Sleeping in the tavern wasn’t easy for Marek. There was a shower, yes—but the thought of water crawling down his back still made his skin twitch. Not his body’s memory, but the mind’s—a stubborn echo from a life long ended. So he wiped down with a damp towel and called it a victory.

Oswald had paid for the room. No questions, no fuss. Marek was grateful. He’d been bought beer before—mostly by people looking for company while they yelled at sports—but Oswald was different. Quiet. Kind. Too kind.

Why’s he being nice to me? Marek wondered, then dropped the thought. Too slippery to hold.

They headed out in the morning. It should’ve taken five minutes to reach the clearing. It took thirty. Marek kept freezing mid-step, lost deep inside his mind until the falling-stone memory smacked him free like a cosmic slap.

Oswald watched it all patiently. “Adventurer,” he muttered under his breath. “He’d wait ten minutes for a monster to stab him, then thank it for the attention.”

Still, his path of knowledge pulsed with quiet growth. Favor like that couldn’t be bought.

Well—technically, it could. Some rich fools paid to leech from others’ paths, draining themselves sick for a few drops of progress. But that was money talking. Money didn’t care if it left you hollow.

Oswald looked at Marek again.

Strange man. Or maybe a cup, that can’t stop overflowing.

In the quiet clearing, birds chirped like background noise in a poorly optimized app—repetitive, persistent, and completely ignored. Marek stood beside Oswald, arms crossed, squinting at nothing in particular.

“This is what we talked about yesterday,” Oswald said calmly, stepping forward. “The Path. My path.”

He raised his hand slowly, palm open, fingers slightly splayed—as if reaching for something unseen.

At first, Marek thought nothing was happening. Then the air shimmered, not like heat, but like a slow data refresh—gentle flickers, like a screen redrawing itself line by line. Lines of faint light unfolded around Oswald’s fingers, forming a floating diagram of shifting symbols and branching curves.

Marek blinked. “Is that... supposed to do something?”

Oswald didn’t answer. He twisted his hand slightly, and the symbols rearranged—three glowing sigils burst outward like tiny fireflies, then hovered in place. From them, thin filaments extended, forming a shifting, living map around them.

A humming sound started—low, not heard but felt. Then suddenly, each filament began to resonate. The ground responded. Grass straightened. The air grew cool and focused.

Then came the strange part.

Books. Not physical ones—ghosts of books. Pages flipped around Oswald, transparent and glowing, filled with moving diagrams and flickering formulas. One of them folded open in midair and emitted a single tone—a note that made Marek’s spine straighten involuntarily.

“What the hell is that?” Marek asked.

Oswald exhaled. The light dimmed. The books faded. The filaments vanished.

“Resonant archive,” he said calmly. “A way to glimpse stored knowledge, filtered through the path. A trick of the mind, memory, and... persuasion.”

“That was magic?” Marek asked.

Oswald tilted his head. “Magic, yes. But shaped by alignment. You walk a path, it shapes you. In turn, you shape the world.”

Marek looked at the space where the books had been. “Seems complicated.”

“Only to those who think linearly,” Oswald replied.

Marek blinked slowly. “I don't even know if I think at all.”

Oswald smiled, then turned toward the trees. “Still, a mind full of fragments may hold more pieces than one that's whole. You just need to find out how they fit.”

Marek stared at him. “That sounds wise, but also fake.”

“Yes,” Oswald said, still walking. “That’s how you know it’s working.”