A Zoologist’s Guide to Surviving Magical Creatures

I sucked in a sharp breath, suddenly aware of how fast my heart was beating. My fingers traced the edge of the image like I was afraid I'd get burned through the page.

"Holy crap…" I whispered. "It's beautiful. And horrifying."

A part of me—clearly the brain cell that had no regard for self-preservation—thought, I wonder what riding it would feel like? Cue a brief mental image of me, smug-faced, mounted on Indrik's back, taking a selfie mid-flight as aurora-lights trailed behind us.

Epic. Selca-worthy.

Probably would get me verified on Mythigram.

But then I remembered.

I have Kaleon's essence in me. Divine scent, forbidden aura, cosmic red flag. Indrik would sniff me once and probably impale me before I could say cheese. The mental image shifted—me being launched into space by a crystal horn, limbs flailing like a ragdoll in zero gravity.

My smile wilted.

"Nope. Bad idea. Suicidal idea."

I shook the fantasy from my head and dove back into the text.

There had to be a weakness. Every apex predator had one. Right?

I flipped through paragraphs, notes scribbled in archaic script and footnotes that made me feel like I'd dropped into a theology class taught by a fever dream.

No weakness...yet.

Just… more myth.

Indrik, it said, was once the sacred guardian of a realm called Slavinia—a world that breathed in harmony and sang in green.

Of course, Slavinia was destroyed. Not by war. Not by time. But by a corruption that ate from the inside out. Indrik should've died with it… but it didn't.

It mutated.

Its healing nature didn't fade. It fractured—shattered and reforged into something stronger, sharper. Survival wrapped in sanctity and wrath. That's how it became an Emperor War Beast. One of the first. One of the few.

Not just a beast of war.

A memorial on four legs.

Its horn now carries dual essence.

Heal or destroy. Light or void.

A heartbeat out of balance and it could unleash a beam that doesn't just burn bodies—it erases souls. The terrain around it either blooms in rebirth or decays into ash, depending on its intent. And it has a move called the Gravity Stomp—which, yeah, sounds like a dance move until you realize it bends physics.

Like, folds-reality-and-breaks-time kind of bending.

I slumped back into the couch, spine aching, brain fried.

"Indrik was the first Emperor War Beast that survived a ruined world…" I murmured.

I could feel the awe. The fear. The grief. It was strong, yeah—but it was willpower that kept it alive. Will to endure what it couldn't save. Will to carry a world's death on its back and still walk forward.

Suddenly, I wasn't just reading about a mythical beast.

I was staring into a mirror of survival.

"Great. Just great." I slapped the page like it had personally insulted me. "How am I supposed to find its weakness when all this book does is scream 'You're doomed!' in increasingly poetic language?"

Every paragraph I read about Indrik felt like another nail in the coffin. Power this, annihilation that. Not a single mention of a chink in the armor, not even a metaphorical stubbed toe.

"Is Viracocha right?" I muttered, running a hand through my hair. "Do all Emperor War Beasts really become invincible after surviving a world-ending apocalypse?"

The silence that followed wasn't helpful. Just the slow tick of a clock reminding me time was not my friend.

I slumped forward, elbows on the coffee table, forehead nearly touching the beast-skin parchment. The weight pressing down on me wasn't just exhaustion—it was dread. Problems were stacking, one after another, and here I was still sifting through books like a desperate grad student on deadline.

Am I really going to die in this world?

Is Mythica next? Will it become another Ruined World—silent, scorched, and remembered only through monsters like Indrik?

I squeezed my eyes shut.

No.

I couldn't afford that kind of thinking. Not now.

I've come too far to give up here. I'd survived being petrified by a basilisk—twice if you count the tail incident. I'd endured three weeks of unicorns stealing my lunch with zero remorse and way too much sparkle.

I survived the Underworld's trials, Fenrir's bite-sized rite of passage exam, and let's not forget barely escaping the Zilant—a hybrid chicken-dragon who had no business breathing fire or clucking.

I may not have divine powers or a celestial bloodline, but I've got one thing the others don't—my brain. And it's gotten me out of worse.

"There has to be a way," I whispered to the book, as if it could hear me and pity me. "Maybe the answer isn't in what these Emperor War Beasts are… but in what they used to be."

I flipped to the next section with renewed determination. My fingers hesitated over the name.

Nian.

This one was different. Another Divine Emperor War Beast, supposedly. I started reading.

It was the kind of story told in nervous whispers at bedtime. A monstrous creature said to appear on the last day of the lunar year, devouring livestock… and people.

The illustration showed a hulking beast with the body of something feline, but no cat ever looked this bloodthirsty. Its head resembled a lion crossed with nightmare fuel—jagged fangs, glowing eyes, and a single, jagged horn jutting from its forehead like a weapon designed by anger itself.

I paused.

"No way," I said, my voice flat. "That's not right."

I reread the heading just to be sure. Divine. Not Abyssal.

My instincts buzzed, an itch at the base of my neck. Something about this felt wrong. If this thing terrorized villages, ate people, and basically played tag with death every New Year's Eve, then how the heck was it on the divine list?

"This Nian... It shouldn't belong here," I whispered.

The longer I stared at its snarling face, the more unease settled in my chest.

Something wasn't adding up.

Either the classification system in this book was flawed… or someone—maybe something—wanted it listed among the Divine. But why?

I frowned, the pieces in my head shifting.

"Is there something amiss? I need to dig deeper."

And suddenly, I wasn't just reading anymore.

I was investigating.