18. A Proper History Book

Anyone seeing a painter at the square’s edge would assume he was sketching the scene.

Siles thought so too. It wasn’t his first encounter with this young man.

But when his gaze inadvertently caught the painting, he paused instinctively, for it depicted neither buildings, crowds, nor still life, but a swath of pitch black.

The upper half of the canvas was coated in darkness, like a storm about to strike, clouds sprawling. The lower half showed normal buildings, crowds, and the square.

…What did this painting mean?

Siles glanced around. The weather was clear. July’s rainy season was ending, sunlight touching them faintly, heralding the bright season.

Yet, in the painting, the world remained trapped in a storm’s heart, without respite.

Siles frowned almost instinctively.

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The young painter pursed his lips and shook his head.

He didn’t react to Siles’s gaze or actions, lowering his head to carefully erase the pencil mark with an eraser.

Siles, naturally reserved, realized the painter was introverted. Feeling awkward, he abandoned conversation but took the chance to study the painting closer.

Up close, the upper half’s darkness seemed to hide… something?

Siles didn’t look long, just a glance or two.

The painter packed his canvas and tools, then said quietly to Siles, “Goodbye.”

With that, he melted into the crowd.

Siles blinked, puzzled by the young man’s actions.

…Socially anxious? A socially anxious painter? But his painting seemed to carry deeper meaning…

Siles lingered, pondering, then shook his head, letting it go. It was nearly ten. He ate brunch at a nearby restaurant, then reached Room 666 at the Historical Society by eleven.

He had two hours to read the bookshelf’s books.

Last time, he’d been intrigued by the historical texts. The original body’s expertise was in literature, with only a basic grasp of history.

After hesitating, Siles chose a book on the Konst Duchy, The Self-Redemption of the Grand Duke of Konst.

…It didn’t sound like a proper history book.

Opening it, Siles skimmed quickly, slightly shifting his impression.

Rather than a duchy history, it was a biography of the first Grand Duke of Konst, detailing his family, children, career, and psychological evolution.

The Konst Duchy was once part of the Sardin Empire. The first Grand Duke, through family heritage and personal honor, gained vast lands, the core being Lamifa City.

When the Sardin Empire’s capital was engulfed by mist, leading to rapid devastation, it fragmented into countless small nations.

This world retained noble traditions. These splintered nations didn’t inherit the “empire” title but called themselves duchies, marquisates, and so forth.

Yet, today, most of those fragmented nations had vanished, leaving only the Konst Duchy, thanks to the first Grand Duke’s ability and vision.

The book detailed his youthful recklessness and debauchery, then his maturity and ruthlessness as Grand Duke, unmasking his volatile and erratic side.

Siles wasn’t particularly interested in this, focusing instead on the Sardin Empire’s fall.

…Mist directly enveloped its capital?

Siles imagined the buildings, people, and once-glorious civilization beneath that mist—a catastrophic disaster, striking suddenly, destroying everything.

Why did the mist appear? What determined its location?

Siles grew curious.

He wasn’t unfamiliar with the Sardin Empire, one of the Silent Era’s most renowned empires. Though gone, history recorded its strength, prosperity, and greatness.

Many Silent Era literary works mentioned it.

As gods fell, human aspects grew more complex and vivid. People began valuing themselves, extolling human dignity, resistance, and indomitable will.

Thus, the mighty Sardin Empire became a symbol and model of human greatness in many hearts.

…Of course, such radiant greatness came with the despair and cruelty of an apocalyptic era.

It was an age when gods fell like rain and humans perished like grass.

Siles let out a soft sigh.

Closing the hastily read book, he realized it was one-thirty.

He stood, stretched, and looked out the window. Though the Historical Society’s space relied on unique rituals, the view outside was ordinary streets.

Tomorrow, he’d move to Lamifa University’s dormitory, starting a new phase. Siles thought this.

He mentally reviewed past and upcoming tasks.

Revelator matters were progressing steadily; Secret Keeper issues were untraceable, but he should stay in touch with the Fains and observe the doctor’s fate closely.

As for his duties as a literary history professor…

Siles thought of a task neglected amid lesson planning—his thesis.

Every professor faced academic requirements, even a newly appointed novice like Siles. His task this year was light: one thesis published in a “qualified” journal.

This world’s journals had four tiers, from lowest to highest: entry, qualified, excellent, outstanding.

Siles’s graduate thesis, on the life and literary theory of Silent Era writer Conan Fremont, was published in an excellent journal.

…It reached excellent mainly because few studied Conan Fremont.

Regardless, a qualified journal wasn’t difficult for Siles.

Busy with lesson planning, he hadn’t considered his thesis topic. But the book sparked an idea.

Why not research literature related to the Sardin Empire?

Siles mulled this over.

Suddenly, the door opened, and Eric Kolens—the Ernestine Tavern waiter—entered.

Seeing Siles, he gave a rare smile and greeted him.

“Eric,” Siles said, recalling Anthony Fain’s mention of Ernestine’s trading fair, sparking interest. He asked proactively, “I have something to ask you.”

Eric, flattered, said quickly, “What is it?”

“No need for formalities; we’re classmates,” Siles said softly. “We’re both novice Revelators.”

Eric paused, then gave a bitter smile. “I feel… Siles, I feel it’s unbelievable.”

“What?”

“About… Revelators.” The man, his forehead lined with wrinkles, looked at his rough palms. “This power… can I master it?”

Siles fell silent.

For a moment, he empathized with Eric—not for Revelators, but his Secret Keeper identity.

Siles gazed calmly at the fearful middle-aged man, scared by the prospect of wielding such wondrous, powerful forces. Wasn’t Siles the same?

After a moment, Siles said, “Power can be controlled by us.”

Eric looked at him blankly.

Siles said gently yet firmly, “Otherwise, such power would be useless.”

Eric trembled uncontrollably at the resolute belief in Siles’s tone. He calmed slowly, then laughed hoarsely. “Yes… I think my daughter would love [Flowing Wind]. She always complains about the August heat.”

Siles chuckled too.

Eric’s emotions settled quickly. Even without Siles’s comfort, this older man could suppress his feelings, striving for a future for himself and his family.

But Siles’s few words did comfort him, making Eric even more grateful.

He asked proactively, “What did you want to ask? How can I help?”

“Ernestine,” Siles said. “I heard there’s a trading fair there in early August?”