Trafalgar and Bartholomew rode the circular platform together while it rose toward the highest floor of the dormitory building.

Bartholomew kept glancing around during the ascent, as if the platform itself had become more luxurious just because it was carrying them toward that part of the building.

"It’s been a long time since I came up this far," he said. "It still surprises me that all this space is reserved only for the heirs of the Eight Great Families."

Trafalgar gave a small shrug.

"When you think about it, it’s normal enough." He did not sound especially impressed by it, which made sense. He had lived in that part of the tower long enough for the excess to fade into routine. "Forget the building. We’ve got something else to deal with."

When the platform reached his floor, the two of them stepped off. The corridor was quieter up there, wider too, the kind of silence money and status always seemed to buy. Trafalgar led the way, opened the door to his room, and stepped aside.

"Come in."

Bartholomew entered and stopped almost immediately.

Trafalgar had already crossed the room by the time he noticed Bartholomew had not moved past the threshold yet. He turned and saw why.

To someone like Bartholomew, the room was absurd.

The bed alone looked softer than anything he had probably ever slept on. The furniture was heavy and polished, the windows tall, the curtains thick, the desk large enough to hold half a library, and the decorative pieces scattered through the room were the kind of things most people would not dare touch without permission. Even the mana lamps gave off a cleaner, warmer light than the ones in the lower floors.

Bartholomew stared around as if he had stepped into a noble suite in some royal estate rather than a student room.

Trafalgar set the hand-case on the table.

"Sit."

That seemed to bring Barth back to himself. He crossed the room quickly and sat down opposite Trafalgar, still looking a little unsure about where he was supposed to place his hands, as if the furniture might accuse him of being poor.

Trafalgar remained standing for a moment, one hand on the case. When he spoke again, the lighter edge from the corridor disappeared.

"I think you remember what we agreed on before. About the notebooks."

Bartholomew looked up at once. "That it stayed between us."

"Mhm."

Trafalgar pulled out the chair across from him and sat down.

"I want the same thing now." He kept his voice even, but there was more weight in it than before. "I trust you, Barth. That’s why you’re here. What I brought back is important. More than important." He tapped the leather case lightly. "It’s tied to the void creatures. That part I know for sure. So if you’ve ever wanted to learn something real about them, this is the best chance you’ll get." 𝕗𝕣𝐞𝐞𝘄𝐞𝚋𝚗𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗹.𝚌𝕠𝚖

Bartholomew’s expression changed with every sentence. The timidity stayed, because that was woven too deeply into him to vanish, but something steadier rose under it.

"Is it about something that happened in the war?" he asked.

"Yes."

Trafalgar did not look away.

"It came out of the war, and that’s why discretion matters. You cannot speak about this to anyone. Not even to your sister." His tone stayed calm, which somehow made the warning harder. "Anyone who knows this right now would not be safe. Maybe in some months. Maybe in a year. At some point, the world may have to hear parts of it. But for now, if this spreads, it could bring chaos with it."

Bartholomew listened without shrinking from it.

For once, he was neither timid nor overwhelmed. He understood the seriousness and met it properly.

"I understand, Trafalgar. You can count on me."

That was enough.

Trafalgar opened the case and began taking the sheets out carefully, setting them on the table between them. Some were notes in Icarus’s hand. Some were the pages in that strange script Bartholomew had already seen before in the earlier notebooks Trafalgar had given him.

The moment Barth saw those characters again, something lit up in him.

It was always like that.

The shy boy who tripped over his own words had a habit of disappearing when old texts appeared in front of him. In his place came someone sharper, more absorbed, someone who forgot how awkward he was because his mind had already run ahead to the work.

"Do you know how long this could take?" Trafalgar asked.

Bartholomew leaned closer, already scanning the first sheet. "I’m not sure. Working with it before helps, so it’ll be easier than the first time. But there are a lot of pages here." He hesitated, though only because he was estimating honestly. "I’ll still need a few hours."

"Fine. If you find anything important, tell me." Trafalgar rose from the chair. "I’m going to meditate."

Bartholomew nodded absentmindedly, already half-lost in the script.

Trafalgar pulled his shirt off and left it draped over the back of a chair before moving to the open space near the window. He sat down cross-legged, closed his eyes, and let his breathing slow.

Mana gathered around him with familiar ease.

By now he was close. Very close.

Everything that had happened over the last stretch of days had left him too busy to focus on it properly, but the pressure inside his core had been building for a while. He could feel it now more clearly than before, the way a reservoir knows it is one storm away from overflowing.

Prime Core.

The fifth rank.

He had almost reached it.

’Not much longer now.’

The Primordial Body made the process smoother as always his unique talent helped too. Mana moved toward him more readily, drawn in and guided inward with a rhythm his body had begun to accept as natural. The room faded. The sounds of paper shifting and Bartholomew’s breathing at the table drifted farther and farther away.

Time lost its outline.

Hours passed.

At some point, Bartholomew’s voice broke into the room.

"I have something! I have something, Trafalgar!"

Trafalgar did not answer.

He was too deep inside the current of his own concentration, fixed in place with the kind of stillness that made him look almost carved rather than alive.

Bartholomew looked over from the table and stopped.

For a while, he simply watched.

It had been some time since he had meditated seriously himself, and seeing Trafalgar like that stirred the idea in him. His own talent made the process slower, heavier, far less gratifying, but that did not stop the impulse from rising.

So, after a brief and highly questionable line of reasoning, he decided to imitate what he was seeing.

Bartholomew took off his shirt, folded it with awkward care, sat down nearby, and began trying to gather mana as well.

The room returned to Trafalgar slowly.

When he finally opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was Bartholomew sitting a short distance away, shirtless, eyes closed, doing his very best to cultivate with a seriousness that might have been admirable if it were not also faintly ridiculous.

Trafalgar stared at him.

Then he turned toward the window.

The sky was no longer dark. Dawn had begun to seep in through the glass, pale and cold, carrying the first thin light of morning.

’...Looks like I overdid it.’

He rose, rolled one shoulder, and called out softly, "Barth."

No response.

"Barth."

Still nothing.

Trafalgar walked closer and saw the truth immediately.

Bartholomew had fallen asleep while meditating.

His posture had survived longer than his consciousness.

Trafalgar exhaled through his nose, half amusement, half resignation, and left him there for the moment. He went to the table instead.

The pages were spread out in careful clusters now. Originals on one side. Bartholomew’s translated notes on the other, written in his own hurried hand. The first few pages had already been worked through more thoroughly than Trafalgar expected.

He picked one up.

"Good work, Barth."

That much was true.

Whatever else Bartholomew lacked, he made up for with obsession the moment old texts were involved.

Trafalgar drew one of the translated pages closer and lowered his eyes to it.

This time, at last, he was about to see what the void creature had written.