Azmoz sat on the edge of his sagging mattress, his eyes fixed on the spot where the purple book had just vanished into his skin. The silence of the apartment felt heavier now, as if the air itself had been thickened by the presence of the ancient artifact. He could still feel the faint, rhythmic pulsing in his right forearm, a constant reminder that he wasn't alone in his own body anymore. He reached up and pushed his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose, the tape on the side scratching against his temple. He really did need a new pair, but that seemed like a problem for a different version of himself—a version that wasn't currently bonded to a sentient, insect-themed book.
He leaned back against the cold, damp wall of his bedroom, staring up at the ceiling where a small water stain was slowly expanding like a creeping fungus. His mind was racing, trying to process the sheer impossibility of what had just happened. A level-up system. Skills. Insect bonding. It felt like something out of a dream, or one of those forbidden history books he spent his nights dusting. As he sat there, a memory began to surface from the murky depths of his childhood, a voice he hadn't thought about in years.
"So it must be true," Azmoz whispered to the empty room, his voice cracking slightly. "It must be true what the senior sister at the orphanage used to say about our world."
He closed his eyes, and for a moment, he wasn't in a cramped apartment in Kalan. He was back in the drafty communal hall of the orphanage, huddling near a heat vent with a group of other wide-eyed children. Sister Martha had been the only one who ever told them the truth—or at least, the version of the truth that the government didn't put in the school textbooks. She used to lean in close, her eyes reflecting the dim orange glow of the heater, and tell them about the Great Descent.
According to her, long ago, the sky hadn't been this perpetual shade of bruised grey. It had been clear, until the day the fire fell. Meteors had plummeted from the heavens, striking many corners of their world with the force of a thousand bombs. But these weren't just rocks from space. Tucked inside the smoking craters, nestled within the charred earth, were strange monoliths. They were tall, obsidian-like structures etched with glowing runes that hummed with a frequency that made the very bones of the earth ache.
Azmoz remembered how Martha's voice would drop to a low, terrifying hiss when she described what happened next. The vegetation and life around the areas where the meteors fell started to change. It wasn't a slow process; it was a violent, rapid mutation. Trees grew twisted and black, their leaves turning into razor-sharp glass. Some species of animals underwent strange, ghoulish evolutions, growing extra limbs, chitinous armor, and predatory instincts that defied nature. Even weak-minded humans were not immune to these changes. People living near the crash sites began to warp, their bodies twisting into monstrous forms as the energy from the monoliths seeped into their blood.
The human army had tried to fight them, of course. They had sent in tanks, aircraft, and thousands of soldiers, but they were not equipped to fight something that evolved faster than they could reload their weapons. The mutated creatures, whom the survivors began to call "Evolvers," possessed logic-defining powers. They could move faster than the eye could see, heal from wounds that should have been fatal, and command the very elements of the blighted lands they inhabited. It had been a slaughter. Humanity was on the brink of being erased from the face of Xylos.
Azmoz shifted on his bed, the memory of the story making his skin crawl. He remembered the turning point in Martha's tale. It stayed with him because it was the only part that offered a shred of hope. She told them about the first brave soul—a scout whose name had been lost to time—who managed to bypass the horrors guarding a monolith. Instead of being consumed by the energy, he reached out and touched the obsidian surface. He didn't die. He came back changed, but not like the monsters. He returned with powers of his own—powers that could rival the Evolvers.
One after another, more desperate people tried to reach the monoliths in search of these great rewards. Those who succeeded and returned to protect the remnants of civilization were hailed as heroes. People started calling them "Defenders." With the help of these Defenders, the human race finally started winning. They pushed back the tide of the mutated swarms and reclaimed the cities, eventually driving the monsters into the wastes and the dark corners of the world.
To this day, the government kept it a closely guarded secret what actually happened at the monoliths. No one knew what trials were faced or what price was paid to be granted such rewards. The history books just called it the "Era of Restoration," skipping over the gore and the terror of the mutations. But Azmoz knew better now. He looked down at the purple tattoo on his arm, the ink shimmering faintly under the dim light of his single bulb.
"What would I be called?" he wondered, his heart thudding against his ribs. "A Defender... or an Evolver?"
It felt like a heavy, dangerous word. Defenders were the heroes on the posters, the ones with clean capes and government backing. Evolvers were the monsters from the stories, the things that changed into something no longer human. As he thought about the dark, insectile energy humming in his veins, he realized he felt a lot more like the latter. He felt like something that was meant to be hunted, not cheered.
He stood up and walked over to the small, grimy window of his apartment. Outside, the city of Kalan stretched out in a maze of rusted metal and flickering neon. Kalan was a small, miserable industrial town, a mere speck on the map of the continent. It was one of the three major continents on the planet Xylos, a world that was still recovering from the scars of the Great Descent centuries later. Down in the streets, he could see the shapes of people moving through the smog—workers, beggars, and the occasional group of students who thought they owned the world just because they had a few credits in their pockets.
His eyes drifted to the small, digital clock sitting on his desk. The red numbers flickered, showing the time. His heart skipped a beat. "No... no, no, no!"
He was shocked to see that only half an hour remained until his shift at the library started. He had been so lost in the book and the memories of the orphanage that the time had simply vanished. If he was late again, the head librarian would have his head, and he couldn't afford to lose the meager pay he got for the night shift. He needed that money for rent, for bread, and for the occasional roll of tape to keep his glasses together.
Azmoz scrambled around the room, grabbing his worn-out hoodie and shoving his feet into his scuffed boots. He didn't even have time to wash the sweat from his face. He felt a sudden surge of anxiety, a cold knot tightening in his stomach. The transition from the world of ancient monoliths and cosmic power back to the reality of a dead-end job was jarring. It was a reminder that despite the book, he was still a nineteen-year-old nobody in a decaying house on the outskirts of Kalan.
He paused at the door, his hand on the knob. He looked back at the room—the single bed, the tiny desk, the flickering TV built into the wall. It felt smaller than it had an hour ago. He reached out with his mind, just for a second, feeling for the connection to the book. It was there, resting beneath his skin, waiting. He didn't feel like the victim he had been this morning. He felt like a secret. He felt like a ticking bomb.
He threw open the door and stepped out into the hallway. The air was thick with the smell of grease and old wood, but he barely noticed. He started down the stairs, moving with a quick, light step that he hadn't possessed before. Every movement felt more deliberate, more efficient. His senses seemed sharper; he could hear the skittering of cockroaches behind the baseboards and the distant hum of the city's power grid. It was as if the "Insect Bond" skill was already beginning to influence his perception, even without a bonded creature.
He burst out of the apartment building and onto the street, the cool night air hitting him like a physical blow. The streetlights were dim, casting long, distorted shadows across the cracked pavement. He began to run, his boots thudding rhythmically against the ground. He had a long walk to the library, and the bus wouldn't be coming for another twenty minutes. He couldn't wait.
As he ran, his mind went back to the monoliths. He wondered if there were still monoliths out there, hidden in the wastes or buried deep under the cities. Was the library built on top of one? Was that why the floor had collapsed? The thought sent a thrill of fear through him. If the government knew what was under that library, they would seal the place in a heartbeat, and he would be lucky if they just threw him in a cage. He had to be careful. He had to be smart.
He ducked into an alleyway, taking a shortcut through the industrial district. The smell of ozone and burnt chemicals was overpowering here, but it was faster. He leaped over a pile of discarded shipping crates, marveling at how light his body felt. Usually, a sprint like this would have him gasping for air within minutes, but his lungs felt clear, his muscles energized. Was this the base 10 stats the book had shown him? Was a normal human's strength lower than 10?
He didn't have the answers yet, but he knew where to find them. The library was full of books on biology, history, and the Great Descent. Now that he knew what to look for, he could spend his shift doing more than just dusting. He could research. He could learn about the monsters he was apparently destined to command.
He emerged from the alleyway and saw the silhouette of the government library in the distance. It was a massive, crumbling stone structure that looked more like a tomb than a place of learning. The flickering fluorescent lights in the upper windows made it look like a dying beast. Azmoz slowed his pace as he approached the main entrance, trying to catch his breath so he wouldn't look suspicious when he clocked in.
He checked the time on his cracked watch. Ten minutes to spare. He had made it. He leaned against the stone pillar of the entrance, his chest heaving slightly. He looked down at his arm, the purple mark hidden safely beneath the sleeve of his hoodie.
Azmoz punched his card into the machine with a satisfying clack. He turned and looked toward the basement door, the one that led down to the collapsed floor and the secrets hidden in the dark. A thin, predatory smile touched his lips. The night shift had officially begun.