“I get it now!” I blurted, slamming both palms on the desk. “So teach me a spell. A real one. Fire—lightning—anything!”

  My voice ricocheted through the empty room.

  Mr. Toshihiro didn’t flinch.

  Today he wore a raven mask—black and glossy, with glass eyes that reflected my frustration back at me a thousand times. He stood there like he’d been carved from stone, watching me with the calm cruelty of someone who’d seen too many storms wearing young bodies.

  “You’re impatient, Maki.”

  “Impatient?” I shot back. “What do you expect? That I sit here listening to endless sermons? I can handle this!”

  He exhaled, not annoyed, but theatrically resigned. Like he already knew how my story would go and was still choosing to let me fall on my face.

  “The flame that burns too early dies without leaving ash.”

  “Oh my—another cryptic line?” I threw my arms up.

  “It’s not cryptic,” he said flatly. “It’s common sense.”

  He raised one hand. Without any other movement, a side door opened with a soft creak. Beyond it stretched a corridor drowned in shadow, smelling of old paper and incense.

  “Before you invoke a spell,” he said, “you’ll learn to invoke yourself.”

  The words hit me harder than they should have.

  I didn’t even understand why they stung.

  “Go to the library, Maki. Train your mind and your body. You’ll find the foundation of every true mage there.”

  I crossed my arms and stayed put.

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  “The library?” I said, offended. “Seriously?”

  My master tilted his head, his voice sharpening into something dry enough to split pride in half.

  “If you want fireworks, buy them at a street fair.”

  That landed like a slap.

  I didn’t have a comeback.

  So, resigned, I walked into the corridor.

  Each step echoed—too loud, too deep—like the sound was coming from farther away than it should be possible.

  At the end of the hallway, the space opened in front of me like a dream unfolding.

  The library looked like a cathedral made of light—spiritual, reverent, wrapped in ritual silence.

  Lanterns floated in the air. They lit one by one as I approached, then dimmed behind me, as if the room itself was guiding my path. The light was warm and golden, casting shadows that moved slowly—like the memory of ancient ceremonies repeating themselves.

  The shelves rose so high they disappeared into a ceiling I couldn’t see. There were too many books to count—some stacked into impossible towers that vanished upward. As I walked, a few volumes whispered. Pages turned on their own. Everything in there had its own rhythm.

  For a heartbeat, I felt like if I stayed quiet enough…

  the books would speak to me.

  In the center, on embroidered carpets, lay scrolls, grimoires, and strange objects: dolls with tiny golden points at their joints, miniature models of human bodies traced with glowing energy lines, Sanskrit manuscripts, Tibetan bells, vessels filled with ash—and on a pedestal, a polished wooden staff that radiated a silent presence.

  No one else was there.

  And yet I felt watched constantly, as if every object was aware and quietly judging me.

  I’d grown up surrounded by books—dozens, hundreds. It wasn’t that I disliked them.

  But right then, my excitement and anxiety were eating me alive. I couldn’t focus. I didn’t know where to begin.

  I wanted fire.

  I wanted to ignite my spark, prove my talent, show I deserved this.

  Instead, I’d been handed silence, ink, and dust.

  I dropped into a wooden chair and leaned forward, elbows on my knees.

  Around me, the library breathed in paper-sounds—soft rustles, faint murmurs. Some books pulsed with intermittent glow, fading out for minutes at a time before flaring again. The air shifted with subtle scents—flowers, soil, smoke.

  I forced myself—almost violently—to stop spiraling and come back into my body.

  I inhaled.

  The air slid into my lungs, slow and steady.

  And I realized… maybe magic wasn’t what I’d imagined.

  Or what I wanted.

  I closed my eyes and stayed still. I tried not to control anything.

  I just breathed.

  The endless hush of the library softened into a thin, almost invisible melody, something that moved with my heartbeat, that matched my breath.

  And in the middle of that silence, so full it felt solid, I thought I heard Mr. Toshihiro’s voice.

  Or maybe it was my own mind, repeating the lesson in a whisper:

  Invoke yourself.