The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, bleeding amber and crimson into the sky before surrendering to the velvet embrace of twilight. Shadows curled like smoke in the corners of the dormitory hallways, flickering beneath the steady, silver-blue glow of arcane bulbs embedded in the ceiling. Their soft hum whispered in harmony with the fading footsteps of students returning to their rooms.
Arin walked slowly through the corridor, his movements deliberate, each step echoing faintly against the stone floor. At his side, Cale strolled in silence, his usual cheer dampened by the weight of the day. Evaluations, mana awakening, the sudden and irreversible plunge into a world of power and danger—the thoughts clung to them both, silent spectres of an unknown future.
Their shared dormitory room was a modest chamber of practical design. Twin beds occupied opposite walls, their frames crafted from sturdy blackwood. Between them stood a long desk with dual chairs, clean and untouched, as though waiting for purpose. Empty bookshelves lined the far wall, their dusty surfaces an invitation to new beginnings.
Arin sat heavily on his bed. The mattress gave a low groan, and he leaned back, staring at the ceiling where protective sigils shimmered faintly in the dark. He didn't speak, not right away. His thoughts churned like a rising storm.
Cale broke the silence. "You alright?"
Arin's voice was low. "Yeah. Just thinking."
"About today?"
"No. About tomorrow. And the days after that." He sat up, his gaze sharpening. "Being Awakened doesn't mean anything unless I make it mean something. I've got power now, but it's raw. Untamed. If I want to fight alone—if I want to survive—I need more."
Cale sat up too, arms crossed. "You're planning to fight solo?"
"I don't have a choice. With Crafter and my class, the path ahead is different for me." Arin's eyes gleamed with conviction. "I need to build a combat skill set strong enough to fight hordes alone. That means I need knowledge—on beasts, strategy, survival... everything."
Cale gave a low whistle. "That's a tall order for thirty days."
"Maybe," Arin said, already reaching for his coat. "But I don't have the luxury of slow growth. I'll use the Grand Archive. Every waking hour, until my mind breaks or bends."
A smile touched Cale's lips—half proud, half worried. "Try not to lose yourself in the books."
"I'll lose myself," Arin said, standing. "But I'll find something stronger in return."
—
The next morning, Arin stood before the Grand Archive—the academy's legendary library and the heart of its accumulated knowledge. It towered like a temple of obsidian, with runes etched deep into its blackstone façade, glowing faintly in the morning light. Glass domes captured the sky, shifting in hue with the passage of time, a clock made from magic and memory.
He stepped through its ancient oak doors, which opened on their own with a deep, groaning creak. Instantly, a flood of scents greeted him—aged parchment, ink brewed with stardust, dried lichens, and just a hint of desperation.
Inside, the Archive was a cathedral of intellect. Rows upon rows of towering bookshelves stretched higher than seemed physically possible, some of them moving on their own like polite sentient trees. Floating platforms carried students between aisles. Wisps of cataloging spirits zipped around, occasionally bumping into one another and arguing in squeaky tones.
Behind a semicircular stone desk floated a woman who may or may not have been part banshee. She had sharp eyes, sharper cheekbones, and a voice that could slice bread. "Yes?"
"Beasts," Arin said, already feeling slightly overwhelmed. "Everything on beasts. I want to start there."
She raised one imperious brow and tapped a rune. A spectral pathway unfurled in front of him, pointing toward a glowing archway.
"Section A. Try not to get eaten. The illusions are... enthusiastic."
—
Section A was chaos distilled into educational glory. The air buzzed with illusion magic, conjuring lifelike projections of creatures from across the dimensions. Roars, screeches, hisses, and one very confused honk filled the space. Arin ducked as a massive illusionary wyvern swooped overhead and dissipated into mist.
His first encounter was with a tome that tried to bite him. "Beginner's Guide to Mildly Annoyed Griffins," it read, complete with flapping pages and an enchantment that shed feathers when opened.
Then came the bestiary itself.
The Lava Badger: an aggressive burrower found in molten dungeon biomes. Its back was layered in obsidian-like plates, and when threatened, it vibrated violently before detonating in a burst of molten rock. The side note: "May explode if poked. May also explode if not poked. Avoid badgers."
The Echo Toad: a frog-like creature mutated by mana storms. It repeated the last words spoken in its vicinity—mockingly, and always at double volume. Imagine yelling a strategy, only to have it shouted back at you with a snide tone.
Arin choked on a laugh reading about the Panic Peacock. Its feathers shimmered like a disco ball of doom and flared emergency messages in multiple languages. Common flashes included: "EVACUATE IMMEDIATELY," "REGRET EVERYTHING," and a polite, "Please Panic Now."
But the creature that truly perplexed and fascinated him was the Inkdrake. A small, wingless dragon that dwelled in forgotten libraries and ink-drenched ruins. Its scales shimmered with ever-shifting text—fragments of ancient spells, lost poetry, and forgotten shopping lists. It attacked by spraying acidic ink in complex runes that temporarily scrambled thoughts.
Victim reports included:
Attempted to cast a fire spell and instead summoned a mildly aggressive goose.
Forgot their own name for seven minutes.
Became convinced they were a sentient quill.
"Avoid eye contact," the book warned. "Or it may write your biography mid-battle."
Arin snorted, muffling his laughter. "That would be one weird autobiography."
He continued deeper, finding beasts that defied logic, creatures forged in dimensional storms, monsters that mutated from spilled potions, and others that existed purely to be an inconvenience.
He filled notebook after notebook with diagrams, behavioral models, weakness charts, and occasionally doodles of panicking mages.
As the mana-lights dimmed to amber, signaling closing time, he finally packed up. Tired, ink-stained, and somehow lighter despite the load he carried.
He had only scratched the surface, but knowledge had begun to root itself in him. And in that moment, with beasts still roaring in the background and the scent of aged vellum in the air, Arin smiled.
This was only the beginning. He would return tomorrow, and the next day, and the next.
If knowledge was power, then he would become a living arsenal.
Arin was no longer just surviving. He was preparing to dominate.
The library, with its endless halls and dusty tomes, had embraced him—and he intended to absorb every ounce of wisdom it could offer.