Prologue 0.5: A Scholar's Final Observation
In the hushed embrace of the dimly lit laboratory, surrounded by ancient tomes and flickering candles, I stand on the precipice of madness and salvation. The war's flames were initially stoked by the sparks of greed and territorial disputes, like embers flickering on the fringes of a parched forest. The onslaught by the Empire showed no mercy, sparing none, not even the revered Alviran Church. They initiated an assault on the Holy City, dismantling the existing authority in a conviction of the emperor's divine right.
But none of that mattered to me. What started as a theory has now begun to become my masterpiece, my Magnus Opus. It didn’t matter to me the world around me was burning as long as I could carry forth my creation.
My fingers tremble as I grasp the vial, its contents swirling like liquid moonlight. It is a cocktail of desperation and genius, a blend of magic and machination that even I, the Alviran’s head faith scholar, in the deepest recesses of my torment, cannot fully comprehend. The goddess's image haunts my thoughts, her divine visage burned into my retina by the church, a reminder of the creation's purpose—to embody her perfection and wield her might.
Yet, my methods have strayed into the realm of the sinister, the grotesque. The creation of this vessel has required sacrifices, a symphony of stolen mana cores, and harvested body parts from every corner of our realm. Each piece is a whisper of a life extinguished for the greater good, or so I tell myself in the darkest hours of the night. But tonight, as I hold the pulverized heart of a dragon—a creature of awe and majesty—my own heart wavers.
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With a voice that borders on delirium, I intone the final incantation, the words resonating with a strange blend of reverence and derangement. The concoction shivers, a storm of power coalescing in the center of the room. My surroundings blur, and a surge of arcane force breezes past me, my mad laughter echoing through the chamber.
Then, it happens—the culmination of a twisted dream and a desperate reality. A light erupts from the center of the room, blinding and ethereal. Following the light, a deafening eruption lacerated my body and flung me to the corner. As the brilliance ebbs away, a small figure lies amidst the dissipating luminescence. My breath catches in my throat as the small form stirs, silver hair cascading like a waterfall of moonbeams.
In the deafening silence, my senses are awash with the sight before me—the creation, the homunculus. The perfect image of the goddess, wrought from magic and sinew, a vessel that may wield the power needed to tip the scales of fate. Tears gather in the corners of my eyes, not from regret, but from awe. Awe at the raw beauty, the surge of mana that flows through its very essence. I sensed the innocence within those bright, yet fragile eyes. Amidst the wonder, a fear of its power lingered—the sheer amount of mana it contained was truly extraordinary. Exceeding any human magician I've previously encountered by a considerable margin.
Yet, as my heart swells with a triumphant madness, the door crashes open. The Empire’s soldiers pour in, weapons drawn, faces contorted with a mixture of fear and loyalty. Battle-weary soldiers from their clash with the holy paladins. They seize the being, the embodiment of hope and desperation, and cast me to the ground, a wild-eyed dying madman amidst the horrors of my own crime.
As they retreat with their precious cargo, a single question remains, echoing in the emptiness of my mind. What have I done? In this cursed triumph, have I paved the way to salvation or plunged us into deeper ruin? As the doors swing shut, I am left alone with an empty husk of a laboratory, my bleeding body, and my broken mind, haunted by the uncertain future I may never witness.