I lie here at the threshold between oblivion and certainty, ensnared by my own arrogance. Hubris—my greatest flaw, the one no Dominus, no god, no mortal ever dared to correct. Perhaps they feared me. Perhaps they believed I would unravel without it. But I was a fool, a wise fool, yet a fool all the same.

  When you stand at the pinnacle for too long, you forget what it means to fall. You forget the sting of error, the brutal clarity of consequence. Near-omniscience is not omniscience; it is the illusion of knowing all, the deception of near-perfection. A mind that believes itself beyond error is one that is already lost.

  My name is dust, irrelevant in the grand scheme. My title, my teacher—these are what endure. You know me, even if you do not. I was Archimedes, the great Dominus of Magus, the Sage whose decrees laid the foundation for all those who would come after. If you have ever absorbed a cube of knowledge, distilled magia itself into your being, then you have been touched by my work. My reach extends beyond the pages of history, into the very essence of your world.

  But let me tell you what is never written in those histories, what no Archivist or scholar dares to whisper. Even I was not the first. No, I was the disciple of another, the servant of a Dominus whose gifts were never given freely—Dominus Danatallion. Lord of Libraries. King of Beggars. Master of a Thousand Faces. Weaver of Deceptive Truths. He was one of the Seventy-Two, those first architects of the worlds, the ones who dictated reality itself. Before them, before the First Decree, humanity had nothing. No Artes, no foundations, no gifts of power. We should have perished in the wake of the Grand Awakening.

  But we did not.

  Humanity endured. No Artes? No problem. The strong were born strong. The weak grew strong by any means necessary. Those means…were never clean. Some feasted on the slain monsters that emerged from the rift of awakening. Others—on the slain remnants of their own kind. It was a brutal evolution, a grotesque and terrible adaptation. Those who took this path became the Maddened, the first true wielders of miasma, the first to turn the devouring sickness into strength.

  And among them, I stood at the apex.

  Yes, I—the great Archimedes—walked this path. The path of hunger. The path of Gula. A simple title at first, a moniker bestowed upon me as jest. Gluttony. The indulgent sin. It was fitting, wasn't it? I feasted. I devoured. I consumed knowledge, power, life. My existence was one of excess, of merriment, of unparalleled strength.

  If you are reading this, then I regret to inform you—you walk the same path.

  It does not matter whether you chose it or not. It has already chosen you. You have tasted the fruit of something greater, and now it will never leave you. The hunger will gnaw at you, whispering, demanding, growing. It is insatiable. The more you take in, the more you will crave. This is the truth of Gula. This is the fate of those who pursue the absolute.

  I say this not to frighten you but to warn you. Let it not consume you. Let it not twist your essence as it did mine.

  Before you unlock your Truth, you must first unlock your true Arte.

  Yes, the Arte you believe yourself to have is a lie. A mere shadow of what lies beneath. I, too, was deceived. They told me my Arte was Vibrokinesis, a simple ability, the power to accelerate objects on the molecular level. A utility. A convenience.

  They were trying to protect me. To blind me from what I truly was.

  My real Arte was devastation incarnate. To destroy at will. To unravel matter with a mere thought, to turn anything I saw into a weapon, a bomb waiting to detonate at my command.

  Yours is no different. Look beyond what you believe it to be. Look deeper. What is its most fundamental truth? How does it touch the world? What is the ultimate consequence of your power?

  You will find it. And when you do, you will never be the same again.

  But to truly see, to truly understand, you must follow the teachings of my master. The one guiding principle that defined my ascent:

  The Archimedes Principle. The Grand Theorem.

  It has many names, but all return to one inescapable truth:

  Fact is fiction. Fiction is fact.

  This was Danatallion’s greatest lesson, the foundation of all my knowledge. It is the truth that shapes reality, bends time, and rewrites existence itself.

  And now, it is yours.

  Let us begin with a simple truth: The universe is a function, and you are an equation.

  Everything that exists follows a formula, a sequence of numbers, patterns, and proportions. The stars above, the atoms within, the tides that rise and fall—all are dictated by the mathematics of existence. The world is not chaos, nor is it order, but an infinite series of computations, variables that shift and converge with every moment, with every choice.

  When one understands this, the first lesson is thus: You are not bound by the solution you have been given.

  A problem can have infinite solutions, an equation infinite variations. You are no different. The Arte you were born with is merely one interpretation of the data that comprises you, a simple function of an infinitely complex theorem. But it is not the only possibility.

  This is where the meditation begins. This is where the numbers sing.

  You must see yourself as an unsolved equation, a series of shifting variables waiting to be refined. Begin with the constants: your body, your mind, the Arte you have been told is yours. These are the known values, the components that make up the current form of your existence. Now, search for the unknowns—the hidden coefficients that lurk beneath the surface.

  Numbers exist where no eye can see. The spiral of your DNA, the fractal patterns of your thoughts, the golden ratio found in the very way you move. To perceive them, you must fall into the flow of computation, into the unseen lattice of reality’s structure. Close your eyes. Breathe in the rhythm of the world around you. Listen to the numbers whispering beneath every breath, beneath every heartbeat. They are there. They are always there.

  Once you have touched this state—this bridge between conscious and subconscious—you must begin the shift. Alter one variable. Take your Arte and place it within a new function. See it not as what you were told it was, but as what it could be. A new equation, a new answer.

  Vibrokinesis was the term I was given. Acceleration of molecules, nothing more. But that was a limitation of language, not of power. When I deconstructed it further, I saw the greater truth: I was not simply a manipulator of motion, but a detonator of forces unseen. I could accelerate more than mere particles—I could accelerate entropy itself, collapse probabilities, and force outcomes.

  What is your Arte? Paper? No, it is structure. It is order from chaos. It is creation itself, given form.

  What is your Arte? Salt? No, it is erosion. It is the fundamental breakdown of all things, the distillation of matter into its base components.

  What is your Arte? Flame? No, it is not fire. It is hunger. The insatiable consumption of all that stands before it.

  Break down what you are, what you have been told, and rewrite your theorem.

  And then, apply it.

  Reality is built upon equations, and the fundamental nature of equations is that they can be solved. If you know the right function, the right numbers to alter, then time bends, space folds, and probability ceases to be a limitation. The greatest mathematicians of our world understood this. The greatest magi lived by it. The greatest warriors, knowingly or unknowingly, moved in perfect rhythm with it.

  The Archimedes Principle is not merely an understanding of time, nor a way to rewrite history. It is the first step toward rewriting yourself.

  A cube can be placed into a greater structure. A theorem can be applied to a grander function. You are not simply a sum of your parts. You are the sum of all possible variations of yourself.

  Now tell me, Scholar. Walker. Warrior. Who will you choose to become?

  ***

  Walker… yes. That is what I wish to become. That is my dream. To walk the Otherrealms, to be untethered, free. But a Walker is not merely a name—it is a title, a role, a responsibility. And within that title, there are paths, variations, identities to be claimed.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  I train with a bow. Does that make me an Archer? No. A simple archer is a soldier of precision, of discipline. But I have two growth abilities—two powers that evolve with time and knowledge. That alone tells me I am meant for something beyond a simple path. I could shape myself into something else. A Magus? Perhaps. But I have no attack-focused cubes, no grand spells, no devastating incantations at my fingertips. Not yet.

  I flicked open my Gloss-Crystal, the ever-present device that dictated the world’s knowledge at my command. A simple query. What is an archer that uses magic?

  The answer flickered into view. Witchhunter.

  I frowned. Terrible name. Myne’s Technocracy used that title for their purges, their merciless hunts against those who wielded Artes they could not control, could not categorize. They were allies of the Free City of Marr, yes, but that did not mean we agreed on everything. Their methods were… excessive. And yet, if I stripped away the politics, the history, the fear—what was left?

  A hunter who wielded magic, who fused spellcraft with precision, turning knowledge into a weapon. That, at least, was worth considering.

  Still, that was only the surface of my thoughts. I needed to look deeper. My true Arte.

  Paper? That was what I controlled. But what was paper? The structured remains of plants, given new form. A shape given order. A foundation for knowledge. Creation? No—I cannot create paper from nothing. I require material. I shape it, mold it, give it purpose. But my Arte does not bring something from the void.

  I turned my gaze around the room, taking in the evidence of my subconscious efforts. Where once there were only statues of the Dragon Turtle, now stood something more—dozens, hundreds of folded paper constructs. Birds perched on the shelves, wings at the ready. Bees lined the corners, buzzing silently in place. Each one a creation of purpose, an extension of myself. My eyes. My ears. My weapons.

  My Arte is not creation—it is manifestation.

  I felt a resonance, a deep hum from within my chest, as though something inside me had clicked into place. A truth had been spoken, though not the full truth. Something almost correct. I held my breath, feeling the weight of revelation, the certainty that I was on the cusp of understanding—

  Then I noticed the book.

  The text was glowing. No, actually glowing. Faint at first, a dim shimmer at the edges of the letters, then spreading outward in slow, rhythmic pulses. I reached out, my fingers hovering over the surface. My breath hitched as the glow intensified, responding to my presence.

  And then—

  I touched it.

  And my hand passed through the page.

  A strange, pulling sensation seized my chest, as if invisible threads had wrapped around my ribs and tugged, yanking me forward. My vision blurred, the world around me stretching and warping as my entire body followed.

  One moment, I was in my guest room.

  The next—

  I was inside the book.

  ***

  The world within the book was not merely chaotic—it was chaos incarnate.

  Fractured buildings floated weightlessly in the sky, shattered remnants of once-great structures, their broken columns and jagged walls suspended in an eternal drift. Trees, hundreds—thousands—of them, hung in the same unnatural state, their roots twisting through the air like gnarled fingers grasping at nothing. There was no land. No solid ground. Only floating rubble, a graveyard of forgotten places, and upon it, I stood.

  A voice stirred the silence. Low. Calm. Worst of all—sincere.

  "A guest. Wonderful."

  I turned toward the source, already knowing who I would find.

  He was older than time itself, his presence carrying the weight of forgotten eras. His long white beard was neatly braided, his skin dark and rich, reminding me of the spiced black drink from the Nomadic Kingdom of Bast. But it was his eyes that unsettled me. Deep, knowing eyes—the kind that had seen the rise and fall of civilizations, the clash of creation and destruction waging war upon each other for untold eternities. Eyes that held answers—but not the questions I needed to ask.

  And worst of all? Eyes that carried sorrow. A sorrow that had lingered for so long it had settled into something softer, something heavier. A sorrow that had simply accepted.

  "What need have you of this fragment of the past, young one?" His voice, measured, effortless.

  I swallowed, my throat dry despite the weightless air around me. This is real. The floating ruins, the endless sky, him.

  "I… I was reading The Principle and pondering my true Arte," I admitted, my voice wavering slightly.

  At that, the old man chuckled, shaking his head in quiet amusement. "I think you've already found it."

  I frowned. "I'm not sure what you mean. I was reading a book and now…" I gestured broadly at the expanse around us. "I'm here?"

  "Yes. An uncommon variation of Paper Artes. Not unheard of, but rare." He took a step forward, walking effortlessly across the floating debris as if it were solid ground. "Scholars are the most likely to awaken it, but I have seen warriors, poets, skalds—those who study subjects for their own growth rather than simply for knowledge’s sake—develop it as well."

  He offered me a small smile. "I assume I don’t need to introduce myself?"

  I shook my head. Even without confirmation, I knew who he was.

  He chuckled again, the sound light but carrying a depth of amusement that I couldn’t quite place. "Then, if you would, may I have your name, young one?"

  "Alexander. Alexander of the Duarte Family, of the Free City of Marr." I gave the full formal introduction, as if I were speaking to a prince.

  "Marr… oh, from Demeterra’s little hovel." He nodded, his expression contemplative. "I see."

  His phrasing struck me as odd, but before I could question it, he continued. "I won’t ask the year, because this fragment of me is static. I cannot learn new information. But while you are here, I wished to know your name, Alexander, so that I may at least speak to you properly."

  He paused, studying me with quiet patience before speaking again. "Your Arte—your true Arte—is plainly obvious. Bibliokinesis. You can enter books and obtain items, knowledge, and more from them."

  I blinked. The word felt foreign and familiar all at once.

  "Does that mean I’m a Creator type?" I asked hesitantly.

  He shook his head. "No. You cannot create books with mana. You can only take from them. You are a Shaper, not a Creator. You take what exists and give it form outside of its pages."

  My mind raced with possibilities. "Then… if I wanted to start small, I should focus on myths? Stories that people already believe in?"

  "Exactly. Myths are the most potent source, for they are already written into the collective consciousness of your world. The more people who know a story, the stronger its foundation in reality."

  I frowned. "So I just find a copy of a myth, written down, and then… what?"

  He smiled knowingly. "It will be like breathing, boy. You did this one by accident, but soon you’ll find it as natural as walking."

  The thought of accidentally stepping into a book unsettled me. I hadn’t meant to do this. Hadn’t even tried. But here I was, standing in the ruins of an ancient place, speaking to a man who should no longer exist.

  "If I wanted a challenge," I asked carefully, "what would I look for?"

  "Tales of terror."

  My breath hitched slightly.

  "Fear," he continued, "is deeply rooted in human nature. Stories meant to frighten are those that endure, the ones told around campfires, whispered in hushed voices. Their weight is heavy. Their power, undeniable."

  "And if I want to practice?"

  "Write your own," he said simply.

  I hesitated. "But you just said I'm not a Creator type."

  "You aren't." His gaze was sharp, the wisdom of millennia weighing down on me. "You cannot create the story’s power, but you can shape it. If you want a book to be real enough for your Arte to pull from, you need someone else to write it down for you."

  The realization struck me like a physical blow. "So… I can’t write my own myths. Someone else has to put the words to the page."

  "Yes."

  "But why?"

  "Because you cannot cheat your Arte’s nature," he said, his tone gentle but firm. "You are not a god, Alexander. You are not a divine author of existence. You do not create something from nothing. You shape the words that already exist, the myths that have already taken root. If you were to write a story yourself, it would be your imagination manifesting, not your Arte at work. But if another transcribes your words, then it becomes history, a record, a truth that can be drawn upon."

  I swallowed, the weight of understanding settling heavily upon my shoulders.

  "You are a Shaper, boy." His voice softened slightly, carrying the cadence of finality. "You shape myths into reality. You give them form beyond the pages that bind them. But you are bound, too—bound by the words that others have left behind. That is your power, and that is your curse."

  I looked down at my hands. They trembled slightly, not with fear, but with anticipation.

  Not just a Shaper.

  Not just a Creator.

  Not just a Mage.

  Not just a Witchhunter.

  I will be something else entirely.

  The floating ruins around me seemed to pulse, shifting ever so slightly in response to my realization. The world of the book—the world of knowledge, of forgotten histories, of untold stories—was open to me.

  And I had only begun to step inside.