In the quiet studio of the City Lord's Mansion, the scent of damp earth and ash hung in the air. A lone oil lamp flickered on the wooden desk, its golden light spreading across a worktable cluttered with pottery shards, carved stone, and half-dried blocks of mud.

At the center of it all, Mirean Moon sat hunched over a square of still-damp clay, her posture straight yet tense, her charcoal pen gliding slowly and deliberately across the surface. Each stroke carved out a mirrored character—precise, elegant, and reversed. Her wrist trembled slightly from the effort.

The sound of charcoal scratching against clay filled the small room. Outside, the muffled rhythm of the night—distant footsteps, the occasional call of a night bird—seemed to fade away entirely. Mirean was too focused to notice anything else.

During dinner two nights ago, Luciel had looked at her across the long table and said with his usual quiet certainty,

"Among all the people in Black Tortoise City, your handwriting is the most beautiful."

At the time, she had nearly dropped her spoon in surprise. Compliments from Luciel were rare—he praised actions, not aesthetics. A flush of warmth had filled her chest then, pride mingling with a shy sort of happiness.

That was, until he had continued, just as calmly:

"So, I want you to write every word you know on these mud blocks—backwards."

The memory made her lips twitch even now. Luciel's serene tone never wavered, whether he was instructing people to build a water system or to defy logic itself.

Writing backwards had seemed absurd at first. Even with her refined penmanship and steady hands, the task was maddening. Her mind had to visualize every stroke mirrored, every angle reversed. She had ruined three blocks before she even managed a single legible line.

Now, after hours of practice, the task had become rhythmic, meditative almost. She exhaled softly, finishing the final stroke of a complex character. Sweat dotted her forehead.

With a weary sigh, Mirean set her pen aside and flexed her stiff fingers. Her eyes burned from concentration. Just as she was about to rub them, a soft towel appeared in her peripheral vision.

"Thank you," she murmured instinctively, taking it. She wiped the corners of her eyes, then blinked in surprise as she looked up to see who had handed it to her.

Luciel stood beside her, that faintly amused expression playing on his lips. Behind him stood Alina and Rizuki, both peering curiously at her desk.

"Why did you appear all of a sudden?" Mirean asked, a hint of exasperation in her voice. She hadn't even heard them enter.

Luciel chuckled softly. "You were too focused to notice," he said, reaching down to lift the mud block she had just finished. He turned it in his hands, his sharp eyes scanning the mirrored words. "Beautiful work, Mirean. Even backwards, it's flawless."

A small, unbidden smile tugged at the corner of her lips.

Alina, ever curious, leaned forward and picked up another block. "Master Luciel, are these your second invention?" she asked, her violet eyes gleaming with intrigue.

Luciel nodded, a spark of satisfaction lighting his calm demeanor. "Yes. It's something quite practical this time."

He set the block back down and gestured for them to gather around. "With my control over earth and stone, I've made the characters slightly raised—like carvings, but more uniform. These mud blocks will serve as molds for text."

Mirean frowned faintly, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "You had me write hundreds of characters backward just to make raised letters? What for?"

Luciel didn't answer immediately. Instead, his gaze drifted toward the window, where the moonlight fell in silvery streaks across the desk. "You only need a little imagination," he said, "to realize how powerful this can be."

It was Elara—quiet until now—who suddenly looked up from the stack of parchment in her hands. Her silver-white eyes widened as an idea dawned on her. "Luciel! If we coat the raised letters with ink and press them onto paper… we could print words!"

Luciel's smile deepened. "You're the first to think of that," he said approvingly. He placed a handful of the clay pieces on the table for everyone to see.

Alina tilted her head, still skeptical. "But charcoal marks are faint. You can't print properly with them."

"I've already solved that," Luciel replied, his tone light but confident. He crossed to a nearby cabinet, rummaged briefly, and returned with a small, obsidian-black block.

"This," he said, holding it up, "is ink."

He set it on the table. Up close, it looked like a piece of solid night—smooth, dark, and strangely elegant.

"I made it by burning the bottom ash of a cooking pot, then refining it. It's denser than charcoal, darker, and far longer-lasting. It won't fade."

Mirean reached out, touching it curiously. Her fingertips came away black. "It's… soft," she murmured, intrigued by the deep, even tone.

Luciel nodded and conjured a thin layer of water into a shallow pottery plate using his earth control. With deliberate care, he began to grind the ink against the plate. The black pigment spread smoothly, mixing with the water until it became a lustrous, inky pool.

The others watched in silence. The faint scrape of the inkstone, the subtle swirl of dark liquid—it all felt oddly mesmerizing.

Then Luciel picked up a brush. The handle was rough wood, but the bristles shimmered faintly with a silver hue.

"The brush is made from the tail hair of an Octagonal Tusk," he explained. "Soft, but resilient."

Dipping it lightly into the ink, he turned to a fresh sheet of paper and, with elegant precision, wrote two large characters—Black Tortoise.

The ink glided over the paper, leaving strokes so deep and rich they looked almost alive.

Alina's mouth fell open. "It's so black!" she exclaimed. "And it doesn't smear at all!"

Mirean leaned closer, tracing a finger near—not on—the characters. The surface gleamed faintly under the lamplight. "It's… beautiful," she whispered.

"The ink is smooth, almost slippery," she added after trying a few strokes herself. It was far different from the coarse charcoal pens they were used to in the wasteland.

Luciel smiled faintly, watching their reactions. "Now," he said, "imagine this ink brushed across the surface of our clay molds. Each character, coated evenly. Then, we press paper onto it—just once—and the words appear perfectly."

Elara's eyes lit with wonder. "So we could make dozens of identical pages in a single day?"

Luciel nodded. "Hundreds, once we have enough molds. This is movable type printing. Each block represents a character. We'll need many duplicates for common words, and thousands overall for a full set. But once we have it…"—he paused, his tone deepening—"we can reproduce books faster than anyone in the wasteland has ever imagined."

Alina clasped her hands together, her face glowing with excitement. "That's incredible! We could copy maps, training manuals, even adventure journals. Everyone could have a copy!"

Rizuki, always the more reserved one, murmured, "And knowledge would no longer belong only to the few who can write it."

Luciel nodded approvingly. "Exactly."

Mirean glanced at the growing pile of mud blocks beside her, realizing the significance of her painstaking work. A faint blush crept across her cheeks. The characters she had carved—her handwriting—would soon become the standard typeface of their books. People across the city, perhaps one day across the continent, would read words formed by her hand.

"Agni can help harden the mud at night," Luciel said thoughtfully. "Her fire control will dry and strengthen the blocks perfectly without warping them."

"Understood," Mirean replied softly, her earlier exhaustion replaced by quiet pride.

She paused, then tilted her head. "Luciel… what kind of books do you plan to print first?"

Luciel looked at her, his eyes reflecting the lamplight like deep amber glass. A faint smile curved his lips. "Books I'll write myself," he said. "We'll begin with education. Reading, arithmetic, basic philosophy, history. The foundation for what I call the 'Educational Plan of Black Tortoise City.'"

The room fell into thoughtful silence. The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning.

"Elara," he continued, "you'll oversee the organization of these materials. Mirean, once we've finalized the script, I'll need you to replicate every character set in different sizes. Alina and Rizuki will assist with ink production and distribution."

He spoke with calm certainty, but there was a quiet fire in his tone—a conviction that this was not just another project. This was the birth of something larger.

Alina looked at him curiously. "Educational plan? You mean… teaching everyone in the city to read?"

Luciel nodded. "Yes. Knowledge must not be a luxury. If Black Tortoise City is to thrive, every citizen—child or adult—must have the chance to understand the world beyond their trade or tribe. Education is the foundation of civilization."

He walked to the window, gazing out over the sleeping city. The moon bathed the rooftops in a silvery glow, and in the distance, faint orange lights marked the workshops that never slept.

"When the wasteland becomes peaceful," he said softly, "we'll need minds capable of building—not just surviving. Craftsmen who can read blueprints. Healers who can understand anatomy. Leaders who can reason, not just rule by instinct."

He turned back to them, a hint of a smile returning. "This is how we'll begin that transformation. With words."

The women exchanged glances—equal parts astonishment and admiration.

Mirean bowed her head slightly, emotion stirring within her. "Then the words we carve tonight… will become the first seeds of a new era."

Luciel chuckled quietly. "Yes. And once these textbooks are complete, I'll add something more."

"More?" Elara asked.

"Stories," Luciel said simply, his expression softening. "Tales of courage, morality, and imagination—some from the world I came from. If people learn to read through stories, they'll learn faster, and they'll remember better."

Alina's eyes brightened. "So even children will have books!"

Luciel nodded. "Exactly. This is only the beginning."

He reached down and carefully stacked the finished mud blocks, the lamplight glinting off their damp surfaces. "Tonight, we make letters. Tomorrow, we'll make history."

As the others dispersed to prepare materials, Mirean lingered for a moment, staring at the block in her hands. The mirrored letters gleamed faintly in the light—backward, yet full of promise.

She smiled softly, her heart swelling with pride. For the first time, she understood what Luciel truly meant when he spoke of building a future—not just with stone and steel, but with knowledge and ink.

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