Everything was working a few hours ago. Then the AI got stuck on loading in the middle of a response. I waited 15 minutes, then closed the tab, restarted Google after a total shutdown, deleted my cache, and reset my router. The issue is not on my end.

Since this happened, every attempt to log into MythEngyn, either on my phone through the app or on my computer through a web browser, has failed to move me past the 'loading' screen. It gets stuck in an infinite loop.

If my account glitched, then please have a dev message me so we can get it cleared.

Thank you.

I've been doing a lot of Jungian shadow work and lucid dreaming lately. It's brought me to write down a collection of short stories based on what I was able to remember and write down before the dreams turned to vapor as my conscious brain took over. I'm going to share the opening and first chapter. Please let me know if it resonates with you and your own dreamscape experiences.

The Infinite Crossroads

To the attention of the reader

If you have picked up this book—whether by accident or bad luck—you’ve already made the only mistake that matters.
You are now cursed.

It happened the moment you cracked the spine, unrolled it, or ‘clicked the link’—whatever that means. My curse insists I add it, so you, the reader, know I am speaking directly to you.

This was not written in any language you would know—but part of the curse ensures you can understand it anyway.

I am required to offer you the chance to see another world.

Your curiosity will now kill you.

The only known cure is to close the book, put down the scroll, or ‘close the tab.’

You have been warned…

The Setting

This world, for lack of a word meaning both reality and the arrangement of particles you are gravitationally and spatially bound to, would be called Materia Prime.

Time here is marked by a cycle called The Wheel.

As the Wheel turns, Ages are marked by the events that brought them to their end.

Five recorded Ages exist in Materia Prime, each lasting an indeterminate span before a tragic, abrupt conclusion. Records from “The-World-that-Was” paint fragmented, incomplete pictures of a violent mythos that every newly dominant culture has gone to great lengths to obscure.

The Ages of Myth, Legends, Heroes, Drakons, and Transformation.

This will be the Age of Cataclysm.

And you are going to be the one who causes it.

Technically, you have already caused it, are currently causing it, and will cause it again.

That is the nature of the Infinite.

On the continent of Mani’Erin, west of the mountains that bisect the land, lies Namoria. Here, the old ways were laid to rest. Most Namorians no longer believe in Majik (yes, spelled weirdly; the curse is still wobbling things). Instead, industry churns out mechanical wonders: steam, gears, and clockwork line the streets of this sprawling nation.

The southern barony is known as Beegin, pronounced ‘Bee-jam’ in the Human tongue.

You do not need to remember these names. They are unimportant. They are merely backdrops to help ground your mind as we proceed.

There, along the King’s Road in the Gray Moors of Beegin, you will find a place where the wind whispers secrets about your childhood mistakes.

The land here is wet in a philosophical way. Not just puddles and mud, but the kind of endless damp that makes iron rust while you’re still holding it. The ground sighs when stepped upon. The grass grows sideways.

Sheep wander into the fog and return with the quiet dignity of creatures who have seen something they do not plan to discuss.

At the center of this bleakness stands The Magjikal Dehli.

It is… not impressive.

A two-story stone inn with a crooked timber roof, chimneys leaning like old men trying to remember why they stood up. Moss grows in the cracks between stones. One wall appears to have been repaired with pieces of an entirely different building, possibly stolen from somewhere that deserved it more.

The sign above the doors depicts a stag with tears running down its face. Nobody agrees on why. Some claim the original innkeeper painted it after losing his herd to wolves. Others say the stag weeps because it knows what lurks in the bog behind the tavern. You may decide for yourself.

You step inside.

Just like everyone who has read this before you.

The tall double doors close behind you, and you immediately get the feeling this Delhi has opinions about you.

The foyer stretches wide, like the throat of a friendly—but possibly carnivorous—beast. Warm golden lamplight mingles with scents of polished wood, tobacco, perfume, and something buttery from a restaurant that likely employs a wizard whose sole job is “making things taste illegal.”

Beneath your shoes, black-and-white marble spreads in a checkered pattern large enough to serve as a battlefield for bored nobles. It gleams so brightly you can see your own reflection staring back, haughty and judgmental.

Above you, the ceiling soars two stories high, held aloft by sweeping balconies of dark mahogany carved with vines, cherubim, and the occasional horned creature who lost a bet with the sculptor.

Gas lamps burn with a slightly unnatural steadiness, hanging from brass chains high on the walls, casting a honey-colored glow across velvet wallpaper in deep emerald and burgundy. The place feels like a Victorian gentleman’s club that took a vacation to New Orleans, discovered gambling, and never emotionally recovered.

To your right, the casino floor stretches like an ocean of green felt tables where fortunes rise and fall with the quiet violence of tidal currents. Dealers in immaculate waistcoats shuffle cards with the serene confidence of priests conducting sacred rites. Dice clatter like distant musket fire. Coins ring against brass trays. Somewhere, a man laughs too loudly—the universal sound of someone who has either just won everything or is about to lose his house, horse, and possibly his soul.

To your left lies the lounge: a forest of velvet chairs, claw-foot tables, and long leather sofas where people lean close together beneath curling trails of smoke. A pianist in the corner coaxes something jazzy and mischievous from an upright instrument older than most empires. Crystal decanters gleam behind a mahogany bar so polished it could likely reflect the future, though the clientele would probably not believe it.

Before you, dominating the room like a general who refuses to sit down, rises the grand staircase. Splitting halfway into twin curves that sweep toward the balconies like theatrical gestures. The railing, wrought iron twisted into elaborate vines and fleur-de-lis, is punctuated by softly glowing crystal lanterns every few feet.

On the second-floor gallery, well-dressed patrons drift along the railing, watching the gaming floor below the way gods might watch ants if gods were extremely interested in blackjack. Doors line the corridor behind them—rooms for guests wealthy enough to gamble all night and collapse only a few yards from the battlefield.

Somewhere deeper inside the building, a bell rings, a glass shatters, and a crowd erupts into cheers.

And standing there in the doorway, warm air wrapping around you and the sounds of cards, laughter, and ambition filling the hall, you realize something important:

This is not merely an inn.
It’s a hotel.

You know, that otherworldly hotel where you check in, but never leave.

The King in Black

Just like every one of us, you walk to the right.

You go too far.

You try to retrace your steps.

And you can’t seem to find your way out.

That’s when you see Him.

You notice him the way one notices the knife at the dinner table—quietly at first, then with the growing realization it might not be there for the roast.

He sits at the edge of a gaming table like a man who has already seen the end of the story and is politely waiting for everyone else to catch up.

At first glance, he might pass for an Aos’si who took a wrong turn somewhere between elegance and bad decisions. (Aos’si is the word for Elf on Materia Prime.)

His face has unmistakable elven symmetry: high cheekbones, narrow jaw, and long ears tapering to delicate points. But the skin is wrong—rich maroon, like red wine spilled across satin, with a faint sheen as though heat lives just beneath the surface.

His eyes glow faintly amber, like coals pretending the fire has gone out.

Two short devil’s horns curve back from his temples—not theatrical, but enough to remind you that somewhere in his family tree there was a conversation with a lawyer in a summoning circle.

His hair falls long and black over his shoulders, straight as a blade and glossy as crow feathers. One strand is tied behind his ear with a thin gold clasp shaped like a tiny spade—a detail suggesting either impeccable style or a lifetime commitment to gambling metaphors.

The suit is the kind worn by men who never check the price of anything: deep charcoal wool cut so sharply it could file paperwork, a dark burgundy silk waistcoat embroidered with curling silver designs (worms, flames, or both), and a bone-white shirt pinned at the collar with a black gemstone that absorbs light.

Over it all, a long trench coat of black velvet, lined in crimson satin, draped around him like a personal thundercloud. The hem brushes the floor; the lining flashes red whenever he moves, like a theater curtain on the rise—or the inside of a wound.

His hands are long and elegant, elven in shape but tipped with faintly darker nails resembling claws. Rings sit on several fingers: silver bands, a garnet signet, and one ring of dark metal that seems personally indignant that you took the time to look.

He shuffles a deck of cards with casual, hypnotic precision. The cards snap and whisper through his fingers like obedient birds.

When he smiles, it reveals teeth just a little too sharp for polite society. Not monstrous. Just enough to suggest that somewhere between the elf and the devil, the gambler won.

You approach him with every fiber of your being screaming for you to stop.

And then you apologize for being late.

“Apology accepted,” he says, with the kind of practiced charm only snake oil salesmen manage at an early age.

“Malichi Rench, current proprietor of the Magjikal Dehli and collector of oddities. At your service.”

The game begins the way disasters often do: politely.

You sit across from him near the edge of the casino floor, where the lamplight softens and the noise fades into a distant tide of laughter, coins, and ruined financial futures.

Between you lies a deck of cards.

Between you also lie a silver shoe, a rolling pin, and your soul—currently invisible, which is either comforting or extremely bad accounting.

Malichi shuffles with an ease suggesting centuries of practice—or a supernatural advantage that causes cat eyes to become saucers. The cards whisper, snap, and slide like rectangles of destiny being edited in real time.

“Relax,” he says mildly, dealing the first hand. “If it helps, I’ve only collected three this month.”

You know what he means.

His amber eyes glow faintly as he watches you examine your cards. His expression is not predatory—more like a chess master who has already seen the endgame but enjoys the scenic route.

Around you, the casino continues its glittering chaos. Dice clatter. A woman shrieks with delight. A chandelier flickers slightly, as if the building leans closer to watch.

You try not to think about what losing actually means. Because when people say “your soul,” it sounds metaphorical… until someone with horns writes it down.

“Bet.”

His voice is calm, pleasant, conversational.

You match the bet. Pride is powerful, and backing out now would probably count as forfeiture in whatever infernal legal system governs these things.

The cards turn.

You win the first hand.

One glorious, ridiculous moment—you feel like the clever hero of the story. Like the fiddle player everyone talks about. You, too, will be a legend someday in the distant future, trying to drunkenly explain all of this to someone you’ve known for five minutes.

Malichi nods politely. “Nicely done.”

He reshuffles.

The second hand begins. It lasts longer. Betting grows heavier. His fingers tap the table almost absently, listening to a rhythm you cannot hear.

You lose. Not badly. Just enough to make the table feel colder.

“Ah,” he says, collecting the chips with a gentle sweep of his hand. “Now it’s a real game.”

By the fourth hand, the air feels warmer. Lamps burn brighter. Your pulse beats like war drums played by accountants determined to win the Presidential Rank Award. Your palms sweat as you collect your cards.

He wins again.

You notice something strange: Malichi never celebrates. Never gloats. Every victory is greeted with the same quiet nod, the same mild smile.

The look of someone balancing a ledger. You begin to wonder what other consequences fall upon your shoulders, beyond losing your soul.

By the sixth hand, he leans back, studying you with amused curiosity.

“You know,” he says, “most people imagine that winning their soul back would feel heroic.”

He places a card face down.

“But statistically speaking,” he continues pleasantly, “it mostly feels like paperwork.”

The final cards turn.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

The casino noise fades into a distant ocean roar.

His smile widens slightly. Not cruel. Just inevitable.

“Welcome to the Dehli.”