Lasair was having fun. An incredible amount of fun. How does one have an incredible amount of fun, you ask? By causing mass destruction of course!
It had started as a team-building exercise. Something that all her [LIEUTENANTS] could do, along with herself. A goal that could be achieved only by using all of their abilities in tandem. Bombing the shit out of the forest.
Chunk began the process. He would slowly create a large boulder, pulling it from the floor and walls of the caverns. He would then shape it like a missile, and smooth out any imperfections. It was as tall as him, and about a third as wide.
Ozymandias would call a few tendrils of shadow over. They writhed and squirmed, trying to escape his control, but he was slowly getting better. [LESSER UMBRAMANCY] would likely upgrade soon. Anyway, the tendrils would lift the shell off the ground by a few centimeters. It was all Ozymandias could handle for now, but it was enough.
Lasair herself would use [MINOR PYROMANCY] directly under the shell, using her energy to corral as much mana as possible into the blast. She tried to focus the explosion as much as possible, and her work was rewarded. The shell shot off into the air, flying out of the Aviary.
Apollo was the targeting system. He was putting [MANA-DRIVEN SONG] into overtime, forcing it to function as a sonar of sorts. It was vague and mostly inaccurate, but good enough. He could find suitable targets, such as a certain small hunting party of goblins.
Mirage was what pulled it all together. She and Apollo were hovering between the Aviary and the clouds, right in the path of the shell. When it reached them, she met it with a single talon, and it stopped dead in the air.
A thick haze spread as all its momentum turned to heat, forming into tendrils that slowly turned the shell until the point faced the target. Apollo made a few minute corrections to the aim, but then it was ready.
All the haze in the air vanished, along with everything in Mirage's bank. The shell moved so fast it blurred, speeding towards the goblins like the fist of an angry god. It hit, and then there was nothing but a spray of dirt and red mist.
Target eliminated.
----------------------------------------
Ozymandias found this assault enlightening. He knew it was naught but practice, and yet it still sent a rush through his mind. There was history behind this weapon, crude imitation it may be. A history so bloody that he could almost see the pools of crimson.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
His fellow disciple of the Law finished another. It was slowing down in production, likely growing tired. He could not afford to do the same. Not if he wanted his authority to remain unquestioned.
The shadows were vindictive, conniving, rebellious things. They sought to overthrow him. They sought to take control. They sought to take his kingdom, however small, with all the glorious truths he had stored within.
The truths of the Law.
He had investigated a few more of the twisting black stains and the pure white tethers, but nothing quite as compelling as his own inspiration. He had not attempted to understand the inspirations of his fellow disciples yet, but he would soon enough. For now, the stains around this act would serve well.
They were nothing like what he had seen before. They were not wisps of shadow, nor mere illusion. They were impenetrable clouds that blotted out the sky in their path, poisoning reality with their very presence.
He touched one.
----------------------------------------
Ozymandias was standing in a grand room. The floors were polished, the lighting was impeccable, and the size was baffling. Not to mention the displays. Grand cages of glass and steel were scattered throughout the room, containing relics of the past.
Silhouettes of mist were gathered in front of the displays, frozen in the action of observing. Observing the past. Observing the truth.
He strode up to one. In the center of the glass, perched on a stand, was an odd contraption. It was made of metal and wood, with a cylinder being its main piece. Behind that there was an odd handle, along with a belt of strange metal rods. Sticking out from the handle, a small piece of metal curved back towards the cylinder. A trigger, his mind whispered.
And then, it told him its story.
The M1917 Browning. A weapon of steel and blood. A great achievement, advancing the slaughter of enemies forward into the future. Ammunition shot so fast and so many times that it grew too hot to hold. Four hundred and fifty shots per minute.
And just over three million killed at the hand of it and its kind, the machine gun, in just a single war.
Ozymandias recoiled from the cage, the weight of truth bearing down on his soul. The edges of this dream were already receding, the walls and cages crumbling into dust. He had no time for another story. The real world called.
He knew that the stains would remain, if only for a short time. He would be back. But it still wouldn't be enough to see even a fraction of the truths within this... this... Museum. That's what this was. A place solely dedicated to the collection of ancient truths, and their stories.
He loved it with all of his void-touched heart.
He gazed around the crumbling hall. He may as well find a story to listen to next time, just so he doesn't waste time deciding.
Ozymandias beheld great skeletons, ancient blade, coffins and relics of long dead kingdoms. And weapons of war even more deadly than the story he had already seen.
But he decided on none of these.
No, what he decided on was a simple tome. Its title was but four words, four beautiful words. He could feel its presence, its wisdom, its truth.
I will be back for you, my friend.
And with that final thought, Ozymandias returned to reality. Within the memory, an ancient book fell to the crumbling floor, it title proudly displayed to the ceiling.
The Art of War.