Falling.

  There was no end to it. The sensation of weightlessness lingered until, suddenly, I crashed into something—not hard stone or jagged earth, but something strangely forgiving. Books. Piles and piles of books.

  I groaned, pushing myself up, my body aching from the landing. My fingers dug into the covers beneath me, feeling the worn leather, the brittle paper. The scent of ink, dust, and something ancient filled my lungs. In any other situation, this would have been paradise—an endless library, towering shelves stretching beyond sight, each row crammed with tomes of unknown knowledge. But instead of wonder, all I felt was unease. This wasn’t a haven. It was a labyrinth. And I was trapped inside it.

  I took a slow breath, steadying myself, but even the slightest movement set me on edge. The silence here wasn’t comforting. It was suffocating. I was alone—no Vanitas, no distant voices, no hints of civilization. Just the endless, suffocating walls of books, rising from the floor to the unseen ceiling above.

  “Three hundred thirty-three million, three hundred thirty-three thousand, three hundred thirty-three possessed books,” I muttered, my voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might awaken something lurking in the stacks. “Or find another person to make a contract. Or accept that deal. Or survive this… every night… for ten years.”

  My grip tightened around my bow. My other hand found the playing card, the dormant form of my Machina, and I kept it ready. The knowledge that anything here could hunt me, haunt me, was a weight pressing against my chest.

  Taking my first steps into the ocean of books, I felt the world shift around me. The shelves loomed, their contents a quiet, watchful tide. It wasn’t the lack of oxygen that made breathing hard—it was the dread, the suffocating sense that at any moment, the books might turn their pages… and turn their attention to me.

  My entire body felt like it was wading through molasses. Every step was a battle against an unseen force, a weight pressing down on me with each movement. The sheer effort it took to lift my legs, to push forward, made me feel as though the world itself had conspired to drag me into the depths of this place.

  Do I summon my Machina now?

  No. The mana cost was too high. I had no idea how long I’d be trapped here, how long I needed to survive. High-ranked realms often had time dilation compared to Lady Demeterra’s domain. If eight hours there meant days, weeks, or longer here… then wasting my reserves now would be a death sentence.

  I had my bow—but only five arrows.

  Vanitas had made sure of that. Five shots. Five chances. Five mistakes I couldn’t afford to make. Each arrow would have to count. No wild shots. No wasted opportunities. I’d have to aim for vitals every time.

  And that was the problem.

  I wasn’t good enough for this.

  The best I had managed in training was a seven on a stationary target—three rings away from the bullseye—in a calm, controlled environment with no threats, no stakes beyond my uncle’s drills. Here? There would be no second chances. Everything in this place wanted to devour me. Not just my body. Not just my mind. But my very existence. My soul.

  A violent shudder ran through me.

  My heartbeat pounded against my ribs, a relentless drum in my ears, drowning out everything else. It was all I could hear—thud-thud-thud—a frantic, desperate rhythm, screaming at me to run.

  But run where?

  The silence of the labyrinth pressed in on me, thick and oppressive. This wasn’t a library. Not anymore.

  This was a prison.

  And I was its prisoner, a lone fugitive in a maze where every shadow could be my executioner.

  Wading through my fear, through the gnawing anxiety clawing at my gut, I forced myself forward—only to meet a dead end.

  I exhaled sharply, shoulders sagging. Of course.

  My nerves were proving to be just as much of an enemy as whatever monstrosities lurked in this forsaken place. Every muscle in my body remained coiled, tension thrumming through me like a bowstring pulled too tight. I needed to keep moving, to think clearly.

  Turning on my heel, I retraced my steps, my eyes scanning the endless rows of bookshelves as I approached another choice in the path. Left or right?

  Taking one of my precious arrows, I etched a crude X into the wood of the nearest shelf, marking my passage. Then, with measured caution, I took the left path.

  Left. Always left. Each time, placing an X into the wood of the nearest shelf.

  I followed that rule religiously, winding my way through the labyrinth, pushing forward even as each turn chipped away at my dwindling patience. Again and again, the path twisted, looped back, toyed with me, until at last—I had exhausted every leftward option available.

  And still, there was no way out.

  My stomach growled—a cruel reminder that, despite my body lying asleep elsewhere, my soul still hungered.

  I had found nothing in this endless maze but wooden bookshelves and an unfathomable number of tomes lining their oppressive walls. No food. No water. Nothing to indicate I was even supposed to survive here, let alone escape.

  Then I heard another growl.

  This one wasn’t mine.

  The sound slithered through the stillness, low and guttural, coming from behind me—from the path I had ignored, the right turn I had forsaken.

  Slowly, carefully, I turned to face it.

  And I was not happy with what I saw.

  A chimera of grotesque design. A creature stitched together from nightmares.

  It had the arms of a man but used them like forelegs, propelling itself forward on clawed hands. Its head was canine, its snout twitching as it scented the air. The body was avian, hunched and feathered, ribs stark beneath sleek black plumage. And its tail? A thrashing, scaled monstrosity, glistening with dampness as if it had just emerged from the depths of some abyssal trench.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  Its breath came in heavy, uneven rasps. The hunger in its gaze mirrored my own—but for far deadlier things.

  My throat went dry.

  Fight?

  Flight?

  Or freeze?

  Let’s consider each possibility for a moment, Alex…

  Sure, you have time. Just enough to die thinking about it.

  You have nowhere to run. Behind you lies a series of dead ends. Literally, in this case, if you try.

  Freeze? You’ll be torn apart. Tooth, claw, and fist, rending flesh from bone.

  Fight? You have a prayer. That’s it. A single, fleeting prayer.

  I steeled myself.

  This will be a gore-drenched mess, a painting of the macabre.

  I reached for my Arte—and smiled.

  Because now, standing before this monstrous abomination, I knew exactly who the real predator was.

  “I have judged you to be, lord of paper.”

  The words of the Archdryad spilled from my lips as my mana and miasma surged outward, washing over the labyrinth in an unseen tide.

  The books around me moved.

  No, they answered.

  A storm of tomes erupted from their shelves, pages fluttering like wings, filling the air with a cyclone of parchment and ink. Thousands of them. Each book, a unique armament—a weapon of untold proportions.

  But I was not their master. Not truly.

  I could feel it. Some books obeyed, carving through the air like arrows loosed from a hundred bows. Others twitched erratically, ignoring my commands, spiraling in chaotic directions. Some refused to move at all.

  Still.

  A tool is a tool.

  I had seconds. Not minutes. Not long enough to refine control or strategize. Just seconds before the weight of the Arte collapsed on me.

  So I pushed forward.

  The books struck.

  They battered the chimera’s head, twisting its neck at an unnatural angle. Pages slashed against its hide, shredding feathers and fur alike. Hardcovers slammed into its ribs, cracking bone beneath the force.

  And yet—

  I felt horrible.

  My body screamed.

  Blood spilled from my nose, warm and fast, soaking my lips in copper. My vision blurred, the world tilting at sickening angles. I had overreached.

  I could already feel my control slipping. The books that once followed my command now wavered, faltering midair. Some simply dropped. Others began to orbit aimlessly, as if their purpose had been forgotten.

  I had nothing left.

  But I prayed it was enough.

  With the last dredges of my strength, I hurled everything forward, burying the beast beneath a mountain of books—hundreds, maybe thousands, collapsing upon it in an avalanche of ink and knowledge.

  The last thing I saw was the swirling chaos of paper and blood before the oblivion of unconsciousness claimed me.

  ***

  I awoke in my bed, gasping for breath.

  Which bed?

  The familiar sight of the dragon turtle motif told me everything I needed to know—Uncle Rodrick’s estate. But how? I only slew… whatever that thing was. My fingers curled into a fist, nails digging into my palm as I tried to steady myself. Tried to breathe. I couldn’t. The creature’s miasma still clung to me. I could feel it—seeping into my skin, wrapping around my bones, whispering at the edges of my mind. It begged me to store it, convert it, make it mine.It was rich. Dense. And yet… it was only a Rank D 1-1 creature.

  That nightmare.

  That horrid abomination, pieced together from the worst horrors imaginable—was only a 1-1. And I passed out after slaying one. One. If that thing was a cursed book, that meant I still had… how many to go? I didn’t care right now. My arms wrapped around myself in a feeble attempt at comfort, at grounding. Did anything else find me in that prison? That prison I have to survive nightly. My eyes were wide awake. My body, however—my lower body wouldn’t move. I was trapped, pinned to the bed. A prisoner in my own flesh. Mana shock? Sleep paralysis? I couldn't tell. The darkness pressed against me, warping the shapes in my room—the books on the walls, the shifting shadows of the furniture. Everything begged me to run. To get away. To move.

  My body refused.

  It did, however, allow me to cry.

  To wail.

  The raw sound tore from my throat, ragged and unrestrained, the kind of scream that came from somewhere deeper than the lungs—from the soul itself. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t dignified. It was primal.

  It was enough to summon the night staff.

  They rushed in, faces shifting from concern to outright horror.

  One of the maids—the youngest, no older than I was—let out a guttural shriek, dropping the tray she had been carrying. The clatter of metal against marble was deafening in the otherwise silent room.

  Then, someone lit the lanterns.

  And I saw why.

  The black and blue stains weren’t just on my clothes.

  They were on me.

  They had seeped into my skin, curling around my arms, my chest, my neck—like tendrils of ink burrowing beneath my flesh. My hands trembled as I lifted them, staring at the eerie blotches that marred my complexion. Miasma. It had soaked into me.

  No—it was trying to make me its own.

  The next moments blurred together.

  Someone—maybe the maid—grabbed my wrist. Soft, delicate fingers pressing into my pulse. Checking, confirming I was alive. Someone else was shouting. More figures crowded in, their voices overlapping in a frantic haze. I barely registered any of it.

  What I did register, however, was the sensation crawling beneath my skin.

  It itched.

  Not on the surface. Inside.

  Like a thousand tiny needles dragging themselves through my bloodstream.

  I tried to sit up, but my muscles didn’t obey. The weight of exhaustion—mana depletion? Miasma poisoning?—pressed me back down.

  "Don’t move," a voice commanded, stern yet careful. A young maid. Definitely a young maid. My vision swam as I focused on her face, the only solid thing in the chaos.

  I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

  It was like my voice had been swallowed whole.

  The maid’s expression darkened. Her hands moved quickly. A damp cloth wiped at the stains on my face—at least, she tried. The inky black patches refused to fade, no matter how much pressure she applied.

  I wasn’t just coated in miasma.

  I had absorbed it.

  Uncle Rodrick arrived last, his presence parting the panicked servants like a blade through parchment. His gaze swept over me, and for the first time in my life, I saw something in his expression that I had never seen before.

  Fear.

  Not for himself.

  For me.

  "Everyone out," he ordered, his voice cutting through the room. No one dared to disobey.

  The young maid hesitated. "Master Rodrick, I—"

  "Out."

  A flicker of defiance crossed her face, but she bowed and left with the others.

  Now, it was just me and my uncle.

  "Alexander," he murmured, stepping closer. His hand hovered above my arm, as if unsure whether touching me would burn him. "What in the moons’ names did you bring back with you?"

  “So you knew.” My voice was slow, deliberate. My gaze locked onto his, searching for any flicker of guilt. But my uncle only met it with a soft, knowing smile.

  “I did,” he admitted, his tone calm, almost gentle. “I knew exactly what that scroll was. I also knew the consequences of letting you read it. That place, however… that place is your perfect training ground.”

  “Uncle.” My breath was uneven, raw. “I was hunted. Lost. Alone. Afraid. You ask me what I brought back with me? I brought back pain. Suffering. Fear. I haven’t been afraid of the dark in years, Uncle. Years. And yet, when I woke up, I—” My voice broke as I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I saw things moving in the shadows. I thought the books were alive, that they housed demons beyond imagining.”

  “No.” His voice cut through my unraveling thoughts, firm and absolute. “I don’t mean the emotions you’re suffering. You don’t even realize what just happened. Do you?”

  “What do you…” My words trailed off as he pointed behind me.

  I turned.

  An egg.

  Swirling with black, blue, gold, and shifting ink-like patterns, it pulsed with a presence that sent a shiver down my spine.

  “What. Did. You. Bring. Back?” he barked.