Tars sat in his chair, silently watching the succubus scholar descend into hysteria. She had been this way ever since he placed Butler Ezel's note before her. It was as if she were giving him a lecture on the nature of pure, unadulterated breakdown—a madness born from having no target for one's rage. She had no specific event to blame and no person left to hate, yet a volcanic fire simmered within her, threatening to burst.

  He swung his legs back and forth; it wasn't by choice, but rather a consequence of every chair in the room being designed for someone much taller than a kobold.

  As he waited for the succubus to finish her episode, he meticulously pieced together the shredded fragments of the note on the table.

  "Finished venting?"

  He kept his head down, sliding the final two pieces into place. The room had finally grown quiet.

  "Of course not," the succubus replied, her smile returning. "To exhaust three hundred years of accumulated fury so easily would be a terrible waste."

  "Can we communicate like normal beings now?" He finally pressed the last scrap of paper into the mosaic.

  "Certainly."

  The calm, sweet smile of the scholar was back on her face as if it had never left. "Please disregard my lapse in composure. I simply didn't know who to lash out at. After all, even if I hate the world, that world no longer exists, does it?" she teased.

  "I think you were searching for someone to blame for all of this," Tars said, his legs still swinging under the table. "And then you realized it wasn't the door, or the butler, or the City Lord who broke his word. It wasn't even that unseen student. You realized it wasn't even the vanished world. You saw that they all shared your fate. And then you understood: the culprit is weakness. A weakness you cannot change, and a weakness the world itself could not overcome."

  The succubus scholar began to laugh, her voice gradually rising in volume.

  "You are quite right. Stopping the hysteria is merely my attempt to look a little less weak. Perhaps if you weren't here, I would have kept screaming much longer." The corners of her mouth curved into a charming arc, seemingly indifferent to Tars's assessment of her and her lost civilization.

  They chatted for a few more minutes. The succubus seemed truly calm now, despite appearing no different than before. Tars only cared for rational dialogue; her earlier state had made him worry she might give up entirely. He couldn't truly empathize with her—there was a chasm of experience between them that imagination couldn't bridge. It was the loss of a people, a world, and the passage of centuries; it was the loss of even an object for one's hatred. Like she said, the people who knew her name were gone, so her name no longer had meaning.

  "This note..." Tars pointed to the reconstructed message. "It lacks the most critical point. Old Ezel is senile and confused. Even if we find this 'Young Master,' does it guarantee we can leave? And how?"

  Stolen novel; please report.

  He could already envision the trouble. If they couldn't leave immediately, the appearance of the real Young Master would surely trigger some erratic, potentially violent reaction from the mad butler.

  The succubus pondered for a moment. "Perhaps my never-before-seen student is like me," she mused. "Or perhaps he is already dead, and that old fool Ezel's memory is simply stuck in the distant past, or he only remembers what he chooses to remember."

  Tars thought back to the invisible scratching on his neck last night. He considered the possibility of someone manipulating the castle's mystical power to send messages—or perhaps it was the ghost of the Young Master.

  "Do you have a way to see spirits... or things of that nature?" he asked.

  The succubus scholar smiled but remained silent, not rushing to answer.

  "That note said you were a powerful wizard. Old Ezel's eyes aren't bad; I've never actually met a wizard before! I naively thought you were just a somewhat ugly and strange little imp. I didn't realize wizards looked like this," she said, studying him. "I've read in books: never underestimate a wizard. They always have some ability you can't guard against, a little surprise up their sleeve."

  "Perhaps I've already found the Young Master's spirit." Tars gave a soft blow, scattering the fragments of the note across the table again.

  The beautiful succubus finally turned serious. She thought for a moment, then pulled a monocle from her ring and handed it over.

  "I hope it still works here. Consider it a return gift for the dragon blood," she said.

  Tars took it and tried to wedge it into his eye socket. It was a bit difficult, but the moment it sat securely, he felt his mental energy begin to drain—a sign that the artifact was functioning.

  "Since we are no longer following my script, things have become much less interesting," the succubus smiled. "So, I will wait only three days. No, two. If wizards are truly as cautious as they say, I will find my own way to the library."

  "My lady, if you can make it out that door, I have no reason to stop you," Tars said indifferently. "But if you fail, please find a way to leave some useful information for me."

  The succubus froze for a second, then laughed again. "Truly, just as the books say: a wizard is exactly like you."

  Tars couldn't tell if she was serious about going or just joking. It didn't matter.

  Lesson time was over.

  He was led back to his room and immediately put on the monocle. Squinting to keep the glass in place caused his cheeks and nose to bunch up. He monitored the drain on his mental energy as he scanned the room.

  Maybe I need to wait. Is it too early? he comforted himself. Maybe ghosts need sleep, too.

  Suddenly, as he stood in the corner looking back at the room, he spotted a faint, glimmering wisp of spectral light beneath the bed. He rushed over and shoved the bed aside. Prying up a loose floorboard, he found a small, square box. Inside was a tiny, pointed object—it looked like a baby tooth that had fallen out naturally.

  Is this some custom of their world? Tars wondered.

  He turned it over and flicked it with a claw; it seemed unremarkable. But just as he began searching for other clues, a wisp of shadow emerged from the tip of the tooth, gradually expanding into a human shape.

  It was a handsome youth. Though young, he possessed a remarkably composed aura.

  "Finally, we meet formally, my long-awaited roommate. I used to hear the servants talk about the lively scenes of many brothers, sisters, or dear friends squeezed into one room. I've looked forward to this. Please, do not let go of my tooth; if you do, it will be hard for you to see me, and you won't be able to hear my voice."

  The youth spoke Abyssal fluently and with a perfect accent—not at all like someone who required a tutor.

  "Your Abyssal is quite good..." Tars remarked.

  "Of course. However, according to noble etiquette, one must still invite the city's most renowned scholar for five years of instruction. I never went once, though. It's a rather foolish practice, don't you think?" the handsome Young Master said.

  Tars could already imagine the sheer level of hysteria the succubus scholar would experience if she ever found out.