The air in the library is unlike anything I have ever breathed. It is pure, devoid of dust despite centuries of neglect, and it hums with a palpable energy. It's like being inside a massive mana crystal. Every breath seems to clear my mind, sharpen my senses.
I stand on the threshold for a long moment, overwhelmed by the sheer scale of the place. Millions of books. Entire lifetimes of knowledge, discoveries, secrets. Where to even begin?
I take a step forward, my boots making no sound on the smooth marble floor. The sphere of light in the center of the hall pulses gently, like a heart. I approach a random shelf. The books are bound in leather, their titles engraved in an ancient language I only vaguely recognize, runes similar to those that were seared into my mind when I learned Camouflage.
I pull out a volume at random. It is heavy, cold to the touch. I open it. The pages are made of a thin, resilient material, neither paper nor parchment. And they are blank.
I frown, confused. I take another book. Also blank. A third. The same.
A chilling sense of despair begins to set in. Is the library an empty shell? A cruel trap?
I turn back to the door. The Guardian is still there, a motionless figure in the previous hall. I cannot read her intentions, but I sense this is not a trick. The solution must be here.
I think about how the knowledge from the skill scroll was transmitted to me. It wasn't through reading. It was through contact. Through intent.
I return to the first book I picked up. I hold it in my hands, close my eyes, and focus. I don't think about reading. I think about knowing. I ask a silent question in my mind: "What are you about?"
The response is subtle, but immediate. An image, a sensation, forms in my mind. A star collapsing in on itself. The theory of gravitational manipulation. A concept so advanced it makes me dizzy. I drop the book as if it has burned me.
This is no ordinary library. The knowledge isn't written. It's stored. To read it, you don't need eyes, but an open mind.
I am both relieved and terrified. I can access all this knowledge. But how do I filter it? How do I find the needle of my own damnation in this cosmic haystack?
I cannot wander randomly. I need a method. I head to the center of the hall, beneath the pulsing sphere of light. This is the heart of the place. The source of its power.
I look up at it. It seems to react to my presence, its pulse quickening slightly. Perhaps it is the catalog. The keeper of the index.
I place my hand on the marble pedestal on which it floats. I close my eyes and ask my question, not to a book, but to the entire library.
"I seek to understand an ancient magic. A magic of consumption. A devouring hunger."
The reaction is instant and overwhelming. The sphere of light shines with an intense brilliance, and a torrent of information pours into my mind. Not blurry images, but titles, references, locations. Thousands of possible answers. "Treatises on Lycanthropy," "The Soul Eaters of the Old Empire," "Spiritual Parasitism," "The Magic of the Void."
It's too much. My mind is swamped. I pull my hand back, gasping for breath, my head buzzing. I need to be more specific.
I take a deep breath and try again, refining my query.
"I seek an innate skill. Non-parasitic. A hunger that converts matter and essence into personal power. A skill linked to evolution."
The flood of answers is much smaller. A single section of the library lights up in my mind, on the third floor, in a north-facing alcove. A single title burns brighter than the rest: "The Codex of Primordial Evolution."
This is it. I can feel it.
I look up. The staircases of light seem to invite me. I place my foot on the first step. It is solid, though immaterial. I ascend, floor after floor, the silence broken only by my own breathing.
I reach the alcove. It is smaller than the others. A single shelf holds about a dozen volumes. And in the center, a book larger than the rest, bound not in leather, but in a dark material that resembles petrified reptile skin. It has no title carved into it. It is simply there. This is the one.
I take it. It is heavy, and it radiates an aura of raw, ancient power. I sit on the floor, my back against the shelf, and open it on my lap.
The pages are not blank. They are filled with a complex diagram, a cosmic family tree of skills and powers. And at the very center, at the root, a single symbol: a spiral devouring its own tail.
I place my hands on the pages.
"What are you?"
The information that pours into me is so dense, so primordial, that it threatens to shatter my mind. This is not a simple book. It is a catalog of unique skills, the kind the gods themselves scattered at the dawn of time. Skills designed to evolve, to break the laws of the world.
And I find my own.
It is not called Devouring Hunger. That is the name my system, limited by its understanding, gave it. Its true name is Gluttony. It is one of the Seven Primordial Skills, archetypes of power so fundamental they are considered sins by some cosmologies.
I read, or rather, I absorb. I learn that my skill is only in its most embryonic stage. The hunger is just the first symptom. The true power lies not just in devouring, but in assimilation and evolution.
The codex shows me the possible evolutionary paths. I can develop my skill to absorb abstract concepts: fear, time, knowledge itself. I can learn to copy and improve the skills I absorb, not just use them in a rudimentary way. I can, if I reach the pinnacle of this power, devour reality itself.
Elara's words come back to me. A hunger that is never sated. It was a prophecy.
But the codex is not just a manual of power. It is also a warning. Each branch of the evolutionary tree has a cost. To devour concepts, I must first understand them. To copy a skill, I must master its fundamentals. And the greatest danger: the loss of self. By absorbing too many different essences, I risk diluting my own, becoming a patchwork of other beings, a monster with no identity. Balance. That was the answer to the Guardian's test. It is the key to my survival.
I remain there for hours, perhaps days. Time has no meaning in this library. I am engrossed in the reading, my own physical hunger completely forgotten, supplanted by my thirst for knowledge.
I discover a section that describes a ritual. A way to force the first true evolution of the skill, to take it from its passive state to an active, controlled one. It requires three things: a large amount of raw energy, a catalyst of high purity, and an act of supreme will.
The energy, I have. My body is a vessel that has absorbed the essence of dozens of creatures. The catalyst... Soul Ore. The codex describes it as one of the best possible catalysts, a concentrate of pure spiritual energy. And the act of will... that will be the hardest part. I will have to face the monster in my gut, not to feed it, but to subdue it. To integrate it.
I know what I must do.
I close the book. The knowledge is within me. The path is laid out.
I get up, my body numb. I place the codex back in its spot with a respect tinged with awe. I have found my answer. And it is far greater and more terrifying than anything I had imagined.
I leave the library, returning to the great hall where the Guardian waits. She has not moved.
"You have found what you were looking for," her voice resonates. It is not a question.
"Yes. And much more."
"The path before you is perilous. More perilous even than facing me."
"I know."
I bow to her, a gesture of sincere respect. She is not an enemy. She is the guardian of a knowledge that has just saved my life, even if it is to throw me into a greater war.
I leave the ruins, returning to the light of day. The world seems different. More vibrant, more fragile. I see it now not as a cage, but as a pantry. An ocean of power, just waiting to be devoured.
My first quest is over. But my true adventure is just beginning. I need to find more Soul Ore. I need to return to the depths, to face the Undead Miner. Not to steal his treasure this time.
But to take it from him. And to devour him as well.