“Hello, Grace.”
“Hello, Dasha! How do you do?”
“Busy,” he replied.
“Making more Dream Meth?” Grace walked over, hands behind her, mouth parted. She watched as he wrote a symbol of fire in the air, which condensed into a single flame that bolted into the elixir bottle. There was a light of red, a pulse of magic, and finally, pink crystals. “Wooow. So cool.”
The laboratory of Dasha Pang stationed in his personal dimension was open to Grace and Xavier. It was akin to sharing a document on Google Docs, with three specific authorities: guest, membership, and administrator. Guest meant that the individual needed to be brought by an administrator. Membership was exactly as it was described: the individual was allowed to come in accordance to particular factors. For example, time or an item. Dasha heard this was how some small businesses ran their farms. Rather than a house, they created massive farms and had workers—given membership authorities—to come in and do the field work.
There were limitations, however. A personal dimension could only allow fifty people at a time and capped out at three acres of size. An interesting limitation, in his opinion. He wondered just where exactly this personal dimension was in the first place.
“By the way, I was accepted!” Grace’s proclamation gave him pause. Without having to say anything, Grace elaborated, “I successfully enrolled into the Tower of True Magic’s Sorcerer program! The semester starts on April 1st. I’ll give you all the textbooks and stuff.”
“Perfect.”
“Oh, but, uh—”
“Yes, you have to go.”
“Aw, fine, fine.” Grace summoned a mirror out of nothing and checked herself out. “I’ll have to get up early. The class is in the morning and I’m a lady that puts effort into herself. Oh, but don’t tell anyone that though. It’s gotta look effortless.”
“Put it under my cost,” Dasha said dismissively. He went over and started cooking up another batch of Dream Meth. “In return, I want a list of everyone you meet. Every potential ally and foe.”
“Sir, yes, sir!” Grace saluted. “Wait, does that include textbooks?” A nod. “Wands?” Another nod. “Maaaake-up…?” Grace stretched her words. “...and fooood….?”
“Sure,” Dasha said.
Her expression hardened. “Lord Dasha, I will not let you down!”
The skill Circle Mastery gave him the ability to consistently create magic circles. That was it. For those without the skill, whether they were naturally born in the White Abyss or already experienced a Heavenly Game, it became a huge deterrent during battle. No longer were they able to create magic fingers with shaky fingers. No longer did every attempt of a magic circle bring forth an effect.
That meant there had to be education. Real study. Building of universities to teach those that had lost the might of the System. There was the Wizard Program, a four year long degree, and then the Sorcerer Program, which was the equivalent of a Masters Degree. Grace had already received her Wizardry Degree. She wasn't interested in pursuing the next level until Dasha instructed her to do so.
“But, like, out of curiosity, isn’t the Old Magic Tower more up your line?” Grace asked.
“Our similar methods are what will cause conflict. I’m not interested in being a cog,” Dasha said.
“Oh, that figures. And, er, one last question—”
Dasha read her mind without looking at it and declared, “I did.”
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Grace paused, her hands slipping from her hips. “You…you killed all those people? I thought…I thought Daughter told you not to do that. That doing so would anger the gods.”
“Gods are worshiped because they are not understood,” Dasha stated. “Once their true nature is revealed, they are no different than you or I.”
“Y-yeah, except Shiva’s third eye can literally incinerate the universe, so…” Grace swallowed. “Look, I’ve seen the gods fight. They’re…really not like us, Dasha. We shouldn’t mess with them.”
He looked at her over his shoulder. Even within the whispers, fear of the divine ran rampant and nothing he said would change that. However, his actions could. Toppling the gods, showing Grace and everyone else that humanity was indeed better, aligned with his great plan. Whether it was possible or impossible didn’t matter, he would do it.
“Your warning is appreciated,” he said. “I hope to never hear it again.”
***
Dasha frequented a certain bar in the Dark Sector called the Lowkey. It was where he found the former Holy Dynasty member, the wizard with the rune robes, and the popular war veteran. Xavier had supplied him with their names and a rundown of their background, though in all honesty, there was no need. Everything he told Daughter was correct. He grasped their history and personality with no mistakes, save one little thing.
The war veteran wasn’t just a soldier. He was a former member of the Templar Order. An infamous figure that was said to have rejected the Templars for everything they were and left as protest. Undoing the life-long vows should have meant death, yet the man lived. He sat on a stool at the bar’s front counter, drinking a glass of wine. Invisible with the power bestowed to him by Sigurd’s cloak, Dasha slid next to him.
“I can see you.” The Templar Knight ranked fourteenth. He who was said to have battled Jack the Ripper and deemed worthy. The fallen Marshal of the Templar Order: Charles Mackley. A weathered middle-aged man in black tatters that swayed from side-to-side as he drank and talked. “You want to ask me questions about Jack, right? You’re not the first.”
Charles sensed Dasha. He didn’t see him or his mask, but he recognized that he was there regardless. However he sensed him, it was significantly greater than Dasha’s Early Stage Qi Sensing. Dasha didn’t say a word back.
“Fucking hell, I know you’re there.” Silence. Charles drank his wine quietly. “Jesus—I fought him a long time ago. I have no clue about this new copycat, or if he’s not a copycat. I know nothing, so scram.”
Everybody listening that didn’t have a sufficiently high level of sensing thought he was going crazy. As a result, the bartender began avoiding him. That was when Dasha opened his mouth and directly asked, “What do you think?”
Charles let out a long, guttural sigh. “Bug off, invisible man, before I kill you.”
Dasha didn’t take his threat lightly. This man was in the top twenty during a time of great conflict, he could very well do what he claimed. If only they were in the White Abyss where violence was disallowed. “You’re the one that brought him up. I didn’t say anything.”
“So you’re not here for me, invisible man?” The louder Charles got, the more stares he received. At this point, the customers were ignoring him.
“Like I care.” Dasha shrugged to put some emphasis. Maybe he would feel it.
“Hrn.” Charles gestured at the bartender to give him refill his glass with wine. Tilting his head way back, he glugged down the drink. “Ahh…! That hit the spot.”
Typical veteran behaviour—bonding over drinking during their service and allowing that habit to spill over to their normal lives. Charles was a tall man with a bit of a gut and a disgusting scar across his face that went from maroon, red, and then black. His struggles didn’t need to be seen, they were practically displayed in his body.
“Then there is the seasoned war veteran. A classic. He exchanges war stories with fellow veterans, talking of the glory days yet never daring to bring them back. He is an authority at the bar.”
As the days went by, the authority he held grew less and less. His body weakened and so did his mind. He drank and drank and drank, waiting for his friends to arrive to join him. None did. As Dasha predicted, he was yearning for something.
Dasha slid forward a plastic bag of pink. “I was told you needed this.”
“Excuse me?” As soon as Dasha’s hand left the bag, it revealed itself to the world. Ten grams of Dream Meth. “What is this?”
“A way to relive the glory days without having to go back to them. A way to see and control your dreams as if they were reality. Call it medicine.”
Charles raised the bag towards him, squinting. “Medicine? Looks like pink crystal meth to me. Do you think that just because I come from an older time that I don’t know things?” He glared right at him and Dasha felt a weight press down his shoulders. “You’re really pissing me off—”
“I’m just the messenger,” Dasha lied. “Do whatever you want. Throw it out, use it, put it in your drink, it’s not my issue.” He hopped off the stool, his leaving presence followed by Charles’s gaze. The fallen Marshal squinted, then looked back to the Dream Meth. Dasha left.
Xavier didn’t. At the very back of the bar was a man invisible to all, even the veteran. The man in the hat would later report that Charles stared at the Dream Meth for minutes before shoving it into his pocket. The plan was a success.