A Zoologist’s Guide to Surviving Magical Creatures

The moment I stepped through, the world around me shifted into something utterly surreal.

Gone was the earthy, primal atmosphere of the Troll City, replaced instead by a stunning blend of sleek modernity and Norse mythology on steroids.

I found myself standing in a massive, gleaming lobby that seemed to hover between realms. The air smelled faintly of ozone and… was that mead?

The place was alive with activity—beings in radiant armor darted past, their movements so fluid and purposeful they might as well have been choreographed. Floating desks orbited like small satellites, each one inscribed with glowing runes.

A massive stained-glass window took up an entire wall, depicting the realms in vibrant, shifting colors.

It wasn't just decorative; the window doubled as a holographic map, with glowing lights marking key locations.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I registered that this was no ordinary place.

I was at The Winged Hall, the headquarters of the Valkyries.

Still dazed, I stumbled forward until I reached a marble reception desk manned—or rather, Valkyrie-d—by a statuesque woman in shimmering armor. She glanced up from her tablet, her piercing blue eyes narrowing slightly as she took me in.

"Welcome to The Winged Hall," she said crisply, her voice the perfect balance of warmth and efficiency. "How may I assist you?"

I blinked at her, then at the soaring atrium around us. "Uh… where exactly am I?"

Her eyebrows arched slightly. "The Winged Hall. Valkyrie HQ. You appear lost."

"Lost? That's an understatement." I rubbed the back of my neck, still trying to process how I'd gone from troll territory to what looked like an executive suite for gods. "Look, I was sent to complete the Troll's rite of passage, and… I think something went very wrong."

The Valkyrie tilted her head, studying me as if trying to determine whether I was joking or just plain clueless.

Finally, she nodded. "The Troll's rite of passage? You don't exactly look like a troll."

"No kidding," I muttered.

I dug into my pocket and pulled out the token the Troll Chief had shoved at me earlier. It gleamed faintly in the ethereal light. The Valkyrie's eyes widened slightly when she saw it.

"Interesting," she murmured, before standing abruptly. "Follow me."

Before I could protest, she turned on her heel and strode toward a glowing platform set into the floor, her steps brisk and purposeful. I jogged to keep up, feeling thoroughly out of my depth.

We stopped in front of the platform, which looked like something out of a sci-fi movie—a circular dais inscribed with runes that pulsed softly with a golden light.

"Step onto the portal," she instructed, tapping something on her tablet.

"Wait, hold on—where is this going to take me?" I asked, hesitation creeping into my voice.

"To your next destination," she replied simply, as though that explained everything.

Great. I didn't exactly have much of a choice, though.

With a resigned sigh, I stepped onto the platform.

The Valkyrie activated the token in my hand, and before I could blink, the world around me dissolved into a kaleidoscope of light and motion.

When the swirling light subsided, I found myself standing in front of an ornate door so massive it made the gates of Troll City look modest by comparison.

Above it, carved in bold, glowing letters, were the words: Rite of Passage Department.

I stared at it, my mind caught between disbelief and exhaustion.

This had to be a joke, right?

Before I could fully process the absurdity, the door creaked open, and the Valkyrie gestured for me to follow. We stepped into a minimalist office space dominated by a massive desk. Behind it sat an imposing figure whose aura screamed "don't mess with me."

The nameplate says 'Freya. The Manager'.

Her platinum blonde hair was tied back in a sleek ponytail, and her armor gleamed as if it had just been polished.

Behind her, a motivational poster adorned the otherwise spartan wall: "Valhalla runs on efficiency, not chaos."

Freya glanced up from her paperwork, her icy blue eyes locking onto mine. "So, you're the one attempting the Troll's rite of passage involving Fenrir?"

I gulped. "Yes?"

Her lips twitched, somewhere between a smirk and genuine amusement. "Interesting."

She slid a booklet across the desk toward me. I stared at it like it was a snake about to bite me.

"A booklet?" I asked, incredulous. "What am I supposed to do with this?"

"Read it," she said, leaning back in her chair. "It contains all the details about the test. I assume the Troll Chief didn't bother explaining anything?"

I shook my head, picking up the booklet with trembling hands. As I flipped through the pages, my confusion quickly turned to outright disbelief.

The Troll's rite of passage, it turned out, wasn't some traditional test of strength or endurance. No, it was conflict mediation.

Specifically, I was supposed to mediate a dispute involving Fenrir, the CEO of Wolfworks Solutions.

Yes, that Fenrir—the giant wolf of Norse legend, who had apparently traded his chains for a tailored business suit and a thriving career in corporate problem-solving.

"Let me get this straight," I said, my voice tinged with hysteria. "Fenrir… the Fenrir… runs a conflict mediation company now?"

Freya nodded, her expression perfectly calm.

"Among other things. His services are highly sought after for resolving disputes between territorial dragons, merfolk factions, and other magical entities. But the Trolls, unfortunately, have yet to pass his test, which is required for them to establish their own mediation unit."

"And I'm the one who's supposed to fix that?"

"Yes. You're the first non-Troll representative they've ever sent."

I sank into the nearest chair, booklet still clutched in my hands. "Why do I feel like I'm about to sit for the mythical equivalent of a certification exam?"

Freya's smirk returned, sharper this time. "Because you are."

The booklet outlined everything I needed to know—except how to actually survive. Fenrir's test involved mediating a simulated conflict between two mythical factions.

The catch? The simulation wasn't just virtual. It took place in a pocket dimension where the stakes were all too real.

I glanced up at Freya. "This has a zero percent success rate with the Trolls?"

"Correct."

"And the test involves dealing with Fenrir himself?"

"Also correct."

I exhaled slowly, trying to suppress the rising tide of panic. "Anything else I should know?"

Freya tapped her pen thoughtfully against her desk. "Yes. Fenrir values creativity, diplomacy, and quick thinking. If you can't keep up with him, he'll eat you alive. Figuratively, of course."

"Of course," I muttered.

As I stood to leave, Freya gave me a final, almost encouraging smile. "Good luck. You'll need it."

I didn't know whether to laugh, cry, or simply accept my fate. All I knew was that I was about to face the test of a lifetime—one that would determine not just my survival, but whether or not the Trolls could finally hire a conflict mediator.

And as the portal to Trial Center activated, one thought consumed my mind: What on earth have I gotten myself into?