The impossible structure that housed the collected blasphemies of the cosmos was carved entirely from a dense, black stone, not unlike obsidian but lacking its brittle fragility. It felt heavy, ancient, and radiated a pervasive, chilling stillness. This material, as Tierra learned from Merlin's meticulous, frantic notes, was the key to her survival.
The stone itself was not inherently dense or even particularly difficult to quarry, yet it possessed the miraculous ability to block the psychic intrusion of almost all Outer Beings, with the singular, terrifying exception of the true Outer Gods themselves. Only through direct, conscious ritual or exposure could those ultimate entities affect any living creature shielded within its walls.
This was why the Great Race of Yith, the time-traveling, cone-shaped intellects who had built this archive, had chosen this specific material. It was the only defense against the inevitable consequences of housing the universe's most lethal, sanity-shattering knowledge.
The stone had been sourced from another intelligent, indigenous race on primal Earth—a sentient, upright, crab-like lifeform with complex, chitinous shells. After discovering its peculiar psychic shielding properties, the two races had formed a brief, pragmatic alliance to establish the library.
Together, they blessed the United Archive with three immense, unfathomable layers of primordial magic. These blessings, woven into the fabric of the library itself, were why the structure had endured across untold millennia and shifting timelines, and why Tierra had survived her fatal encounter with the Xuanjun Seven Chapter Secret Scripture.
The first blessing was Knowledge. It ensured that any intelligent visitor would encounter and comprehend the complex, alien ideas contained within the library not through tedious study, but through direct, instantaneous psychic contact with the words.
It was the gift of pure intellect, allowing a being to process a vast scroll of forbidden lore in a single, terrifying flash. The purpose was academic efficiency, but the side effect—as Tierra had experienced—was the risk of overwhelming, fatal mental shock.
The second blessing was Time. This was the most precious and deadly. It granted every intelligent being who entered the library a minuscule, finite number of "resets"—a chance to instantaneously reverse localized reality and avoid the lethal consequences of a mistake. Merlin's scrolls revealed this number was usually countable on the fingers of a hand.
Tierra, due to her close call, had just expended one. The cost of that reality-snap had been exacted not from the stone, but from her own flesh: the chalk-white, dead bone of her little finger. She now had only four chances remaining before the Time blessing abandoned her to the consequences of cosmic knowledge.
The final blessing was Sanctity. Derived from the peculiar, protective nature of the stone, this spell ensured that no defiled or demonically possessed spirit could enter the archive. The library was a fortress against intrusion, a quarantine zone for knowledge so dangerous it could not be allowed to fall into the hands of petty cultists or lesser cosmic entities.
The reason for these seemingly specific settings was tragically practical: the Great Race of Yith possessed seven fingers, their crab-like allies possessed two claws, and their mortal enemies, the Flying Polyps, possessed none. The blessings were built around their specific biologies, designed to grant safety and efficiency to the builders while subtly hindering their enemies.
Yet, even these immense protective magics could not completely eliminate the influence of truly unspeakable existence. There are beings that reside outside the known four dimensions, far beyond the limits of human—or Yithian—comprehension.
Merlin's later, more erratic notes suggested the Great Race of Yith used the blessings not to save lives, but to overcome the boundaries of research. When a project reached a maddening deadlock, the Yith would intentionally hold a ritual outside the stone to contact a specific, colossal entity: Tavier At-Umr.
Tavier At-Umr, the Outer God, was presented in the scroll as an incarnation of Yog-Sothoth, one of the three foundational Pillars of the Universe. This particular incarnation, described as the benevolent aspect of the ultimate cosmic gatekeeper, sat on a colossal stone pedestal beyond the first Silver Key Gate at the farthest reaches of existence.
He stood ready to grant absolute, infinite knowledge to any creature who could traverse the Gate and withstand the terrible weight of that information.
This was how the Great Yith advanced their civilization: risking insanity by diving into the void. When their explorers went mad from the sheer influx of omniscient data and were forced to retreat back to the past, the "Time" blessing ensured they returned with the maximum possible amount of salvageable, undigested knowledge.
Tierra realized, with a terrifying pang of loss, that she had squandered just such a priceless moment. Her encounter with the Chinese script had been the equivalent of initiating contact with a lesser Outer God. The Time blessing had saved her from permanent transformation into a vegetative, screaming horror, but she had lost the brief window of pure, soul-level knowledge she could have retained.
This realization gave her a profound, almost academic respect for the library's former owner. Merlin, the illiterate farm boy who taught himself magic in this deadly archive, must have been a man of terrifying resolve.
The scrolls revealed the price of that resolve. Merlin had not escaped his first lesson unscathed. He initially lost three fingers before he truly grasped the stakes.
By the end of his centuries-long life, the sheer amount of forbidden knowledge he had absorbed led to a severe, terminal psychic contamination from the Outer Gods. In his final years, Merlin ceased to be the wise, benevolent wizard of legend. He became a mad, cruel, irrational monster, his spirit fractured beyond repair.
In his very last lucid moment, before the madness consumed him entirely, Merlin had scrawled a terrifying message on the parchment Tierra now clutched. The handwriting was erratic, smeared in places, the ink seeming to bleed into the parchment's fibers as if infused with his panic.
"Wise man not of this time and place, traveler from another world, I foresaw your coming..."
"I'm trying to stay awake and write the following... The infection is almost complete. Don't waste your five chances... I only had three, and now I have none."
"Do not attempt to contact the Great Yith race. Not until you are on the same latitude as them. They see us as pets or biological vessels. You must not approach them unprepared."
"I chose the Great Mother Goddess... the wrong choice. The whispers never stop."
"If you can, please come find me. I've placed my coordinates in Library III on the fourth floor. But please, do not take it lightly until you reach divine latitude."
"If I contact you again... If I contact you, run. Hide here. Hide in the library. I can't get in, but the thing wearing my skin can search. Don't let it see the ring."
Tierra silently folded the parchment, her hands tight. The bone finger on her left hand felt cold and heavy. Her heart, despite the fear, felt a fierce, empathetic pity for the old wizard. He had achieved legendary power only to be dragged into a horrific, permanent nightmare.
If you have a job, do not contact me.
That final, chilling line—an admission that the monster wearing Merlin's face might be searching for a way back to his sanctuary—was a final, desperate act of heroism. Tierra knew she now had to treat the legend of Merlin, the greatest wizard, as a potential, imminent threat.
She reread the scrolls, taking greater care, now hunting for clues rather than history. Since Merlin had anticipated her arrival and was desperately attempting to pass on a warning, she trusted that his final, sane notes would not contain misleading information. The information was, from this perspective, a trove of hard-won knowledge from a fellow self-made wizard.
Merlin's insights into magic were invaluable. He had charted his path from an illiterate farm boy to a master wizard. His journals detailed everything from the fundamental essence of magic to the most basic spell-casting techniques, a perfect roadmap for a beginner.
Tierra selected the simplest, most fundamental instruction for drawing magical power: the Levitation Charm.
Unlike the Cursed Worm—an instinctual, terrifying power impressed upon her soul by an Outer God and fueled by raw mental stress—true magic required conscious control, focus, and an intimate connection with the power of the soul. The Levitation Charm, if successful, would serve as a vital indicator that she could channel her own magical energy.
She unrolled the scroll detailing the exercise, her eyes fixed on the archaic, precise instructions. The levitation spell was concise, a tight cluster of ancient, resonant words.
"Yugadili, Ur, Othalia," she whispered, repeating the incantation silently in her mind, her jaw tight with concentration.
She placed the scroll flat on the wooden table and gently released it with her hands, pulling her fingers back sharply. The scroll remained utterly inert, motionless.
Focus. Channeling. The feeling is like pulling a tendon out of your chest.
She tried again, louder, infusing the words with sheer, desperate willpower.
"Yugadili, Ur, Othalia!"
The scroll remained heavy, refusing to obey. She felt a dull, strange pressure building behind her eyes. This was not the chaotic energy of the Outer Gods; this was the raw, unrefined resistance of her own body to the command of magic.
She repeated the words, her voice growing hoarse, the silence of the library seeming to mock her efforts. Ten times. Twenty times. Each attempt was a mental exertion, a battle of will against her own biological limitations. The stone lamp's sickly green light seemed to dim with her mounting frustration.
She knew the words perfectly. She knew the wand motions (though she had no wand). The failure was purely a matter of magical control, the inability to draw power from her own core.
Then, on the forty-seventh attempt, a small, barely perceptible ripple of warmth blossomed in her chest. It was minuscule, like a candle flame ignited deep within a cavern, but it was there. She seized on it, pouring every ounce of her concentration into the sound.
"YU-GIA-DILI! UR! O-SA-LIA!"
The sound cracked with desperate energy. For an eternal, glorious second, the scroll lifted. It shuddered, defying gravity by an inch, two inches, then three.
Tierra's face was slick with sweat, her heart hammering against her ribs, but a triumphant grin split her face. I did it.
The triumph was brutally short-lived. The candle flame was immediately snuffed out by a sudden, intense chill that raced through her body, stealing all warmth and energy. Her vision swam, the black stone walls leaning drunkenly.
With a definitive thump, the scroll fell back onto the table. Tierra, utterly drained, her body collapsing as if the raw material of her magical strength had been physically ripped out, slumped backward into the chair.
She was exhausted, depleted, and weak, but she had cast her first true spell. The path to conventional magic was open. The price, however, was clearly going to be paid in pain and exhaustion, not just bone and sanity.
She needed to practice, and she needed to rest, but first, she needed to retrieve the one thing that could solve her immediate, mundane problem: hunger.