Alex’s senses tingled, his body stiffening with the unmistakable sensation of impending catastrophe.
“Everyone, get down!” he barked, his voice cutting through the air like a whip. Without hesitation, he crouched low, his instincts demanding readiness.
His companions, though confused, obeyed without question. Astarion opened his mouth to protest, but before he could utter a single word, the entire tower convulsed violently. The quake that followed was unlike any they had felt before—more violent, more prolonged. The very foundations beneath them groaned in protest as stone cracked and dust rained from the ceiling. The world outside roared with chaos.
Alex sprang toward the nearest window, gripping the frame tightly as he peered out over the city below. His eyes narrowed, scanning the devastation unfurling beneath him.
Cracks webbed across the buildings like jagged scars, and whole streets had ruptured, splitting apart as though some great force beneath the city had torn them asunder. People ran in every direction, their panicked screams rising to the heavens. The tremors persisted for agonizing moments before ceasing just as abruptly as they had begun. The city trembled in the wake of its silence.
Alex’s expression darkened. 'There isn’t much time left.'
He turned away from the window, striding toward his friends, their expectant gazes heavy upon him.
“The quakes are getting worse,” Gale stated, his tone carrying the weight of unspoken dread.
All eyes shifted to Alex, the silent question hanging between them. They had come to rely on him for answers, trusting in his ability to see through even the most obscure and dire situations.
“They’re losing control of the Netherbrain,” Alex said, his voice steady but grave.
The weight of his words settled over them like a suffocating fog.
“How?” Gale asked, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Is the power of the crown weakening?”
Alex shook his head. “No. The Netherbrain must have grown too powerful—it’s beginning to break its chains. These quakes are the aftereffects of that struggle.” He let the silence stretch for a beat before delivering the inevitable truth. “It won’t be long before those chains shatter completely. And then…”
A hush fell over them. The conclusion was too horrifying to speak aloud.
“Then we’ll have an Elder Brain, with the power of a god, roaming free on this plane,” Blackhand finished, his voice laced with grim understanding.
A suffocating tension settled between them.
“What can we do to stop it?” Shadowheart asked, gripping the handle of her weapon tightly as if bracing herself.
In answer, the Orphic Hammer materialized in Alex’s grasp. Its weight was reassuring, solid—a symbol of hope, or perhaps of the desperate gamble they were about to take.
As if responding to the moment, the Astral Prism shot from Shadowheart’s satchel, hovering in midair. It spun rapidly along its axis, a radiant light bursting forth as a swirling portal materialized before them. Through it, the vast, shimmering expanse of the Astral Sea unfolded, stretching infinitely in every direction like an endless tapestry of stars and silver mist.
A voice, rich and commanding, resonated through the chamber.
“Many thanks for retrieving my hammer,” Orpheus intoned. “Step through the portal. We have much to discuss.”
His tone was neither demanding nor pleading—it was firm, resolute.
Alex took a measured breath, his gaze sweeping across his companions. The trust in their eyes, the unspoken bonds forged through battle and bloodshed, steadied him.
“I’ll be back soon,” he assured them, his voice unwavering. Then, without hesitation, he stepped forward, crossing the threshold .
Alex's gaze swept the scene. He was inside the massive, hollow skull of the dead god, but the place had changed since his last visit. The eerie, unnatural silence still lingered, but there was now an order to the space. Neatly arranged rugs formed a perfect circle, and dozens of Githzerai sat upon them, meditating in absolute stillness. They looked as if they had become part of the void itself, their bodies so unmoving they could have been statues.
At the center of them all sat Orpheus. His powerful, battle-worn frame was relaxed, his eyes closed, his expression serene. Then, as if sensing Alex’s presence before even opening his eyes, he slowly lifted his gaze to meet him. A faint, knowing smile crossed his lips.
Alex moved forward. The weight of unseen eyes followed his every step, though none of the Githzerai meditating so much as twitched. Their discipline was absolute. Their focus unwavering.
Orpheus gestured for Alex to sit before him, a quiet invitation. Without hesitation, Alex mirrored the posture of the Githzerai, lowering himself into a lotus position with practiced ease. He placed the Orphic Hammer before them, the weapon glowing faintly with dormant power.
Orpheus leaned forward, his fingers brushing over the hammer’s intricate handle before slowly wrapping around it. As soon as his grip tightened, the crystal head of the weapon pulsed with a deep crimson hue, illuminating the chamber in waves of spectral light. It was as if the hammer recognized its master, responding to his very essence.
For a moment, Orpheus merely sat with it, feeling the energy course through him. Then, with reverence, he placed the weapon before Alex once more and bowed his head.
“You have my gratitude,” Orpheus said, his voice steady yet heavy with meaning. Then he lifted his gaze and looked directly into Alex’s eyes. “Now, consume the hammer.”
Alex’s brow furrowed. He looked at Orpheus, then at the weapon. Slowly, he extended his hand over it.
As soon as he did, tendrils of dark flesh and sinew slithered from his arm, creeping forward like hungry serpents. They wrapped themselves around the hammer, enveloping it completely, forming a pulsating cocoon .
The entire chamber seemed to shift. The stillness of the Githzerai around them wavered, their minds subtly stirring as if disturbed by something beyond their understanding. Orpheus watched intently, unblinking, as pulses of raw, psionic energy traveled from the hammer into Alex’s core, siphoning its power into him.
Then, without a sound, the cocoon retracted, leaving nothing behind. The hammer was gone. It had become part of Alex.
“Fascinating,” Orpheus murmured, his voice almost reverent.
Alex flexed his fingers, feeling the remnants of the hammer’s energy course through him. He looked at Orpheus, curiosity burning in his mind. “Can I ask a question?”
Orpheus inclined his head in permission.
“Why make me do this?” Alex asked.
A soft chuckle escaped Orpheus, and for the first time, there was a glimpse of amusement in his otherwise stoic expression.
“My people are known to be extremely distrustful of outsiders. Our devotion to self-preservation runs deep.” His gaze grew distant for a moment before returning to Alex. “But I have come to the conclusion that, despite going against our ways, you are the only one who can defeat the Netherbrain.”
Alex studied him carefully, considering the weight of his words.
Orpheus lifted a hand, and with a mere thought, a crimson flame ignited in his palm. Its flickering light was mesmerizing, but it was more than fire—it was power.
Immediately, Alex felt its pull. His psionic strength, vast and seemingly endless, was being drawn toward it, burned away in slow but noticeable increments. He clenched his jaw as he focused, resisting the drain. Around them, the Githzerai stirred for the first time, their minds reacting to the energy shift. For them, the effect was much stronger.
Orpheus turned his palm, studying the flame with a mixture of admiration and regret. “Initially, I asked an old friend to send me the most promising warriors from his ranks, someone I could teach my technique to.” He glanced at the meditating Gith, his expression thoughtful. “I called it the Flaming Mind. But no one could replicate it.”
Alex’s gaze flickered toward the flame again. It was consuming, relentless—yet controlled.
“And why is that?” he asked.
Orpheus closed his hand, extinguishing the flame. “Because it is tied to my blood. To my origins.” He met Alex’s gaze, his golden eyes filled with quiet certainty. “But you, Alex Mercer—you should be able to copy it.”
Alex tilted his head slightly, intrigued.
"Through all this journey, you have overcome insurmountable odds, but perhaps the greatest reason I have chosen you is because of your adaptability. You wield power in ways that should be impossible. Arcane, infernal psionic, elemental, divine—you do not just control them, you merge them, bend them to your will as though they were merely different shades of the same force. That alone sets you apart. But more than that, you possess an indomitable will and a warrior’s spirit." Orpheus' voice carried both reverence and resolution as he studied Alex.
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Alex met Orpheus' gaze, seeing not just approval, but expectation—an unspoken acknowledgment that he was meant for something greater. There was no room for hesitation, no place for self-doubt. Orpheus had weighed him, tested him, and deemed him worthy.
"But enough words. It is time."
With a thought, Orpheus summoned a shimmering dagger forged entirely of psionic energy, its edges crackling with power beyond mortal comprehension. The blade pulsed in rhythm with his breath, an extension of his mind given form.
"Place your hand forward," Orpheus instructed.
Alex did as he was told, stretching his palm out without fear.
With a swift and precise motion, Orpheus dragged the blade across his palm.
The moment the first droplet of Orpheus’ blood touched his skin, something inside him stirred. The blood was thick with raw potential, carrying within it the weight of a lineage forged for a singular purpose—hunting and eradicating psionic entities.
Alex’s body reacted instinctively, absorbing the blood into his very being. Orpheus was not just a warrior—he was a mutation, an anomaly among his own people, engineered by fate or design to be the bane of mind-dominating entities.
The wound on Orpheus’ hand sealed almost instantly, as if the cut had never been made. Then, he extended both hands towards Alex, his expression grave yet determined.
"Take my hands," he said.
Alex clasped them without hesitation.
The moment their palms met, a tidal wave of knowledge surged into Alex’s mind. It was not gentle. It was not kind. It was raw, unfiltered, and absolute. It burned through his thoughts like a raging inferno, unraveling secrets that had been locked away for centuries.
Visions flashed before him at an incomprehensible speed—warriors clad in golden armor, their minds burning with psionic flame; battles against monstrous entities whose very existence warped reality; the weight of a thousand lifetimes of discipline, suffering, and victory.
And then came the technique.
The Flaming Mind.
He could feel it now, coursing through him like a second heartbeat. It was more than just a technique—it was a state of being. It was the ability to convert thought into fire burning all the thoughts, to wield the raw force of will as a weapon.
Orpheus’ grip tightened ever so slightly. "This is my gift to you, Alex Mercer. The culmination of all that I am, all that I have fought for. You alone can carry it forward."
The pressure in Alex’s head reached a crescendo, then—
Silence.
When he opened his eyes, they burned not with fire, but with the void of limitless possibility. The Flaming Mind was his now. Not inherited. Not borrowed. His.
And he would use it to end the Netherbrain once and for all.
Alex's hand rose slowly, palm open, as a single ember of crimson flame took hold. It flickered uncertainly at first, but as he focused, it grew—small, then larger, until it was a roaring fire, a manifestation of raw psionic might . The heat pulsed around them, waves of energy radiating outward like the heartbeat of a sleeping dragon waking at last.
All around him, the githzerai stirred from their meditation, their disciplined minds unable to ignore the sheer presence of the power unfolding before them. Some of them moved back instinctively, their sharp eyes flickering between Alex and the roaring fire in his palm.
Orpheus remained still, watching with a serene expression, but deep within, he understood the truth of what he was witnessing. 'He is already surpassing me.' The realization settled in his mind, not as a source of envy, but as affirmation. His choice had been the right one.
And then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, Alex closed his fist, and the flame vanished. No burst of dissipating energy, no lingering embers—it was simply gone, swallowed back into his being, as if it had never existed.
For a moment, silence reigned. The gathered warriors held their breath, waiting for something more. But Alex simply looked at his hand, then up at Orpheus, his gaze steady.
Orpheus nodded, breaking the quiet. “Go on now. Prepare yourself, for the great battle looms over us all.”
A portal swirled into existence behind Alex, its edges shimmering with the familiar hues of the Astral Plane. Orpheus’ expression darkened slightly, as though something weighed on him. “One last thing,” he said. “Give the prism to Voss.”
Alex met his eyes, nodded once, then stepped forward. He did not hesitate. He did not waver. The portal swallowed him whole, and then it was gone.
The chamber was still for a few heartbeats before a figure stepped forward. Zephyr Gish'ra Verik, one of the most revered among Orpheus’ warriors, approached him cautiously. The tension in her shoulders betrayed her unease, though her face remained schooled in discipline.
“What troubles you, Zephyr Gish'ra Verik?” Orpheus asked, his voice calm but knowing.
Verik’s sharp, violet eyes flickered toward the space where the portal had been before meeting his gaze. “The warriors whisper among themselves. There is uncertainty, unease. They question your choice.”
Orpheus exhaled softly, nodding in understanding. “They fear what they do not understand.”
“They fear that you place too much trust in an outsider,” Verik corrected. “They do not see what you see. They ask why one who is not gith should be given the weapon of the great Orpheus himself.”
Orpheus turned, his gaze sweeping over the gathered githzerai, many of whom still cast wary glances toward where Alex had stood. He took a slow step forward, his presence alone commanding absolute silence.
“I have walked many paths,” Orpheus said, his voice carrying across the chamber, “and I have seen many warriors—some of strength, some of wisdom, some of power beyond reckoning. But never before have I seen one who can weave together the strands of existence as he does.” His golden eyes flickered with certainty. “Magic, psionics, divinity—it does not matter. He bends them, molds them, reforges them in ways even we cannot.”
A murmur spread through the gathered githzerai, though none dared speak aloud. Verik’s expression did not shift. “And you are certain?”
Orpheus gave a small, almost knowing smile. “I am.” He turned his gaze back toward the empty space Alex had left behind. “I have chosen not because he is gith, but because he is the only one who can end this. He is the executioner of gods, the hand that will shatter the Netherbrain.”
The room remained heavy with uncertainty, but none voiced their dissent. Verik studied her master for a long moment before bowing her head in acceptance. “Then we will follow where you lead.”
Orpheus gave one final nod before looking toward the ceiling, his mind reaching out into the vast unknown.
May the gods themselves tremble before what comes next.
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Alex appeared on the top of the magic tower. His friends sat around, waiting, their eyes flickering with curiosity and concern. The moment he materialized, Lae'zel was the first to rise, her arms crossed over her chest, impatience plain on her face.
"How was it?" she asked, curiosity laced with restrained eagerness.
Alex exhaled slowly, allowing his gaze to sweep over his companions. Without a word, he raised his hand, and in his palm, a small crimson ember flickered into existence. The flame danced with an unnatural energy, pulsing with power far beyond what any of them had expected.
Lae'zel's sharp eyes widened. "You wield the power of the prince as if it were your own..." Her voice, usually firm and unshaken, carried a note of reverence.
"Ah, head hurts," Lorroakan grimaced, rubbing his temples as the ambient energy from Alex’s display radiated outward.
Alex closed his fist, and the flame extinguished in an instant, as if it had never been. His gaze then moved to Astarion, who was watching him expectantly, his crimson eyes gleaming with anticipation. Alex knew exactly what was on his mind.
"I think it's time to take care of Cazador once and for all," Alex stated, his voice calm but firm.
Amanita’s gaze flickered toward Astarion, reading the tension in his rigid stance. His fist clenched at his side, his knuckles turning white before he gave a resolute nod.
Alex stepped beside Astarion and motioned for Amanita to join them. Before leaving, his gaze found Shadowheart, who stood a little apart from the group, her expression unreadable.
"I promise we will be back soon," Alex said, his voice carrying a quiet reassurance.
Shadowheart gave him a small, tight nod, but her fingers curled slightly, betraying the emotions swirling beneath the surface.
The world warped, and in an instant, Alex, Astarion, and Amanita vanished.
Shadowheart let out a slow breath and sank into a nearby couch, her shoulders drawn tight. The weight of everything settled onto her chest like a leaden cloak.
Gale approached, his brow furrowed as he sat down beside her. "You're troubled."
She sighed, her hands gripping her knees. "Things keep getting bigger and bigger, Gale. Gods, princes, world-ending threats. And me? I feel like I’m just standing in the background while Alex faces things beyond comprehension. I can't shake the feeling that I have no place in his life anymore. He’s battling divine beings, and I..." She trailed off, frustration threading through her voice. "I can’t do anything to help him. Not really."
Gale regarded her for a long moment before offering her a knowing smile. "Shadowheart, strength isn't always measured in the power to smite enemies or reshape the world. Sometimes, it lies in being the tether that keeps someone grounded. Alex isn’t just fighting battles with his fists. He’s carrying a burden that none of us can fully understand. And yet, through it all, he keeps looking back—back at us, back at you." His voice softened. "You are his anchor. His reason to keep pushing forward."
Shadowheart looked at him, doubt flickering in her gaze. "But what if that’s not enough? What if he doesn’t need me?"
Gale chuckled lightly, shaking his head. "Believe me, I know what it’s like to feel small in the face of something vast and incomprehensible. But if you think Alex fights these battles without you in his thoughts, you’re mistaken. You're not just watching from the sidelines—you’re the reason he keeps coming back."
Shadowheart’s lips pressed together as she mulled over his words. She exhaled slowly, some of the tension in her shoulders easing.
"I hope you're right, Gale."
"I usually am," he said with a wink.
She huffed out a short laugh, shaking her head. "You really are insufferable sometimes."
Gale grinned. "That’s part of my charm."
For the first time in a while, Shadowheart allowed herself a small smile. The uncertainty still lingered, but perhaps, just perhaps, she wasn’t as alone in this as she thought.
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The shadows gathered in one point, coalescing into a swirling mass of darkness. From them, three figures emerged—Alex, Amanita, and Astarion. Their eyes swept across the grand hall, their vision unhindered by the dim, flickering light. Candles burned in ornate sconces along the walls, their weak glow barely enough to illuminate the vast chamber. Overhead, a golden chandelier hung from the vaulted ceiling, its countless candles dripping wax like slow, silent tears onto the polished floor below.
The walls were painted a deep, ominous red, the color of old blood, with intricate golden motifs etched into their surface. Between the golden flourishes, massive paintings adorned the space, their gilded frames housing portraits of people long gone. Their eyes, lifeless yet haunting, seemed to watch the intruders with eerie curiosity. The floor beneath them was composed of dark, intertwined planks, their polished sheen reflecting the flickering flames. A long, luxurious red carpet, embroidered with gold thread, stretched down the center of the hall, leading to the heart of the palace.
Behind them stood the entrance door of Sazar Palace—massive, ornate, and foreboding. It was carved with scenes of revelry and decadence, their heavy weight serving as both a barrier and a warning. Astarion’s breath hitched as he took a slow, cautious step forward, his body tensing as though the very air in the palace pressed down upon him. The scent of old wine, lingering incense, and something metallic—something unmistakably like blood—filled his lungs.
Amanita, usually composed, found her fingers brushing against Alex’s hand, an unconscious search for reassurance. There was something about this place, something ancient and oppressive, that made even the strongest feel vulnerable. Alex, however, remained still, his expression unreadable.
He could sense them. Minds wandering through the corridors , moving through hidden chambers beyond the walls. Silent footsteps echoed from distant halls, whispers carried through the stagnant air. They were not alone.
Without a word, Alex took a step forward, his movements deliberate, confident. Astarion and Amanita followed at his side, their gazes darting between the shadows that clung to the corners of the chamber. Each step felt like a descent into something deeper, something darker.
The hunt had begun.