Karlos blinked, his thoughts racing as the rogue’s words clicked into place. “Wait a minute…” he murmured, his voice quiet, almost to himself. “If we’re in a game, there wouldn’t be a Yelp.”

The rogue gave him a crooked smile. “ Yeah it's a word you said earlier. I just used context clues. “

“ when did I do that I don't remember that.”

“ you got a stomach bug or something. Are you going to throw up?” I hope not this robe stops being cool when it’s in a 30-foot radius of throw-up.

Karlos felt his stomach tighten as the rogue’s flippant tone only served to deepen the realization gnawing at him. “No, it’s not that,” he said, shaking his head slowly. His mind was racing now, every detail of their world shifting as the pieces clicked into place. “This whole thing… it’s too real. It’s too immersive, but something is wrong none of those monsters in the dungeon existed before. ”

The rogue snorted in amusement. “You sure you’re not just getting paranoid, kid? This is as real as it gets. All these monsters, magic, and quests? Doesn’t get more real than that.”

“ I think he has a concussion. A thousand pounds of books to the head will do that even to the most devoted scholar. I think my record of reading. The Mage Merlin spoke to the rogue.

But Karlos didn’t respond. He could feel it, a creeping certainty deep in his gut. The world around him, the dungeons, the battles—they were all part of some elaborate simulation. But to the others? This was real life. To them, the pain, the danger, the stakes—it was all real. Karlos was starting to realize the terrifying truth: they weren’t in a game to them. They were in their real world, living out their lives without any clue that the rules were set by someone—or something—else.

Merlin noticed the sudden change in Karlos’s expression. “What’s up with you? You’re looking like you’ve seen a ghost. Is about your old world, are you missing your old world. ”

Karlos tried to force a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I just… I just had a thought. Something’s not adding up.”

“Yeah, well, you’ve been overthinking since we got here,” Godfrey said with a dismissive grunt, clearly more focused on their next move. “You’re always looking for deeper meaning in everything. Let’s just keep moving.”

But Karlos couldn’t let it go. They weren’t seeing it. They couldn’t. To them, this world was as real as any other. To him, though? It was a construct. A game. A series of predetermined events with no way out—unless he found it.

The rogue, noticing Karlos’s confusion, grinned wider and clapped him on the shoulder. “Cheer up, mate. You’re the only person I know who gets bummed out about getting stronger. You even went through an evolution, didn’t you? Your gear’s proof enough. That robe’s not the same dusty thing you had before.”

Karlos blinked, glancing down at himself. His hands instinctively brushed over his body, fingertips gliding across a material that felt foreign yet familiar. It was smoother, sturdier—yet somehow lighter—than his old magician’s robe. The faded, tattered fabric had been replaced with something almost regal in appearance: a light crimson robe adorned with faint, shimmering glyphs that shifted under the light like they were alive.

“What…” Karlos trailed off, his voice barely audible. “When did this happen?”

The rogue gave a low whistle. “Must’ve been back in the dungeon when you leveled up. Happens sometimes when you push past your limits. I was gonna say something, but you looked like you were about to pass out back there, so I figured, ‘Eh, I’ll tell him later.’” He winked. “Consider this your congratulations speech.”

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Karlos was still staring at the robe, his mind a whirlwind of questions. He hadn’t even noticed the change. His last clear memory was collapsing under the weight of those damned books before everything went hazy. Now, his body felt different, his mind sharper—yet also more fragmented, like pieces of his memory were slipping through his fingers.

“An evolution?” he finally asked, looking up at the rogue, Merlin, and Godfrey in turn. “What do you mean, an evolution? How does that even work?”

Merlin, who had been silently observing, stepped closer, his expression thoughtful. “It’s rare, but not unheard of,” he said, his tone far more serious than the rogue’s. “When someone achieves a significant breakthrough—whether through battle, stress, or sheer determination—their abilities and even their physical form can adapt. But it usually comes at a cost of your previous strength.”

“Excuse me, how does that happen? How do you get stronger by being weaker?” I know that is how the game functioned but how would that work? In real life well as real as a fictional world inside the game can get.

This is the reason for your evolution the mage said tossing a red book to Karlos who Easily caught it.

Karlos squinted at the Grimoire in his hands as realization struck. The red leather binding, faintly scorched in places, and the faintly glowing runes etched along its spine—it was unmistakable. This was the book. The one the demons had been tossing around like a toy in the chaos of the dungeon.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Karlos muttered, holding it up for the others to see. “This is the same book those demons kept lobbing over their heads. You’re telling me this thing is the reason for my evolution?”

The rogue doubled over laughing, slapping his knee. “No way! That’s the same book? The one they were treating like a cursed hot potato?” He wiped a tear from his eye. “Oh, this is gold. You mean to tell me that is your big power-up? The most disrespected magical artifact in the dungeon?”

Merlin arched a brow, clearly unimpressed by the rogue’s outburst. “Artifacts of great power often go unrecognized by the ignorant,” he said, his voice heavy with reproach. “Those demons likely had no idea what they were handling. They simply feared it—probably for good reason.”

Karlos wasn’t buying it. “Feared it? Merlin, they were playing catch with it!

Merlin’s lips twitched, though he managed to keep his composure. “And yet, despite their irreverence, the Grimoire remained intact. That alone should tell you of its durability and power.” He gestured to the faint glyphs shimmering along its cover. “You’ve only begun to scratch the surface of what it’s capable of. It chose you for a reason.”

The rogue snorted. “Sure, it chose him. More like it got sick of being juggled like a carnival prop and decided, ‘You know what? This kid’ll do.’”

Karlos sighed, glaring at the rogue before flipping the book open. The pages, crisp and unmarred despite the rough treatment, seemed to pulse faintly under his touch. A warmth spread through his fingers as he turned the pages, the runes shifting and rearranging themselves before his eyes.

“What does it even do?” Karlos asked, more to himself than anyone else.

The book responded by burning letters into the cover turning it over as he read the words. Gift of the Demon Prince.

Merlin stepped closer, his gaze sharp. “That Grimoire holds ancient spells, knowledge, and power that few could hope to comprehend. But it’s not just a tool—it’s a test. It will challenge you, demand you rise to its level. If you fail to meet its expectations, it will abandon you just as easily.”

“Great,” Karlos muttered. “So not only do I have to rebuild my strength from scratch, but now I’ve got a sentient book with a superiority complex judging my every move.”

“Sounds like fun,” the rogue quipped. “At least you’ll have some light reading material while you grind your way back to relevance.”

“Enough,” Merlin snapped, his patience clearly wearing thin. “Karlos, this is an opportunity. The Grimoire may have been discarded by the demons, but that only shows their ignorance. You, however, were deemed worthy by it. That alone speaks volumes about your potential.”

Karlos closed the book with a heavy sigh, the weight of its implications pressing down on him. It wasn’t just a book—it was a burden, a responsibility, and a challenge he couldn’t ignore. If this was the key to unlocking his evolution, then he had no choice but to rise to the occasion.

“Fine,” he said, tucking the Grimoire under his arm. “I’ll figure this out. But if this thing starts making me do quizzes or gives me pop-up ads, I’m throwing it back into the dungeon.”

The rogue burst into laughter again, and even Merlin allowed himself a small, amused smirk.

Godfrey, who had been silent until now, grunted and crossed his arms. “Just don’t lose focus. Evolution or not, we’ve still got a long way to go. That book might be powerful, but it won’t save you if you’re not ready to use it.”

Karlos stared at the Grimoire, his fingers brushing over the faintly glowing runes. He could still feel the phantom weight of it when the Prince of Hell himself hurled it at him like a fiery meteor. That moment was etched into his mind—the sheer force, the mocking laughter, the intense heat radiating from the artifact as it sailed toward him.

The rogue, noticing his silence, raised an eyebrow. “What’s with the face? You look like you just remembered where you left your dignity.”

Karlos shot him a glare but said nothing, his grip tightening on the book. “This isn’t some random dungeon trash,” he said finally, his voice low. “The demons knew exactly what this was.”

The rogue blinked, his amusement fading into mild confusion. “Wait, what? You’re saying those demons were aware of this thing’s power? Then why the hell were they playing games with it?”