My patient reader, I imagine you are reading these lines with a certain curiosity. Perhaps you're wondering: How did a boy who lived off theft and stale bread become who I am today? And, if you already know my story, you might even think: What is this madman saying? This doesn't match what we know about him.
Don't rush, let me tell it my way. Like any good tale, this one has its twists and turns.
After that uncertain beginning in Angrim's shop, things changed. Slowly, yes, but they changed. I was no longer a sewer rat. I was a library rat, a term that, had someone called me that a few years earlier, I would have found offensive. But with time, I began to see that small shop not just as a refuge, but as an entire world.
In just over a year and a half, I had learned to read with a fluency I never would have imagined. Calculations? Easy. Addition, subtraction, even some division so as not to appear completely ignorant. And, for the first time in my life, I felt I was good at something.
Angrim, gruff and stern as he was, didn't waste compliments. But occasionally I caught him smiling when I completed a transcription without errors or when I memorized dates and names that seemed useless to me.
I reached my eighteenth year without even realizing it. There were no grand celebrations, obviously. There had never been room for festivities in my life. But that evening, Angrim offered me a glass of wine (not the best, truth be told). "Because you shouldn't die a stupid drunk," he said, raising his glass. "But that doesn't mean you can't start drinking like one."
From there on, things accelerated. After a few months, he proposed I work full-time. He paid me more, and not only that: he offered me a room above the shop.
That room, reader, was tiny. A narrow bed, a small table, and a window that let in more cold than light. But for me, it was a castle. There was no sewer stench, no rats stealing my food. It was home.
Two years flew by. My life was measured by days in the shop and nights spent reading. I devoured books on history, geography, local economics. I was interested in runes, magic, and everything mysterious in that world that had always seemed out of reach.
It was Angrim who pushed me toward magic. Or rather, he was the one who didn't stop me when I started asking questions. He wasn't the type to lavish explanations, but when he spoke, every word carried weight.
I discovered he had been a mage, a true scholar, and even a professor at the Arcanum. He didn't like talking about that period, as if it were a chapter he preferred to forget. But when I asked about runes, seals, and rituals, he became almost another person. He would explain, correct me, and sometimes ask questions to test what I had understood.
That's how, without realizing it, I became a mage. At first, I thought magic was just theory, symbols on paper and abstruse formulas. But Angrim showed me it was much more.
In less than fifteen years – and, believe me, it seems like a lot, but it passes in a flash when you're immersed in books and calculations – I became one of the most respected magic scholars in the city. Or at least, that's what they told me. I had never thought about it until the day I received an invitation to work as a researcher at the Arcanum. I, a boy who had lived off theft and lies, had been accepted among the kingdom's greatest scholars.
If it had ended here, my dear reader, I could have told you a different story. I could have written a book of essays, filled it with complex theories and diagrams, and perhaps earned some posthumous glory. But you already know that's not how things went.
Because, if you're reading this book, you probably know who I am. I'm not famous for being an illustrious researcher or a brilliant magic theorist. I'm known by much less flattering titles. And if you're looking for an answer to why, here it is: what I'm telling you never happened.
Don't misunderstand me. I would have liked it to be true. A quiet life, dedicated to books and experiments, perhaps marriage, having a cozy home above a bookshop and growing old without too many regrets. But I had no choice. Not when the alternative was death.
My disappointment, my dear reader, is that monsters don't stop for dreams. They don't care if you've discovered how runes work or if you've learned to memorize maps and formulas. And, worse still, when you discover that monsters don't just come from outside, but are rooted in your very life, you understand that all your knowledge won't save you.
So, this isn't the story of a brilliant mage or a respectable researcher. This is the story of how everything was distorted, destroyed, and rewritten. Not by me, but by what surrounded me.
But, for now, let me pick up the thread. Where were we? Ah, yes. Life seemed to go on. But when something seems too good to be true, it usually isn't.
There are no words to describe the end of a city. The books I read at the Arcanum spoke of great battles and heroic sacrifices, of impossible defenses and last bastions of hope. But what I saw that day had nothing glorious about it. There was nothing heroic, no battle worth remembering, no defense worthy of being told. It was just chaos. It was just death.
The sky split open in the afternoon, with a boom that shook the tower walls. It was a low, deep sound that seemed to come from the bowels of the earth and crash down from above at the same time. From my window, I saw the first tear in the sky. A vivid red gash that pulsed like an open wound, with blood dripping in the form of spectral light.
The city froze for an instant, suspended in that impossible moment between surprise and horror. The markets, always noisy, fell silent. The streets became motionless. Even the crows, which usually soared above the towers, dispersed in an unreal silence.
And then, as if someone had finally removed a seal, hell began.
The first creature emerged from the portal with a sharp hiss, a sound that pierced ears and brain alike. From above, I watched it plummet toward the main market, a shapeless mass of claws, fangs, and membranous wings. It hit the ground with the force of a catapult, sending splinters of stone and wood in every direction. People too close to the impact were literally torn to pieces. A woman, who seconds before had been holding her son's hand, was swept away by a wave of debris, leaving only the child screaming into nothingness.
There wasn't even time to understand what was happening. The creature rose, a tangle of limbs and spines that twisted unnaturally. Its fangs crashed into a cart, lifting it into the air like a toy before hurling it against a row of stalls.
People began to run, scream, push. But there was nowhere to go. The streets, narrow and winding, became death traps. Some tried to take refuge in houses, but doors were broken down by those desperate to enter. The crowd transformed into an uncontrolled beast, overwhelming everything in its path.
And that was just the first creature. Other monstrosities began pouring from the portal, one after another, each larger and more terrible than the last. Some flew, gliding over the towers and bringing them down as if they were made of paper. Others dragged themselves on legs or claws, tearing through walls and demolishing buildings with every step.
From my position, I saw one of the Arcanum towers take a direct hit from an enormous mass of flesh and spines. It collapsed with a deafening noise, stone blocks raining down on the roofs below. The students and mages trying to escape the tower were crushed before they could even understand what was happening.
Some tried to fight. I saw them form a line, shields raised, spears ready, as one of the larger creatures advanced.
It was as tall as a tower, with a serpentine body that seemed made of stone and molten metal. Each step made the ground tremble, and the guards tried to hold their position, even when fear was evident in their eyes.
The creature launched itself at them, and the first impact destroyed half the line. Shields bent like dry leaves, spears shattered, and men flew in every direction. The others tried to react, but swords bounced off the creature's skin without leaving a scratch. A tail swipe swept away the rest of the formation.
I don't remember exactly when I realized I wouldn't survive. Perhaps it was when I saw the last Arcanum tower collapse under the creatures' assault. Perhaps it was when the portal in the sky widened even more, revealing a mass of darkness that seemed to swallow everything it encountered.
My own tower began to shake. One of the creatures, a winged monster with a body segmented like a giant insect, crashed into the outer wall, causing half the room I was in to collapse. I lost my balance and fell to the ground, surrounded by dust and debris.
I dragged myself to the window, watching the city burn. Flames rose from every corner, and black smoke mixed with the portal's red, creating a sky that looked like an infernal painting.
There was nothing to be done. No one to save.
The tower collapsed shortly after, and I with it. It wasn't quick. I felt the floor beneath me give way, one block at a time, and my body was dragged down along with the stones and rubble. I didn't scream. There was no reason to anymore.
My death wasn't heroic. There were no final words, no noble gesture. Just the silence that followed my last breath, suffocated by dust and the weight of destruction above me.
My dear reader, now you know. You know how I died, you know what I saw, and you know that, as bad as the world had been in life, death granted me no relief.
Dying wasn't quick, nor heroic. I didn't even have the luxury of a farewell glance, a comforting thought, or a prayer. I died buried under the rubble of a tower, surrounded by the destruction of a city that couldn't be saved. And for a moment, a brief and mocking moment, I believed it was truly over.
And, you know something? It would have been better that way.
Don't misunderstand me. I'm not a coward. I lived in the slums, survived the alleys, the sewers, hunger, and contempt. I was used to fighting. But what came after, what I saw, what I learned... well, that would have broken anyone.
Death should have been a closed door, and instead it was an open window.
When my body gave way under the tower's weight, I felt everything vanish: the pain, the fear, even the deafening noise of the collapse. There was no light, no darkness. Just emptiness.
But then something grabbed me. I can't explain to you how or what it was. They weren't hands, nor a voice. It was a force that pulled me out of that nothingness.
And here I am, telling you this story.