I had been poring over dusty tos and brittle scrolls for two hours straight, my brain slowly leaking out of my ears from the sheer volu of apocalyptic information when sothing caught my eye—sothing absurdly out of place.
A thin book. Like, magazine-thin. Practically a pamphlet in the grand sea of encyclopedias.
I squinted. "What's this? A glorified essay?" I muttered, plucking it off the shelf like it might evaporate from sheer inferiority.
The cover felt like old beast hide—cracked, leathery, probably shed from sothing extinct or cursed. Golden letters glead faintly on the front:
Evolution of Stragglers: A Theory
By: K.P.
No frills. No publisher stamp. Just twenty-sothing pages and an ominous title. Suspiciously thin for a topic that's literally world-ending.
I opened it. The pages were rough papyrus, ancient and weathered, like they'd been scribed during a thunderstorm using the last dying breath of a phoenix. Black ink ford clean, precise words—surprisingly elegant for what looked like an accidental zine.
The first paragraph hit like a slap:
"Stragglers are powerful divine creatures, mutated through prolonged overexposure to corrupted entities. Their existence is a byproduct of ruined worlds. They have lost instinct, intelligence, thought, desire, even emotion. Their only drive is consumption. As long as corruption remains, it fuels their hunger—to kill, devour, destroy. Even heavens are not spared."
My fingers tightened around the edge of the page.
"Whoa..." I breathed. "That's... not bedti reading. This sounds like a biological apocalypse had a baby with a divine plague." My pulse spiked. "Wait a minute… Now that I think about it…That does sound like creatures of World-Enders."
The realization hit like a bolt of lightning.
No way.
I sprang to my feet, the thin book flapping in my hand like it regretted being found. I didn't walk—I sprinted out of the Archives, knocking over a poor stack of scrolls and a sleepy book-bird who squawked at in seven dialects.
"Usum!" I shouted as I skidded into the front desk like a man possessed. "Hey! Usum! Or whatever your na is today!"
The lion-dragon librarian straightened, startled, nearly dropping his monocle. "Heavens, Owner! Inside voice, please. You're disturbing the ancient volus."
I thrust the book toward him like it might explode. "World-Enders. You were one, weren't you? I an… you retired, right? How? Did you evolve or sothing?!"
For a second, Usumgallu just stared at . Then his gaze dropped to the book, and sothing like recognition—and nostalgia?—flickered behind those golden eyes.
A smile tugged at his ancient lips. "Ah. I see you've discovered one of the Evolution series."
I blinked. "Wait, series? There's more of these?"
He nodded slowly. "What you're holding is Book Three. A theory, yes—but written by soone who knew our kind intimately. One of the few who dared to docunt what happens after corruption."
I gawked. "There's a prequel? Like... lore before the lore?"
"Indeed," he said with a chuckle, taking the book and flipping it open like it was a beloved mory. "Book One discusses the original forms of the creatures that were deed as World Enders. Book Two details the first mutations. What you've found—Book Three—is speculation on what cos next. There's a total of seven series."
I rubbed my face. "You guys really need better library signage."
He gave a knowing look. "So knowledge doesn't want to be found, Owner. You have to earn it."
I sighed and leaned against the counter, heart still racing. "And here I thought this trip was just going to involve snack corners and existential dread."
"Don't worry," Usumgallu said, his voice rich with ancient amusent. "There's always more dread where that ca from. Now, shall I fetch you the rest of the series?"
******
"For books and information from this archive," Usumgallu said, adjusting his monocle like a wizarded banker about to deliver bad news, "paynt must be made in essence."
Essence. Right. The mystical equivalent of blood, sweat, tears—and soul's battery pack. But in this case what they want is the essence within the Owner's Token. Kaleon's essence to be exact.
Before I could respond, Usum's attention shifted. His lion-dragon eyes narrowed in on Heim, who was returning with a suspiciously large haul of goodies—bubble tea in both hands and snack trays stacked higher than his godly ego.
"The rest of your purchases," Usumgallu added, voice dry as parchnt, "can be paid with Realm Currency. Conversion rate stands at one Mythica Credit to point-five Realm Currency."
I turned to Heim, who bead like a toddler at a food festival. "I didn't bring cash," he said casually, like this was a minor hiccup and not a culinary robbery. "We were in a rush, rember?"
I sighed. There went my monthly Mythica salary. Goodbye retirnent plan, hello bankruptcy.
"How much?" I asked grimly.
Usumgallu consulted a floating golden tablet that blinked to life above his desk. His claws tapped across the glowing symbols with terrifying speed. ᴛʜɪs ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ɪs ᴜᴘᴅᴀᴛᴇ ʙʏ novel fire
After a mont, he looked up and announced, with the glee of a tax collector, "Total for food and beverages, 382 Realm Currency. Tax included."
My jaw unhinged. "Three hundred and eighty-two?!"
I whipped around to Heim. "How many snacks did you consu?!"
He just shrugged, all innocence and tapioca pearls. "I lost count. The lemon tarts were amazing. Oh—and I got extra bubble teas for Agnos. I bet he hasn't tried the galaxy milk flavor since they just launched it. I think it might help with his mood swings."
I hissed, "You're bribing an emotionally volatile god with tapioca."
He nodded. "It might work. Probably."
One of these days, the gods of Mythica are going to wring dry. Not taphorically. Actually.
After paying with a pained smile and the burning sensation of my essence token being siphoned off for both snacks and sacred texts, we returned to the Lost Realm with the full collection of The Evolution of World-Enders series.
Calling them books felt generous. Each volu was barely thicker than a sandwich—magazine-sized and no more than forty pages, including the cover. But what they lacked in bulk, they made up for in spine-chilling content and questionable materials.
Each cover was bound in a different beast skin.
I only found out later—after stroking one absentmindedly like a stress puppy—that the covers weren't just any beasts.
They were the remains of World-Enders.
I nearly dropped Volu Two when I read the footnote.
"Wow," Heim said, chomping on a moon-glazed tart. "Authentic collector's editions. Looks like you got the deluxe series. Shiny gold letterings and all."
Deluxe. Right. Made from divine apocalypse husks. Totally collectible.
At the Ziggurat Bookstore Malls, there were only two ways to obtain knowledge: the official route or the soul-crushing one.
Option one: Loan the originals—paid in essence from the Owner's token. You got full access, for a century, which in Mythica ti was barely long enough for one godly nap cycle.
Option two: Buy the digital copies. Cheaper, sure, but the files had to be stored in a data fragnt—an ancient magical tech that couldn't be bought with Mythica Credits, Realm Currency, or your neighbor's kidney if you're broke. It could only be bought using Owner's essence.
Guess which option I could afford?
So I went with the first. Again. And now my token essence felt like it had stretch marks.
I also forked over a chunk of my token's essence for another set: books on War Beasts—divine creatures that served as living weapons during the Realm Wars. I thought they were exclusively Heaven's spawn.
Wrong.
Turns out, War Beasts weren't picky about their origins. There were Hell-born ones too—grueso, chaotic, and probably the reason the underworld needs noise regulation.
I might not have a clue from which parts the War Beasts of Eternal Palace were from.
But from what was ntioned by Naga and Fenrir, the more pieces fell into place. Clues were pointing back to the Eternal Palace—the divine prison fortress in the clouds.
If my hunch was right, that ant at least one War Beast from Heaven might be stationed there. And if I was lucky—or catastrophically unlucky—it might just be connected to the instigators of Mythica's Realm War.
And if I wanted answers from Vorta… I might have to break into the Eternal Prison myself.
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