One beneficial aspect of libraries was their tendency to attract learned folk--the type of people with ideas and the knowledge to implement them. While the leather bound books had succumbed to the ravages of time, transcribing pages or scrolls was the most mundane approach. More valuable artifacts no doubt existed in restricted levels deeper into the compound, dispensing knowledge through more robust means such as engraved tablets, or enchanted items able to sustain themselves off of ambient energy. Somewhere in the library, ancient knowledge still waited to be discovered.

Despite the devastation, Cyril’s mind felt as if it was in harmony with the library. The connection provided no real insight, only an understanding of the building's past glory: citizens great and small, rich and poor, strong and weak, had once gathered here, to seek all manner of knowledge for all sorts of purposes, joined together in the blind pursuit of truth.

In a few more years, he was supposed to become the Librarian for his people, inheriting the heirlooms and recorded histories of his tribe. The idea had always excited and worried him in equal measure, since the previous Librarian had died before he was even born. How was he supposed to live up to a legacy he knew nothing about? Some of his family members had assured him that he was a natural fit and would have no difficulty with the role, but they were the same people that tended to spoil him in every situation.

Standing there, in the sad remnants of the library, he suddenly missed home very much. He tried not to let himself wallow in pity for too long. The sooner you get this taken care of, the faster you can get back above ground and find them.

Setting his jaw, he approached the nearest spiral staircase and formed a stone ramp connecting the gap. He searched the upper floor and discovered a corridor leading deeper into the building.

His heavy steps raised eddies of dust as he explored the adjoining rooms. Most of them had probably once been semi-private reading and viewing areas, the furniture long since decomposed away. At the end of the corridor was an empty doorway with a sequence of jagged runes carved into the arch; the room beyond was bare except for a set of stairs leading into the darkness. He cast one of his Flickers out ahead and stepped into the next room.

As he passed through the doorway, his mental connection with the library slipped out of harmony. A vague sense of unease prickled across his skin. For some reason, he felt as if he had suddenly offended an elder from a rival tribe without understanding why.

A rustling sound from above him caught his attention. Frowning, he looked up in time to notice a swirling orb the size of a man’s head, formed from layers of papyrus scrolls shifting over one another. Tiny symbols flowed along the orb in a mesmerizing pattern.

Cyril blinked in confusion.

The orb broke apart into a flurry of loose scrolls, revealing the entity contained within. An imp, no larger than his hand, hovered above him, shedding the last of its papyrus cocoon. Only a small section of its blue-green silhouette appeared at once, shifting every couple seconds. One moment it revealed one side of its horned head and the cerulean flame of an eye; the next, its inverted leg and hoofed foot; then, its spindly tail, whipping side to side.

Cyril tried to not look too annoyed. It just had to be an imp, didn’t it? While they were the lowest rank of manifested spirits, they were also the most numerous, displaying a wide variety of unique minor abilities and talents that they mostly used to make nuisances of themselves. One never knew what they were walking into with an imp, but it was usually only fun for one side, if any.

His personal experience with them hadn’t been the best.

At least this particular one appeared to be formed from Knowledge qi. Presumably, it would be a bit less vulgar and mischievous than most of its counterparts, though there was a slight concern it may just have a wider range of insults and low gossip.

The flickering silhouette continued to hover above him, as lifeless as the marble of smoke or a Flicker Cantrip. Was it even a real imp? Maybe he had triggered some sort of defensive magic that took on the appearance of one?

No, that wasn't right. Deep down, Behemoth recognized one of its kind, even if the gulf between their spirits was as great as that between the heavens and the earth. It was a real imp, but lacking the spark of consciousness, making it nothing more than an old and empty shell.

The imp’s presence resonated with his soul just like the knowledge of the library’s former glory. After a moment, he realized it was, in fact, identical. A trickle of ancient Knowledge qi had lain dormant until he stepped through the doorway, triggering it to manifest the imp. Djinn would have served as spirit attendants at a library of this size, but the residual qi must not have been enough to summon one.

This imp would be the library’s final attempt at interacting with a guest.

The power was so faint, he doubted he would have acquired more than a couple points toward his Dominion of Knowledge if he forcefully absorbed it. Instead, he reached out toward the imp.

Outside of the Mind Scroll Cantrip, Knowledge qi had proven almost impossible for him to manipulate in the past. Earth may be stubborn, Sun fickle, but Knowledge was ephemeral. Converting the pure energy from his core into a single strand of Knowledge qi required more than creating an equivalent amount of Rusted Iron (?). Unlike the others, it had no obvious effect on the environment either, dissipating into entropy within seconds.

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Those few seconds were long enough for the blue-green wisp of qi to drift up toward the imp. As soon as it made contact, the spirit’s form bloomed into existence, revealing its entire body at once. Like most of its kind, it had the shape of a small devil, its trio of eyes simmering like vibrant embers.

The imp twitched, moved its head.

Cyril cleared his throat. “Pardon me.”

The imp ignored him, staring down at its tiny, clawed hands.

“Yes, you there, little spirit man,” Cyril continued.

“This energy…” the imp said to itself in a soft, masculine voice. “The incongruity. A youthful mortal, a touch more talented than most of the worthless lot, and one of the ancients of ancients, the Shard of Heaven. Is this spiritual energy…tinged with Knowledge from Lord Behemoth? Could I have been so blessed?”

Cyril cleared his throat again.

The imp, continuing to ignore him, suddenly spasmed and threw its head back as if it had been electrocuted. Its eyes blazed with esoteric fire, darker and larger than before, as if they stared upon deeper mysteries than any mortal could fathom.

“Oh, heavens,” Cyril muttered to himself. “Don't tell me, this thing isn’t--oh, there it goes.”

A third horn sprouted from the center of the imp’s forehead, and the end of its tail split into two wicked barbs. A network of ethereal vessels flared within the imp’s body, and the small core rotating within its stomach sped up slightly.

“Right,” said Cyril. “Now that you’ve evolved due to my generous offering, my name is Cyril. I was recently dragged down into the Underdark by a sandwyrm with a rather bizarre ability and found myself around here. I stumbled onto this temple containing one of the celestial ifrits who appears to have been the ruling deity of this city, who someone apparently banished down here into the darkness. Well, let me go back a little, apologies. This is Beljeza, right?”

The newly-evolved imp slowly turned its head and looked down on him, as if noticing him for the first time.

“Yes,” it admitted. “This is the Library of the Great City of Beljeza, Jewel of the Desert.”

“We’ve made progress,” said Cyril. “Lovely. Priestess Anadei was the ruler, right?”

The imp closed its pair of normal-set eyes, the third one upon its forehead remaining open and decidedly unimpressed. “The last official ruler of the Great City of Beljeza, Jewel of the Desert, was indeed High Priestess Anadei Beljazari, the Oracle of Worthy Dreams, Daughter--”

“Yes, that’s exactly--”

“Extremely rude to interrupt someone trying to tell you something, isn’t it?” said the imp.

Cyril sighed. Truthfully, he was exaggerating his annoyance, having expected the spirit to behave far worse. It was at least answering his questions. “Yes, you have something of a point there, granted--”

“What parasite did you bond with that managed to steal some of Lord Behemoth’s knowledge, anyways?” The imp leaned forward and opened its eyes. All three expanded, growing into one another until a single blazing orb occupied the upper half of its face. “Some vulture-imp scavenging the edge of a great calamity, stumbling upon a fragment of--Great Hells!”

The imp recoiled, apparently having seen the true nature of the spirit residing within Cyril. He had to admit to a feeling of great satisfaction washing over him at the sight of the imp, frozen and sputtering.

“Yes,” said Cyril, “wonderful, you have been caught up with the situation.”

“A-are you here to restore the Library to its proper glory?” A papyrus scroll appeared beneath the imp and it sat down upon it like a flying carpet. “Perhaps we should summon some of the old djinn? Or, a few more bites of that Knowledge, gracious Saint Behemoth, and I may become a djinn myself, completely loyal and honorbound, of course.”

“‘Saint’ now, not just ‘Lord’, is it?” Cyril muttered. He shook his head and spoke up to the imp, “None of that for now. Your name? What was your role in this library?”

“Barnabas,” said the imp, its tone noticeably more surly when addressing the human intermediary between itself and Behemoth. “I was the cleaner, I suppose. Grubby human children leaving ancient fairy tales on the ground, nobles eating dried nuts they snuck in, all kinds of crumbs and filth. The djinn are too good to handle that sort of thing, ‘my hands are created from an epic saga of a half-divine conqueror’ or whatever, so they had me--”

“Alright,” said Cyril, “you were right, I should summon one of the djinn instead. How do I get you to go away? Surely I can take back that Knowledge qi I gave you--”

Barnabas waved its hands frantically. “No, no, wait! After the Fall and the Final Exodus, the library conserved as much of its energy as possible. All those stuffy djinn, especially that--actually, don’t worry about it. But all those stuffy djinn, their minds have become twisted, useless. Most of them have probably chosen to return to the Nexus. A cleaner, though, the library wants a cleaner to keep things in order in case someone like you comes along. So I popped up all the time, sweep up this dust, shove that pile of rubble aside, that sort of thing.”

Cyril propped his hand up in his chin and pretended to be lost in thought and talking to himself. “Right, I think I can sense my energy still inside it. If I just pull on this, maybe--”

Barnabas started speaking even faster. “So, you see, that means I had plenty of time to read some books on the side, even rewrote some of them when they got real out of shape. I also have access to clean and adjust any of the tablets, memory stones, or other recordings up to the Taboo Level, which includes being able to access them to make sure they’re still functional.”

Cyril hid his smile behind his hand. Imps were just too easy to manipulate. “Okay, then, Barnabas. What can you tell me about the Desert Tyrant?”

The imp stood up, eyes blazing. “Hosjin Yaserath? I love that guy!”