Chapter: Where Spirits Lead the Way, the Winds Will Never Fade
The final week of preparation passed swiftly for some, but for Aethyr, time was both an ally and an enemy. He spent his days maximizing every second, visiting both the iron forge and the garment workshop to craft the gear that would shield him from the punishing heat beneath the volcano.
In the garment workshop, he selected the finest materials, following the teachings of his uncle Eorlund Graymane, the legendary blacksmith, whose words echoed in his mind:"Son, you work with heat, keep yourself hydrated and avoid long contact with open flame."
The forge’s heat was a reminder of what awaited him in the depths below. He reviewed materials in front of him—coated fabrics, silica textiles, Nomex, and Kevlar—his fingers tracing their textures as he remembered Eorlund’s advice.
"You can combine these, and you’ll stand before a dragon and feel only a warm breeze."The memory of Eorlund’s hearty laugh pushed Aethyr onward. With skillful hands, he combined the flame-resistant properties of Kevlar with the light but resilient Nomex, weaving them together with silica fibers to create an armor that was both flexible and protective.
By night, however, when most students and mages slumbered, Aethyr sought something far more dangerous—time itself. In the shadows, he made his way to the hidden place no one dared to tread: The Alteration School, where an old, weathered sign still read, "Master the Art of Transformation."
There, Master Alious waited. Aethyr had heard rumors—Alious was more than just a master of alteration. Some called him brilliant, others mad, but Aethyr knew he needed power beyond conventional means to survive the trials ahead. He made a desperate decision to train under him in secret. Time magic, Alious warned, was a double-edged sword. It could grant him the ability to speed up his training and slow time around him, but it came at a great cost: his life force.
In the Chamber of Frozen Souls, a place that seemed like an ancient wardrobe on the outside, Aethyr used this forbidden magic to turn six days into six months of grueling training. Each time he emerged from the chamber, his body was ravaged—blood in his lungs, his muscles burning from within, but he endured. This time-bending training sharpened his reflexes and heightened his understanding of magic, but it left a mark on his soul, a weight that would reveal itself only in the trials to come.
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The Day of Departure
When the day of his departure arrived, Aethyr stood before the Masters, looking like a man who had been through years of battle. His armor, a blend of mage robes and battle gear, shimmered in dark red, its surface glowing faintly with an otherworldly energy. The Masters exchanged glances—some in awe, others with suspicion. His attire bore the signature of both battle-hardened wisdom and something... unnatural.
Asphyr’s eyes lingered on him, his healing magic having kept Aethyr from death after his brutal time training. There was a silent understanding between them—Aethyr had pushed his limits.
"Are you certain you’re ready?" Asphyr asked, his tone betraying concern.
Aethyr nodded, his expression calm. "I am prepared."
The Masters did not protest further. Sarphin’s eyes gleamed as he muttered, "Let the dungeon test his claim."
With nothing more than a worn-out map, outdated by five years, Aethyr boarded the horse cart that would take him to the foot of the volcano. The journey was long, but his mind was elsewhere, already piecing together strategies for what awaited him.
At the Dungeon Entrance
The entrance loomed before him: an enormous dwarven gate, shut tight and sealed with age. It was ancient and unyielding, carved from obsidian and iron, with symbols of dwarven craftsmanship etched deep into its surface. A place where fire and stone had merged under the fury of the mountain.
Aethyr scouted the perimeter, searching for another way in. His eyes caught a narrow gap in the stonework—too small for most men, but just wide enough for him to slip through. The gap had likely been made by adventurers long ago, those brave—or foolish—enough to enter the dungeon’s deadly depths. His brain fired with calculations, analyzing potential traps and hidden mechanisms.
Stepping cautiously into the dark, his senses heightened, Aethyr activated a small orb of magelight to cast a faint glow over the tunnel. The walls were smooth yet old, adorned with faded dwarven runes. He could feel the heat rising the further he went. His newly crafted armor seemed to absorb the ambient heat, keeping him cool, but the sensation of stepping deeper into the unknown sent a chill down his spine.
As he descended the winding stone staircase, the air grew heavier, hotter, and the distant rumble of the volcano became an ever-present reminder of the dangers below. This place, once a thriving dwarven city, was now a tomb of wonders and terrors alike.
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The First Floor - The Trial Begins
The first chamber opened before him, vast and hollow, with high ceilings held aloft by massive dwarven columns. Steam hissed from the walls, and a series of rusted gears creaked as if awakening from centuries of dormancy. But Aethyr was not alone.
A deep, guttural growl echoed through the room, followed by the clattering of armor. From the shadows emerged a giant armored dwarf, long dead, but animated by some dark force. The first boss. Its massive hammer, glowing with molten heat, swung menacingly as it stepped forward, each footstep shaking the floor beneath Aethyr.
The trial had begun.