The air inside the late Professor Caelan Draemyr's office was oppressive, almost suffocating.
The smell of aged wood, ink, and something faintly metallic hung in the air, like the remnants of secrets clinging to the room's walls.
The office wasn't mine by right—I was only acting as a stand-in instructor—but for now, it was mine to use.
I sat at the desk, staring at the surface that bore countless scratches, burns, and gouges.
Marks of a life lived dangerously, I guessed.
In front of me was a box, one of the few belongings left behind by Draemyr.
Officially, the academy would have handled his estate, but from the looks of it, they hadn't managed to clear this room before assigning it to me.
This was my chance to find answers—not just about the man himself, but about the strange world of firearms that he had introduced me to on the night he tried to kill me.
That pistol he had wielded, the one I'd barely managed to wrest from him, was still seared into my memory.
Its sleek, cold frame had been unlike anything else I'd seen in this world.
I opened the box, sifting through its contents.
The first thing I found were receipts.
Piles of them, folded and yellowed with age.
They were written in a cramped, jagged script, almost illegible at times.
The names of shops and locations popped out—many of them from the Northern Continent, though the exact addresses were often scratched out or blurred by water damage.
One particularly sharp receipt caught my eye.
Merchant of Arcane Metals, District 17, Northern Continent
Item Purchased: Handgun Pistol (Custom Design, Black Iron Frame, Engraved Grip) Ammunition: 50 Cartridges Total Cost: 125 Gold Coins Date of Purchase: Year 999, Month 11, Day 20
I traced my fingers over the ink, imagining the moment Caelan had handed over a small fortune for that weapon.
My chest tightened at the memory of the pistol aimed at me, its barrel gleaming in the dim light.
He had been ready to pull the trigger.
Beneath the receipts, I found letters—half-torn, many of them unsigned—and then something far more valuable.
A leather-bound journal.
Its corners were scuffed, and the spine was cracked.
As I opened it, the pages whispered against each other like the voices of ghosts.
The journal was chaotic.
Dates skipped wildly, pages were hastily scrawled or outright torn out, and the entries were fragmented.
It was like trying to read a map with pieces missing.
Entry: Year 998, Month 6, Day 12
They're getting closer. Every day, their eyes follow me through the streets. It doesn't matter where I go—markets, inns, even the temples. They see me. They know.
Entry: Year 998, Month 9, Day 1
I've heard rumors of a place where they can't reach me. A sanctuary. But the price of entry… It's not something I can afford. Not yet.
Entry: Year 999, Month 1, Day 30
I met him. He promised me freedom, but his price is higher than theirs. I can't trust him. I shouldn't trust anyone.
Entry: Year 999, Month 12, Day 25
This continent is cursed. The North is nothing but madness and death. I have no choice but to leave. To take a new name, a new identity. The West might be my last chance. If I stay here, they'll find me, and I'll end up like the others.
Entry: Year 1, Month 1, Day 1
The Demonic Sanctuary. I don't know how I escaped it, but I did. Or maybe I didn't. Sometimes, I feel its shadows crawling beneath my skin. It doesn't matter. I must leave. The academy will be my refuge, even if I have to teach to survive.
I froze, my eyes lingering on those last two words.
"...Demonic Sanctuary..."
I whispered the phrase aloud, the weight of it settling heavily in the room.
Was the demonic sanctuary similar to the Demonic/Witch cult like in the game or just the same name just different in the novel?
A folded piece of paper slid out from the journal's spine.
Unfolding it revealed another receipt, this one for the handgun I'd already seen mentioned.
My stomach churned as I connected the dots: the gun he'd bought, the Demonic Sanctuary, and his frantic flight to the West.
I closed the journal and leaned back in the chair, my mind spinning.
This wasn't just about Caelan's fascination with firearms or his suspicious past.
It was about something far larger—something that had terrified him enough to abandon his life and flee across continents.
The North… It always came back to the Northern Continent.
My thoughts turned to the winter break.
I had already resolved to travel north to hone my swordsmanship, but now I had an additional purpose.
This journal could be my guide.
It held breadcrumbs leading to the truth about Caelan, the origin of firearms, and whatever shadowy forces had haunted him.
I glanced around the room, considering my next move.
If the cleaning staff got their hands on this journal, it might vanish into the academy's labyrinthine bureaucracy.
I couldn't let that happen.
I walked over to the bookshelf in the corner and placed the journal on the top shelf, shoving it behind a row of dusty tomes.
It wasn't the most secure hiding spot, but it would have to do for now.
As I stepped away from the shelf, a faint smile tugged at my lips.
Maybe it was the thought of the adventure ahead, the idea of piecing together a mystery that spanned continents and decades.
Or maybe it was the realization that I could use this knowledge—
For now, though, the journal would have to wait. I had a class to attend, and the students wouldn't wait for me to unravel the secrets of the late Professor Caelan Draemyr.
But soon, I promised myself. Soon, I would find out what Caelan had been running from.
And when I did, I'd make sure I was ready for whatever lay ahead.