Eldritch Horror? No, I'm A Doctor
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An old man sat hunched over a thick, leather-bound tome, his fingers tracing lines of text that predated most kingdoms. His robes were deep blue, stitched with thread that caught the pale library lights and held them for just a moment longer than seemed natural. The fabric hung loose on his wiry frame. His silver beard, long enough to pool on the marble floor, spread out in elegant spirals that somehow never gathered dust no matter how still he sat.
This was Archwizard Velgrin of the Spiral Order, and he had been reading the same passage for the last twenty minutes.
Not because it was difficult. Because he kept losing focus.
The Library of Noctis had that effect.
He'd arrived yesterday through a door that shouldn't have existed, stepping from his study in Henderson Academy directly into this impossible place. One moment he'd been reaching for a book on elemental theory. The next, his hand passed through empty air, and the world folded.
Now he sat surrounded by endless shelves that stretched beyond sight in every direction. Thousands of volumes. Tens of thousands. More. The aisles ran straight and true, lit by floating lamps that drifted like patient ghosts. The ceiling arched so high above that it faded into darkness, though occasionally he caught glimpses of painted constellations he didn't recognize.
There was no exit. No windows. No sound except the occasional flutter of pages turning by themselves.
The air smelled like old ink and something else, something that reminded him of rain on stone, though it never rained here. He knew that already. He'd spent his first day pacing the aisles, testing the boundaries, attempting to cast basic detection spells. Nothing worked properly. The magic here felt sluggish, resistant, like trying to light damp wood.
Velgrin had just begun to accept the stillness when the door opened.
The sound was unmistakable. A long, grinding groan of stone dragging against stone, deep enough to feel in his chest.
His head snapped up. His fingers froze over the page.
Footsteps followed. Heavy. Armored. The kind of tread that belonged to someone carrying weapons and bad intentions.
From the far end of the grand aisle, a man stepped into view. He was tall, blood-streaked, his armor dented and scorched in ways that spoke of recent violence. A greatsword hung across his back, the blade cracked near the tip. His face was half-shadowed beneath a dented helmet, jaw clenched tight. He moved like someone who'd been running for hours and didn't know if he could stop.
Velgrin stood slowly, his chair scraping against marble. His expression remained neutral, but his hand drifted closer to his staff.
The warrior paused in the threshold, scanning the vast halls with wild eyes. He took in the floating lamps, the vaulted ceiling, the oppressive quiet. His breathing was ragged, desperate.
"Where the hell am I?" he snarled at the empty air.
Velgrin said nothing, watching him carefully.
The warrior's boots slammed against the floor as he stormed further in. "I found a door in a cave. My whole squad was butchered. I was bleeding out in the dark, and then that damn door just opened when I touched it." His voice rose with each word. "Now I'm in some twisted library instead of the afterlife!"
His gaze swept across the room and landed on Velgrin.
The air changed.
Recognition flickered across the warrior's face, then twisted into something venomous.
"You," he breathed.
Velgrin's expression didn't change, but his spine straightened slightly.
The warrior took three aggressive steps forward, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. "Velgrin. The Spiral Fire. Archwizard of the Third Flame." He spat the titles like curses. "You burned my brothers alive."
Velgrin's voice remained measured, controlled. "I take it time hasn't mellowed your perspective on Thornhaven."
"Thornhaven?" The warrior's laugh was harsh and bitter. "You call it Thornhaven like it was just another battle. You incinerated thirty-seven men. Good men. My friends." His voice cracked slightly. "Three years, old man. Three years I've carried their screams."
"And I've carried the weight of that decision for just as long," Velgrin replied quietly. There was no apology in his tone, just acknowledgment. "War makes monsters of us all, Gareth."
The warrior, Gareth, went rigid. "Don't you dare say my name like you have the right."
"I remember every name from that day," Velgrin said. His voice remained calm, but something flickered in his eyes. "Gareth Holt. Third son of House Holt. Captain of the Crimson Shields. You were twenty-three."
Gareth's hand shot to his sword, gripping the hilt until his knuckles went white. "Then you remember what you took from me."
"I do."
"Then why aren't you running?"
Velgrin's gaze flicked upward for just a fraction of a second, then returned to Gareth. "Because running won't help. Not here."
Gareth's eyes narrowed. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means," Velgrin said carefully, "that you should lower your voice and sheathe your blade."
"Like hell I will!" Gareth drew his sword, the rasp of steel echoing through the library. "You're standing right in front of me. No army. No fortifications. Just you and me and three years of hate."
Velgrin didn't reach for his staff. He stood perfectly still, hands loose at his sides, watching Gareth with the kind of patience born from decades of surviving through calculation rather than impulse.
"I'm not your enemy here," Velgrin said.
"You're always my enemy!" Gareth's voice rose to a shout. "You think I forgot? You think I forgave? My brothers died screaming your name!"
"I know."
"Then defend yourself!"
"No."
Gareth's face flushed red. "You coward! You'll murder thirty-seven men but won't fight one?"
Velgrin's expression finally shifted, something harder entering his eyes. "I'm not refusing to fight you, boy. I'm trying to save your life."
"Save my life?" Gareth laughed, wild and furious. "From who? You?"
"No," Velgrin said quietly. His gaze flicked upward again, more deliberately this time. "From the one who actually owns this place."
Gareth followed his gaze but saw nothing except shadows and distant shelves. "There's no one here but us, old man."
"You're wrong."
The silence thickened. The temperature dropped, slow but noticeable. Gareth's breath began to mist. The sweat on his brow turned cold. The pressure in the room increased, like storm clouds gathering overhead.
Gareth's grip on his sword tightened, but his other hand began shaping a spell, fingers trembling as mana gathered. Fire magic, crude but powerful.
Velgrin remained perfectly still, but his breathing had slowed. His eyes never left the space above Gareth's head.
Then a voice spoke from down the aisle, quiet and conversational.
"Excuse me. You're being too loud. This is a library."
Both men turned.
A young man stood beside one of the shelves, backlit by pale lamplight. He held a small paperback in one hand and a steaming mug in the other. His clothes were simple: a gray cardigan over a white shirt, dark slacks, everything neat and unremarkable. His black hair fell in soft waves, slightly mussed. His face was calm, his dark eyes steady and faintly curious.
He looked like a university student who'd wandered into the wrong building.
Which made him the most terrifying thing in the room.
Gareth stared at him. "Who the hell are you?"
The young man blinked, then carefully placed his book back on the shelf with one hand. "I'm the librarian."
"The librarian?" Gareth's voice dripped with disbelief. "This place has a librarian?"
"It does. And you're breaking the rules."
Gareth barked out a harsh laugh. "Rules? Your job is to scold people for making noise?"
"Among other things, yes." The librarian took a slow sip from his mug. "Mostly I'm here to protect the collection."
"Protect the collection," Gareth repeated mockingly. "From what? Loud voices?"
"From people who damage it."
Velgrin was already moving. Slowly, carefully, he stepped backward into the shadows of the nearest alcove. He kept his movements smooth, unthreatening, like someone trying not to startle a sleeping predator. He didn't speak. He didn't offer Gareth a warning.
There was nothing left to say.
Gareth didn't notice. His attention was fixed on the librarian, and the simmering rage that had been building since Thornhaven found a new target. "You think I give a damn about your books?"
The librarian studied him for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was still gentle, still tired. "You should."
"Should?" Gareth took an aggressive step forward, his sword still raised. "Let me tell you what I should do. I should drag that old bastard out of here and make him answer for what he did. Then maybe I'll worry about your precious books."
"This is your second warning," the librarian said. His tone hadn't changed, but something in the air shifted.
Gareth's laugh was sharp and mirthless. "Second warning? What, no third? What happens if I tell you to go to hell?"
"You don't want to find out."
"Wrong." Gareth raised his left hand, flame sparking between his fingers. The spell was unstable, fueled by rage rather than control. "I've had enough of cryptic warnings and mysterious places. I want answers. I want blood. And if you're standing in my way, then you're first."
The ceiling groaned.
A cold wind tore through the aisle, snuffing out half the floating lamps in an instant. Dust rained down in pale streams. The shelves trembled. Books shifted on their perches, ancient spines creaking. The temperature plummeted.
Gareth's spell guttered out. "What the—"
Something fell from above.
It hit the floor like the hammer of God himself. The marble cracked in a spiderweb pattern. The impact echoed through the library, sharp and absolute. More shelves shook. A single leather-bound volume slid free and hit the ground with a dull, heavy thud.
When the dust cleared, it stood there.
Three meters tall. Maybe more.
The Death Knight wore armor so black it seemed to devour light. Runes covered every surface, old symbols that pulsed with sickly purple radiance. Mist coiled from the joints, slow and deliberate, like the breath of something exhumed. Its helmet bore no face, no eyes, only a vertical slit down the center that glowed with dim, violet malevolence.
In both hands, it held a greataxe carved from bone and obsidian. The weapon was enormous, nearly as wide as a door, its edge serrated and cruel.
It didn't speak.
It simply turned its eyeless gaze toward Gareth.
Gareth's face went pale. His sword wavered. "What... what the hell..."
The librarian's voice drifted across the space, still calm. "I told you. Second warning."
"That's a Death Knight," Gareth whispered. His voice had lost all its fire, replaced by raw, primal fear. "That's a Sixth-Tier undead. You'd need sacrifices, rituals, an entire cult to summon something like that."
"No," the librarian said. He took another sip of his tea. "Just a snap of my fingers."
The Death Knight took one step forward.
The floor groaned beneath its weight.
Gareth stumbled backward, his bravado shattering. "Wait. Wait, I didn't mean—"
The Knight moved.
Gareth's training kicked in. He swung his blade in a desperate arc, releasing a burst of flame at the Knight's torso.
The greataxe met his sword mid-swing.
The force of the collision sent Gareth flying backward like a ragdoll. He crashed into a row of shelves with a sickening crunch. Books toppled in waves, spilling across the floor. He rolled, gasping, blood already seeping from where his armor had crumpled inward.
Before he could stand, the Knight was there.
Another swing, another roar of displaced air.
Gareth ducked, barely, the axe passing so close to his head he felt the wind of it. He scrambled away on hands and knees, blasted a desperate shockwave at the Knight's legs. He managed to get to his feet, cast again, chains of shadow wrapping around the Knight's ankle.
"Stay down!" he screamed.
The Knight paused.
Then it flexed.
The chains exploded into black mist.
"No," Gareth gasped. "No, no, no—"
The Death Knight reached down with one massive gauntlet and grabbed him by the chest plate. It lifted him off the ground as though he were a child's toy. Gareth kicked uselessly, his sword falling from his grip.
"Please," he choked out. "Please, I didn't—"
The Knight hurled him.
Gareth hit the far wall with enough force to crack stone. Blood sprayed in a wide arc across the marble. He crumpled, gasping, his vision swimming.
The Knight's footsteps echoed as it approached.
Gareth looked up, his eyes wide with terror. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please, I just wanted—"
The greataxe rose.
"Wait!" Gareth's voice broke. "Please! I just wanted them back! I just wanted my brothers back!"
The blade fell.
Silence.
Velgrin stood frozen in the alcove, his face bloodless, his hands clenched so tightly his nails bit into his palms. Every muscle screamed at him to run, to fight, to do something. But he remained perfectly still, barely daring to breathe.
The Death Knight bent down, grasped Gareth's severed head by the hair, and straightened. It turned with mechanical precision and walked back down the aisle. Blood dripped from its gauntlet, leaving a trail across the pristine floor.
It approached the librarian.
And knelt.
The massive undead bowed its head low, presenting the head like an offering to royalty.
The librarian looked at it. Then at the blood trail. Then at the scattered books.
He sighed, long and weary.
"I told you to be quiet," he said softly, almost regretfully.
He set his mug down on a nearby shelf with care, then walked past the kneeling Death Knight as though it were a piece of furniture.
"Clean it up," he said over his shoulder. His voice was gentle, patient.