The Mystic Tower was an enigma—a shadowy presence in a world already teetering on the brink of chaos.
No one knew where they had come from, or even when they first appeared.
They had no clear origin, no recorded history, and no apparent ties to the known guilds or factions of the world.
Yet, they were undeniably powerful.
Clad in flowing robes adorned with intricate, shifting symbols, the members of the Mystic
Tower wielded magic in ways that defied logic.
Their spells were not just incantations but manifestations of something otherworldly, as though they had tapped into a deeper, more ancient source of power.
Their techniques were unorthodox, their methods often unsettling, and their motives?
A complete mystery.
They rarely engaged with the wider world, shrouding themselves in secrecy.
The only time they stepped into the light was when a dungeon or monster posed an existential threat—events that attracted their attention like moths to a flame.
Even then, their interventions were clinical and detached, their objectives unclear.
But the most impenetrable mystery of all was their Guildmaster.
To the world, the leader of the Mystic Tower was less a person and more a myth.
Even within the Tower itself, few had ever laid eyes upon him.
His name was unknown, his face unseen.
The few who claimed to have met him spoke only of a presence—an aura of overwhelming power and authority that made even the strongest among them tremble.
He was a god in their eyes, a being beyond mortal comprehension.
He never left his chamber, or so the members whispered in hushed tones.
They had no idea what he did within its confines, but they revered him, for he was the source of their power.
Through him, they had been granted strength beyond measure and access to strange, arcane knowledge.
In return, he asked for only one thing: find them.
The instruction was maddeningly vague, but its weight was clear.
“Search for those who grow too strong, too quickly,” he had commanded.
“Find those who hold power that distorts the balance of the world. Find those who influence the tides of fate too greatly.”
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The Tower threw all its resources into this mission.
For years, they scoured the world, following whispers and rumors, their search leading them to some of the most powerful figures in existence.
They presented candidates to their Guildmaster—people and entities who seemed to fit his cryptic criteria.
The Guildmaster rejected them all.
Lionheart Guildmaster Havard, a hero celebrated across the land? No.
The lich monster of the first Black Gate, a being of unspeakable terror? No.
Each time, the Guildmaster dismissed them with an air of quiet finality, his inscrutable standards known only to himself.
Then, at last, the Tower found him—Cyrus.
A dungeon lord unlike any other.
His actions left ripples that disrupted the delicate balance of the world.
When the Tower presented Cyrus to the Guildmaster, the reaction was different this time.
The Guildmaster didn’t reject him.
Instead, for the first time in years, he stirred.
The few members of the Tower who witnessed this event were struck speechless.
Their Guildmaster, a being they had never seen leave his sanctuary, finally rose from his throne.
“Finally found one,” he said.
His voice was calm, almost indifferent, but the weight of his words sent shivers through the air.
Cyrus was the one he had been searching for.
And now, he himself would take action.
The Mystic Tower’s involvement in the battle wasn’t random.
It wasn’t coincidence.
It was the fulfillment of a long and arduous search, and the world was about to see what happened when the enigmatic Guildmaster of the Mystic Tower decided to intervene.
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The battlefield, once teeming with chaos and bloodshed, had turned into an eerie, frozen wasteland.
Each step the being took solidified the ground beneath him into sheets of ice, shimmering like glass in the dim light.
The air itself grew sharp, biting at the lungs of those still fighting.
My golems, unwavering and unthinking, charged at him.
But it was futile.
His mere touch froze them solid, their once-mighty forms now fragile sculptures.
A flick of his hand sent an ice spear hurtling through the air, shattering them into glittering shards.
The chimera ants fared no better.
Their frenzied movements were halted as frost crept over their limbs, encasing them in crystal prisons.
The battlefield had become a graveyard of my creations, monuments to the futility of resistance.
I felt it then—a chill, not just on my skin but deep within my core.
A primal fear clawed at my mind, urging me to flee.
For the first time in this life, I understood true dread.
The voice came again, soft yet commanding, cutting through the silence like a blade.
"Run away if you want to survive."
There was no hesitation.
I turned, summoning the portal to my dungeon with a trembling hand.
"Krothe, Magal, get inside!" I barked, my voice sharp with urgency.
Krothe hesitated, his curious eyes flickering toward the frozen field, but he obeyed.
Magal followed, his massive form disappearing into the portal.
The little golem and chimeras, the ones crucial to my plans, were next.
One by one, they vanished into safety, while the others stayed behind to buy precious seconds.
They charged at the being, their movements frantic and desperate.
They were no match.
With each passing moment, my dread grew.
My creations were slaughtered, their sacrifice a testament to the being’s overwhelming power.
The portal pulsed, its edges flickering as it began to close.
I stepped through, the weight of the icy air lifting as I entered my sanctuary.
Relief was short-lived.
A sharp, agonizing pain tore through my chest.
I staggered, gasping as I looked down.
An icicle spear protruded from my body, frost spreading outward from the wound.
My breath came out in ragged, visible puffs as my body began to freeze.
No.
With a roar of defiance, I forced the portal closed.
The connection severed, the freezing aura dissipated, but the damage remained.
Ice clung to my form, and my limbs trembled under its weight.
I collapsed onto the cold stone floor of my dungeon, my vision blurring.
I drew upon my mana, focusing every ounce of energy into raising my body’s temperature.
Heat surged through me, battling the frost.
Slowly, agonizingly, the ice began to melt.
When the last remnants of frost dissolved, I lay there, panting, my chest still aching.
"Who are you?" I growled into the emptiness, my voice echoing in the cavernous space.
My words were laced with anger and desperation. "And who is he?"
There was no response.
"Kaw! What happened? Are you talking to yourself again?" Krothe’s voice broke the silence.
I ignored him, my mind spiraling.
"Answer me!" I shouted, my voice filled with fury. Still, the silence pressed in, unrelenting.
"Who am I?"
The question left my lips before I could stop it.
It hung in the air, absurd yet profound.
The memories of my past life resurfaced—the mundane existence of a simple office worker in another world.
A life of monotony and mediocrity, shattered the day I was summoned here.
Krothe had brought me to this world by accident, transforming me into what I now was: a Matrivan.
The strangeness of it all had never bothered me much before.
In a world filled with monsters and heroes, why would my origins matter?
But now, for the first time, I felt a gnawing uncertainty.
The world around me began to shift.
The cold dungeon gave way to the warm, bustling streets of a medieval city.
The scent of fresh bread and the chatter of merchants filled the air.
And then I saw him.
A man stood before me, simple in appearance yet exuding an aura of quiet authority.
His presence was disarming, like a familiar melody played by an unfamiliar instrument.
He smiled faintly and spoke, his voice calm and steady.
"Let me introduce myself."
I held my breath as the weight of the moment settled over me.
"My name is Selven," he said.