Chapter 329: Is Infinite Potential That Difficult?

“This is what I wanted to present to you all: a library belonging solely to the faithful of the Lady of the Night. Of course, what you see now is just an empty shell. Only when it’s filled with knowledge will it gradually take on its true form.”

Wang Yu’s voice rang out, calm and composed, from the shadowy figure wreathed in black fire at the head of the table. The gathered followers seated around the round table listened in silence.

Some among them had already grasped the profound significance of this “Midnight Library.” Out of respect, they remained seated, merely casting curious glances toward the towering shelves that surrounded them.

On the other hand, Charles, who was intimately familiar with Wang Yu, chose not to let formality get in his way. He left his seat, walked to a nearby shelf, and brushed his fingers along the spines, reading the titles to glean their contents.

As he did, the truth became clear: just as Wang Yu had said, the library was little more than a hollow shell. Two-thirds of the books in the shelf he was standing before were entirely blank. The remainder, though titled, were sparse.

He picked one of the untitled volumes from the shelf and flipped through it. Every page within was empty.

Turning back to the titled books, Charles examined their contents and found them rudimentary—basic knight training manuals, a brief overview of the continent’s general history, and the like.

Only two volumes caught his eye: The Flamewarden and Holo. He remembered Wang Yu mentioning both, but hadn’t expected them to appear here in such a manner.

Though he’d only surveyed a single shelf, it was clear from Wang Yu’s speech that the vast majority of the library—these endless rows of towering shelves—was still largely devoid of content.

“As you can see, this library remains largely empty,” Wang Yu continued. “Its growth is tied to all of you.”

At that, Avia rose from her seat to assist with a demonstration. She selected a blank book from the shelf and held it gently to her forehead, eyes closed in quiet focus.

As her mind attuned to the book, thoughts began to flow. Memories and knowledge imprinting themselves onto the paper.

Words emerged upon the blank pages, and a title appeared on the spine: Fundamentals of Alchemy. No author name was listed. As the process concluded, she placed the newly written book on the table. It was no longer a blank vessel, but a compact, coherent summary of alchemical principles drawn directly from her understanding.

A devotee took the book and leafed through it, brows rising in surprise at the crisp writing and the clarity of the exposition. He lingered, captivated by the depth of the knowledge presented, rudimentary though it was, and instinctively turned the page—only to stop himself.

He recalled that this was merely meant as a demonstration. He passed the book to the next in line.

The volume made its way around the table, then returned to Avia. She stood once more and, in full view of the others, slid the book into a vacant slot on the shelf beside her.

Realization dawned. The others checked the shelves beside them—and sure enough, the newly recorded book was now visible on every one.

“To contribute knowledge,” Wang Yu explained, “link your mental energy to a blank book on the shelves. Your thoughts will be transformed into words and left inscribed on its pages.”

Many of the devotees began testing it for themselves. For the untrained, such a method might result in muddled or incoherent entries. But the mental discipline of magicians and wizards kept their minds focused and their records clear.

One by one, books emerged in their hands: treatises on magic, manuals of alchemy, historical fragments, and even personal anecdotes, each a shard of their unique experiences.

Some still hesitated. Others had already slid their works onto the shelves. Charles, of course, had contributed a well-documented account of void entities. The moment his book touched the shelf, a translucent screen appeared before his eyes, visible only to him.

“Would you like to make your knowledge public? Public entries will be accessible to all. If not, your content will be restricted and marked as paid…”

Charles read the prompt thoughtfully. He chose to make his knowledge public without hesitation, but even so, he couldn’t help pondering the implications of “paid knowledge.”

As some chose to share freely, others, curious or cautious, opted to categorize their entries as paid. As their works were uploaded, a row of glass display cases rose from among the bookshelves, containing the limited selection of “paid knowledge” currently available.

“When contributing to the library,” Wang Yu explained, “you may choose to share your knowledge freely, or seek fair exchange. Knowledge, after all, is wealth.”

He gestured toward the glass displays. “Provide a brief summary and preview of your content, and then list your terms of exchange. Trade knowledge for knowledge, or request something more tangible—either is allowed.

“But do not attempt any deceit. If any deception is discovered, I will carry out the Lady of the Night’s will myself. You will be permanently banished from both the Prayer Network and this library.”

Though his voice remained calm, the warning carried unmistakable weight.

Wang Yu wasn’t particularly worried about rule-breakers. The cost of subterfuge was too high. In this realm, he wielded absolute authority. If he wanted to, he could cast anyone out, and they would never be able to return.

Unlike Earth’s marketplaces or local guilds in this world, which might impose token penalties for fraud in fear of alienating customers, Wang Yu and Avia had no such qualms. They had no tolerance for dishonesty. One strike, and you were gone—permanently.

And trying to re-enter would be impossible. There were no alternate identities, no proxies, available. This space was built from the Lady of the Night’s divine essence. She knew her own followers. There was no hiding from her.

From the beginning, Avia, deeply influenced by Wang Yu’s Earth-born insights into psychology, had never intended for the library to be fully free. “Paid knowledge” was a necessary pillar.

In an ideal world, all knowledge would be shared freely.

With all truths gathered in one forever growing place, the library would become a tree of wisdom towering above all.

But ideals didn’t feed the body. People feared loss, hoarded what they know, and sought to profit from their knowledge.

That was just reality—and Wang Yu never pretended to be above it. That was why the “paid knowledge” existed.

Even Skyborne City, that alchemical utopia built by the greatest of alchemists, Merlin, restricted its archives of knowledge.

As Merlin once said, “That which is freely given is seldom cherished. If your hard-won wisdom is simply taken and spread, you will lose what motivates you.”

Paid knowledge would become the lifeblood of the Midnight Library. It would encourage people to contribute what they might otherwise hoard, and in doing so, turn knowledge into meaningful currency, a virtuous cycle of exchange and growth.

Of course, Wang Yu and Avia did reserve one privilege for themselves: paid knowledge was still fully accessible to them. As library administrators, they could view any content at will.

The gathered scholars had already begun to sense the potential here. This library was a platform that could grow endlessly, a space where one could gain new wisdom or turn their own into real-world value.

Excited, they began exploring the system. The number of public books grew rapidly, shelf after shelf filling with content.

The glass cases also began to populate more slowly with paid works. Some followers left their seats to browse the titles others had uploaded. Some flipped through previews. Some searched the displays for a specific piece of missing knowledge.

And many were surprised that what seemed trivial to others might be exactly what they needed. The platform’s power lay in its diversity, in bringing together minds that could complement each other in unexpected ways.

“This is really something,” Wang Yu murmured. “Some books even list their authors. For those writers, seeing their work preserved in this library and read by more and more minds must be a joy in itself.”

He watched the community unfold with quiet satisfaction. When the library eventually opened to all followers, it would grow even more quickly.

As the system’s top administrator, Wang Yu stood to gain immensely. He’d created many promising things since arriving in this world, but this—this collaboration between Avia and the Lady of the Night, born from his original Prayer Network prototype—had by far the most potential.

That said, issues remained. The library accepted everything, but meaningless or poorly structured content still had to be tucked away. Mistakes would slip through, and errors needed to be corrected. Eventually, they’d need curators. A few librarians from the Church might help.

“There’s one more thing,” Wang Yu said. “The library consumes far more faith than the Prayer Network. So from now on, you’ll each be limited to thirty minutes of access per day. But that time can accumulate up to one full day.”

This news was met with a few groans, but no one argued. It was a sensible limitation.

“The library will close in one hour,” Wang Yu continued. “Two days from now, it will formally open to all followers. As for the document we discussed earlier, please continue your analysis and experimentation. We await your conclusions.”

As the crowd acknowledged this, the meeting neared its end. All that remained was the scholars’ subsequent research and experimentation into Lancer’s final manuscript.

Just as Wang Yu was about to remove his lens and log off, a silhouette stepped up beside him.

“Archbishop, may I ask a question regarding the manuscript?”

“Go ahead,” Wang Yu replied without hesitation. “Ask away.”

“Is the research you’re conducting related to limiting the interaction between mana and the physical world?”

“That’s correct,” Wang Yu nodded. He glanced at Avia for confirmation. The concept was indeed the core of their “hypermagic” theory. “How did you know?”

“I used to be a scholar in Skyborne City,” the shadow said. “Our society pursued the same research. We were stuck for years, exactly at the stage described in that manuscript. I left the city a decade ago, and as of my departure, the research had yet to make a breakthrough.”

“Archbishop, are you at Skyborne City at present? Hasn’t the research succeeded yet?”

Wang Yu stared at him, slightly amazed by the breadth of people who had joined the Church of Nightfall. The information he had provided was invaluable, too. Had hypermagic been a long-standing interest of Skyborne City? A stubborn nut to crack, too, it seemed…

“Is making progress on it that difficult…?”

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