The air in the underground library grew heavier, as if being drawn into the creeping darkness slithering between the bookshelves. Daisuke stood frozen, his eyes locked on the faceless shadow that had just spoken to him. That wide, split mouth still hung in the air, suspended in an unnatural grin—like ink dripping from a pen held too long above the page.
"You have begun," the voice repeated, this time deeper, more resonant, like an echo rising from an ancient well.
Daisuke wanted to run, but his legs refused to move. His hands clutched the Empty Book tightly; it felt warm—almost hot—as if alive in his grasp.
"Who... who are you?" His voice trembled, barely audible.
The shadow laughed, a sound like crumpling paper. "We are what you summoned. We are the words you cast away."
Suddenly, the figure collapsed into a mass of black ink that slithered across the floor like a serpent, vanishing behind a bookshelf.
Daisuke gasped for breath. He glanced around, making sure nothing else was lurking nearby. But the library now felt different—as if every corner hid unseen eyes, and every book whispered things he could not comprehend.
With shaking hands, he reopened the Empty Book. The page still bore the last lines he had written:
"This valley once lived."
"And you have awakened it."
But now, something new had appeared. At the bottom of the page, ink moved on its own, forming new lines:
"You want proof? Write something small. Something insignificant. And watch what happens."
Daisuke's heart pounded. This was madness. It had to be a hallucination. But the Black Valley... the ink bird... they were real.
He had to be sure.
With pen in hand, he stared at the next blank page. Something small. Something meaningless.
His eyes fell on the teacup sitting on his desk—the tea had long gone cold since morning.
With hesitant strokes, he wrote:
"The water in the cup becomes warm."
Instantly, the ink was absorbed into the paper, vanishing without a trace.
Then—
Click.
A soft sound from the desk.
Daisuke turned.
Steam rose from the teacup. Slowly, very slowly, the water inside began to bubble.
He reached out, touched the cup—and recoiled. Hot. Truly hot.
"This can't be..." He stood up abruptly, his chair clattering to the floor behind him. This was real. The book was actually changing reality.
Then he felt it.
A presence. Watching him.
From the corner of the room, behind the curtain of a small window, a shadow moved. Something stood there—humanoid, but too tall, too thin.
Daisuke froze.
The figure didn't move closer. Nor did it retreat. It simply... watched.
With trembling hands, Daisuke shut the Empty Book and locked it inside a drawer. He needed to get out.
---
That night, Daisuke sat in his room, the Empty Book open before him. He had tried to hide it, to bury it beneath the wooden floorboards, even toss it into the river—but each time he turned around, it returned, appearing in unexpected places: beneath his pillow, inside his drawer, even once—he swore—it fell from the ceiling.
It seemed he couldn't rid himself of it.
So if that was the case, he had to understand it.
With only an oil lamp for light, he examined the book more closely. Its cover felt unlike any material he knew—hard yet flexible, cold but faintly pulsing. The pages could not be torn, stained, or marked with ordinary ink—unless he truly intended to write something.
And the strangest part: the more he wrote, the more he felt something... drain from him.
Like memories fading.
Earlier that day, he tried to recall the name of his childhood dog. All he could summon was a vague image—a wagging tail, a distant bark—but no name. Yet yesterday, he had remembered it perfectly.
The book was taking something in return.
But why? And for what purpose?
Daisuke sighed, eyes fixed on the blank page. He had to try again. Something more controlled this time.
He wrote:
"The night wind stops."
Then he waited.
A few seconds passed.
Then—
The breeze outside his window halted. The sound of rustling leaves vanished. Everything fell silent. Too silent.
Daisuke approached the window, opening it cautiously.
The air outside stood still. Not a single gust. No movement. Even the trees looked stiff, like a painting.
This wasn't what he meant. He only wanted the wind to pause for a moment—not... this.
He quickly wrote again:
"The wind returns to normal."
But this time, the ink didn't vanish. The words remained on the page.
Daisuke tried again, pressing harder.
"Please, bring the wind back!"
Still no reaction.
He shut the book, panic seeping into his chest. What had he done?
Suddenly, a soft knock at the window.
Once.
Twice.
Daisuke turned slowly.
Outside stood a small child—pale face, eyes too black, smile far too wide.
"Do you like playing with the wind?" the child whispered, though the window was tightly shut.
Daisuke stepped back. This wasn't a village child. This was... something else.
The child turned toward the forest, then looked back at Daisuke. "They're coming. Because you called."
Then, without warning, the child ran off—but not like a child. Its movements were broken, puppet-like, as if pulled by invisible strings.
And in the distance, from the forest's edge, Daisuke saw them—
Tall, thin shadows lined up among the trees.
Watching.
Waiting.
Remnants of Narrative.
The Empty Book in his hands felt heavier than ever.
Only now did Daisuke realize one thing:
He wasn't using the book.
The book was using him.