The headquarters of The Writer actually lies within "The First Place", a dark expanse where twisted chains of strange characters drift weightlessly, faintly glowing with light from distant and indeterminate stars. This place seems to lack gravity, yet it possesses breathable air much like that of the world below. From afar, countless Shadows of grotesque and varied forms can be glimpsed, fading in and out of sight. They are ownerless Shadows, born from folk tales and rumors circulating throughout the world, or simply left behind by authors who have already died.

  Ownerless Shadows exist without purpose. Their stories are shattered and incomplete, and for that reason they attack all living beings on instinct alone. If their target is another Shadow, they will absorb the entirety of the prey’s story, merging it with their own, becoming even more chaotic and hybridized. However, their power increases dramatically as a result. This space conceals many formidable Shadows. Some entities have existed for countless ages and have absorbed an immeasurable number of weaker Shadows. Fortunately, they are unable to escape from here.

  “Scholars have long revered what they call living knowledge. This space was created even before The Writer was founded. King merely made use of what the predecessors left behind. The one who previously oversaw the Malu’na Library was also a Shadow that existed within this space, and even he was not the strongest among them.”

  Shelley quietly explained to her companions. They moved along paths formed from lines of glowing letters, which protected them from the attacks of the frenzied Shadows. These characters acted as a protective boundary that Shadows could not absorb. Any Shadow that touched them would explode and dissipate.

  “These characters feel familiar. I am certain I have seen one of them somewhere before.” Not frowned, raising his hand to lightly touch a character in front of him, yet never truly reaching it. No matter how he tried to draw closer, the distance between them never changed.

  “Do not try. Knowledge is something that can only be learned and contemplated, never touched. And if it feels familiar, then you are correct. That character is Enes, the symbol of infinity.” Shelley explained with a faint laugh, looking much like she had when she first entered this place.

  “So that is how it is.” Mulock nodded softly. No wonder the Shadows could not absorb it. How could the finite ever absorb the infinite.

  They moved toward a black tower drifting above a sea of small characters. These were not symbols of infinity. They were the story written within the book The Writer, the very core that formed this region.

  The tower was described with extraordinary precision. Every brick and tile existed with uncanny realism within this conceptual space. One could feel the rough texture by touch and hear a clear knocking sound when rapped upon. The author of this book must once have been an exceptionally gifted scholar.

  The interior was no different from the outside world. What greeted them was a vast stone staircase extending upward and connecting to numerous rooms. The walls were densely covered with portraits of members of The Writer who had existed in the past, along with countless candles emitting wavering light. The largest portrait hung near the entrance, yet the figure’s face was concealed by shadow. No matter how hard they tried, no one could see through that darkness. Only the inscription beneath the painting was faintly visible, "Unknow Writter".

  “Before you lies the Stair of Knowledge. It connects to the room of each Writer through a path unique to them. The first person to step onto it will open their own path. For now, please follow me to my room first. There are several important things I keep there.”

  Shelley stepped onto the staircase, causing it to tremble. The other rooms and paths faded into obscurity, leaving only a single cold and gloomy staircase made of metal. It led upward to a room high above. When everyone had stepped onto it, the surroundings transformed into a stormy night sky, thunder and lightning crashing endlessly.

  Shelley’s room was deeply unsettling. A gloomy chamber heavy with the stench of damp decay. The ceiling was low, fitted with a thick pane of glass that could be opened or closed. Beneath it stood a metal table restraining a grotesque monster covered in stitched seams across its body. Surrounding the table were lightning rods, with streams of electricity constantly being channeled into the creature.

  “Is this her Shadow?” Mulock silently assessed Frank. He could sense the creature’s overwhelming physical power, muscles dense and hardened like metal, yet elastic to the touch. If his judgment was correct, this Shadow was far stronger than an ordinary Battle King.

  “Correct. Perhaps after this mission, I will continue to refine its story until it becomes complete. It will grow even stronger.”

  Shelley spoke while opening a metal cabinet mounted on the wall, searching for something. A moment later, she pulled out a cloth bag heavy with the scent of perfume, stuffed with glass bottles and vials of various shapes. Shelley inhaled their fragrance greedily, like an addict, then slung the bag over her shoulder with evident satisfaction.

  “All right. Let us go.”

  “… You came all the way up here just to get this?” Matthew asked in disbelief. Based on everything that had happened so far, Shelley had left him with the impression of a powerful and mysterious spellcaster. This completely shattered the image he held of her.

  “You people from Break Island would not understand. I have no intention of explaining the importance of fragrance to those without a sense of smell.”

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  “…”

  They returned once more to the grand hall. When Shelley’s foot touched the floor, everything reverted to how it had been at the beginning, except that this time she was the last to leave.

  “Enough nonsense. Now how do we obtain half of Rowling’s soul?” the pirate snapped impatiently. Strengthening Volder was only secondary. His true objective in coming here had always been the Enestone.

  “Summon Volder and let it step forward,” Shelley replied calmly.

  Mulock said nothing. He summoned Volder from a black vortex and ordered it to step onto the Stair of Knowledge. The staircase trembled, and indeed only a single path remained. A thick stone stairway covered in dust, its sides carved with patterns of serpents stretching and coiling. As they stepped onto the stone stairs, the scenery shifted into a quiet star filled night sky, cold winds brushing past them gently.

  “That is it. The path to Rowling’s room,” Shelley said with a smile. When she was still alive, Rowling had often invited Shelley to visit her room, even sharing several ideas and story outlines from her works.

  If what Rowling had said was true, then Volder itself had already contained a small fragment of her soul. That explained why Volder was able to open this path.

  Rowling’s room was an ancient and dignified chamber. Pale gray stone walls were lined with towering bookshelves reaching the ceiling, packed densely with all manner of spellbooks. Gentle light radiated from magic stones embedded in the ceiling, mingling with the flickering fire of the hearth. Opposite the fireplace stood a sturdy desk made of Dark wood, its surface cluttered with scattered documents and chaotic sketches, along with a small glass vial containing a beautiful point of light.

  “There it is. The vessel containing the soul.”

  Shelley pointed excitedly at the glass vial on the desk. Finding it had been far easier than she had anticipated. Inside was half of Rowling’s soul, the key required to merge with Volder.

  Mulock picked up the vial and tossed it to Volder. His intuition told him the Shadow would know what to do. As expected, Volder caught the vessel, removed the stopper, and inhaled the small point of light. When the light vanished into Volder’s body, the Shadow began to convulse violently. Its form started to change. Its hair grew longer, its skin turned pale and flushed with life, its bone structure gradually reformed, and its chest began to rise.

  Shelley stared in utter shock at Volder’s current appearance. It looked exactly like Rowling in her youth. Then she understood. Shadows have no souls. They are products of an author’s imagination. That is why almost no Shadow is a mage. The reason Volder possessed magical abilities was because it had contained a fragment of Rowling’s soul from the very beginning.

  When Volder merged with another portion of the soul, it did not give birth to a new self and become a new "Rowling".

  “Rowling” gazed blankly at the familiar surroundings, her eyes flickering with intelligence rather than the stiffness of a puppet. When the fusion was complete, Rowling remembered almost everything. She descended to the ground, walked slowly toward Mulock, and smiled.

  “It seems you are my master, Mulock. And you as well, Shelley. It is good to see you again.”

  After achieving their objective, they returned to the real world from the Lost Library. From there, they had to sail deeper toward the far end of the subterranean cavern in order to reach the surface.

  The atmosphere aboard the boat was noticeably livelier. It was often said that when three women gathered together, they could turn anywhere into a marketplace. For many reasons, Rowling had become a special kind of Shadow. She was both a Shadow and a Writer. The good news was that she was far stronger than before. Although her current strength had not yet reached the Emperor tier, she was not far from it. The bad news, however, was that Mulock could no longer control her, nor could he force her back into The First Place. Rowling could now freely travel between The First Place and the real world. Of course, she could not stray too far from Mulock and still needed him alive as an intermediary anchor.

  Rowling also seemed to have lost many crucial memories. Her death was likely tied to a vast conspiracy, yet she was unable to recall any of it.

  The boat gradually slowed. Ahead of them was a steep cave exit high above. They would have to climb up in order to leave. Outside awaited eternal night. Cold winds wailed across a barren, cracked hill. Undead soldiers marched in formation under the command of an elite Undead. In the distance lay the infamous Kingdom of Death from legend, once ruled by a god. A massive black palace stood there, encircled by fortified barriers. From its peak surged a pillar of nightmare energy that shrouded the entire sky and enveloped all of Fallen Island.

  If the stone were inside that palace, Mulock would never dare approach this place. He would not hesitate to spit in the face of whoever had provided such information. Infiltrating the palace was no different from suicide. However, the stone was not within the palace. It lay instead on the Plain of Bones, the domain of Baham, one of the four mighty lords of Fallen Island.

  Baham’s territory lay to the west of Fallen Island, facing the continent of Macarnis. The corpses from the wars between the Legion and the Alliance on Macarnis were transported here to decompose and naturally transform into Undead. Within the environment of Fallen Island, the rate of conversion into Undead was extremely high, and their strength far surpassed those transformed elsewhere.

  The Plain of Bones stretched endlessly, littered with bleached white skeletons. Wandering selekon roamed the land. The ground was dry and cracked despite its proximity to the Great Sea. This place held only foul swamps reeking of decaying corpses and withered mangrove forests, habitats for ugly and filthy creatures.

  Timid Ratta crawled out from their shelters to gnaw on scattered bone fragments. Above, flocks of Batta circled the sky. They frequently swooped down to hunt, driving their sharp talons straight into unsuspecting rodents, dragging them aloft to suck their brains dry.

  At the center of the plain stood a throne made entirely of bones. Seated upon it was a majestic Skeleton clad in heavy armor engraved with twisting spiral patterns, a radiant crown resting upon its skull. A massive greatsword lay nearby, more than half of its blade embedded in the piled bones beneath the ground. The Skeleton rested its chin on one hand as if deep in thought, the black flames burning within its eye sockets never once leaving the distant black palace.

  On the Plain of Bones, every second and every minute, a feeble skeleton was born and destroyed. Part of their energy was devoured by other skeletons, while the rest seeped through the ground and flowed toward the throne, nourishing the colossal Skeleton seated there.

  The throne occupied the highest point of the Plain of Bones, resting atop countless remains of dead creatures of every kind. The one who sat upon it was solitary and cold, yet mighty and supreme. He was none other than the lord of the western lands of Fallen Island, Baham. Lord of Skeleton.