CHAPTER 15: CHAPTER 15 - THE FRAGMENTED JOURNAL

Morena sat for a long moment in silence, her gaze fixed on the last of the three objects laid out before her.

The book.

It was a tattered, half-ruined thing, its surface worn by time and travel. It was clear that it had been used for a very long time, and whatever information it might contain could prove useful in figuring out the details about the other two items.

But she was hesitant.

Her fingers flexed slightly as she considered leaving it for tomorrow. The incident with the pendant had left her with a faint, lingering unease—not fear exactly, but the awareness that she was treading into dangerous territory.

If it was her former self, the researcher, she wouldn’t have cared. She would’ve dived right in without a second thought. Even now, she was tempted to do just that.

But she wasn’t her former self. She didn’t have the technology and failsafes she had in place there. Here, she was weak—a simple girl.

She almost rose from her seat. Almost.

Then, slowly, she reached forward.

Her curiosity was stronger than her caution. Her drive for knowledge, for power, was stronger than her doubt and hesitation. It always had been, no matter what life or form she took.

She drew the book closer, brushing away a thin layer of grime and dust from its surface.

The cover was not paper or cloth, but leather—dark, dried, and cracked, with an uneven texture beneath her fingertips. She couldn’t tell what type of leather it was exactly, but knowing might be worse. It had a faint, musty scent, the kind that clung to old things kept in darkness for a long time.

The pages were thick and discolored, their edges frayed, but when she pressed against them, they held firm. It was clear that it was no ordinary paper, at least not made from any material she had known.

The writing, she noticed immediately, was unusual. It wasn’t ink, but rather each letter was carved into the page itself, the indentations faintly catching the light, making it just barely readable.

She turned to the first page.

The writing was neat at first, composed in the common language she knew. The author, who never wrote their name down, took notes in a dry, methodical style, detailing travels through small towns, abandoned places, and their adventures around the kingdom.

The first few pages were mundane enough, though Morena detected a certain sharpness beneath the words—a quiet edge of curiosity, or perhaps obsession, with the idea of finding old things.

She skimmed for anything noteworthy.

For several pages, it was simply accounts of distances traveled, minor illnesses, and weather conditions. Then, somewhere near the middle, the tone shifted.

Drastically.

I have found something.

Just that. The entire page held only that one line—no description, no location. Nothing to explain what had been found. The page itself was slightly torn near the edge, and the writing was haphazard.

Her brow furrowed slightly as she turned the page.

The writing continued; however, it was more erratic. The author never described anything fully. Sometimes they would just write a few lines without any details.

What was the point of keeping a journal if it wasn’t being used for actually journaling? Morena couldn’t help but find the method of keeping notes disorganized. In her past, she had always made sure to keep clear and detailed notes.

As the notes progressed, scattered through the messy lines of common writing were unfamiliar letters—small, curved strokes unlike any script she had seen before.

At first, there were only one or two, but they multiplied quickly.

The author wrote about "a language unlike any other,"

one that "held power in every letter."

He described headaches, restless nights, and "dreams where the symbols moved on their own."

Morena felt the AI pulse faintly in her mind.

[Note: Extended exposure to unknown script may present psychological risks.]

Morena froze for a second as the AI warned her about the script. While she hadn’t noticed any changes or effects just yet, she didn’t think that it would be risk-free—not after the pendant.

To stop or to keep reading?

"I can’t stop just because something is likely. Warn me at the first signs of any effect."

She kept reading.

The writing became fragmented. Sentences broke halfway, replaced by strings of strange characters. The author documented attempts to learn the language, but admitted to struggling—claiming the words didn’t make any sense, that they whispered meanings he could almost, but not quite, grasp.

Pages later, Morena found torn edges. Some pages had been ripped out entirely. Others were stained so badly that the carvings were unreadable.

On one surviving fragment, she read:

"...beings who command the elements as if they were toys in a child’s hand..."

Another:"...the language is the key to their art..."

A third, scrawled with an unsteady hand:"...I have seen one of their remnants. It... watched..."

As she read the words, as they slowly fell into more madness, the author clearly getting worse as time passed, one page—one line—stood out to her.

"...soon I too will be revered as a great lord wizard..."

From there, the text became almost entirely incomprehensible. A handful of common words remained scattered between the strange letters, but they dwindled until they vanished entirely. The last three remaining pages were nothing but the strange language, every inch of the surface etched with tight, obsessive carvings.

From there, the pages were torn out or ruined beyond reading, but that one line stood out to her.

Wizards.

Who didn’t know what wizards were? Well, in her past life they were things of tales, stories, and books— all-powerful beings capable of magical feats one could only dream of.

In this world, while she hadn’t come across any direct mentions of them, it was something she believed—or rather, hoped—would be possible. It was power. The power to do more than a mere warrior.

At least, that’s what she hoped. If she could learn more about this, could she become a wizard?

These words, these unknown letters, this strange book—it held the key to finding out more about wizards, but she couldn’t understand it at all.

She felt something in them—not magic exactly, but the weight of intention.

"AI."

She murmured quietly, biting her lip as she stared at the words.

"Begin symbol isolation and translation attempt."

[Processing. Estimated time: incomplete without further samples.]

She closed the book gently, her eyes lingering on the worn cover.

If this language truly held the key to bending elements to one’s will, she would learn it.

No matter the cost.