A Zoologist’s Guide to Surviving Magical Creatures

The air in the Trolls' Ancient Burial Grounds a.k.a. the Forbidden Dungeon, was thick with a sense of foreboding, the kind that made you feel like you were being watched by a thousand unseen eyes.

Dim torches lined the craggy walls of the dungeon, their flickering flames casting eerie shadows that danced like restless spirits.

I clutched my trusty candlestick—yes, a candlestick, because why would I have an actual weapon?—and stayed close to Agnos and Landvættir, who were the real heavy-hitters in our little band of misfits.

Landvættir, the towering guardian of this forsaken place, looked oddly calm, even as he wielded a massive stone hammer that could probably pulverize a house.

Agnos, on the other hand, had his godly aura dialed up to eleven, his golden eyes glowing with enough intensity to make me feel like a lesser being—which, let's be honest, I was.

"Stay close, Carl," Agnos said, his voice a mix of authority and mild exasperation. "These Defilers are relentless. They'll target the weakest link."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," I muttered, tightening my grip on the candlestick. "And here I thought I was an indispensable part of this team."

Landvættir gave me a sidelong glance, his massive frame moving like a shadowy mountain through the burial grounds. "Indispensable for comic relief, perhaps," he rumbled.

Before I could retort, a guttural growl echoed through the chamber, followed by the unmistakable sound of claws scraping against stone.

The Defilers emerged from the shadows, their grotesque forms illuminated by the torchlight. These creatures were a nightmare given flesh: skeletal frames draped in sinewy muscle, glowing red eyes, and jagged teeth that dripped with venom.

"Remember," I hissed to my companions, "no destroying burial grounds property. I made a promise to the Troll Chief."

Agnos and Landvættir paused mid-attack to glare at me, as if to say, Are you serious right now?

Agnos screamed, "Are you serious?" while Landvættir grunted something that might've been a laugh.

"Yes, I'm serious!" I snapped, swinging my candlestick at a defiler's knee. Surprisingly, it worked; the creature stumbled, and I followed up with a well-placed kick.

Agnos sighed, his light beams redirecting to incinerate a defiler that had been lunging at me. "Carl," Agnos said slowly, "if it's a choice between property damage and being eaten alive, I'm choosing the former."

"Priorities, man," I said, dodging a swipe from one of the Defilers. "We're guests here!"

The battle erupted into chaos. Agnos unleashed a wave of golden energy, sending a cluster of Defilers flying into the walls—though, to his credit, he avoided smashing any ancient relics.

Landvættir swung his hammer with precision, each strike resonating like a thunderclap.

Meanwhile, I found myself playing a deadly game of keep-away, using the candlestick to whack any Defiler that got too close.

"This is absurd!" I shouted, narrowly avoiding a snapping maw. "Why am I the only one trying to uphold our promise?"

"Because you're the only one foolish enough to make it!" Agnos shot back, blasting another Defiler.

Things went from bad to worse when a particularly large Defiler—clearly the brains of the operation—started barking orders to its comrades.

The creatures began to move with unsettling coordination, flanking us and driving us toward a corner. It didn't take a genius to see their strategy: isolate the weakest member.

Spoiler alert: that was me.

It noticed my relative uselessness in combat and began barking orders. "Target the human!"

"Oh, come on!" I groaned as the smaller defilers swarmed me.

I swung the candlestick wildly, but it was like trying to hold back a tidal wave with a spatula. They closed in, their grotesque faces leering, claws reaching. My heart pounded as I realized I had no way out.

"This is it," I thought. "I'm going to die holding a candlestick in a troll burial ground. Uh, guys?" I said, backing up as the Defilers surrounded me. "A little help here?"

Agnos and Landvættir were too busy holding off the horde to intervene. I'd like to say I stood my ground like a hero, but the truth is, I panicked.

My life flashed before my eyes—a montage of awkward moments and bad decisions. Just as the lead Defiler lunged at me, an absurd idea struck me like lightning.

In a panic, I yanked out my Predator-Level Security badge and held it up like a talisman.

"Stay back! I'm authorized!" I shouted, though I wasn't sure what I was authorized for. "Back off, you ugly creeps!" I shouted, waving it in the air.

To my utter disbelief, the Defilers froze mid-attack, their glowing red eyes fixating on the badge. A hush fell over the chamber, broken only by the distant crackle of torches.

"What the…?" I began, but then my phone buzzed in my pocket. In the middle of a dungeon fight. Because of course it did.

I fished it out with trembling hands, opening a message from Fenrir.

"Forgot to mention: you can merge the Predator-Level Security badge with the Conflict Mediator badge to create the Gleipnir badge. It's super rare. Only 0.029% of Mythica has one. Good luck!"

"You've got to be kidding me," I muttered, glancing between the badges and the frozen Defilers.

Desperation made me bold. I shoved my phone back into my pocket and pulled out the other badge—the Conflict Mediator badge. Pressing the two badges together, a blinding light erupted, flooding the entire chamber with brilliance.

The Defilers recoiled, some of them incinerating on the spot. When the light faded, I was holding a single badge—the Gleipnir Badge—and it was glowing like a miniature sun.

The lead Defiler took one look at it and let out a shriek. "Retreat!" it howled, scrambling backward. "We can't face the Gleipnir!"

The remaining Defilers fled, vanishing into the shadows like the cowards they were. I stood there, shell-shocked, staring at the badge in my hand.

"Well, that happened," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

Agnos and Landvættir approached, both of them looking uncharacteristically impressed.

"You," Agnos said, pointing at me, "are a son of luck."

"Luck?" I echoed. "I almost died!"

"And yet you didn't," Landvættir said with a grin. "That badge is no ordinary artifact. It's a symbol of immense authority in Mythica."