The echoing word "OPEN" resonated in the blackness of Azmoz's mind, shattering the fragile veil of sleep. He didn't speak it. He didn't whisper it. He simply thought it, an involuntary reaction to the incessant, humming command.
A jolt of cold electricity—far less painful than the initial surge, but more focused—snapped him awake. He sat bolt upright on his thin mattress, his breath catching in his throat.
His right arm, still bare from his experiments, was no longer marked by the dark, inert book-tattoo.
He watched in horrified, slow-motion fascination as the symbol began to melt. The purple pigmentation turned liquid, liquefying into a viscous, shimmering slime that looked like crude oil mixed with crushed amethyst. It didn't drip; it flowed with an unnaturally smooth, deliberate motion. The slime gathered at his wrist, slithered across the back of his hand, and dripped onto his right palm. From there, it seemed to jump, suspending itself in the air, and then began to reform. It stretched, solidified, and darkened, until the same gruesome, chitinous, deep purple book from the basement was hovering six inches in front of his face.
The sight—the proof of its dark, living connection to him—stole the air from his lungs. Fear, pure and primal, surged first. He pulled his hand back, clutching his arm against his chest, the horror of the vision, the black-robed men, and the devouring flies momentarily paralyzing him.
He waited for a few minutes, breathing deeply, and when the book remained motionless, a desperate curiosity overtook the fear. It came when I thought "OPEN." It's waiting. He took a large, steadying breath, and with all his courage, he reached out and touched the book.
The floating book instantly settled into his hands. It was heavy, solid, and still pulsed with a slow, internal rhythm. He gathered his resolve and pulled on the cover. The pages were blank, page after page of thick, expensive-looking parchment, until he reached the very last page.
This page was not parchment at all, but a glowing, violet display projected onto the paper. It was a digital screen sensitive to the touch, and it listed him like an inventory.
It's like those really old games that I read in one of my books," he murmured, the shock replacing his terror with a bewildered awe.
He ran a finger over the screen. Below the stats were multiple tabs, most of them greyed out and locked, perhaps, he thought, because his level was too low. But one tab—Skill—was open. He tapped it.
Azmoz tapped on the name of the skill, and a description box expanded below it.
Description -> Insect Bond: Any unbound insect that is of a lower level than the user can form a permanent bond with the user. The bonded insect will follow the user's commands and share a sensory link of 10m radius.
Azmoz stared at the screen, his mind racing. A sensory link? Commanding insects?The thought sent a cold shiver of excitement down his spine.
He spent another hour poking at the screen, trying to find any other hidden menus, but the book was stubborn. The other tabs—remained firmly locked. It seemed he would have to earn the right to see more.
Taking another deep, shuddering breath, Azmoz closed the book.
As soon as the covers met, the physical book in his hands seemed to sigh. Its edges softened, its rigid form began to sag, and it turned back into a pool of purple, shimmering slime. The viscous creature flowed from his palm, across his wrist, and retreated back to his forearm, where it solidified into the dark, ordinary scar-like tattoo.
He stared at his arm, then at the empty air where the book had been. Shocked, he tried to test it. He closed his eyes and, with all the focus he could muster, he simply thought: "OPEN."
He felt the familiar, slight sensation on his right arm. The tattoo melted, the purple slime flowed to his palm, jumped, and reformed in the air. The gruesome book floated silently before him once again.