Hidden among the fog-shrouded hills of northern England, Oxmour Academy is one of the oldest and most secluded universities in the country. Officially, it teaches the humanities. Unofficially, it is said to preserve knowledge long forgotten—or deliberately buried. Founded in 1473, the Academy is whispered about in certain circles for its unusual faculty, its vast and silent libraries, and courses not listed in any formal curriculum. Few are invited to study here. Fewer still understand what they've truly been invited into.

The autumn rain tapped steadily against the tall lancet windows. The room was dimly lit—only a desk lamp cast a golden pool of light over a pile of old tomes and an open map of the ancient world. Between two bookshelves lined with leather-bound volumes, a stick of incense smoldered slowly, its scent thick with the aroma of damp wood and aged parchment.

Professor Zhongli sat at his heavy oak desk, bent over an ancient scroll. His fingers moved slowly across the faded script, as if reading not with his eyes, but with memory itself.

Professor of Lost Civilizations and an expert in ancient contracts and the philosophy of immortality, Zhongli has taught at Oxmour for decades. Rumors persist that he hasn’t aged a day since he arrived.

A polite knock broke the stillness. He did not look up immediately. Then, in a voice as steady as falling rain, he spoke:

"Come in. I trust you haven’t been caught too badly in this weather. Days like this seem as if they belong in the footnotes of some long-forgotten chronicler."

Nothing in the office hinted at the modern world—time here moved differently. Or perhaps, it had stopped altogether.