Chapter 170: The Resilient Mother’s Grand Archive
"Well, this is definitely one of those rare sights that you can only see in a fantasy setting."
The Grand Archive of the Mage Court unfolded before Noirette and Blanchette like a dreamscape plucked from the frayed edges of forgotten myths, a realm where knowledge defied the mundane chains of gravity and time.
The living hat witch’s puppet body led them through a final archway from the Hat Athenaeum, its unblinking glass eyes reflecting the sudden blaze of ethereal light that bathed the space.
The chamber—or perhaps it was better called a cosmos unto itself—stretched infinitely in all directions, bounded not by walls but by veils of shimmering aurora that pulsed with the rhythm of spell formations, possibly countless of them.
Floating libraries drifted like serene islands in a sea of mist, their shelves carved from luminous crystal and veined with gold, holding tomes that hovered in lazy spirals, bound by invisible threads of will.
Sections dedicated to arcane categories orbited one another in harmonious orbits—clusters of scrolls on swirled around pedestals of star-forged obsidian, and there were even books bobbed gently near alcoves of whispering winds that narrated their contents aloud in melodic tongues.
There was even a section filled with giant slabs of stone.
The air hummed with the soft susurrus of turning pages and murmured debates, thick with the scent of aged vellum and invigorating ether—a fragrance that sharpened the mind even as it soothed the soul.
Crowds of witch-hat-wearing members milled about in equal measure, their conical crowns bobbing like beacons amid the levitating archives.
Some perched on floating cushions, gesturing animatedly over shared parchments—others leaned against ethereal railings, their brims casting shadows that danced like living ink across the luminous floors.
It was a heavenly congregation, where the pursuit of wisdom elevated the mundane to the divine, every glance exchanged a spark in the forge of collective enlightenment.
As the trio descended a staircase of solidified light that spiraled downward into the archive’s heart, Noirette marveled at the seamless ballet of scholarship.
A nearby witch, her hat adorned with coiling serpents of smoke, reached for a hefty tome on distortion harmonics.
The moment her fingers brushed its spine, the book shimmered, its pages fluttering as if breathing a sigh of relief.
In an instant, it duplicated itself—another identical volume materializing on the shelf beside the original, ready for the next seeker.
With this, twenty minds could delve into the same reference simultaneously, each copy as crisp and complete as the first, ensuring no soul waited in line for the reference material.
Not only that, piles and mountains of returned volumes dotted the landscape like haphazard cairns—teetering stacks of scrolls and leather-bound tomes, some as tall as a person, where members casually tossed their readings upon completion.
Each discard triggered the archive’s subtle magic—the original conjured anew on retrieval, the discarded fading into motes of light that rejoined the auroral veils, recycling essence without waste.
"I want this in Vaingall," Noirette passionately declared, glancing at Blanchette with a smile.
"I’m not your mother, don’t look at me as if I can immediately grant your wish," Blanchette answered with her usual wide smile.
And then, after a minute of sighting, what appeared to be the official staff—or perhaps the eternal librarian of this sanctum—approached them, her form emerging from behind a levitating shelf of celestial cartographies.
She dressed in the unassuming garb of a common scribe—a simple gray robe cinched at the waist with a cord of woven silver thread, practical boots scuffed from countless treks through knowledge’s labyrinth, and sleeves rolled to the elbows as if perpetually midway through an inscription.
No extravagant traits marked her—no flickering flames or rippling mists—save for the witch hat perched atop her neatly pinned auburn hair.
Its conical crown rose modestly, but the brim flared wide and asymmetrical, one side embroidered with constellations that shifted like living maps, the other trailing faint tendrils of luminous thread that hovered just above her shoulders, as if sketching invisible annotations in the air.
The living hat’s voice brightened from its crown. "Greetings, keeper of the unbound words. These are the new inductees, fresh from the oven."
The librarian inclined her head, her hazel eyes sharp yet welcoming, the constellations on her hat twinkling in response. "Welcome to the Grand Archive, seekers. It seems like the two of you need to be equipped with the proper tool to become a member of our society~"
From a fold in her robe— a spatial storage that rippled like water disturbed by a stone—she withdrew an array of eccentric tools, laying them upon a conjured pedestal of translucent light.
Quills that shimmered with inner luminescence, markers etched with runes that glowed like captured fireflies, and slender volumes bound in leather as smooth as polished marble.
Noirette and Blanchette received their allotments with a mix of curiosity and reverence, the librarian’s hands deft as she distributed the implements. "As members of the Mage Court, these are your keys to our shared intellect, beyond the hats that crown your brows."
The first tool was the Athena Marker—a slender stylus of ivory-hued bone, its tip crowned with a multifaceted crystal that refracted light into prismatic whispers.
"This," the librarian explained, placing one in each of their palms, "bears the archive’s eternal gaze. Apply it to any comprehensive writing medium—be it parchment, scroll, stone tablet, or an entire codex—and it will generate a real-time copy within these halls. Every member may access it forthwith, their pursuits intertwined across distances unspanned."
Noirette turned the marker over, feeling its subtle warmth pulse against her skin. "Does the content update even if the copy is carried beyond the Grand Archive’s bounds?"
The librarian nodded, her luminous threads tracing a fleeting sigil in the air. "Indeed. The weave synchronizes instantaneously, allowing scholars to remain abreast of evolving insights, even as they wander Fathomi’s fractures.
"Some members track nascent researches in this manner, gleaning fragments before completion’s dawn. To facilitate perusal, inscribe an accurate synopsis and title upon the medium’s foremost visible surface—helping further those who seek its wisdom amid our vast expanse."
"I guess that’s common sense then," Noirette’s eyes sparkled at the new things that she was analyzing.
Next came the magic pens, each a elegant quill forged from an unknown alloy, its nib perpetually glistening with ink that seemed to regenerate from an unseen reservoir.
Noirette uncapped hers experimentally, watching a droplet form and reform as she tilted it.
"These ensure your words flow without cease," the librarian continued. "The ink renews itself eternally, unbound by vial or scarcity. Write as the muse demands—treatises, sketches, hypotheses—and let your quill outpace your thoughts."
To crown the gifts, the librarian presented empty books, their covers of supple leather embossed with faint, interlocking runes that evoked the archive’s auroral glow.
"A bonus for first-time inductees," she said, sliding one to each. "Use these as your inaugural vessels for projects. Once exhausted, procure your own media from the bastion’s scriptoriums or wandering traders. Should you return to the Resilient Mother in proximity, request replenishments here—provided your research remains active, a tome or two at minimum."
Noirette traced the book’s spine, its pages whispering open to reveal pristine vellum that seemed to anticipate inscription. "What occurs if two members pursue the same topic concurrently, or if it echoes researches that has been done in the past?"
The librarian’s constellations aligned briefly, as if consulting stellar archives. "Duplication fosters divergence, not discord. Librarians—ourselves a cadre, not solitary—and position such works in proximity, that seekers may choose their path or traverse them in tandem.
"Over time, one among us compiles a synthesis, drawing threads from all relevant sources into a singular nexus, accessible alongside its progenitors. For redundancies—where novelty comprises scant measure of the whole—we notify the author, furnishing the extant compilation as foundation.
"From there, they extend the chain, building upon the labors of kin~"
As expected of the so-called workers in the Grand Archive, their vocabularies were as hard to comprehend.
Noirette already felt the lack of her actual IQ, since it took a while to digest the words that the librarian is saying.
Blanchette, her white hat’s droplets tracing lazy arcs as she examined her book, lifted her gaze. "To what extent must a research project be deemed eligible or finished?"
The librarian’s threads sketched a fractal bloom, dissolving into sparkles. "That rests with the author alone. A conception may culminate in a single page if insight deems it whole, or sprawl across volumes in perpetual refinement.
"Yet, the highly unfinished or barren—those that yield no fruit—face purgation from our shelves. The edict demands only one endeavor in motion, a living thread in the weave; stagnation invites the mist’s embrace, after all."
Basically, one could finish their project anytime, but any wack reading materials will be removed from the Grand Archive.
Noirette’s mind quickened, the archive’s hum resonating with her innate curiosity. "How does one peruse the Grand Archive, then?"
The librarian’s smirk was a crescent of knowing light, her hat’s threads coiling in anticipation. "Will it into being. Envision the topic, and the weave responds—transporting, or more precisely, guiding you to its sanctum."
To demonstrate, she closed her eyes briefly, and the air around her shimmered. In a breath, she vanished, reappearing instants later across the chamber, a floating tome on chronal echoes drifting into her grasp.
"Now try it," the librarian said from afar.
Emboldened, Noirette focused her thoughts on "Fateling," the word blooming in her mind like an unbidden specter.
The world tilted—or rather, inverted.
She felt a gentle buoyancy lift her, the floor falling away as if the archive’s gravity had rewritten itself.
She ascended, airborne and serene, the chamber’s expanse reorienting around her. Down became sideways, the auroral veils now a vertical cascade, and she glided toward a secluded alcove where the very air thickened with contemplative weight.
Here, sections of tomes and scrolls orbited a central nexus: a compiled volume of titanic proportions, its cover a mosaic of interlocking leathers that spanned thrice her height, bound with chains of woven starlight.
Titles etched in luminous script promised exhaustive chronicles—"Fateling Genealogies," "Echoes of the First Sparks," "Severance and the Void’s Call."
Noirette hovered closer, but the behemoth’s scale daunted her—without spatial storage, hauling such a leviathan would be folly.
That giant book must be the compiled version.
"Yeah no, that’s too much. I’m not that hungry for knowledge."
Her gaze then alighted on a slimmer tome nearby, its spine unadorned save for embossed lettering.
"The Extinction of Fatelings" by Short-Looking Bland Mage with Blue Colored Hat.
Noirette sneered inwardly, the absurdity striking her anew.
The Mage Court eschewed names for deeds and traits, yet their archival signatures reduced luminaries to caricatures.
They bore Wells of the Soul—accessible in an instant, revealing true identities—yet opted for this whimsical detachment, as if essence alone sufficed.
"Well, it is comical how hard they tried to not use names at this point."
Shaking off the amusement, Noirette willed another query.
"Apotheosis."
The archive responded with a subtler shift, her trajectory curving through a warp of mist that deposited her in a nearly barren wing.
Only four volumes occupied the space, their pedestals isolated like wary sentinels. Not to mention, no compiled version was in sight.
The sparsity spoke volumes—ongoing labors, unfinished symphonies of inquiry.
Her attention snagged on one with a bark-like gray cover, textured as if grown from ancient oak.
"The Mysterious Implication of Apotheosis" by Six-Armed Mage with a Hat of Fire.
Laughter bubbled unbidden; the descriptors painted vivid portraits, yet stripped authors to their quirks, a courtly jest amid profundity.
She grasped the book, its weight comforting in her hands, and watched as a duplicate materialized on the pedestal, the original’s essence preserved.
Willing to return, the world folded once more, depositing her gently beside Blanchette, the living hat, and the librarian.
The transition was seamless, no disorientation lingering.
The librarian’s eyes flicked to the tome, her threads tracing its title in ephemeral script. "A bold choice. That section lacks a compilation, for none among us commands sufficient mastery to risk misinterpretation—errors in nuance could warp the authors’ intents irreparably."
Noirette hefted the book, its pages rustling invitingly. "Can I then seek the author directly?"
The librarian’s smirk deepened. "We counsel against haste or intrusion where avoidable—let inquiries ripen. Yet, pursuit is yours; search by descriptor, and the weave may guide you to their essence."
"Of course, if you know the author personally, and if that author is famous enough here. They might already have their own section where you can find all of their works in a single place."
Blanchette, her honey-dripping hat casting faint rainbows on the floor, adjusted her empty book under her arm. "I shall peruse the Grand Archive for a time."
The living hat’s puppet body inclined in acknowledgment. "As you will. With hats secured and tools bestowed, my guidance concludes—your paths now entwine with the court’s vast loom."
Noirette turned to it, gratitude warming her voice. "Thank you for leading us thus far."
The living hat directed its puppet to raise a thumb in salute, the glass eyes unchanging as it pivoted toward the archive’s luminous exit, footsteps fading into the hum of eternal scholarship.
"Well, I guess I might as well read as many reference materials before starting mine."