A Zoologist’s Guide to Surviving Magical Creatures

The meeting room was spacious, the kind of place designed for serious discussions—high ceilings, polished stone walls, and a long wooden table that could probably double as a battlefield strategy board if things ever got tense.

Given my current company, that wasn't entirely out of the question.

Seated around the table were Agnos, Fenrir, Baku, Naga, Jiuge, and me. A fun little gathering of Mythica's most dangerous (and debatably sane) individuals.

And me, the glorified zoologist who somehow kept ending up in situations far beyond his pay grade.

At the center of the table sat Baku's dream orb, pulsating faintly with an eerie glow. It looked harmless—almost decorative, like something you'd put on a wizard's coffee table for aesthetic purposes. But I knew better.

This thing wasn't just a fancy light show. It was a projector for memories.

Baku finally lifted his hand, activating the orb. Immediately, a holographic projection flickered to life, casting a shifting glow across the room. The recorded fragments of my father's subconscious began to play, like an old film reel of his deepest, darkest secrets.

"So, Dream orbs can do more than just peek into nightmares," I muttered, watching as the hazy images took shape. "They can record a person's most buried memories—even the ones they don't remember themselves."

Agnos shot me a look. "Yes, Carl. That is exactly what Baku explained earlier. But thank you for your insightful talk."

I ignored him.

"The condition," Baku said smoothly, his voice calm but carrying a weight of finality, "is that the subject must be in a deep sleep. Complete unconsciousness."

Which, in my dad's case, had been forcefully arranged. Not that I felt particularly guilty about it. He had tried to kill me, after all.

"I've filtered the memories and only kept the ones relevant to Mythica's threats and Theos," Baku continued. His sharp eyes flicked to Naga.

Naga gave a small nod, his expression grim. Not just him—everyone in the room had that same stiff, serious look, like we were about to watch something we couldn't unsee.

The tension thickened, settling in my chest like a weight.

I just wanted to get this over with. To finally uncover the truth.

Whatever it was, I had a feeling it wasn't going to be good.

The first memory flickered to life.

A dimly lit chamber filled the projection, its walls lined with eerie, flickering torches. A sea of figures stood in disciplined rows, clad in deep purple robes trimmed with gold. Theos. A cult in name, but as the scene unfolded, it became clear they were something much worse.

It was a ceremony. Simple, almost unassuming—until each member was handed an object. A Soulless Orb. Their initiation.

And then came the truth.

The scene shifted, revealing a gathering of high-ranking members, seated around a long table. A projector illuminated the room, mapping out their goals, their objectives—every twisted ambition laid bare.

Then, one of the cult members spoke. A man positioned at the head of the table, exuding authority—one of their leaders.

"Our objective is to disrupt Mythica at all costs," he declared. "We act as devoted worshippers of their Unknown Gods for cover. That way, when it happens, we have a scapegoat. Let the Unknown Gods believe they've betrayed each other. Instill doubt. Fracture them from within."

My breath hitched.

What I saw made my stomach plummet.

Even Naga, usually unreadable, shifted in his seat, his jaw tight.

Agnos—who never reacted to anything—stiffened, his expression flickering between irritation and something rarer. Was that anger?

Jiuge's nine tails lashed behind her, bristling with agitation, her usual elegance replaced by a dangerous, seething fury.

Fenrir's fists clenched against the table, his knuckles white. His eyes burned with a cold, predatory light.

The whole room had tensed, like a bowstring drawn to its limit.

The scene continued.

One of the members scoffed. "Why are we even bothering with Mythica? Are we doing this for free now? Our organization pretending to be a cult is already a joke. We're terrorists, not some fanatic worshippers."

The high-ranking member—let's call him Theo No. 1—grinned. "This time, we're being paid. A big sum." He leaned forward, his voice dripping with satisfaction. "And not just that—they're willing to give us power, too."

A murmur rippled through the room.

"Who's the benefactor?" another member asked, skeptical. "Why do they want Mythica disrupted? We've never touched other realms before. Our base is in the Origin World. We only need to destabilize the Origin."

Theo No. 1's grin widened. He turned to face us.

"Suis," he said. "You have the Fragment Bearer with you, right?"

Silence.

My father.

He hesitated before answering, "Yes. He's still a child right now. The benefactor told me to raise him well first. When the time comes, we'll get further instructions."

A slow nod of approval. "Good," Theo No. 1 said. "You must treat him like your own son. That way, he'll trust you. He'll listen when we need him to."

My heart plummeted.

What?

Treat me like his own son?

Wait.

Am I… not his son?

A crushing silence filled the meeting room.

Everyone turned to look at me.

Except for Naga and Fenrir, still transfixed on the projection.

Jiuge's expression was tangled—like she was debating between offering comfort or keeping her distance. In the end, she said nothing.

Agnos, usually the first to deliver a quip, simply watched me with an unreadable look before turning back to the scene.

And me?

I—

How was I supposed to process this?

Confused? Shocked?

Neither word came close.

A sick weight twisted in my chest, pressing down like a stone.

No. That couldn't be right.

My father—no, the man I called my father—he raised me. Taught me. Yelled at me. This had to be a mistake. Some kind of sick joke.

But the weight in my gut told me otherwise.

Every memory I had, every moment I thought was real—it all felt like paper dissolving in water.

Fragile. Fake.

A life I thought was mine, now rewritten into something I couldn't recognize.

I wanted to scoff, to call it ridiculous, to laugh and shake my head. But the words wouldn't come. Because deep down, in some quiet, hidden part of me, I already knew.

And that terrified me more than anything else.