I stayed silent for a while, trying to process the information I’d read earlier.

  It wasn’t physical exhaustion; it was something else. Like my mind needed space to fit everything I’d just discovered into place.

  Finally, I picked up the next book.

  Fantastic Fauna and Flora.

  I opened it without many expectations, thinking it would be a lighter read. Strange creatures, unusual plants, curiosities of the world—something that wouldn’t force me to think too much.

  The first line stopped me.

  —The world’s evolution does not belong solely to living beings.

  Mana shapes everything it touches: flesh, earth, air, and objects.

  Sometimes it strengthens.

  Sometimes it corrupts.

  I read more slowly.

  The book explained that, over time, both living beings and the environment had evolved alongside mana—not just animals or people, but also plants, places, and even objects. Mana wasn’t good or evil by nature. It simply existed, and its constant presence altered whatever absorbed it.

  That was when the first important term appeared:

  Deviants.

  According to the book, deviants were the result of excess: beings, places, or objects that had absorbed more mana than they could endure. When that limit broke, a deviation occurred.

  In animals, deviation didn’t just make them stronger.

  It warped them.

  The book described how their bodies began to mutate to adapt—or survive—the overload of mana. Limbs changing function, bones growing unnaturally, organs transforming into weapons.

  A tiger that no longer moved on four legs, but rose onto two, its torso broadened and its claws adapted to grip and tear like hands.

  Beasts with horns that didn’t belong to their original species, sprouting from the skull or even from the shoulders.

  Creatures capable of firing their own teeth like projectiles—shooting them as bone-and-mana arrows, then regenerating them again and again.

  It wasn’t natural evolution.

  It was forced adaptation.

  Along with extreme increases in strength, speed, and endurance, these animals developed abnormal affinities with mana, using it purely on instinct. The price, however, was absolute: they lost any trace of reasoning. They didn’t think. They didn’t hesitate. They didn’t feel fear or compassion.

  Only the impulse remained.

  Move.

  Attack.

  Survive.

  I kept reading.

  In plants and places, deviation was more complex—and in many cases, more unsettling.

  The book explained that when a place stayed exposed to a high concentration of mana for long periods, mana didn’t just accumulate: it reacted. The environment began to change gradually, almost imperceptibly at first, until the deviation became impossible to ignore.

  What shape it took depended entirely on the place—its history, and what had happened there.

  One of the clearest examples the book mentioned was in Italy.

  Poveglia Island.

  Also called the island of the dead.

  I read that section more carefully.

  According to the records, Poveglia was considered a deviant place because of the enormous amount of mana seeping up from the ground. Some studies estimated that nearly fifty percent of the island’s soil was made of ash and the remains of living beings. For centuries, the island had been used to isolate people infected with the Black Death, condemning them to die far from the world.

  Pain.

  Fear.

  Death.

  All concentrated in a single point.

  The book explained that mana hadn’t appeared there by chance. It had been drawn in by the accumulation of suffering and the absurd number of lives extinguished in the same place. Over time, the ground itself began to emit mana constantly, as if the place had never finished digesting what happened there.

  The deviation didn’t turn the island into something spectacular at first glance.

  It made it unnatural.

  There were recorded areas where vegetation grew twisted and withered, as if it were alive and dead at the same time. The air became heavy in certain spots, and people sensitive to mana reported pressure, anguish, or dizziness for no clear reason.

  And then there were the rumors.

  The book didn’t confirm them as absolute fact—but it didn’t dismiss them either.

  It was said that, on some occasions, corpses buried on the island rose from the soil. Not as conscious beings, but as bodies moved by residual mana—animated by a force that didn’t understand life or death.

  They weren’t resurrections.

  They were reactions.

  I closed my eyes for a second.

  An entire place turned deviant just from the buildup of pain and death… without anyone deliberately causing it.

  I swallowed and continued.

  Deviation in plants followed a similar pattern. In areas of high mana concentration, some species mutated to absorb more than they should. Trees developing roots capable of draining mana from the ground like veins. Flowers whose pollen disrupted the flow of mana in the bodies that inhaled it. Vines that reacted to the aura of living beings—moving by instinct, not by will.

  They weren’t evil creatures.

  They had simply crossed a limit.

  The book was clear about one thing:

  Deviation wasn’t a conscious curse or a form of punishment.

  It was the result of excess.

  Of absorbing more than could be endured.

  I closed the book carefully.

  Until now, I’d learned about races, bloodlines, and ancient inheritances… but this was different. This wasn’t about blood or origin. It was about consequences.

  Mana didn’t judge.

  It didn’t choose.

  It only reacted.

  The book clarified something important: not every area with high mana concentration ended up deviating.

  In some cases, the exact opposite happened.

  When mana accumulated in a stable way, without surpassing the environment’s limit—and when the place wasn’t marked by an excess of death, pain, or rupture—a different phenomenon could occur.

  That was how places blessed by mana came to be.

  The text described them as spaces where mana flowed in balance, reinforcing the environment without deforming it. It didn’t force mutations or break the place’s nature; it refined it. Life grew stronger, the atmosphere became stable, and in some cases, even restorative.

  The difference between a deviant place and a blessed one wasn’t the amount of mana, but how it was absorbed and distributed.

  A blessed place didn’t trap mana violently.

  It let it circulate.

  The book gave several examples around the world, but one of them made me stop immediately.

  Lake Guatavita.

  According to the record, the lake at the center of the Unity had been a place blessed by mana long before any construction existed around it. Mana concentrated in its waters naturally, without causing deviations or aggressive mutations. Instead, it acted like a regulator: absorbing excess from the surroundings and redistributing it evenly.

  That explained its perfect shape.

  Its absolute stillness.

  That impossible green color that didn’t look natural… but didn’t feel dangerous either.

  Lake Guatavita wasn’t just beautiful.

  It wasn’t just the heart of the Unity.

  It was a point of balance.

  A place where mana didn’t demand more than the world could give.

  A place that existed to sustain… not to break.

  I closed the book slowly.

  Deviants.

  Blessed places.

  Two manifestations of the same phenomenon.

  Mana could deform, corrupt, and destroy…

  or it could stabilize, preserve, and protect.

  It all depended on how much the world was forced to endure.

  And, without meaning to, an uncomfortable thought began to take shape in my mind.

  If animals could deviate from absorbing too much mana…

  if places could break or be blessed depending on balance…

  what happened to people?

  It wasn’t written there.

  But the question wasn’t going to go away.

  I opened the book again and kept reading.

  The text insisted on something I was starting to understand: excess mana didn’t always lead to deviation. It depended on how and where it accumulated.

  When mana found a medium capable of absorbing it, containing it, and distributing it without breaking its structure, the result wasn’t corruption—it was stability.

  That was why blessed places existed.

  They weren’t miracles.

  They were exceptions of balance.

  The book gave another example that caught my attention immediately.

  The giant crystal caves of Naica, Mexico.

  I’d heard that name before, even in my past life, but never like this.

  According to the book, Naica was one of thousands of blessed places scattered across the world—not because of its beauty, but because of its function. Deep underground, mana gathered constantly and intensely, but instead of deforming the environment, it was absorbed by a specific type of crystal.

  Selenite.

  Giant crystals—some the size of buildings—formed over centuries under impossible conditions. Selenite had a unique property: it didn’t just resist mana, it could store it without deviating.

  Mana didn’t crack them.

  Didn’t mutate them.

  Didn’t overload them.

  It became trapped inside, contained, as if the crystal itself had been made for that purpose.

  The book explained that these crystals acted as natural mana reservoirs. They regulated environmental pressure, preventing the area from collapsing or deviating. Without them, Naica would have become a lethal place—uninhabitable even for the hardiest races.

  But there was a problem.

  Naica was practically inaccessible.

  The extreme heat.

  The pressure.

  The concentration of mana in the air.

  Even with specialized gear and magical protection, staying too long inside the mines was deadly. That was why obtaining even a single piece of true selenite ore was nearly impossible. The few that existed outside Naica were under absolute control—held by organizations, sovereigns, or major institutions.

  They weren’t simple crystals.

  They were strategic resources.

  The book mentioned that some weapons, artifacts, and ancient seals used selenite fragments as a core—not to amplify power, but to contain it.

  I reread that line.

  Contain.

  Not release.

  Not enhance.

  Contain.

  I closed the book for a moment and leaned back in my chair.

  Deviant places.

  Blessed places.

  Crystals that stored mana without breaking.

  Everything circled the same idea.

  The problem was never mana itself.

  It was the inability of something—or someone—to withstand it.

  I opened the book again, a strange tightness in my chest.

  It still didn’t say anything about people in that section.

  But I was starting to feel that, even if it didn’t spell it out…

  …and I wasn’t sure I liked where that pointed.

  I stared into nothing for a moment, my head resting in one hand.

  This world… this planet Earth, even though I’d confirmed it again and again, still felt unreal. Deviants? Places that reacted to mana until they deformed or were blessed? And the heart of the Unity—Lake Guatavita—a point of balance, almost sacred?

  I let out a quiet sigh.

  —I’ll look into it properly later, I told myself.

  If I went deeper into that right now, I’d end up asking questions I wasn’t ready for yet.

  So I set that book aside.

  My fingers ran along the edge of the table until they stopped on another volume. It was different from the others. Older. The cover was worn, the leather cracked with time, like it had passed through too many hands before reaching mine.

  The title, however, was surprisingly well preserved.

  Mythic Weapons and Objects: Artifacts.

  I frowned slightly.

  That name…

  didn’t sound like theory.

  It sounded like history. Like things that had been used—objects that didn’t exist only in books.

  I took the book in both hands and opened it carefully, as if I feared it might fall apart.

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  For some reason, even before reading the first line, I felt something strange in my chest. Like this book, more than explaining the world…

  …was going to explain how the world had chosen to break and rebuild itself again and again.

  I took a deep breath.

  And started reading.

  On the first page, I expected a simple introduction. Something technical. Cold.

  But what I found left me still, surprised… and far more curious.

  It read:

  Not all objects were made to be used.

  Some exist simply because the world needed them to exist.

  Before kingdoms, before names, and even before history learned to remember, there were things that remained. They did not live, but neither were they inert. They did not think like men, yet they imposed consequences as if they understood all too well who touched them.

  These objects were called many things: relics, treasures, curses, divine gifts. None of those names was entirely correct.

  An artifact does not grant power without reason.

  It does not allow itself to be carried without cost.

  And it never forgets the one who held it first.

  Some brought prosperity and condemned entire generations when they vanished.

  Others saved lives only to deny them rest.

  There were those who believed they could dominate them…

  and those who understood, too late, that they had never owned anything.

  This book does not intend to catalog them all.

  Nor to explain their origin with certainty.

  It only leaves record of an uncomfortable truth:

  when an artifact enters someone’s history,

  that history no longer belongs to them completely.

  Because artifacts do not change the world immediately.

  They change people.

  And the world breaks afterward.

  I turned the page slowly.

  The second page began:

  An artifact does not exist to be a legacy.

  It was not created for whoever came after, nor does it wait for a future bearer to complete it.

  An artifact exists because, at some point, something happened that could not be undone. A decision was made, a sacrifice was accepted, a possibility was closed. The object present in that instant became trapped in that moment—not as a memory, but as a consequence.

  That is why an artifact does not look forward.

  It looks back.

  It does not inherit, it does not teach, it does not prepare.

  It simply remains.

  Not all artifacts were born the same way. Many were exceptional weapons, ancient relics, or singular objects that expanded the capabilities of those who used them. They were important—even legendary—but they still belonged to the normal flow of history. If they disappeared, the world continued without changing much.

  However, there exists a far smaller group: objects bound to moments where the world could no longer step back. Not because they were powerful on their own, but because they took part in a definitive closing: the end of an era, the acceptance of an irreversible loss, the impossibility of choosing again.

  Those artifacts do not represent power.

  They represent a limit.

  The first bearer of an artifact does not found a heritage. They do not pass down virtues or leave a prepared path. They were simply there when the object could no longer return to being ordinary. The artifact does not remember the person; it remembers the act.

  From then on, anyone who comes into contact with it does not continue a story.

  They interfere with something that already ended.

  That is why artifacts react differently depending on who carries them—not because they judge, not because they choose, but because they remain the same while the bearer is different. The object does not adapt to the human. The human must adapt—or break—before something that does not change.

  When an artifact grants something, it is not a gift.

  It is friction.

  Seeking an artifact is not claiming a legacy or accepting a mission. It is exposing yourself to a consequence that was not created for you. Some artifacts can be used. Others can only be endured.

  And a few should never have been touched again.

  Not because they are sacred,

  but because they exist too close to decisions the world cannot repeat.

  An artifact does not remember its bearers.

  It remembers the exact point where the world stopped being able to step back.

  The next section didn’t waste time.

  An artifact is not simply an ancient weapon or a “magical” object in the common sense. In this world, the word artifact is reserved for objects that ceased to be ordinary because their existence was fixed by an abnormal property. Some impose a truth of the world, others act as living extensions of a bearer, others develop an identity of their own, and others amplify abilities that already exist.

  Not all artifacts are equal, nor do they function under the same logic. That is why they are classified by how they exist—not by fame, rarity, or strength.

  I breathed out slowly and kept reading.

  The first category was Concept artifacts.

  The text was clear: a Concept artifact isn’t an object with an enchantment, but a physical manifestation of a principle—reality condensed into matter. Its behavior, therefore, is stable and inflexible. It does not reason, negotiate, learn, or change its mind. And above all, it does not obey.

  If its Concept is precision, the effect doesn’t depend on the bearer’s skill.

  If it is abundance, it doesn’t depend on anyone’s generosity or greed.

  The artifact exists to impose what it is.

  That made it indifferent. It could benefit the one who carried it or ruin them completely with no difference. It didn’t choose. Anyone could touch it, but not everyone could endure what it imposed.

  The book also clarified something important: multiple artifacts can be associated with the same Concept, but that doesn’t make them equivalent. Each embodies it in a specific way, with its own range and manifestation. If one disappears or is destroyed, the world does not lose the Concept. What is lost is one of the purest, unrepeatable ways that principle could be expressed.

  I moved on to the next classification.

  Ego artifacts.

  Now it wasn’t about impersonal principles, but identity. An Ego artifact possesses a defined personality, its own criteria, and a kind of pride—not human vanity, but self-perception. It can accept a bearer, resist them, or punish them. It can cooperate for years and sabotage them the moment it deems them incompatible.

  Unlike Concept, Ego introduces variation. Two different people can get completely different results from the same artifact—not because of how they use it, but because of who they are.

  The text was careful to clarify something: an Ego artifact is not a moral judge. It does not reward goodness or punish evil. It functions by internal coherence. It respects certain traits, rejects others, and reacts when the bearer’s choices clash with its identity.

  In extremely rare cases, an Ego can manifest more directly: signs, presences, dreams, even temporary projections—not as a gift, but as proof that the artifact acts like an actor with its own agenda.

  The book warned that these were the most dangerous artifacts for anyone who tried to dominate them. Because you don’t dominate them. At best, you negotiate coexistence. And that coexistence can always break.

  The third category was different.

  Bound-Consciousness artifacts.

  These didn’t impose a Concept or possess an autonomous Ego. Their main trait was something else: a functional consciousness connected to a bearer. They acted as a living extension of the user’s will. They could transform, react, obey commands, or respond to intent.

  But they did not decide for themselves.

  Without the link, many of these artifacts became inert or reduced to their material form. That was why their power couldn’t be understood by isolating the object, but by observing the relationship. From the outside they might seem capricious, but in truth they simply expressed the logic of the bond. They protected, punished, or reacted—not by morality, but by dependence.

  The text highlighted a different danger than Ego: these artifacts could create functional dependency. If the bond broke, the bearer didn’t just lose an object.

  They lost part of how they acted in the world.

  The next classification was the most common… and maybe the most deceptive.

  Amplification artifacts.

  They didn’t impose truths and didn’t have identities of their own. Their function was to amplify something that already existed: strength, perception, memory, analysis, mana, aura, or magical control. They always operated on a prior base.

  An amplification artifact doesn’t turn someone into something else. It pushes what they already are—or what they can already become—toward an extreme.

  That made them useful.

  And dangerous.

  Amplifying perception could lead to sensory overload.

  Amplifying mana, to overflow.

  Amplifying memory, to obsession.

  Amplifying analysis, to paralysis.

  The book warned that many of these artifacts adjusted their outer form to the era or the user—not by will, but because their function needed to integrate efficiently. That adaptation was superficial. It changed presentation, not the nature of the effect.

  The section closed with a warning common to every category:

  These classifications are not a scale of power or a moral hierarchy. They are different ways of existing. A Concept artifact can be devastating or trivial depending on context. An Ego artifact can be useless for almost everyone and absolute for one person. A Bound-Consciousness artifact can seem miraculous until the bond breaks. And an amplification artifact can save a life… or destroy it through excess.

  In all cases, the rule is the same:

  The artifact does not exist to fulfill wishes.

  It exists to operate according to its nature.

  Anyone who forgets that—anyone who tries to use an artifact as if it were a neutral tool—usually learns too late that the danger wasn’t the enemy.

  It was the object they thought they controlled.

  I stared at the page for a few seconds without turning it.

  Artifacts…

  Or rather, weapons and objects that had belonged to someone.

  I swallowed.

  —So… I murmured, they’re not just ancient weapons.

  If there are artifacts tied to moments where the world couldn’t step back… if there are objects that preserve decisions, sacrifices, and definitive endings… then that could only mean one thing.

  Those original bearers existed.

  Not as stories.

  Not as exaggerations.

  Not as symbols.

  They existed for real.

  I paused.

  My mind started running faster than I wanted it to.

  If those historical and mythological weapons exist…

  if they left marks deep enough to become artifacts…

  then the figures I used to think were gods, heroes, or simple legends…

  Walked this world.

  This planet.

  They didn’t just walk it.

  They acted.

  They chose.

  They made decisions the world could not undo.

  And the proof they had been here wasn’t a temple or an ancient book.

  It was what they left behind.

  The weapon.

  The symbol.

  The consequence.

  A chill ran up my spine.

  —Wow… I whispered. Just… wow.

  All my past life, I’d believed those stories were myths meant to explain the unexplainable.

  And now I was sitting here, reading that the unexplainable hadn’t been invented.

  It had been forgotten.

  Myths weren’t fantasy.

  They were fragmented memory.

  And artifacts…

  were evidence that this world hadn’t only been inhabited by different races.

  It had been marked by beings who changed history so much that the world could never truly go back.

  I closed the book slowly.

  I rubbed my forehead and let out a short, almost nervous laugh.

  —Wait… wait, I muttered.

  If this world has the Primordial Kings, and they’re the true creator gods…

  then what were those other “gods” from the mythologies?

  My chest tightened.

  Were they real gods…

  or did history simply give them that title because of what they could do?

  Because if the world remembered them as gods,

  if their weapons left marks deep enough to become artifacts…

  then they couldn’t have been ordinary living beings.

  But they also didn’t fit the idea of absolute creators.

  —So… I whispered, were they gods… or just the name history gave to something it couldn’t explain?

  A strange mix surged up my spine.

  Excitement.

  Frustration.

  An almost physical anxiety to know more.

  If those figures existed…

  if they walked this world, fought, decided, and left irreversible consequences…

  then the line between myth, history, and divinity blurred completely.

  I let out a broken breath and shook my head, smiling without realizing it.

  —Damn… I told myself. This is incredible.

  I wanted answers.

  I wanted names.

  I wanted to know what those “gods” really were.

  And at the same time, I knew that the more I understood…

  the farther I’d be from any simple answer.

  My mind was in a strange state.

  It wasn’t euphoria.

  It wasn’t confusion.

  It was closer to an informational high.

  Each idea led to another. Each concept opened a new door. Primordial Kings, artifacts, gods who maybe weren’t gods… Everything fit, and at the same time, it drifted farther away. I felt like if I kept reading—if I thought just a little more—something important would reveal itself.

  And then—

  —Ughhh, this is so booooring.

  The voice hit me like a bucket of cold water.

  Before I could react, something soft thumped onto the table. Sofía dropped her face onto the wood, arms stretched out, exaggerating every movement.

  —Heeey, she dragged out. Let’s go walk around.

  The feeling vanished instantly.

  I blinked and looked at her, the book still open in front of me.

  —I’m not done yet, I said, not fully pulling my eyes off the page.

  Sofía barely lifted her head and side-eyed me.

  —But we’ve been here forever, she complained. Foreveeer.

  I stayed quiet for a few seconds. I looked at the book. Then at the other one I hadn’t opened yet. My head was still packed with questions—too packed to just shut them down.

  —We’ll go out after, I said at last. When I finish this book… and one more.

  Sofía sat up like she’d been shocked.

  —One more!?

  —One more, I repeated calmly. Then we go. I promise.

  She stared at me like she was judging whether I was serious. She frowned, puffed her cheeks, and crossed her arms.

  —Hmph…

  A few uncomfortable seconds passed.

  —Fine, she gave in at last, clearly against her will. But only two. Not one more.

  I nodded.

  —Only two.

  Sofía leaned back in her chair again, still annoyed, while I returned my gaze to the book.

  I opened it again.

  Not because I wanted to reread, but because something felt off. Like closing a door and realizing a second later you left your keys inside.

  I flipped through the pages faster, searching for the exact point where I’d stopped.

  And there it was.

  —…Ah-ha, I muttered. I skipped this.

  It wasn’t a minor detail.

  It wasn’t a side note or some unimportant clarification. I just hadn’t reached that part yet. Sofía had interrupted me right as I was about to continue.

  I took a breath and went on.

  The section didn’t have a flashy heading like the others, but the content made it clear it was something different. The book marked it as the fifth and final classification.

  Imprint artifacts.

  I read carefully.

  The text clarified something from the start: not all artifacts are born with a defined purpose or a clear power. Some acquire it later.

  Imprint artifacts were objects marked by an exceptional event in their history. That event didn’t repeat, wasn’t inherited, and couldn’t be transferred. It simply left a permanent trace on the object.

  The imprint wasn’t a blessing. It wasn’t a conscious enchantment. It wasn’t a will.

  It was a consequence.

  The book was very clear: these artifacts had no ego, no concept, didn’t amplify abilities, and didn’t respond to commands. They didn’t choose a bearer or impose rules on the world.

  Their effect existed passively and in a limited way, determined only by the nature of the event that had marked them.

  Nothing more.

  How that imprint manifested depended on the object. In some cases, the effect was only present while the artifact was carried or used directly. In others, the imprint activated only when the object fulfilled its natural function, and the consequences could continue even after it stopped being used.

  The book insisted on something important: an imprint artifact does not create new power.

  It doesn’t scale.

  It doesn’t evolve.

  It doesn’t adapt.

  It repeats.

  It preserves a specific consequence from its history and reproduces it whenever the right conditions are met. Always the same. Always limited. Always tied to what happened only once.

  I closed the book for a few seconds.

  Five classifications.

  Concept.

  Ego.

  Bound Consciousness.

  Amplification.

  Imprint.

  I set my thumb on the edge of the cover and thought about it as simply as possible.

  —Alright… I murmured. So it’s like this.

  Concept artifacts weren’t common magic objects. They were things that embodied a concrete idea. They didn’t represent it—they imposed it.

  If the Concept was precision, precision happened. If it was abundance, abundance manifested.

  That meant, in theory, there could be an artifact that embodied something like beauty.

  I frowned.

  —That’s… weird.

  But I’d already been reborn in this world. So “impossible” didn’t mean much anymore.

  Then there were Ego artifacts.

  That was a completely different situation.

  Weapons or objects with personalities of their own. In some cases, they could even “speak”—but more importantly, they had criteria, character, and stance.

  They accepted or rejected. Cooperated or sabotaged.

  It was like the weapon was a person… or like a person had been trapped inside an object.

  The book said that in some cases they could manifest more directly. Not always. Not for everyone.

  That made them even more unsettling.

  Next came Bound Consciousness.

  Those were obviously dangerous.

  Not because they were hostile, but because they worked like extensions of the bearer. The weapon or object integrated so deeply with the user’s will that it became part of how they acted.

  Like an extra limb.

  The problem was obvious: when someone got used to operating with that extension, losing it didn’t just mean losing an object.

  It meant losing capability. Reflex. A way of fighting, moving, or even thinking.

  Second-to-last were Amplification artifacts.

  The easiest to understand… and because of that, the most deceptive.

  They didn’t give you something new. They pushed what you already had.

  Strength, endurance, mana, perception.

  —But every push has a price.

  Some drained energy.

  Others built up fatigue.

  Some didn’t touch the body, but the mind: mental wear, loss of focus, deterioration of sanity.

  Constant use always demanded something in return.

  And last, Imprint artifacts.

  Those didn’t impose anything and didn’t amplify anything.

  They simply repeated.

  Something happened once, and the object was marked by it.

  Whenever the right conditions were met, the consequence manifested again. Same. Limited. Unchanging.

  I looked back at the open book on the table.

  Five different types.

  Five different ways an object could stop being just an object.

  Artifacts understood.

  Clear classifications.

  Defined limits.

  I closed the book carefully.

  Good.

  I could only read one more before Sofía’s brain fried from spending so long in the library.

  I looked at the spines stacked on the table and chose the next one.

  The title was strange:

  The Commonly Hidden.

  I frowned.

  It sounded… contradictory.

  I opened it.

  I flipped past the first page.

  The prologue wasn’t dramatic, and it wasn’t an exaggerated warning.

  It was direct.

  They are called “hidden” not because they are imaginary or because no one can see them, but because they rarely become part of the world’s normal conversation.

  They are “hidden” in the everyday sense: people live over them, near them, sometimes even with them… and still ignore them as long as they aren’t right in front of their face.

  They are called “common” because their existence is recorded, studied, and accepted by institutions and specialists of many races: humans, elves, zorais, draconic kin, Aedrath, and others.

  There are documents.

  There are maps.

  There are reports.

  There are lists.

  There are names.

  There are basic rules.

  What is “hidden” is not their reality.

  It is the habit of looking away—until something looks back.

  I exhaled through my nose.

  It wasn’t superstition.

  It wasn’t rumor.

  It was formal record.

  I turned the page.

  Again: classifications.

  But this time it wasn’t about weapons, or objects, or anything you could store in a case or hang from your belt.

  The book said it bluntly:

  Beasts.

  Spirits.

  Echoes.

  I shifted in my chair and kept reading.

  It didn’t group them together on a whim. It gathered them because, though different, they shared something essential: they were mana presences whose existence was documented, studied, and regulated.

  The text began with a general definition:

  Not all entities are born of life.

  Not all die when their body dies.

  And not everything that walks, breathes, or appears in front of you belongs to a species.

  And it began with the first category.

  Mana Beasts

  A mana beast is not a “strange animal.”

  It can look like an animal.

  It can have flesh and bone.

  It can bleed.

  But its existence does not depend solely on biology. It depends on mana.

  In most cases, a mana beast forms when mana concentrates steadily in an environment over long periods. It is not deviation. It is not corruption.

  It is manifestation.

  Not all mana beasts represent natural forces.

  Some do. Others don’t.

  There are ancient records where certain beasts have been associated with greater forces.

  Cold.

  Fire.

  Water.

  But also: fear, discord, hunger, wrath, hatred.

  The book was precise.

  They don’t “embody” those forces like a Concept artifact. They don’t impose them as universal law.

  They intensify them.

  A beast linked to fear doesn’t create fear from nothing, but amplifies it in those who perceive it.

  A beast associated with wrath doesn’t force hatred, but exacerbates violent reactions.

  A beast tied to cold alters temperature and environmental rhythm without any visible storm.

  Living catalysts.

  The book classified them by scope.

  Lesser Beasts

  The closest to common animals.

  They hunt. They migrate. They defend territory.

  They can be violent, but they follow understandable patterns.

  Some can be tamed.

  They don’t obey like pets.

  They accept a bond if they recognize enough strength or compatibility.

  Greater Beasts

  They aren’t ordinary predators.

  They are regional disturbances.

  Their mere presence reshapes the environment: climate, animal behavior, mana density, natural cycles.

  They cannot be domesticated.

  They are contained.

  They are diverted.

  Or, in rare cases, they are bargained with.

  Primordial Beasts

  Recorded before many races solidified formal territories.

  They are not “kings” of a species.

  They are entities of a different category.

  They cannot be forced.

  They cannot be bought.

  They cannot be hunted for prestige.

  If they interact, it is by their own decision.

  Among the documented examples was a white wolf with bluish tones, associated with deep cold, recorded in northern chronicles under different names.

  It wasn’t myth.

  It was archive.

  Mana Spirits

  The section shifted its focus.

  If beasts occupy physical space, spirits occupy condition.

  They don’t need flesh.

  They don’t need bones.

  They can manifest as visible forms, or remain as a perceptible presence.

  The main difference:

  Spirits can interact socially.

  They can approach.

  Observe.

  Take interest.

  And that interaction can bring benefit—or conflict.

  The book grouped them like this:

  Affined Spirits

  They don’t seek harm by nature.

  They can act as guides, helpers, protective presences, or curious entities.

  In some cases, they help without demanding an immediate price.

  But help isn’t infinite.

  It can be limited by time, conditions, or number of uses.

  It isn’t punishment.

  It is structure.

  Hostile Spirits

  Not all negotiate.

  Not all disperse.

  Some bind themselves to emotions, places, or people in persistent ways.

  Earning their hostility can become continuous pursuit.

  Not isolated attacks.

  Harassment.

  Not because of “storybook malice.”

  But because that is how their nature operates.

  Echoes

  The last category was different.

  An echo is not a spirit.

  It is a residual impression of someone who is no longer there.

  It can remain anchored to a place, an object, a name, or an event.

  Sometimes by its own choice.

  Sometimes by abrupt death.

  Sometimes by an unresolved bond.

  It doesn’t happen only with mythological figures.

  It can also happen with historical individuals—or anyone whose presence significantly altered the flow of mana.

  An echo is not the whole person.

  It is a fragment.

  A repeated pattern.

  Some respond in limited ways.

  Some repeat actions in loops.

  Some react under specific conditions.

  They should not be treated like people.

  Nor like animals.

  Both approaches fail.

  I closed the book and rested my elbows on the table.

  —Okay… let’s see if I understood.

  Artifacts were already clear.

  Objects with their own rules. Five types. They function according to their nature. End of story.

  But this is different.

  Beasts, spirits, and echoes aren’t things.

  They’re presences.

  Mana beasts aren’t deviants. They aren’t “broken.” They exist like that. Some represent big things like cold or fire… others, emotions like fear or wrath. They aren’t gods, but they aren’t normal animals either. And depending on their rank, they can be tamed, contained… or simply ignore you if they’re primordial.

  Spirits are a different story.

  They don’t always have bodies. They can approach you. They can help you. They can hate you. And if they hate you, it’s not something you solve by punching them.

  And echoes…

  Yeah. Those are weird.

  They aren’t normal ghosts. They’re like… something recorded into the world. A piece of someone who didn’t fully leave. Not the whole person, but not empty either.

  I stayed quiet for a few seconds.

  —Great. More things that can kill me.

  But at least now I knew what they were.

  And that was something.