Aside from the book of Ancient Mystic Scripture, there are other Mystic books sitting on my parents’ bookshelf, one of them being an encyclopedia of the different species of Mystics.
Fourteen-year-old me would steal this book from their bedroom and read it until I fell asleep every night, because I saw it as my way of meeting other Mystics, getting to know them, what their abilities are. I don’t remember how many times I read that book, but it was enough that I have a lot of the information drilled in my brain.
Somehow, this is the type of sh*t I remember instead of test materials or what the chapter of some book was about that I had to read the night before.
But now, now while stuck in this infinite, eternal void, all of that information about the species of Mystics—ones that are known as of circa 1832—that I digested at the age of fourteen will actually be useful to me.