The shimmering data coalesced before Ambrose’s eyes as his Mind’s Eye skill analyzed the spectral figure:
[Name: Claire]
[Level: C]
[Type: Mage]
[Weakness: Holy Magic, Exorcism Magic]
[Description: A ghost with huge resentment and a love for knowledge. Bound to the hidden library chamber, she obsessively maintains her identity as a librarian despite her inability to interact with the physical world.]
Ambrose studied the information carefully, noting the peculiar deviation from the usual format. Rather than displaying the template normally reserved for humans, his Mind’s Eye had categorized Claire using the monster classification system. His earlier assumption—that she might be a human with some ghostly talent—crumbled under this revelation. She wasn’t human at all, but a genuine apparition.
"A true ghost," he mused silently, his analytical mind already processing the implications. If she had once been human before her transformation into an apparition, wouldn’t that technically make her an intelligent monster? The classification raised intriguing questions, if she had talents as a human, did she still keep them? If her mortal abilities had carried over into her spectral existence, she could potentially be quite formidable.
Still, her non-aggressive demeanor suggested he wasn’t in immediate danger. He maintained his composed expression as he watched her, deliberately having called her bluff about reading books and exposed her non-human nature. It wasn’t mere provocation—he wanted to see if he could compel her to reveal her true purpose. What form did her "huge resentment" take? Was it a generalized hatred toward all living humans?
Contrary to his expectations, Claire’s response lacked any malevolence. Instead, she collapsed to the ground, her ethereal form making no sound as she crumpled onto the dusty floor.
"What are you talking about?" she protested, voice trembling with unmistakable anxiety. "I’m human, I’m the librarian." Her luminous form flickered slightly with each desperate assertion.
Ambrose regarded her with growing curiosity. Perhaps his speculation had missed the mark entirely. Could it be that she was unaware of her own state? The possibility warranted further exploration.
"Then why can’t you touch the books?" he pressed, deliberately sharpening his inquiry.
"That’s..." she began, but he cut her off with another calculated question.
"Why can you walk through walls?" he demanded, watching her reaction carefully.
Claire’s translucent features contorted with mounting distress. Her ethereal form seemed to lose cohesion around the edges, wisps of luminous energy wavering like candle flames in a draft.
"No!" she shouted, the denial echoing oddly in the cavernous chamber. "It’s because of my talent." Her expression stabilized slightly as she seized upon this explanation. "That’s right," she continued, a nervous smile forming on her spectral lips. "It’s all my talent."
Ambrose regarded her with carefully concealed skepticism. "I guess that could be it," he thought, though he maintained his interrogative stance.
"Then deactivate it," he challenged calmly.
"Wha?" Claire’s ethereal form recoiled slightly, genuine surprise evident in her luminous features.
"Is your talent always active? Can’t you deactivate it?" he pressed, knowing full well that his question wasn’t entirely logical. Some talents fundamentally altered a person’s constitution and couldn’t simply be turned off. Still, her response might reveal more about her true nature and awareness.
Claire stared at him with growing bewilderment. "Deactivate?" she repeated, the word directed more to herself than to him.
Ambrose smiled with deliberate gentleness. "Yeah, it should be easy, right?" The calculated kindness in his voice only seemed to intensify her growing distress.
Her ethereal form began to tremble visibly. Her breathing—a curious affectation for a being that presumably needed no air—grew rapid and shallow as she appeared to struggle with accessing some internal power. The luminous pallor of her spectral face somehow managed to pale further, taking on an almost translucent quality.
Her expression twisted gradually, features contorting into something increasingly inhuman. Her eyes, previously merely luminous, now blazed with crimson intensity. She clutched at her head with both insubstantial hands, fingers digging into her scalp as though trying to physically extract something from within.
"No! No! No!" she chanted rhythmically, each repetition growing more frantic than the last. Her form began to flicker violently, momentarily revealing a more disturbing aspect beneath her schoolgirl appearance—something ancient and pained.
Ambrose observed her deteriorating state with a slight twitch of his lips, a rare display of uncertainty from the normally composed Rothschild heir. "Did I go too far?"
…
"No!" Claire’s spectral form convulsed, her ethereal hands fluttering frantically through the air. "I’m the librarian!" she insisted, her voice cracking with desperation. "Don’t hurt the books!"
Her luminous form pulsed with chaotic energy as her distress mounted, the ghostly light surrounding her fluctuating between blinding intensity and near darkness. The perfectly arranged shelves around them seemed to respond to her agitation, dust motes swirling in unnatural patterns among the ancient tomes.
"I’ll read them all," she pledged fervently. "I’ll take care of them." Her voice dropped to a haunted whisper, "Don’t burn the books."
Ambrose watched her deteriorating state with calculating eyes, recognizing the signs of a trauma response being triggered by his questioning. The fragmented phrases escaping her spectral lips painted a partial picture of her past. She had indeed been a librarian—that much seemed genuine rather than delusion—but something traumatic had occurred involving threatened destruction of the collection.
His gaze swept across the chamber, noting how the volumes here differed from those in the main library above. These were substantially older, their bindings worn by centuries rather than decades. More tellingly, they emanated a distinct magical signature—ambient mana that had accumulated over vast stretches of time, slowly transforming ordinary texts into potential magical treasures through sheer longevity.
"Had someone planned to burn these to make room for newer acquisitions?" he wondered. If so, when had this occurred? Decades ago? Centuries? Had she somehow locked herself away with these precious tomes, determined to protect them even as her mortal form perished?
A sigh escaped his lips as he regarded her increasingly unstable condition. In her current state, coherent answers seemed unlikely. Worse, the chaotic energy surrounding her suggested imminent corruption—she was sliding toward becoming exactly the type of vengeful entity that haunted the pages of ghost stories, divorced completely from reason and driven solely by ancient grudges.
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Despite the potential danger, Ambrose found himself reluctant to abandon this encounter. Claire represented a potentially valuable resource—both in her knowledge of this hidden collection and as a unique supernatural entity. Making a swift decision, he activated [Blink], materializing directly beside her tumultuous form.
With deliberate gentleness, he reached for her hand. To his mild surprise, his fingers made contact with her spectral essence—not passing through as might be expected when touching a ghost. The sensation was strange—neither fully solid nor entirely insubstantial, more like pressing against a cushion of concentrated air that somehow maintained humanoid form. He had actually slightly expected this as she was able to touch him earlier.
"Is this related to my half-spirit nature?" he pondered. The thought carried intriguing implications. If ghosts were fundamentally spirits of a certain type, perhaps his unique heritage granted him interaction privileges denied to ordinary humans. It could also be that ghosts in this world can’t be touched and seen, he thought, but it wasn’t the time to explore this line of thought.
The moment of contact created an immediate effect. One of Claire’s crimson eyes—blazing with supernatural rage moments before—reverted to its original luminous state. Though she continued struggling against whatever internal storm plagued her, the touch seemed to anchor her partially to rationality.
"It’s okay, calm down," Ambrose offered, his voice deliberately soothing. He maintained physical contact, recognizing it seemed to stabilize her condition.
"But..." she protested weakly, her form still flickering with distress. "I can’t touch the books. I can’t read the books." Each admission seemed physically painful to her, as though acknowledging these limitations threatened her very identity. "That means I can’t be a librarian. The books will be burned."
At this final fear, her spectral energy flared dangerously again, the stabilizing effect of Ambrose’s touch nearly overwhelmed by her resurgent terror.
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Ambrose maintained his composure, gently placing his free hand on her head in a patting gesture. The action seemed curiously effective at channeling her chaotic energy into more stable patterns.
"It’s okay," he assured her. "You can still be a librarian."
Her frantic movements stilled almost instantly. "Really?" The single word carried desperate hope.
Ambrose nodded confidently. "Of course."
"But I can’t read the books," she countered, genuine confusion replacing her earlier panic.
A knowing smile spread across Ambrose’s features. "Who says the librarian has to be the one reading the books?" he asked, his voice carrying genuine warmth despite its calculated nature.
Claire stared at him, her luminous eyes widening with dawning comprehension. "You mean..."
Before she could complete her thought, Ambrose smoothly interjected, "I quite like these books. Can you recommend some for me..." He paused deliberately before adding, "Miss Librarian?"
The effect was immediate and dramatic. The chaotic aura surrounding Claire shattered like glass, fragments of spectral energy dissolving into the chamber’s still air. Her eyes reverted fully to their natural luminous state, the unnatural crimson completely vanishing. Translucent tears streaked down her ethereal cheeks, catching the light like falling crystals as they dissipated before reaching the floor.
"Sure," she replied, her voice steadying as she embraced the identity he had reaffirmed for her. The simple acknowledgment of her role—regardless of her spectral limitations—had apparently provided exactly the validation she needed to maintain her sanity.