The silence descended first. It was not the gentle hush of a quiet room. This was a crushing, palpable stillness. It felt like a forgotten corner of existence. Towering shelves scraped the sky. They vanished into an oppressive darkness far overhead. Bound volumes lined them. Their coverings spoke of aged leather and smooth silk. Some textures were alien. They defied easy identification. The air hung heavy, unmoving.

No escape presented itself. You had searched relentlessly. Every aisle promised only more shelves. Deeper aisles stretched into the gloom. Dust lay thick on every surface. Unreadable scripts adorned countless book spines. One stark truth held firm. Your objective was buried here. A single, crucial volume waited. Its pages held the path back home.

Then, a form appeared. A solitary figure stood far away. It was Kuki Shinobu. She leaned against a towering ladder. A book lay open in her hands. Faintly, moving images flickered across its pages. Her head lifted. She met your gaze. It was as if she had anticipated your arrival.

From somewhere deep within the labyrinth of books, a page turned.