Chapter 18: Chapter 18: The Dust Library and the Little Spy

The morning sun in The Slums brought no warmth. The light only clarified just how filthy this place was. Dust motes floating in the air looked like fake gold powder, and puddles on the street reflected a gray sky choked by factory smoke.

In the room at “The Sleeping Rat” inn, Dayat woke up with a stiff back. The straw mattress turned out to be inhabited by quite aggressive lice. He scratched his back while yawning widely; the room’s musty smell immediately assaulted his nose.

“A beautiful morning to be a poor fugitive,” Dayat muttered sarcastically.

Dola was already standing near the boarded-up window, peeking out through a small crack. She was still wearing Dayat’s flannel shirt over her bodysuit, with her rough tarp cloak folded neatly on a chair.

“Good morning, Master,” Dola greeted without turning. “Security status: Green. No break-in attempts during the night cycle. However, our funds are technically depleting.”

“Depleting how?” Dayat got up, stretching his muscles. “We have over 60 Silver. That’s enough to eat for a week.”

“For biological survival, yes. But for strategic purposes: Zero,” Dola turned around. Her face was serious. “Master, today’s priority is no longer making money. It is finding Data.”

Dayat frowned. “Data? You mean books?”

“Affirmative. I possess computational, strategic, and analytical capabilities. But all of that is useless if my reference Database is empty,” Dola tapped her own temple. “I do not know the history of this kingdom. I do not know the detailed laws of magic. I do not know the names of the Kings or Gods they worship. If a guard asks a trivial question and we answer incorrectly, our cover is blown.”

Dayat fell silent. True enough. They could fake their identity as a “scavenger couple,” but if asked “What year did the Civil War end?” and they blanked out, they were done for.

“Okay, makes sense,” Dayat said. He washed his face with leftover water in a dull pitcher. “So what are we looking for?”

“We look for archive hoards. Used bookstores. Or merchants of ancient scrolls,” Dola said. “Based on yesterday’s economic analysis, literacy (reading ability) in the slums is very low. Books are trash to them, meaning cheap, or antiques for collectors, meaning expensive. We look for the first category.”

“Trash books. Got it. Let’s move.”

They left the inn, putting their disguise cloaks back on. Dayat ensured his folding knife and money pouch were safe in his inner pocket.

The morning market in the Slums was more chaotic than the afternoon market. People fought over leftover food from upper-city restaurants dumped here. The stench of rotting organic waste mixed with the fishy smell of river fish.

Dola walked in front, but this time she wasn’t passive. Her eyes, hidden under the hood, were actively performing specific scanning.

[Search Filter: Cellulose Material (Paper), Carbon Ink, Scent of Old Paper Mold.]

They passed a rusty weapon stall. Skipped.

Passed a fake “potency drug” seller. Skipped.

Passed a fortune teller’s tent. Skipped.

“Dol, are you sure there’s a bookstore here?” Dayat whispered. “These people look like they need rice more than novels.”

“Every ecosystem has a keeper of knowledge, Master. Even rats hoard,” Dola replied.

Suddenly, Dola stopped in front of a dark dead-end alley. At the end of the alley stood a half-collapsed stone building with a thick wooden door eaten by termites. No signboard. Only a symbol of cracked glasses drawn with chalk on the door.

“Here,” Dola said. “Concentration of old paper scent reaches 85%.”

Dayat knocked on the door. Knock. Knock. Knock.

No answer.

Dayat knocked again, louder. “Excuse me! Want to buy scrap!”

Heavy dragging footsteps were heard from inside. The door opened slightly, the safety chain still attached. A pair of crossed eyes peeked through the crack.

It was a stunted old man—perhaps an outcast Dwarf, or a human whose growth was stunted by pollution. His beard was gray and matted, full of bread crumbs.

“What?” he barked. “No leftover food! Go away!”

“We don’t want food,” Dayat said, holding the door with his foot. “We’re looking for paper. Books. Scrolls. Anything with writing on it.”

The crossed eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Paper? What for?”

“To read,” Dayat answered.

The old man went silent. He looked Dayat up and down, then glanced at Dola. Apparently, the request “to read” was the weirdest thing he had heard all month.

“You can read, Kid?” he asked, his tone softening slightly.

“A little bit,” Dayat lied.

The old man grunted, then released the door chain. “Come in. Don’t steal. If I catch you stealing, you lose a hand.”

They entered.

The interior of the shop was like a cave of paper. Stacks of books, newspapers, scrolls, and ancient maps piled up to the ceiling, covering the walls, even covering the windows. Thick dust blanketed everything. It smelled like a library that had been flooded and then forcibly dried.

To normal people, this was trash. To Dola, this was a gold mine.

“Look around,” the Old Man said, returning to sit in his rocking chair while wiping thick glasses. “Flat rate: 10 Scraps per kilo. If it’s a whole book, 1 Silver per book.”

“Cheap,” Dayat whispered to Dola. “Go for it, Dol.”

Dola began to move. She didn’t read books like a human. She picked up a book, opened the pages, and scanned them.

Flip. Flip. Flip.

She turned the pages at an unnatural speed. Her eyes recorded every letter, every image, every ink stain in milliseconds. She didn’t need to buy the book. She just needed to hold it for a moment.

Dayat’s job was to distract the Old Man.

“Grandpa, got a world map?” Dayat asked, standing to block the Old Man’s view of Dola.

“Map?” The Grandpa laughed hoarsely. “The world has changed shape five times since the last map was printed, Kid. Old maps are useless. New maps… only the military has them.”

While Dayat made small talk, Dola worked lightning-fast at the back shelf.

[Scanning: ’History of the Fall of Veridia Vol. 1’. Input: Complete.]

[Scanning: ’Encyclopedia of Toxic Flora’. Input: Complete.]

[Scanning: ’Scripture of the Gear-Breakers Revised Edition’. Input: Complete.]

Dola was like a data vacuum cleaner. She sucked information from that pile of trash.

However, Dola suddenly stopped. Her audio sensors picked up an asynchronous sound.

There was a third heartbeat in the room. Small, fast, and hiding.

Not the Grandpa. Grandpa’s heartbeat was slow and heavy. This was a child’s heartbeat.

Dola glanced at a pile of newspapers in a dark corner of the room. The pile shifted slightly. An eye was peeking out. A sharp and wild eye.

“Master,” Dola whispered via directed sound transmission (simple beamforming technology she created by manipulating air vibrations). Her voice sounded directly in Dayat’s ear. “4 o’clock. Behind the newspaper pile. There is a spy.”

Dayat, who was pretending to look at a dented globe, tensed up. “Spy? City guard?”

“Negative. Small body size. Child. He watched me performing Speed Reading.”

Danger. If anyone saw Dola’s reading speed, they would know Dola wasn’t human. Humans can’t read a 500-page book in 10 seconds.

“Catch him,” Dola ordered. “Do not let him leave.”

Dayat nodded slowly. He put down the globe. He pretended to yawn and stretch, then slowly walked toward the corner of the room.

“Man, lots of dust here, Grandpa,” Dayat said, getting closer to the newspaper pile.

Suddenly, the newspaper pile exploded outwards.

A skinny boy, maybe 10 or 12 years old, jumped out like a sewer rat. His clothes were tattered, his face smeared with charcoal. He sprinted toward the exit.

“Hey!” Dayat shouted.

The boy was agile. He jumped over piles of books, slipping under the Grandpa’s table.

“Thief! Thief!” the Grandpa shouted in shock, banging his wooden mallet on the table.

The boy almost reached the door. But he forgot one thing: Dola.

Dola didn’t move from her position, but her foot casually kicked a heavy rolled-up carpet on the floor.

The carpet rolled right into the boy’s running path.

THUD!

The boy tripped, falling face-first.

Before he could get up, Dayat had pounced. Dayat grabbed the boy’s back collar and lifted him—not high, but enough to restrain him.

“Let go! Let go!” The boy struggled, biting and scratching. His strength was considerable for a malnourished kid.

“Quiet, you brat!” Dayat locked the boy’s arm behind his back. “You were peeping at my wife, weren’t you?”

The boy stopped struggling. He looked at Dayat with large, terrified eyes, then looked at Dola who was now walking closer with a cold aura.

“She…” the boy pointed at Dola with his chin, his voice trembling. “She’s not a person! I saw it! Her eyes glowed! Her hands were super fast! She’s a Machine Ghost!”

The shop owner Grandpa widened his eyes. He stood up, his hand fumbling for a weapon (probably an ancient shotgun under the table).

The situation heated up. If the Grandpa believed him, he would shoot or call the neighbors.

Dola acted fast.

“This child is hallucinating from inhaling paper mold,” Dola said calmly. She opened her hood slightly, showing her “normal” beautiful face (eye lights already turned off). “Do I look like a machine, Grandpa?”

The Grandpa narrowed his crossed eyes. He saw a beautiful woman who looked scared and was hiding behind her husband.

“Bah, damn drunk kid,” the Grandpa cursed, lowering his guard. “That’s Kancil. He likes making up stories. Just let him go, or drag him out.”

Dayat dragged the boy named Kancil out of the shop, while Dola threw 5 silver coins onto the Grandpa’s table.

“We’ll buy this book. Keep the change for hush money,” Dola said, taking a thick book titled ’Elemental Magic Basics for Beginners’ (the only book she bought physically for an alibi).

They dragged Kancil into a narrow alley beside the shop. Dayat cornered the boy against the wall.

“Okay, Cil,” Dayat said, breathing heavily. “What did you see?”

Kancil trembled. He looked at Dola in horror. “That lady… flipped the book whoosh whoosh whoosh… Her eyes had lights… Don’t eat me, Ghost!”

Dayat rubbed his forehead. This kid knew. Killing him was the safest option (logically speaking), but Dayat wasn’t going to kill a child.

“Dol, analysis,” Dayat requested.

Dola approached. She squatted in front of Kancil.

“Subject: Kancil. Status: Vagrant/Street Informant. Physical threat level: Zero. Information threat level: High.”

Dola stared into Kancil’s eyes.

“Kancil, are you hungry?” Dola asked suddenly.

The question confused Kancil. “Huh?”

Dayat took out the leftover roasted rat meat (wrapped in leaves) from his pocket. There was still half a portion. It smelled good.

Kancil’s stomach growled loudly. His eyes were glued to the meat.

“This is for you,” Dayat said, offering the meat. “But there’s a condition.”

Kancil snatched the meat and bit into it greedily, like a wild animal. “What condition?” he asked while chewing.

“Forget what you saw about this Sister,” Dayat said. “Just pretend you were drunk. And in exchange…”

Dayat looked at Dola, then back at Kancil.

“We need a guide. Someone who knows the ins and outs of this city. Someone who knows where to make a Fake ID (Citizen Permit) without getting caught by guards.”

Kancil stopped eating. He wiped his greasy mouth. His gaze changed. From fear to the calculating business look of a cunning street kid.

“Fake ID?” Kancil grinned, showing a missing tooth. “I know the place. Best in Bakasa. But it costs a lot. And I want 20 percent commission.”

Dayat smiled. He liked this kid.

“Deal. 10 percent. And free lunch every day as long as you work with us.”

Kancil thought for a moment. Free lunch every day was a luxury offer.

“Deal,” Kancil said, extending his dirty hand.

Dayat shook the small hand.

“Welcome to the team, Kid. Don’t try anything funny, or…” Dayat pointed at Dola. “This Machine Ghost will suck your brains out.”

Dola just smiled coldly, making Kancil swallow hard in terror.

They were three now. A man with imagination power, an AI Wife storing all the world’s history in her head, and a street kid who knew every rat path in the city.

“Next target: Legal Identity,” Dayat said.

“And the City Library,” Dola added internally. Because the books in the Grandpa’s shop were just the beginning. She had just found a reference to something called ’The Grand Archive’ in the city center, a place where the secrets of The Great Rupture were kept.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep