A Zoologist’s Guide to Surviving Magical Creatures

One thing I always did back in my college days, especially during the finals grind, was cram like my life depended on it. Reviewing lectures, textbooks, obscure footnotes, even that one diagram nobody understood.

Most of my classmates did the same—clutching energy drinks in one hand and coffee in the other, pulling sleepless nights in a noble, caffeine-fueled panic.

I never thought I'd be reliving that phase after getting a job.

Yet here I am—buried under books, sprawled on my apartment sofa, cramming like I have an exam on ancient monster lore tomorrow.

I sighed, flipping through the mountain of research I'd loaned from the Ziggurat archives.

One book stood out.

The War Beasts of Heavens and Hells.

The title alone sounded like it belonged in an epic fantasy saga narrated by an old wizard with glowing eyes. What surprised me was that, out of the entire War Beast series, this one was the thinnest. Suspiciously thin.

I cracked it open—only to find a picture book.

Like, actual full-color illustrations, oversized fonts, and diagrams that looked like they were drawn for kindergartners. Either the archivist had messed with me, or Mythica's authors had strange ideas about war documentation.

Still, the contents were compelling in a weirdly simplified way.

Apparently, War Beasts are ancient magical creatures—older than dinosaurs, even.

According to the book, they were the apex predators before the concept of an apex existed. Prehistoric beings of devastating power, split into two lineages: the Divine War Beasts of the Heavens and the Abyssal War Beasts of the Hells.

Each group had seven regions—distinct domains where they thrived.

The names of these habitat regions sound like ancient spells or randomized Wi-Fi passwords—so archaic and mythical that even zoology grads struggle to pronounce them, let alone spell them right on the first try.

The more I turned the pages, the more the air shifted—charged, humming like a storm waiting to break. The War Beasts weren't just myth.

They were real. Ancient. Wild.

Dangerous in ways no zoology course ever dared to prepare me for.

They were divided by realms—seven divine, seven damned.

******Divine War Beasts – Habitat Realms of the Seven Heavens******

The illustrations practically glowed on the page—like someone had dipped mythology in watercolor and handed it to a child with divine crayons.

Each realm had its own vibe, each creature its own cosmic personality. I wasn't just reading this—I was seeing it unfold like a slow-burn documentary narrated by an overly dramatic storyteller.

Aetherra—The Skyland of Thunder. Islands floating mid-sky, wrapped in clouds that slink like foggy cats. The trees? Not trees—more like mist sculptures rooted in stormlight. Lightning didn't just strike here. It breathed.

And then came the War Beast.

Volcryns—sky raptors stitched from thunder and the ghosts of cloudstorms.

One image showed them perched in silence, talons curled like judgment. The caption claimed they didn't make a sound until the moment they struck. The page didn't have audio, but I heard the heavens roar anyway.

Solvarien—The Sunlit Dominion. Golden glades. Fields of sunlight so dense they looked like fabric. Everything shimmered like someone turned the saturation way up. Even the shadows seemed to be on holiday.

Lumelions prowled these lands—radiant lions with manes that exploded like mini supernovas and wings that stretched the skies. One sketch caught one mid-roar and mid-flight, light spilling off its mouth like it was chewing on dawn.

They looked majestic. Also, extremely flammable when their powers are activated. I was this close to writing "do not pet" in the margin.

Nytherion—The Star-Mirror Waters. Imagine a lake suspended in space, reflecting galaxies instead of trees. That's Nytherion. The stars didn't just twinkle—they watched.

Astravyns—serpents of starlight, curled like musical notes. The book claimed they whispered constellations into existence. One had coiled itself around a moon like it was singing it to sleep. I blinked and swear the stars on the page had shifted.

Zephalyra—The Harmonic Forest of Winds. Here, even the leaves harmonized. The sketch had musical notes etched into bark, like trees were composing their own wind symphonies.

Chirosyls—antlered, elegant flyers mid-glide through currents of sound. Their wings weren't even wings, more like lyrical gestures sculpted from wind.

There was one close-up drawing—half poetry, half predator. Gave me chills and made me want to learn the flute.

Ignisaré—The Sea of Sacred Flame. Now this page made me lean back. It radiated. A sea of fire that danced instead of burned. The waves flickered in slow motion, singing in languages that probably hadn't been spoken since fire was invented.

Pyraphins. Flame-stalkers with dancer limbs and eyes like embers mid-waltz. The illustration caught one mid-leap across a molten wave, looking terrifying and graceful.

I swear I felt my cheeks warm just looking at it. Either that or the book was enchanted. Not ruling it out.

Lumowen—The Mistlit Healing Marsh. Soft lights glowed beneath willowy silhouettes. The waters mirrored the sky and smelled like petrichor and bedtime. The caption mentioned the roots could dream.

Serelvans walked here—gentle, stag-shaped beings outlined in glowing green. One picture had vines blooming in its wake. Another had it bowing, the marsh around it glowing like a heartbeat.

My chest actually relaxed. I forgot books could do that.

Cyralune—The Citadel of Eternal Light. Floating fortress. Spirals of glass and stardust. Time didn't walk here—it pirouetted. Gravity didn't argue. The stars weren't born—they remembered being born.

Chronavores—creatures of impossible timelines. One sketch was unsettling: a beast with eyes shaped like hourglasses and a grin made of broken constellations. It looked like it knew things you forgot to be afraid of.

I had to close the page. Just for a second. Catch my breath. Recenter my timeline.

Then I flipped the page—and everything got darker. Heavier. The light dimmed a little in the room (or maybe in my soul), as I stared at the territories marked as Abyssal Domains—Habitat Realms of the Hells War Beasts.

The Abyssal ones? Nightmares you don't wake up from.

If the divine realms were symphonies, these were the bass drop that rattled your bones and whispered, you are small.

Draemorith—The Dreaming Necropolis. It looked like a city carved out of fossilized memory. Structures twisted upward like skeletal fingers reaching for a forgotten moon. Fog coiled through broken archways, and the ground shimmered with nightmares halfway-remembered.

War Beast: Mournguards. Towering hound-like sentinels built from obsidian and what looked like old regrets. Their eyes were drawn as if they could stare straight off the page and into your worst memory.

One illustration had it curled protectively around a sarcophagus carved with runes that bled.

I'm not sure if I blinked or blacked out for a second.

Veltherak—The Hungering Fathoms. A realm beneath oceans that don't exist on any map. Nothing floated. Everything sank. The water here wasn't blue—it was thought. Thick and pressing.

War Beast: Leviacrins. Gigantic, coiling beasts with jaws that could swallow ships and egos whole. But it wasn't the size that got me—it was the way they smiled. Like they knew how everything ends.

One drawing showed a Leviacrin wrapped around a sunken palace, cradling it like a trophy or a broken toy.

I held the page at arm's length. Just in case.

Nocthrax—The Blight Hollow. Imagine a forest that's been poisoned by its own memories. Trees drooped like they were ashamed of themselves. The roots writhed, and the sky above looked like bruised parchment.

War Beast: Viregulks. Grotesque, hunched things that were equal parts fungus and fang. Covered in spores, eyes blinking from all the wrong places.

The sketch showed one vomiting a cloud of rot while vines curled away in fear. The caption called them decay incarnate.

I gagged. Involuntarily. Then apologized to the book.

Oblivaryn—The Silent Ashlands. Endless gray dunes. The bones of mountains. The kind of silence that wraps around you like a shroud and waits.

War Beast: Cinerhowls. Wolf-like shadows with ash trailing from their pelts. Their mouths opened too wide, too wrong. One drawing captured a pack mid-howl—except there were no mouths. Just a hole in the sky above them where the sound should be.

I couldn't tell if the page was cold, or my hands were shaking.

Maltheris—The Shattered Crown. A broken kingdom caught in an eternal eclipse. Castles half-sunk into earth. The crown of a fallen ruler split into pieces across a bleeding battlefield.

War Beast: Dreadthorns. Knight-beasts with thorns for armor and swords fused into their limbs. They bled ink. They bled silence.

The art showed one kneeling before a dead monarch's throne, wings pierced with spears, still guarding. Still obeying.