‘I remembered that I had asked father to look into the case at the war encampment. However, recently I have heard little about it, which is strange. So, I asked Trulliad if he knew anything about it. If father had begun looking into it. After all, he was there when it happened. But he was as confused as I was about whether there was an investigation. I will ask father about it soon.’ - Excerpt from Isten Blodyn’s diary, January 1263

———

“This Channeler’s weapon is made from two key materials. First, the staff is made from a Gaia Ent. They are an incredibly rare and strong creature. I have been told that only those above what would be considered a Duke can kill these beasts. Finally, the orb is the crystallised eye of a Drake. A beast known to be as stronger or stronger than a Gaia Ent.” Robert Harley lectured Toran while collecting the money for the weapon.

“Thank you.” Toran nodded, studying Robert Harley’s face. He’s sincere about this. His connections are larger than I initially thought if he acquired a weapon of this quality. So, his trade isn’t restricted to Citadel. Nor Fort Royal.

“The staff is called ‘the Dragon’s Dance’. Despite how pretty the name is, it is an absolutely devastating weapon. The previous owner was a champion in Praeteritum’s Perdita Coliseum. One of the top hundred gladiators.” Robert boasted.

Even if he didn’t buy it from Praeteritum himself, he had to have someone buy it for him from deep within Praeteritum. This ‘Dragon’s Dance’ certainly wouldn’t have been lost in war. Nor did it make its way to here through bloodshed. It must have passed hands in trade. Well connected, indeed.

“Pleasure doing business.” Toran said with a smile. He turned around to leave the Hollow Sword Blade Company shop, though was briefly stopped by a shout from behind.

“If you ever need anything again, please return! We will always serve a customer such as you!” Robert’s voice called out, eager for Toran to spend more money.

Toran trekked the long path back to his dormitory. This time the streets were rather still compared to the billowing crowd of the noonday. The winter had shortened the amount of sunlight the day received, especially for Citadel which was in the distant north of the continent. Those who had ventured out in the day had returned to the warmth and light of the indoors during the night.

He opened the door of his desolate dormitory, returning to his room with the Dragon’s Dance in hand, and Posea’s Allegory in pocket. A trail of candles lit the corridor behind him.

He straightened his coat as he closed the door behind him, exhaling a soft sigh of fatigue. He lit the candle on his table while placing his notes into a neat pile, separate from the rest. Toran added Posea’s Allegory to his bookshelf, which contained a variety of literature on different subjects.

‘That is certainly a dangerous book,’ he thought to himself, shaking his head. “I’ll have to return to it later when I have more information on the topic. For now, it is impossible to make a reasonable conclusion on its veracity, or more realistically on how literally it should be taken.’

He put his thoughts aside and turned to a non-distinct part of his room. His eyes were trained upon a wooden plank that was partly nailed to the floor, and he strode towards it. He pulled the plank off the floor, moving it to the side, to open a compact storage unit. Inside was a book, but it had a supernatural quality to it.

Toran placed the book onto the table, gently brushing a light layer of dust from its surface. It revealed a brown tome made from a beast’s hide which was bound together with a rare metal and thread.

The front had an intricate pattern that was almost alien like from its complexity. No one that he knew could understand what it meant, or what it even did.

This book was a grimoire. A lost technology of mankind that enabled Malevolent users to store spells within and cast them without chanting. In recent history, they had greatly aided research into Alchemical Malevolency and the dissemination of new spells. However, their downside was their rarity. There was a fixed amount in circulation, and he was fortunate to have been gifted one.

He sat down at his chair, taking his quill from the ink well, and began writing down all he knew into the grimoire in preparation for the examination. A mixture of diagrams, charts, and runic formula appeared on the pages. It was a magnificent sight, almost artistic.

These were the foundation to the creation and understanding of Alchemical spells. There were a set of foundational runic symbols that once put together in a formula or equation would produce a spell.

From there, the Alchemist would have to produce the incantation, then simplify it into a typically single-word chant. If it were more complex, multi-word chants were used. What was significant about grimoires were that they removed this step entirely from the spell creation process.

The more advanced runic symbols were at the forefront of Alchemical and Ascensionist research. Toran knew that, despite Citadel’s current research progress, it would be arrogant to believe that they understood even a modicum of Alchemical Malevolency. This was a widely held opinion within the upper echelons of researchers.

By the time he had finished, the candle had almost been extinguished as the molten wax had reached the lit wick. Toran changed the candles out and began working in preparation to create a new spell with the assistance of the grimoire.

‘I’d like to create a fusion spell, preferably between miasmatic, parasitic, and agrarian Malevolency.’ He thought to himself. He made notes and connected a variety of different spells to one another to have multiple options to pick from for the optimal spell.

‘The agrarian aspect can be used as the primary attack, growing vines, plants, and trees to disrupt the opponent. It will also be the vector for the secondary attacks.’ Toran selected a choice of five agrarian spells and their runic counterparts from within the grimoire to act as the primary spell.

‘These should create a vast network of surface area that shall contain parasites that can immobilise or kill the opponent. I should fuse two different parasitic spells to enable this method of attack.’ Toran picked out six parasitic runes and spells here, splitting them between lethal and pathogenic parasites.

‘If they fail to kill, miasma can be released to control the surroundings, and to potentially kill them if they become trapped.’ He finally completed the structure of the spells. The grimoire simplified the next process, which was creating the chant, by removing the step entirely.

By writing up and working out the runic formula and equations of the spell, and by relying on previous knowledge, the grimoire was able to create its own mechanism for channelling the spell.

All Toran had to do to cast said spell was to channel his Malevolent energy through the correct runic symbols. The process would then be controlled by the grimoire which internally formed the spell. The user would then have to direct the spell to move from the grimoire into their Channeler’s weapon to attack.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

However, this required practice to perform effectively. If one tried to use it in combat without practice, they would surely die as their spells would be either poorly timed or impotent.

He picked the grimoire up, placing it into his coat pocket, and took Dragon’s Dance with him as he got up from his chair to exit his room. It was nearing midnight now and the streets were empty. He retraced his steps into the centre of the University College campus, then walked towards a nondescript alleyway.

Despite it being rather secluded, the cobblestone floor of the alleyway was swept clean with no traces of dust, sewage, or any other signs poor sanitary conditions. Other than Toran, the alleyway was sparsely populated, save the lamps that lit the way with pockets of candlelight.

He took a left turn halfway through the alleyway, where a solitary wooden door stood. He rapped his knuckles on its frame with a rhythmic beat. A young man with a receding hairline opened the door with a smile. It was a man he was familiar with, though he rarely saw often within the University College campus.

“Ah, Toran Rhosyn. What can I help you with today?” The man smiled, his hands smoothing the creases out of his black breaches.

“Hello, Francis. I would like to hire a room out for practice, please.” Toran requested.

“Of course, follow me.” Francis turned to lead the way. His tailcoat blew with the wind of a rogue draft. Toran followed him. The path led to a staircase, which they descended.

The staircase led to a long corridor which doors lined intermittently. Thunderous explosions reverberated throughout, sending auditory shock waves at Toran and Francis.

“We have two rooms available tonight. I will let you pick your poison as none are reserved.” Francis spoke, waving a hand before them.

Toran nodded in thanks, then walked through the corridor until he reached a vacant room. Inside, the room was covered in runic symbols that were almost ephemeral in nature. They blurred, disappearing as quickly as they came into the next symbol in its sequence. They flickered through a variety of poly-chromatic patterns, which prompted him to think that he never saw the same ones repeat again after they appeared once before.

He withdrew his grimoire, holding it in his left hand, while his right hand contained the Dragon’s Dance. He flicked through the pages until he reached one of his most recent creations.

Next, he channelled his Malevolent energy through the page to begin the creation of the first spell that was titled ‘Malignant Garden’. The Malevolent energy was drawn into the grimoire, spreading through his runic formula.

He could feel, by extension, his Malevolency being moulded and constructed into the chosen spell inside the grimoire’s pages. It was similar to the sensation he would feel if he chanted it aloud, creating its structure within his own body.

Once he felt its completion, Toran then transferred the spell through his body into his Channeler’s weapon. He released it.

Beneath him, roots shot out in all directions, burrowing into the earth before exploding out creating a cage-like forest. Their tired boughs, with rotten pulp from the parasites, confined the space from the rest of the arena. From them, moss grew which contained further hidden parasites that waited to attack.

Miasma began to pervade the arena as formless purple clouds hung in the air. They were puffed out by vile flowers that grew in between the roots and the boughs.

Toran began controlling different parts of the spell, testing the limits of each component within it.

‘The spell isn’t worth casting unless I’m required to crowd control,’ he concluded. ‘It requires too much of my Malevolent energy reserves to cast, too much of my concentration to manipulate, and finally, it’s inhibitive for me as well. It lowers my agility and movement as much as my opponents.’

He then tried the next two spells that he had created with grimoire, each one was deemed a failure. The second spell was called ‘Harlequin Forest’, and the third, ‘Forgotten Land’.

‘Harlequin Forest isn’t versatile enough. The agrarian rune was ineffective, same goes for its pathogenic parasite. However, it should be acknowledged that the lethal parasite and miasmatic runes were perfect.’ He noted down.

‘The Forgotten Land spell was mostly a failure. However, the pathogenic parasite might be a great combination with Harlequin Forest’s lethal parasite and miasma… The next spell might be a success then as they contain both.’

Toran invoked the next spell, ‘Fungi’s Torment’. He carefully channelled it through the Dragon’s Dance which released spores into the air. They then buried themselves into the ground where Malevolency pressurised the spores, forcing them to grow at a supernatural speed.

The mycelium grew first. Thin white webs of roots created a network that connected each spore below ground. They thieved from energy sources of organic matter that he targeted, which would be his opponents. Each web produced lethal and pathogenic parasites inside in preparation for the next stage.

Finally, the sporophores grew. They burst through the earth’s surface causing seismic fractures, disturbing the fabricated floor. Five humongous mushrooms covered a huge distance of ground while giving Toran enough space to move unimpeded. At the same time, underneath the earth, the mycelium would attack his opponents almost insistently.

From here, parasites would next attack from within the mycelium and through contact with the sporophores. If they failed to kill, Toran would manipulate the fungi to release clouds of toxic miasma in all directions. It wouldn’t be safe to remain near any mushroom.

‘Perfect!’ Toran inwardly cheered. ‘It is perfect in nearly all categories. The main success is that it requires minimal Malevolent energy usage to initiate it. While this increases when pressurising the spores, the spell is pretty much autonomous thereafter.’

He did some finalising tests afterwards to understand it better, working out its limits and defects. However, this was eventually cut short as he had begun to run out of Malevolent energy due to casting too many exhaustive spells.

He walked over to the wall containing the only constant runic pattern, on which contained a specific engraving that was widely known. It read ‘Restore’. He tapped it with his finger. A knock at his door sounded a few moments later.

Outside, Francis stood waiting. The door opened and he smiled at Toran.

“Follow me. The vats are this way.” Francis said.

Toran followed Francis down the hallway, and they took a right at a forked road. It led to an ornamental bronze door, which would be heavily protected by arrays and runes. Francis opened it.

Inside the room, it contained giant metal storage vats that lined every wall save the entrance. Steam puffed out from a shoot at the top, which when combined with the chemical smells, were malodorous.

Toran wrinkled his nose in disgust, but quickly ignored it as best he could. Horrible. I am not sure how anyone can work here.

“I have my apprentice card, here,” Toran handed Francis the card. “I am still within my weekly allowance.”

Francis scanned the card with a minuscule amount of energy, then smiled. “You definitely are. It says here that your final exam is this week.”

How does he know that? He must have a higher clearance than I previously thought. That’s strange, I always thought him to be rather low-ranking. That was a rather poor conclusion, I suppose. Particularly if he is guarding these vats.

“Because of that, you get an unlimited amount of Malevolent energy until your exams. Lucky you. My advice would be to use it as best you can.” Francis continued.

“Why weren’t we told that in the letter?” Toran asked.

“You want to be a member of the Ascensionists, right?” Francis responded to Toran's question with a question of his own.

“Yes.”

“You now have to learn things by yourself. Some will find this out the hard way, unfortunately. Others won’t because they’re a mixture of independent learners, curious, or hard workers. They try everything they possibly can, testing every opportunity, even if it isn’t stated.” Francis replied.

“I see…” Toran nodded, relieved that he had found this opportunity. It would be instrumental to his success.

“Pick whichever vat you want; they have been refilled with Malevolent energy. You may only take up to the maximum apprentice reserve level. I will check to make sure.” Francis said.

Toran walked over to one of the metal vats. Steam gushed out of the top. Its odour worse than before. It was more concentrated and pungent.

He put his hand inside the tap. His fingers and palm felt coldness on the receiving end. Inside his mind, Toran knew what he was about to feel. He pictured it in his mind, then pushed it aside. He could not keep such emotions of pity or sadness for too long if he wanted to continue as a sorcerer.

Dead humans. Piled within a vat.

The dead's Malevolent energy was used to replenish his own. Ultimately, it was only a cadaver. A means to an end. A means to ascend. A means to keep him alive. A means for him to fight. To kill. To live. To ascend.