"Another worthless book!"
A frustrated voice echoed as a heavy tome sailed through the air, thudding against the sand-covered stone walls of a vast subterranean library.
Deep beneath the scorching deserts of Egypt, Year 2025.
Corven Aldric Varn—an eccentric archaeologist and linguist—was buried deep within the heart of a newly excavated ruin. He wasn't there for treasure or fame. He was hunting something far more valuable: knowledge. The kind lost to time, buried in dust, and written in forgotten tongues.
Corven wasn't just any scholar. He was born with a bizarre, almost supernatural ability—to instantly comprehend languages, even those humanity had no record of. Some called it genius, others called it luck. Corven called it a curse with rent-paying benefits.
Choosing a career in ancient languages and dead civilizations had been a no-brainer. After all, who better to unearth forbidden truths than someone who could read the unreadable?
"Another useless piece of information," Corven muttered, his voice low and gravelly, as he rifled through yet another ancient book—its brittle pages disintegrating under his touch.
Hundreds of such tomes were already scattered across the cracked stone floor, buried beneath centuries of sand and silence.
The library itself was immense, grand enough to rival the halls of a cathedral. Massive, weather-worn pillars held up the fractured ceiling, where faint shafts of sunlight pierced through cracks, illuminating swirling clouds of dust. Sand drifted from the gaps above, falling like lazy snow.
He squinted at the page in his hand.
"…A recipe book for cooking insects." His eye twitched. With a sigh, he pinched the bridge of his nose and flung it onto the growing pile of culinary disappointments.
Then his phone rang.
Buzz. Buzz.
He answered, not even glancing at the screen. "What is it?"
'Where are you!?' a panicked voice barked through the speaker.
'Are you already inside the ruin!? The team hasn't run a safety check yet!'
It was one of the men he'd hired—a professional excavation team tasked with supporting the dig. Responsible, careful, and incredibly annoying.
"I've been in here for two hours," Corven replied flatly, checking his scratched-up watch. "It's stable enough."
'You bastard! Stay put. We're sending a team to pull you out. Do not move!'
The line went dead before Corven could even respond.
He chuckled, shaking his head. "Oh please. At this point, death would be a blessing."
Still amused, he reached for another book, brushing sand off the cover as he opened it. He paused.
This one was different.
"…Blood Ghouls?" he murmured, brows raising as he scanned the entry. "Now this is interesting."
There was real substance here—ancient mythos, possibly even evidence of an undocumented cult or religion. Rich material. Corven began pacing the ruins, muttering to himself.
"This might feed me for at least two months," he smirked, thinking of the journal articles, speaking gigs, and the sweet escape from a diet of cup noodles and questionable street kebabs.
But just as he allowed himself the briefest flicker of triumph—
RUMBLE.
A subtle crack echoed from the rear of the chamber.
He froze.
The sandstone bookshelf beside him began to shift, the grinding of ancient stone echoing like the growl of something long-dead. Then, came the splintering sound—like brittle bones snapping under weight.
"…Just my luck," Corven muttered.
The massive shelf tilted forward with terrible finality.
"…Shit."
CRASH!
SPLAT.
And just like that, the story of Corven Aldric Varn came to a very sudden, very messy end.
In this world, at least.
[Unique Soul Detected]
[Corven Aldric Varn]
[Analyzing Death Conditions… 78%]
[Analysis Complete]
[Initializing Transfer Protocol…]
[Transporting…]