Roald's Library!

It was the nineteenth day of the blood plague.

The streets near Luther's clinic were eerily silent in the early morning light. The usual hum of footsteps, conversations, and the distant clang of shopkeepers opening their doors were absent. In their place, the muffled sounds of coughing and raspy wheezes seeped through the cracks of shuttered windows and closed doors, carrying a grim reminder of the sickness lurking inside each home.

Luther walked alone down the empty street, his eyes drifting over the closed shops, their windows dark and lifeless. The solitude wrapped around him, bringing with it a hollow feeling; a mix of loneliness and melancholy. He couldn't shake the thought: if only he were braver. If he could muster the courage to stand in the square one bright morning, banging drums and calling out, rallying people to come forward. He could shout that his medicine, though not a cure, could at least bring temporary relief from the plague. Perhaps then, a few would trust him enough to try it. Maybe he could save more lives.

But it was just a dream. Luther knew he wasn't cut from the heroic cloth. He was no leader, no visionary. Just an ordinary man trying to survive in an extraordinary nightmare. Helping those who crossed his path was one thing, but actively drawing attention? That could bring disaster upon him. In these desperate times, fear and suspicion turned people into strangers, even enemies. One wrong step, and he could become a target himself.

He sighed, hands shoved deep into his pockets. He'd learned the hard way that a little selfishness could buy a person some safety, even a measure of peace. He'd keep his head down, avoid unnecessary risks, and hopefully outlast this plague by blending into the shadows.

Reaching the Stone Pier Bridge, Luther stopped, resting his hands on the weathered railing as he gazed down at the Rhine River flowing beneath. The river, once a clear and steady stream, had turned murky over the past few days, its banks clogged with household waste. Among the usual refuse, he caught sight of something chilling: a swollen, discolored arm protruding from the garbage, bobbing slightly in the sluggish current.

A sense of dread settled over him. The town, with its already dwindling population, was spiraling into chaos. Fear and despair were spreading faster than the plague itself, and he knew it was only a matter of time before Evernight Town would collapse entirely, becoming nothing more than a hollow, ghostly shell.

Luther spent the morning searching the remaining abandoned villas in the area, hoping to find supplies or some clue about the plague's origins. But as he combed through each dusty room and ransacked hallway, he came up empty. A part of him was disappointed, but he couldn't deny feeling a sense of relief as well. Fewer strange discoveries meant fewer threats, and in times like these, avoiding trouble was a small blessing.

After all, there were powers in the world that Luther preferred to steer clear of, forces and people whose names alone carried weight, people he couldn't afford to cross. He was skilled enough to handle a few strange creatures, but when it came to real power, he knew his limits. He was just a small-town doctor with a bit of training in self-defense. Against the true monsters lurking in the shadows, he wouldn't stand a chance.

Returning to the clinic at noon, Luther found Hailey waiting for him, her eyes glazed but resolute. She took her medicine without fuss, something she'd once fought him over but now accepted as routine. When he checked on her later, she was already fast asleep, her breathing steady for the first time in days. Relieved, he made himself a simple meal, eating in silence as he mulled over his next steps.

Afterward, he retrieved a crumpled piece of paper from the black wooden box on his desk; a fragment of something he'd found that seemed important, though he couldn't yet decipher its meaning. With the paper tucked carefully into his coat pocket, he stepped outside and began walking toward the town center.

The central square was louder than he'd expected. As he passed the mayor's grand residence, he saw a gathering of people; a demonstration, if it could even be called that. A ragged group of townsfolk, mostly middle-aged men and a few women, marched in circles, their voices hoarse but defiant. They chanted slogans, fists raised as they demanded relief, food, and medical supplies.

Luther paused, observing the crowd with a detached curiosity. This was the first time he'd seen a protest in this strange world, and it was surprisingly familiar, reminiscent of the rallies and marches he'd seen on the news in his past life. But here, it looked different, more desperate, more primal. Most of the marchers were thin and sickly, their faces gaunt and pale. Only a few among them still looked healthy, shouting louder than the rest, their voices carrying over the crowd.

"Let the mayor show his face!" they shouted. "We need food, we need medicine!"

Luther shook his head. They were wasting their breath. Fools, he thought. They still hadn't realized that their precious mayor had likely fled days ago, abandoning them to their fate. He pitied them, in a way, but he didn't linger. They could shout all they wanted; it wouldn't change a thing. As long as they waited for salvation from someone else, they'd only be met with disappointment.

He turned away, crossing a quiet maple-lined avenue that led him to the town's library, the only one in Evernight Town. The familiar sight brought a faint smile to his lips. Before the plague, he'd spent countless afternoons here, poring over old medical texts and rare tomes, losing himself in the quiet solace of forgotten knowledge. It was one of the few places in town that still seemed to hold a trace of its former warmth, even if only in his memories.

Inside, the smell of aged paper and dust filled his senses. Shelves lined the walls, each stacked with volumes that had likely gone untouched for months. The library was a refuge, a place where he could momentarily forget the horrors outside and focus on piecing together clues.

Luther made his way to a secluded corner, pulling out the crumpled note from his pocket. It contained unfamiliar symbols and strange phrases he couldn't quite interpret. The words haunted him, taunting him with the possibility of a cure, or at the very least, a better understanding of the disease ravaging the town. If he could unlock its meaning, he might finally have a lead on the origins of the blood plague.

He settled into a chair, unfolding the paper carefully and spreading it out on the table. His eyes traced over the cryptic text, his mind racing as he tried to make sense of it. He knew it was a long shot, but hope was a powerful motivator.

In the stillness of the library, Luther allowed himself a brief moment of optimism. If there was even a sliver of a chance that these words could lead him to a cure, he would pursue it. After all, what else was left?

The Roald Library was a marvel of Gothic architecture, its towering spires and arched windows casting shadows that gave the building a mysterious allure. Luther pushed through the heavy, metal-bound doors, which groaned as they swung open, allowing him entry. Inside, he was greeted by a grand hall filled with statues; towering, elegant figures carved from stone, each in a unique pose, and all decidedly unclothed. Their forms were raw, expressive, and slightly unsettling.

Without lingering, Luther turned left, heading down a vast corridor that stretched out before him like a dark, stone path to hidden knowledge. The library's main collection was on the second floor, accessible via a spiral staircase that wound upward, its iron steps echoing softly under his boots. As he ascended, he caught sight of the main reading area: a long, spacious room lined with towering black shelves on one side and rows of sturdy wooden tables and chairs on the other.

There were fewer visitors than he remembered. The usual quiet murmur of scholars and researchers was almost absent, leaving a hollow silence that made the vast space feel even more empty. He shrugged, paying it no mind, and headed for the shelves.

Luther knew his way around the library well enough, but he'd only ever visited to consult medical texts. Language studies were unfamiliar territory. He scanned the shelves, searching for anything that might relate to old dialects or lost languages. After some fruitless searching and a few quick conversations with the handful of visitors, he narrowed down his search to the fifth row in the third column.

Starting from the bottom, he worked his way up, finally spotting a dusty set of old, worn books on a higher shelf. He climbed up the ladder, stretching to reach the weathered tomes, his fingers brushing over titles written in nearly faded lettering. After a few minutes, he managed to pull down several volumes on ancient dialects. It was a stroke of luck; the library's collection had long been neglected, and many books were shelved haphazardly, with no one around to organize or maintain them.

With a small stack of ancient texts under his arm, Luther found an empty table by the window. He settled into the seat, the faint light filtering through the stained glass casting colorful patterns across the pages as he opened the first book.

The text was primarily in Vennish, a language he understood well enough, which made it easier to navigate the unfamiliar terminology. He read for hours, his focus narrowing as he sifted through obscure passages, cross-referencing whenever he found something promising. The library grew darker as afternoon slipped into evening, and the silence seemed to deepen around him, pressing in as he read on.

Finally, he found a passage that sent a thrill through him. His hand hovered over the page, tracing the faded words carefully.

"The Gugre language was born from an ancient human group known as the Gugre people. They have a long lineage and are rumored to have played roles in several legendary battles throughout history."

Further down, he found another line that chilled him.

"But 150 years ago, in the Battle of the Gagra Mountains, the Gugre people were exterminated, angering Richard III, the Emperor of the Human Empire at that time. Their language disappeared with them."

These sentences were written in small, cramped handwriting on the edge of a brittle, yellowed page, as if scrawled hastily by someone who wanted to hide it. The corner of the page had been folded over, intentionally or not, concealing the information from casual readers. Luther realized that if he hadn't been reading carefully, he might have missed it altogether.

The final clue lay in a single word written on the note in a strange, sinuous script that reminded him of tadpoles swimming across the page. The translation provided below it was unmistakable: "epidemic."

A shiver ran through him. That single word confirmed his suspicions. The note he'd found was connected to the blood plague, possibly its very origin. Determined to learn more, Luther combed through volumes detailing the Battle of the Gagra Mountains and the ruthless reign of Richard III. But most of the information he found was frustratingly trivial, focused on the heroic tales of generals or the sordid exploits of the emperor, stories that entertained the masses but offered him nothing useful.

As night began to fall, Luther finally closed the last book with a sigh, disappointment settling over him. Any further details about the Gugre people or their mysterious language seemed to be lost to history. Rising from his seat, he returned the books to the shelf and exited the library, his thoughts churning.

However, just moments after he left, a figure stepped out of the shadows near the fifth row, third column. A middle-aged man, dressed in a nondescript coat, approached the shelf Luther had just been searching. His eyes scanned the titles until he spotted the very book Luther had been reading. He opened it to the page with the folded corner, examining it carefully.

A small, knowing smile crept onto his face. His fingers brushed over the page Luther had so carefully studied, and his eyes gleamed with anticipation as he looked toward the direction Luther had gone. The man had planted this bait, and now, at last, it seemed someone had taken it.

Whether Luther had stumbled upon the information by accident or intent made no difference. Now that he'd shown interest, he was ensnared. The man slipped the book back onto the shelf, his expression darkening as he left the library, silently trailing Luther's path through the empty, deserted streets.