Shawn Bhirley hunched over the scarred oak table in the Bodleian Library's subterranean reading room, the air thick with the scent of vellum and forgotten centuries. Oxford's winter chill seeped through the stone walls, but sweat beaded his forehead under the harsh LED lamps. At thirty-four, he was no stranger to these vaults. Philology lecturer, Semitics specialist, the man who could date a cuneiform stroke by its craquelure alone. Tonight, though, the tablet before him felt alive, its clay surface etched with wedges that clawed at his eyes.
"Bloody Codexgate," he muttered, adjusting his spectacles. The 2026 scandal had everyone twitchy. AI forgeries flooding archives, scholars sacked for missing fakes. This piece, loaned from the British Museum (catalog VA 10327 analogue), was the real deal. Pre-Sargonic ink, carbon-dated to 2500 BCE. Mesopotamian, Hanbi invocation. Or Hanpa, depending on the dialect. Shawn traced the signs with a gloved finger, paleography at its purest, deciphering how ancient scribes pressed reeds into wet clay.
His phone buzzed. Eliza Hargrove, codicologist extraordinaire from the London stacks. Voice note: "Shawn, love, that tablet's no forgery. Feel the fiber inclusions under UV? But mind the Udug warnings. Those Sumerians weren't mucking about." He smirked. Eliza, with her sharp Yorkshire edges softened by years in the smoke-filled pubs of Bloomsbury. They'd bonded over a pint last Michaelmas, debating Lamashtu incantations till closing.
He leaned closer. The central inscription: Quidam Externorum. Latin overlay on Akkadian, "Some Foreign." But the core was Hanbi, lord of evil winds, father to Pazuzu in the demon tablets. Historical brute, wind-mountain god, symbol of invading chaos, like the Assyrians sacking Babylon. Shawn's pulse quickened. Philology wasn't dusty; it was warfare with words.
"Right, then," he whispered, testing the phonetics aloud for his notes. Codicology demanded it. Manuscripts breathed through recitation. "Aliquid Hospes... Quidam Externorum... Hanbi, Hanpa, Abaddon Apollyon." The names tumbled out, layered like strata: Hebrew desolation from Job 26, Greek destroyer from Revelation 9. No faith here. Just etymology, cold as Yorkshire stone.
The air shifted. A draft? No. The vault's seals were airtight. Papers rustled on the table, then ignited in pinpoint flames, guttering like struck matches. Shawn recoiled, heart slamming. "What the...?" Smoke curled, forming script on the ceiling: Udug-hubur, hostile demons from Sumerian exorcisms.
His mind raced. Resonance? Over-authentication thinning some metaphorical Veil, as mad theorists claimed post-Codexgate? Bollocks. But the wind grew, howling through vents that shouldn't exist, carrying whispers. Foreign... something... destroyer.
Footsteps echoed from the gloom. A woman emerged, ethereal in the lamplight, script-veins glowing faintly under porcelain skin. Greek uncials? "Shawn Bhirley," she said, voice like rustling papyrus, warm yet ancient. "You've called what should sleep. I am Sophia, Hokhmah, Pistis, Shekinah. Wisdom fallen, seeking redemption."
He blinked, aphasia gripping his tongue. Words jumbled, Latin fleeing his thoughts. Hallucination from fatigue? Or worse: the tablet's paleographic trap, real as the Dead Sea Scrolls' curses. "Who the hell are you? This is codicology, not a séance."
She smiled faintly, eyes like illuminated manuscripts. "Not hell, Shawn. The abyss stirs. Quidam comes, Nergal of winds, Anzu thief of divine tablets. Your voice rent the Veil. History isn't metaphor; it's warning."
Alarms blared overhead. Library security. Outside, BBC alerts pinged his phone: "Anomalous fog blankets Oxford. Winds from nowhere." Shawn grabbed the tablet, clay warm as flesh. In the distance, a gust shaped like locust-wings scraped the spires.
Quidam Externorum had heard its name. And Shawn Bhirley, unwitting philologist-prophet, had invited it home.
Chapter 1 End.
What ancient name will Shawn invoke next? VS Tease: Tier 10 scholar vs. Tier 9 Udug. Can words seal the wind? Power up or perish.