Centuries before
Not much was known about the Tiurna Mountains around the world. Well, except that they divided the continent of Eva in half, that strange things happened the higher up you went (and for the matter the stranger the people inhabiting them became) and that, underneath, there was a true gold mine. Airm, no, gold was the least of it. Any kind of rare metal that ever existed could be found there, and relatively close to the surface too!
If you want to understand just how good of an opportunity it was, just know that, at some point, the dwarves of Aknos organized what would come to be known as their first and last expeditionary force: a group two hundred dwarves strong that went to Eva and started a small colony on the side of mountain.
They left two weeks later, collapsing their tunnels, declaring the place ‘Unfriendly’, dismantling their colony and leaving behind only one message: ‘Do not use flames’.
But of course candles cost less than hiring a [Mage] to cast and maintain a [Light] or [Illumination] Spell, and of course nobody believed that the dwarves, of all people, would say something so ominous. Yes, I know, it’s shocking, and this is not sarcastic, but apparently being the friendliest people in the world makes it hard to take you seriously when you need to.
So it was that Francis, a [Miner] working for the illustrious Pixie Company (yes, a strange name indeed), was mining underneath the Tiurna Mountains. His surname was unimportant. Really, the only reason why he’s even being mentioned is what he accidentally did.
Now, the Pixie Company had been pushing to dig deeper and deeper under the mountains for nearly five years now. They’d become rich with all the minerals they’d extracted but, as has always been the case with greedy people, they kept going. They forced their [Miners] to dig deeper and deeper in the hopes of finding even rarer metals, maybe even some undiscovered ones.
And the [Miners]? They dug, simple as that. Their pays were good, the food wasn’t bad, they had roofs over their heads at night, good doctors always ready to help them if the worst came to be and, most important of all, a group of extremely well trained [Warriors] always on standby in the main mineshaft. ‘For what?’ you may be wondering. The answer is quite simple: to scare off the Wardens.
Nobody knew what, exactly, they were, nor what they were wardens of for that matter. They were these wormlike monsters longer than five fully grown horses put one in front of the other, their height comparable to two of those same horses put one on top of the other.
Their skin, if that’s what it was, was made of a kind of carapace that was as strong, if not stronger, than steel. Truth be told, the older they got the harder it became to pierce. Only once they had encountered an Elder Warden and, well, that hadn’t gone well. Their team of [Warriors] had gained four Levels each in that encounter, and they were all over Level 30.
But really, as you’ve all probably understood, that wasn’t the really dangerous part. No, that was the blade-like appendages that protruded from the carapace, together with the Wardens’ ability to move as easily as water down a mineshaft, as if their natural armor didn’t hinder them at all.
Finally, there was the head: a single eye the color of the midday sun, covered by a thick nictitating membrane. When these monsters attacked their eyes emitted a blinding light that was, somehow, concentrated, as if the membrane acted as a magnifying glass. The resulting light could melt people over short spans of time. There were horror stories going around the various Companies about how, sometimes, Wardens melted the rock of the tunnels and covered the [Miners] and people protecting them in magma.
In short, they were a true nightmare.
And in the last few weeks their attacks had increased in number and severity.
Still, Francis and the other [Miners] didn’t stop working because they all wanted the money. They could feel the ‘mythril fever’, as it was called among their circles: the desire to keep mining in the hopes of striking true, of finding that one big vein that would set them up for the rest of their lives. The hope and dream of every [Miner] that had ever existed.
“[Power Swing]!” he shouted, activating a Skill as his pickaxe came down and sheared through the rocks like a knife through meat.
It cleaved through the wall in front of him, then downwards still, until it hit the floor, planting itself in the ground with a resounding crack!, the worst sound one could ever hear underground.
But then, it was already too late.
Cracks appeared in the floor, expanding from where his pickaxe was still stuck.
He looked on in frozen horror, his hands stuck to the object. Then a scream left his lips, his fear finally overpowering everything else as he let go, turned around and began running.
As stated, though, it was already too late.
The ground under his feet opened up like the many maws of a reveler ant, rock falling from under his feet towards a black void beneath, an endless pit of nightmares made manifest that would gobble him up whole, bones and soul.
He jumped, hoping to reach the safety of the tunnels a bit higher up just like some of his other companions were trying to do.
For a moment, he was weightless, free, elated and scared both.
His arm extended forward attempting to touch the lip of the stairs that led upwards, to safety and sunlight.
But he would not see the sun ever again. He wouldn’t feel its soft and harsh kiss on his skin again. He wouldn’t feel wind through his hair and the moon’s soft embrace in the dark nights when he chose to sleep under a tree.
His hand didn’t even touch the lip of the stairs.
Then he was falling.
And falling.
And falling.
And falling.
And falling.
SPLAT!
The sound echoed upwards.
And he was falling no more.
…
…
…
…
…
…
…
…
The darkness was alive. It had always been. It had stopped being so on the Surface. But down here, in this godsforsaken place, it was alive, writhing, hungry.
Yet it couldn’t feed, for it was mere darkness and darkness didn’t have form, had never had form, shouldn’t have form.
Yet, it always had, at least, once upon a time. And now still. Only, the form wasn’t alive, wasn’t as it should be. They had taken it away from them, just like everything else. Their reason to exist, their form, their thoughts, it had all been taken away.
They hated it.
They didn’t.
For they had no mind to think.
None of them had.
Still they covered the corpses that had fallen in their reign, wanting to hurt them more, to tear them apart bit by bit until all that was left of them was bone dust and smears on the floors of their eternal prison.
Then… giggling.
A single figure in the mass of eternal darkness emerged. A small figure, no higher than a meter and thirty, a little girl’s figure, with pigtails and a cute little dress. All black, all totally, utterly, completely, black, blacker than the blackness of a dark room at night underground, a black so black it ate the darkness around it, making her stand out.
The giggling turned into laughter as the girl reached the body of the man who had been known as Francis and began looking for something, anything, in his clothes.
She found it after a few seconds: matches. A small, worn, box containing just a few matches, five in total.
The girl’s laughter turned maniacal as she rummaged around inside her darkness and, after a moment, took out a millennia old candle that had been dropped down here by mistake by some explorers in a ship capable of traversing the earth as if it were a sea. Not a grain of dust had touched it, for even dust died when it formed here. The wick was in pristine condition, a bit waxed and dry.
The shadow of the girl placed the candle on the floor and the darkness around her writhed and seethed in desire and hate and lust and envy and every sin that ever was and ever will be. The darkness watched as she took out a match and, in a small, hasty, motion, struck it against the rough side of the box.
For the first time in eons, light bloomed at the bottom of this pit that had once been just earth, opened up by the gods when they’d raised the Tiurna Mountains in an attempt to trap them.
The girl watched, mesmerized for a moment by the simple beauty of that which she hadn’t been able to see for time immeasurable.
Then she placed the match near the candle’s wick and watched as that, too, caught on fire.
The darkness around her was dispelled and the endless writhing sea stopped as, slowly, figures emerged around her. Men and women made of darkness. No, not darkness: shadows. Hundreds of millions, no, billions, of shadows. The shadow of every single being that had ever died. All down here, left to rot and be forgotten, for souls could be recycled, but shadows could not, since they were made of all the evil that the living had ever committed in their life.
And the girl?
She wasn’t one of them.
She hadn’t been born from this world.
She’d come from somewhere else. A place that had been called Earth. She came from a part of that world where old gods had been killed and buried underground, their long lost power corrupting all it touched. From that, she had been born. Because of that, she was different.
The girl smiled at the candle, although nothing was shown on her face made of darkness.
Then she spoke: “You can see me now. Witness me, my mind, my desires, and give me the power I deserve.”
The System witnessed it through the light of the candle.
For a moment… It hesitated, for It didn’t like what It saw. But It had a job It had been created to do, and It had to be impartial.
So it spoke.
[Shadowed Queen of Hatred Class Obtained!]
[Shadowed Queen of Hatred Level 10!]
[Skill - The Candle of Eva Obtained!]
[Skill - …]
It kept going, until it said these final words.
[Bound Item - Everburning Candle Obtained!]
The little girl laughed and laughed and laughed, and she could laugh for a long time for she had no lungs nor a need for air.
Then she looked up at the shadows around her and, after a few moments, nodded and waltzed towards the blackest of them.
“[Summon: Brimmed Hat].”
An old, worn, black hat with a large and rather sharp brim appeared in her hands. She beckoned the darkest of the figures closer and it did, silent as the dead.
Slowly, she put the hat on top of its head.
“Welcome back, Hatman.”
[Shadowed Queen of Hatred Level 11!]
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Now
On the day the Forest of Tusca burned, on Eva, a young man stared into the flames of the Fire underneath the City of Warriors.
The flames roared up higher than they had in decades.
“Master Runa, something’s happening,” he shouted towards an old woman sleeping by the Fire on a comfortable bed.
Her one eye flew open and settled on the flames, then on her [Apprentice], then back on the flames.
“[Show Me],” she whispered, and the fire contorted as it hungrily asked for something as payment. The old woman motioned at her [Apprentice], who promptly threw a log into the Fire.
A moment later a loud crack resounded as the wood broke under the hungers of the Fire, which calmed down and began changing shapes, showing her dozens of flaming spiders skittering around as wasps punctured them to death, until the fire gobbled everything up.
Then the image of a warrior wearing worn armor appeared, marching out of a grave.
“It is not yet time. He’s yet to keep his word,” she said to the Fire.
It calmed down and she closed her one eye.
“Rest, [Apprentice]. The Fire will burn until tomorrow still, and afterwards… I will teach you what you need to know.”
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The drowned crew did its job silently. It was never a good idea to attract attention in the world under the waves.
Their [Drowned Mage] kept a [Partial Air Bubble] and a [Pressure] Spell going in their engine room, letting water spill through holes in the first spell onto paddles that transferred the power of their movement to a central axis connected to a propeller in the back, all while the second one forced the water out of a hole at the bottom of the ship. A great alternative for those crews that didn’t have someone capable of casting [Ghostly Winds] and, in general, a helpful addition even to those ships who did.
They were passing by a particular stretch of ocean that was known by many as ‘The Sleeper’s Resting Place’. Not because a kraken slept here, oh no, a kraken was a lot less destructive than what the being that slept here could, potentially, do. Or so the [Drowned Governors] in the City of Wrecks said. Nobody had ever seen the being in action. All they knew was that, when winter came to the Surface, a small being made of shadows and darkness with white eyes plummeted into the water and laid here to sleep. Always the same place, always the same spot, always arriving on the first day of winter and beginning to leave a week before the beginning of spring.
This time though, as they silently passed by the spot and the [Captain] turned to salute this strange figure (it had become a strange sort of tradition, started by the First Drowned Man and followed by all the others), he didn’t see the dark shape and the white spots in place of eyes.
No, through his [Eyes of the Angler] that allowed him to see perfectly through the darkness of the depths all he could see was sand, coral, rocks and a hole in the shape of a man between all these things.
“The Sleeper isn’t here,” he whispered to his [Quartermaster].
“What?” he asked, surprised, his tone just an octave higher than usual.
“He’s always here in the winter,” he continued.
“I don’t know. There must be matters on the Surface that he must attend to, it seems.”
They moved on, as silent as the dead, for they had, technically, been a single step away from dying. Instead, they’d accepted a thousand year old deal and joined the ranks of the drowned, of those who would never bow to anyone no matter what, of those who would help keep the seas free from the churches and their influence, for the God of the Sea had died the day he had created the waters that surrounded the Surface Lands.
On they went, and [Message] Spells were sent to every nearby Drowned City with this information. Something was amiss, and whenever something was amiss underwater it meant that things were about to change, usually for the worst.
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The Tower Academy loomed over the Visant desert, a sprawling, labyrinthine complex of dormitories and edifices of white stone all surrounding in a great circle a grand tower standing at the very center and rising towards the clouds, a Babel’s tower attempting to reach the gods that had stopped out of the builder’s boredom seeing how, at the very top, you could still see what looked like construction materials abandoned there to gather dust and sand. Well, ok, without the dust and sand part actually, all thanks to the Academy’s various protection and self-cleaning Spells.
Students and teachers alike were moving either calmly or rushing from one place to the other, many of them going for the central tower, the building created by the last great [Archmage] of the last few Eras, Hurfinger, the Archmage of Spellcrafters, better known to the rest of the world as the Archmage of Dwarves.
Now here’s a little bit of information about the dwarves: they were not a magical race. As in, they sucked at being [Mages], because their mana reserves are, normally, negligible at best. And sure, anyone would tell you that ‘that doesn’t matter! Skills will fix it’, and they wouldn’t be wrong, in fact many dwarves did just that but… for many others, it just wasn’t worth the effort.
Not exactly the best mindset, one the Grandfathers had been trying to correct for generations now, and managed to resolve partially. In the end though the thing dwarves were best at was Runecrafting, an ancient mode of magic that used the ambient Mana to power spells sculpted into small stones. It was a slow type of magic that required time to prepare, but once it was done it was quite powerful and surprisingly versatile.
It was a craft they’d taught themselves and refined with some of their closest friends. Ones that weren’t around anymore.
The Tower Academy had been built with a single purpose in mind: to allow the magics of old to be rediscovered and relearned, to keep all the politics of the world locked outside, to keep the churches with their teachings and their bookburning and hoarding of knowledge away.
Because yes, in the days before the opening of the Tower Academy, if one wished to be more than a mediocre [Mage], they’d have to go to one of the churches and be taught there, where they would be indoctrinated while being taught. In that time [Mage Paladins] abounded and they were true nightmares.
Now though, thanks to the hard work of a single dwarf (well, more like the hard work of hundreds of them when it came to the building of the place, but you get the gist of it), it was possible for anyone to come and learn all the magic one desired at a fair price.
Naturally, in the early days, things hadn’t gone so smoothly.
Politics had nearly caused the whole concept to crumble to dust, factions had formed that hoarded books and knowledge, people had tried to become rich by putting impossibly high prices for gaining access to the place.
That’s where the… ‘safety measures’ had come into play. That is to say, the monsters on all fifty of the floors. Every floor contained a specific type of monster that had been enhanced by the mana in the Academy or through experimentation, and that’s without taking into consideration the floors with sentient monsters. Why is that important? Well, the only way to beat each and every floor was to use every type of magic that could be learned from the floors below, making it basically impossible to beat a floor without people pooling their knowledge together. At first there had been attempts at creating alliances, but soon it was found out that the best way to pass floors was by combining Spells which were taught in different books, owned by different factions.
A long decade put short, the problem of factions was solved by a small rebellion and it had never appeared again, any and all newborn factions getting squashed at the time they formed.
That, ladies and gentlemen, is a show of the foresight of dwarves, who usually think in terms of decades or outright centuries ahead, instead of months and years.
Still, on that day, a group of three arrived at the doors of the Tower Academy, on foot, from the desert. That… was somewhat surprising, for all people used the flying transportation services offered by the Tower as a way to safely traverse the desert and not get eaten by the giant sand worms that lived underground.
The group knocked on the gates of the Academy and the man in front shouted: “We are a delegation of the College of Memoirs. We request entry inside the Tower Academy and wish to speak with whoever is in charge.”
The moment the words were spoken one of the [Mages] stationed at the entrance, a [Door Mage] to be precise (an extremely specific Class that centered its powers and abilities around the protection and usage of doors. It was surprisingly powerful actually, if you had enough fantasy to look for ways to use Door Skills in a day to day situation) raised an eyebrow and didn’t open the gates. Now he understood why they hadn’t come using the flying services: they’d been denied the use.
After an entire minute had passed the man shouted again: “We are from the College of Memoirs and we request to speak with the person in charge of the Tower Academy. Now!”
Again, silence was all the answer they got as the [Door Mage] smirked.
Another minute passed and Mr. Shouter, as the [Mage] had decided to call him, looked like he was about to pop a vein, while the two people who’d come with him began fidgeting.
Finally, he shouted again: “Open these doors! [The College Won’t Be Denied]!”
Immediately as the words left his mouth the gates of the Academy began opening without a sound. The [Door Mage] jumped from his comfortable seat and began using Skills.
“[Access Denied]!” nothing happened.
“[Lock the Gates]!” again, nothing happened and the gates continued opening.
“[Wall of Sand]! [Aknos Scorching Heat]! [Strengthen Internal Structure]!”
A wall of sand formed in front of the entrance gates and, a moment later, the area around it became so hot that the sand turned into glass. Then… nothing happened, visibly, but the wall looked much sturdier and the glass started concentrating the light of the sun towards the trio.
The man stepped forward and the wall shattered, not a shard hitting him or his possé.
“Fuck! [Bindings of Burntear]! [The Great Sage’s Denial]!” he used his most powerful Spell and Skill. He was only Level 35, a very low Level for receiving a Rare Skill, but he’d gained the right to it by beating the Boss of the fortieth floor of the Academy alone. That one had been a true challenge for everyone, for the monsters there hadn’t been monsters, but illusions. Sapient illusions that made it impossible for anyone to progress unless they managed to answer many questions. The boss himself had been an illusion of a [Great Sage] from Eva and the only way to progress past him had been to… beat him in a debate, of all things. He’d done it, after extensive preparation on a subject of his choice (the only advantage that had been given to him and the other [Mages]), which had been a debate on choosing to use only extremely specific Classes.
The debate had been fierce and had lasted for hours, but he’d done it. Because of that he’d received this Skill.
As the words left his mouth chains of magma and scales appeared from the ground around the trio, attempting to bind them in place, and shattering the moment they touched their skin.
The second Skill though gave them pause.
Suddenly the [Door Mage] and the [Enforcer Missionary of the College] were looking each other in the eyes. The world around them bent and twisted and they were facing each other. The former of the two had only ever heard of such a phenomenon: a Clash of Wills. A moment in time when two beings’ wills, desires and convictions were so strong, or so empowered, that reality itself bent under the force of the Clash. The one who came on top would have their Skill and desires win over the other.
So there they stood.
On one side, a simple [Door Mage] and [Philosopher], at his back only the shrouded image of an ancient Sage who put his hand on the man’s shoulder in support, his eyes flickering towards their adversary.
He looked at the duo and smirked, at his back millenia worth of Memories, Traditions and Laws, an entire organization that had dominated Kingdoms with nothing more than a few words. Screams came from his side, pain, sorrow, anger, but it was just screaming. It could do nothing to him. But it could scare the one on the other side.
The [Door Mage] trembled in place. He hadn’t expected this, hadn’t been prepared.
“You would go against me? Against us? Against the College? You would deny us?” asked the [Missionary] with a sneer and a glint in his eyes that seemed to be begging him to answer ‘yes’ and see what would be the consequences.
And the [Mage]? He sweated and cursed at himself. How could he have ever thought to tell them no? What had passed through his fucking head?
Then the Sage’s memory squeezed his shoulder. He turned around, fear in his eyes, ready to surrender. Then he saw the Sage point behind them and his eyes focused on that: a Tower, even more beautiful than the one he looked at every day, stood behind him. It was also much, much, much bigger, and thousands, hundreds of thousands of… things, looked out of the windows. Some he recognized as humans and dwarves and beastkin, but others were… monsters? Yes, monsters. All the monsters they had ever fought against, from simple goblins wearing mages’ attires to elementals to reveler ants to mage eaters to golems and illusions, and many more that were shrouded in shadows, unwilling to show themselves for they were higher up on the Floors.
And, above all of them, standing proudly at the very top of the Tower, was the old [Advocate of Lost Causes] as he had been when he was alive and not a hardlight golem.
They were all looking at him expectantly and smiling, as if saying ‘So what if they’re the College? We will fight them all.’.
He turned back to the sneering [Missionary], feeling the fear and doubt taking hold of him again, but he managed to put on a brave mask and sneer right back, to his great surprise.
“Yes. I dare,” he answered with a feeble, trembling, voice. But how he said it mattered little: what was important was his stance, his decision.
“You are not welcome,” he continued, this time his voice coming stronger.
The [Missionary] frowned and shook his head.
“You alone don’t have the power or the strength to deny us. Begone,” he shooed him away with a hand and he felt an impossible strength try to lift him up and throw him away, out of the Clash, attempting to break his Skill.
Yet it couldn’t move him as the hand of the Great Sage at his back tightened its grip, planting him in place.
The [Missionary]’s frown deepened.
“I said begone!”
The force pushing him away became stronger, so much so that he felt like his insides were being torn out of him, and the Sage’s hand trembled as he began losing his footing.
Then chains appeared out of nowhere and bound his feet to the ground, the links made of every possible element of magic that ever had been. Another figure had appeared on top of the Tower. It was a shadow, small and stocky, wearing a [Mage]’s robes and holding a wand in one hand and what looked like a scroll in the other. The wand was pointed at the [Door Mage] and, a moment later, a colorful shield formed around him, blocking out the force.
The [Missionary] was sneering now.
“We will not be denied! We are the College!”
The [Door Mage] looked around, then down at the sand underneath his feet, and cast a Spell without using a Skill or anything, for he wasn’t actually casting a Spell so much as imposing his will upon this image of reality, and his will took the form of water forming at his feet and wetting the sand.
Then he kneeled down, made a mud ball, and threw it at the [Missionary].
The reality they were standing in shook and began cracking as the man’s will started falling apart, his strength not enough to beat centuries of hard work, impossible alliances and deals together with the stubbornness of youth and the remembered will of a man of knowledge. Pain and suffering and fear only worked so much on these things.
Still the [Missionary] stood, turning his fury and outrage into will, trying to overpower the Skill.
And then, out of the shadows a figure emerged, a black figure with white eyes. The figure, unnoticed by all, raised a hand, in which it held… a button. A bone white button seemingly taken from a shirt. It flicked the small object towards the raging [Missionary] right into his forehead.
The Clash of Wills collapsed.
The [Door Mage] and the [Missionary] stood again where they had before.
Only now the Gates of the Tower Academy began closing anew, locking themselves right into his face, denying access to the College.
“There will be a pri -” started shouting the [Missionary], only to be stopped when a figure appeared by his side. He looked old, with fading hair and a great mustache. What was more noticeable about him though was the glow emanating from him, for his body was made of hardlight, an advanced type of Light Magic. He was, in a way, a hardlight golem, and at the same time so much more.
For he was what was left of the [Advocate of Lost Causes], now the greatest guardian of the Tower Academy left behind by the Archmage who had built this place.
He smiled politely at the [Missionary] and spoke in a cold tone: “This is a pre registered message: If you are hearing this,” the voice suddenly changed, becoming much more tired-sounding and crackling, as if the person who’d said these words had been gargling rocks before registering them, “you are either from the College or one of the churches. I don’t care. You are not welcome. Leave, or face the consequences.”
The [Missionary] became red and shouted: “I care not for all this bullshit! The College demands entry into the Academy and to check that all that is inside follows the Regulations on Decency!”
The [Advocate] opened his mouth again: “This is a pre registered message: If you are hearing this you are either from the College or one of the churches. I don’t care. You are not welcome. Leave, or face the consequences.”
He repeated the message again.
“Let us in!” he walked towards the gate, ignoring the hardlight golem.
“This is a pre registered message: If you are hearing this you are either from the College or one of the churches. I don’t care. You are not welcome. Leave, or face the consequences.”
He repeated a third time.
The [Door Mage] dearly hoped he would stop with this charade soon and do something, because he knew he was faking it. He was sentient and extremely intelligent. Also, he didn’t think he had it in himself to do another Clash of Wills if it came to that.
The [Missionary] reached the gate and touched it.
A moment later in his place stood a small cloud of black dust. No, not dust, ash. And that, too, was quickly dispersed by a small gust of wind.
Then the two people who had accompanied the man, too, turned to dust, and for only a single moment the [Door Mage] saw a Rune appear on the wall nearby before a bolt of lightning appeared and, faster than the eye could blink, reached them, disintegrating their bodies.
Then the [Advocate] stood alone and… sighed.
“The time has come, it would seem,” he whispered.
Then he appeared beside the [Door Mage] and smiled: “Good job Michail. I’m proud of you. You’ll surely Level tonight.”
And he was gone.
That night, indeed, he Leveled.
[Conditions Met: Door Mage -> Mage-Warden of Freedom!]
[Mage-Warden of Freedom Level 40!]
[Skill - The Academy’s Will Empowers Me Obtained!]
[Skill - Door Spell: Rune of Disintegration Obtained!]
[Skill - Collegebane Skills Obtained!]
[Conditions Met: Access Denied -> The Gates of Leningrad Stood Closed]
[Skill - Access Denied Consolidated!]
[Skill - Lock the Gates Consolidated!]
[Skill - The Gates of Leningrad Stood Closed Obtained!]