Bell stood up from the windowsill.
His movement was so abrupt that the soles of his shoes made a sharp scraping sound against the edge of the stone steps. Tia instinctively reached out to grab the corner of his clothes, but her fingertips only caught the fabric for a moment before his stride pulled it away.
“Bell?”
He did not stop.
He pushed open the door of the side hall and stepped into the corridor. Moonlight sliced through the window frames, laying out a row of neat white squares on the floor tiles. About a dozen paces ahead, Margaret was walking toward her own room, the hem of her cloak sweeping across the floor.
“Headmaster Margaret.”
Margaret stopped and turned halfway around.
Bell walked up to her, stopping three paces away.
“Wood Elf.”
The two words were squeezed out from between his teeth, dry and blunt.
Margaret’s footsteps froze completely. Moonlight poured in from the window to her right, illuminating half of her face. She scrutinized Bell’s face, scanning him up and down twice.
That scrutiny wasn't analyzing a problem.
It was judging whether his mental state was normal.
“Bell, there is no such race as Wood Elf in this world.”
She spoke slowly, enunciating every word clearly with the patience of an elder toward a junior.
“What are you talking about?”
Bell stared at her for a full two seconds.
There was no hesitation in Margaret’s answer. No pause for recollection, no vague uncertainty. That conviction was etched into the base level of her cognition; it wasn't a conclusion reached through thought, but a matter of common sense.
Bell turned and left.
Margaret called his name from behind, but he didn't look back. He turned left at the end of the corridor to the third guest room, where a faint blue light leaked from under the door.
He pushed the door open and entered.
Leon was sitting at the table, his right hand covered in a thin layer of ice as he slowly moved it along the curve of a sword blade. Ice mana condensed into a paper-thin layer of frost on the edge, which he then smoothed over with his thumb.
Bell stood at the door.
“Leon.”
Leon looked up, his movements pausing for a moment.
“What is a Wood Elf?”
Leon set the sword down. His platinum-blond short hair glinted with a cold metallic sheen under the blue light. His brow furrowed—not in confusion, but as if he were searching his memory.
“There are indeed many branches within the elf race. Wind Elves, Water Elves, Dark Elves, and Forest Elves.”
He listed them one by one, tapping his finger on the table four times.
“But Wood Elves...”
Leon shook his head.
“There is no such classification. There never has been.”
He straightened up, facing Bell directly.
“Lucas, what on earth are you—”
Bell had already turned and walked out.
The corridor.
The end.
He leaned his right hand against the cold stone wall. His fingers spread wide, his fingertips pressing against the coarse stone surface.
His brain was churning.
Not working—churning.
Aunt Philan. Her emerald-green long hair reflecting points of pale gold in the sunlight. She had been sitting on a wicker chair in the back garden of the Lucas Estate, with Tia’s unfinished Mithril body on her lap. Golden-green light had flowed from her fingertips as she carved blessing runes onto the Mithril surface, stroke by stroke.
There was the scent of flowers in the air. White roses.
The clarity of this memory was so high that every frame could be frozen. The angle of the light, the number of petals, the residue of plant juices under Aunt Philan’s fingernails.
There wasn't a single trace of blurriness.
But now, three people had told him the same thing.
Tia didn't know what a Wood Elf was.
Margaret said there was no such race as Wood Elf in this world.
Leon had listed every branch of the elf race one by one, and the word "Wood" was not among them.
Bell’s fingers sank into the crevices of the stone wall, his fingernails turning white from the pressure.
Two possibilities.
First, his own memory was flawed. Some unknown power had implanted an experience in his mind that never happened. Aunt Philan didn't exist, Wood Elves didn't exist, and the blessing runes on Tia’s core came from another source.
Second—
The world was flawed.
The words Cecilia said when she left surfaced from the depths of his memory, every syllable carrying her characteristic tone of exhausted, extreme mockery.
“Before officially restarting the world, she will certainly return to ask Bell for the final answer once more.”
Restarting the world.
The temperature in his spine plummeted. That cold wasn't pouring in from the outside; it was seeping out from his bone marrow.
Footsteps came from behind him. Very light.
Tia.
She walked up behind Bell and stopped an arm’s length away. She didn't lean in, only reached out and grabbed his sleeve.
“Bell, your heart is beating faster.”
Her voice was very low.
Bell turned around.
Tia looked up at him. The purple moonlight poured in from the window at the end of the corridor, casting a pale violet halo over her silver hair. Her Mithril face was filled with unease.
Not a creation.
A person. His person.
But she didn't remember Aunt Philan.
It wasn't that she had forgotten. It was that from her cognition, from the very foundation of her existence, the words "Wood Elf" had been pulled out by the roots.
It wasn't that the memory had been modified.
It was that the race had vanished from history.
The moment this thought crashed into his mind, Bell’s entire body stiffened for a beat.
Then he brought his breathing under control.
“I just remembered some old things.”
He heard his own voice say those words, the tone steady, even carrying a hint of apology.
“It’s nothing major. Go back to your room and rest.”
Tia did not let go.
She stared at Bell’s face for four or five seconds. Within her Mithril irises, fine etheric conduction patterns flowed under the dim light. She was reading his micro-expressions, analyzing his muscle tension.
Bell knew she could read him.
But in the end, Tia released her grip.
She took a step back.
“Bell, no matter what happens, don't carry it alone.”
Then she turned and walked down the corridor toward the side hall.
The clicking of her Mithril joints grew distant.
Bell leaned against the wall, watching her back disappear around the corner.
Five seconds. Ten seconds. Fifteen seconds.
Then he began to head underground.
The door to the Library was not closed.
Candlelight leaked from the crack in the door, drawing a thin orange line on the corridor floor tiles.
Bell pushed the door open and entered.
Leila was sitting among the piles of ancient texts. A thick volume of the Blood Race Chronicles was spread out before her, her left index finger pressing down on a page of yellowed parchment, her right hand resting near a quill.
The ink on the tip of the quill had already dried.
She wasn't writing. She was waiting.
Hearing the door, Leila looked up. Her red pupils reflected two tiny points of fire in the candlelight.
Bell did not bother with pleasantries.
He walked to the opposite side of the desk and stood still.
“Ancestor Leila, you have lived for thousands of years. In your memory, is there a race called 'Wood Elf'?”
Leila set down her quill.
The pen made a very soft sound as it landed on the paper.
Her gaze locked onto Bell’s face and held for about five seconds. She wasn't reminiscing; she was judging his motive for asking the question.
Then she spoke.
“No.”
Short and decisive. Not a single extra syllable.
“I have lived for over four thousand years. I have walked through almost every living corner of this continent. I have seen all the branches of the elf race—Wind, Water, Dark, Forest, Sand, Ice, and Flame.”
She moved her finger from the parchment and laid it flat on the table.
“Never has the term 'Wood Elf' appeared in any literature, any ruins, or any oral legends.”
Something dropped in Bell’s chest.
It wasn't his heart. It was his last pillar of logic.
Four thousand years of memory. A First Ancestor who possessed the Desolate Realm and had traveled to every corner of the continent. Seven elven branches, listed one by one without omission.
No Wood Elves.
Never.
In this world, from the oldest beings to the youngest humans, from literature to oral history—the words "Wood Elf" did not exist in any record.
But he remembered.
He remembered the golden-green light flowing from Aunt Philan’s fingertips. He remembered the herbal fragrance that drifted when those blessing runes solidified on the Mithril surface. He remembered her looking back the day she left the estate, her emerald-green long hair fluttering in the sunset.
He was the only person who still held this memory.
Why?
The answer formed in his mind so quickly it left no room for a buffer.
The soul.
If there was a power that could tamper with the memory of the entire world and erase the traces of a race’s existence—
That power would also be unable to affect a soul with a completely different frequency.
That was why he still remembered.
Only he still remembered.
Cecilia’s "Restart"—
It wasn't a threat. It wasn't a warning.
It had already begun.
The color drained from his face. Bell could feel the temperature of his facial muscles dropping.
Leila stood up.
The chair legs scraped across the stone floor, sounding exceptionally harsh in the quiet Library. She walked around the desk to Bell, reached out, and grabbed his wrist.
When her fingertips touched him, Bell could feel his pulse racing under her thumb.
“Bell.”
Leila’s voice was incredibly low.
“What have you discovered?”
Bell looked up.
The candlelight flickered between them. Leila’s red pupils filled his vision.
He did not answer the question.
“Leila, why did you leave the secret chamber just now?”
Leila’s fingers tightened slightly on his wrist.
The pulse under her thumb skipped another beat.
Silence.
The only sound in the Library was the occasional faint crackle of the candle wicks burning.
Bell stared deep into her pupils.
“The 'existence' inside the inheritance stone pillar—you know him.”
He spoke one word at a time.
“You don't just know him; you're afraid. There are very few things in this world that a First Ancestor who has lived for four thousand years would fear.”
Leila’s lips pressed together into a very thin line.
The flame of the furthest candlestick in the corner of the Library trembled without a breeze.
Bell added one last sentence.
“If I told you that someone is erasing an entire race from the history of this world—”
He paused for a beat.
“Do you still intend to remain silent?”
Leila’s fingers released his wrist.
It wasn't a slow release. In an instant, she suddenly lost her strength, and her fingers slipped from his skin.
Bell saw it.
Deep in her pupils, something flashed by.
Deeper than fear. Heavier than defensiveness.
It was something very ancient, something that had been suppressed for a very, very long time.
Leila took a step back.
She opened her mouth.
No sound came out.
Then she closed her mouth and lowered her head. Her long silver hair slid from her shoulder, obscuring most of her face.
All the candles in the Library went out.
In the darkness, Leila’s voice leaked from the gaps in her silver hair. It was soft, so soft that Bell had to hold his breath to hear it clearly.
“...The funeral three thousand years ago.”
She stopped for a long time. So long that Bell thought she wouldn't continue.
“The ashes in the sarcophagus were mine.”
In the dark, Bell’s pupils constricted.
The candlelight flared back to life. Flames jumped from the wicks, illuminating Leila’s bowed profile.
Her right hand was shaking.
From her fingertips to her wrist, every knuckle was trembling with an extremely fine frequency.
Bell stood there, his Adam's apple bobbing, unable to squeeze a single word from his throat.
Leila slowly looked up.
The reignited candlelight was reflected in her red pupils, the light shattering into pieces through the refraction of liquid.
“I died once, Bell.”
The corner of her mouth twitched. That curve wasn't a smile; it was some kind of muscle loss of control.
“Three thousand years ago, in that war, the one who died wasn't the King.”
“It was me.”
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