover, neatly engraved, was the exact same author's name as the one who wrote The Chronicle of the Torn Sky.
Eon.