An Isekai Story

Tucked into a slanted alcove near the heart of the mountain, the Ashscript Study is less a place of learning and more a mausoleum for knowledge that was never meant to last. The walls are lined with warped shelves stuffed with brittle tomes, many of them partially burned or lacking entire chapters—as though the ideas inside collapsed under their own weight. Scrolls curl on the floor like shed skin, their ink faded into whispers. The Unmaker’s desk, carved from a slab of petrified rootwood older than any known forest, is scarred with shallow, deliberate grooves. It is never cluttered, yet never clean. An ancient viewing orb rests in the far corner atop a tarnished plinth, its surface dim and rippling with images of choices that were once made, and then unmade. The silence here is brittle. Even the air carries the scent of scorched parchment and extinguished ambition. No wards protect this room. None are needed. Everything inside has already surrendered.

The study is dim and long-shadowed, its walls pressed close by overflowing shelves that seem to bend under the weight of vanishing knowledge. The petrified wood desk glows faintly with age, its pale grooves catching the light from a low, smoldering lantern. Dust hangs in the still air, untouched by breeze or breath. The orb in the corner pulses faintly, casting warped reflections across the cracked stone floor like half-remembered dreams.