The field outside Doras Dagda churned with dwindling chaos, a blood-soaked mess of brutal combat. The air reeked of blood and burning flesh, mingling with churned soil and shattered vegetation. Corrupted creatures, once a savage wave from the forest, staggered in broken clusters, their grotesque forms twisting at unnatural angles. The lush greenery at the forest's edge was a muddy wasteland, trees scarred by battle's fires. Fallen defenders lay among monstrous corpses, their lifeless forms a grim testament to the struggle's ferocity. Doras Dagda's defenders surged forward, their grit fierce as they shoved the beasts back.
Lord Ewan MacEwan dominated the eastern front, his massive frame a fortress against the tide. The ground quaked with each step, his earth magic erupting in violent tremors. His boulder-like fists, clad in heavy metal knuckles, smashed through corrupted beasts with bone-crushing force, skulls shattering like brittle stone. He raised jagged earth barriers to shield himself, their rock-solid surfaces deflecting claws and fangs, while fissures swallowed foes whole. Ewan fought like a Celtic war god, his booming laughter mocking the creatures' futile assaults.
A bellowing laugh roared as his earth magic surged, the ground splitting under his command. He plunged into the fray, each punch a landslide that pulped flesh and scattered enemies. Beside him, Rauri carved through the chaos, his new katana, a four-foot slim blade bought from the marketplace, slicing with lethal grace. Forged from a sanctum's lost artifact, its edge left trails of destructive darkness, rending corrupted flesh into ashen wisps. Rauri's spells fueled his strikes, speed surging to make each slash a blur, unstoppable and precise.
On the western front, Hamish and Chaucer waged their own brutal war. Hamish's new bastard sword, glowing with flowing light magic, seared through corrupted beasts, its radiant arcs countering Rauri's dark trails. He hacked with fierce fury, each swing carving glowing gashes that burned away corruption. Chaucer, ever the Ratsassin, darted through shadows, his daggers carving crimson runes in a theatrical dance of death. His strikes were precise, severing tendons and piercing hearts, leaving corpses scattered like his twisted art.
Rauri's katana made parries futile, its dark wake dissolving enemy defenses. Ewan's earth barriers absorbed heavy blows, his counterattacks flattening foes with stone-shattering force. Hamish's light-infused sword clashed with a massive boar, its hide sizzling under the blade's glow, while Chaucer's daggers felled a serpent mid-strike, its body collapsing in a crimson spray. The eastern and western fronts held firm, their strength a surge of gore and magic.
At a critical moment, Rauri lunged, his katana flashing with a fresh enhancement spell. As he faced a towering corrupted bear, Ewan slammed his fists into the earth, raising a ridge that flipped the beast onto its back. Rauri's blade descended in a sweeping arc, its dark trail cleaving the bear's torso in two, gore spilling across the mud. Across the field, Hamish bisected a wolf with a radiant slash, while Chaucer's daggers pinned a rodent's skull to the ground, his grin theatrical. The defenders moved in sync, their attacks a relentless tide.
Above, kobold archers on the ramparts loosed volleys of arrows, pinning corrupted rodents and serpents to the scarred ground. Magi-knight fairies streaked through the air, their glowing wings flashing as they unleashed bursts of magical energy. Each strike broke the horde's ranks, creating openings for Kobrutes to smash through. Sir Graleth the Stoneskin Brute commanded the Kobrute defense at the gates, his voice a roar that demanded obedience, guiding their scarred, massive forms with battle-honed wisdom.
Unease rippled through the ranks as kobolds spotted spy drones hovering far above. Their metallic forms glinted in the sunlight, sleek designs echoing Enclave tech or perhaps the Warlock's spies, watching with cold precision. The drones cast a shadow over the defenders' triumph, their purpose unclear but menacing. Victory was close, the remaining creatures driven into the forest, their numbers reduced to stragglers. Yet the drones lingered in every mind, a silent warning of greater threats.
Inside Doras Dagda, Lillia knelt by Robert's body, her hands glowing with mana and life magic. Whenever his spirit slipped, she poured mana into him, her magic a lifeline against the Warlock's lingering corruption. Her focus never wavered, her non-verbal grace anchoring Robert to life.
In the shattered tower of his dream, Robert stirred, the haze of unconsciousness lifting. The tower's desolation echoed the bone-strewn wasteland he'd endured, a grim reminder of his trials. He blinked, his gaze falling on the man in white standing outside, his massive club resting casually on one shoulder.
The man swung the club with crushing force, its arc smashing four large hyenas, their bodies crumpling like fragile toys before crashing lifelessly to the ground. Scanning the field of dead hyenas, he seemed satisfied as the few remaining creatures fled. The air around him stilled, like the cursed ground wouldn't touch him, its corruption held at bay. Fleeing hyenas stumbled in panic, their howls echoing across the desolation, leaving a heavy silence.
He returned to the tower, his stride unhurried, and approached Robert with a warm smile.
"You are awake again. Good," the man said, his voice blending authority with calm reassurance.
Robert sat up slowly, his body feeling stronger, the stew from earlier nourishing his mind and clearing his thoughts. The man settled across from him, his expression expectant, as though waiting for this moment.
"What do you know of magic?" the man asked, his tone conversational yet piercing.
Robert hesitated, then spoke of its raw power, its ability to heal and destroy, and the mysterious force it embodied.
The man nodded thoughtfully, his eyes glinting with ancient wisdom.
"Magic is not alive. It does not think, it does not feel. It simply is," the man said. "A force like light, gravity, or mass, born in the Quanta, a realm of infinite potential where material rules fracture. In the Quanta, magic exists in its purest form, a restless power free from normal rules. It waits, impartial, for those with the will to wield it," he explained, his voice steady.
Robert absorbed the explanation, his mind racing with its implications. Another question rose to his lips.
"What about Moira?" he asked, his voice steady but curious.
The man's smile deepened, his eyes holding a knowing glint.
"Moira is a being apart, a master of magic in the truest sense. To her, magic is as natural as breathing, as effortless as her heartbeat. She is more magic than matter, Robert. That is her essence," he said, his tone reverent.
The man's expression darkened slightly.
"But so is the being you call Warlock. Like Moira, he is a creature of magic, and the fate of this force hangs in the balance. One will claim mastery, and the consequences will shape all realms," he warned, his voice heavy.
Robert's heart sank, the weight of the words settling over him. He considered the possibilities of Moira and the Warlock, his thoughts churning.
"Why did magic disappear from Earth?" he asked, his voice tinged with urgency.
The man's gaze turned distant, regret lacing his tone.
"Because of the Warlock. Through fear and manipulation, he turned mortals against magic, making them see it as dangerous, illogical. Faith, too, played its part, with followers of dark deities cursing magic, using their magic to fuel Science's war on it. Together, they overwhelmed magic users, destroyed the Arch of Magic, and sought to obliterate Moira," he said, his words measured.
"They failed," the man continued, his tone steady. "Moira's supporters created a way for her return. Your ancestors, the Clan Lamont, sealed her connection to Earth in an enchanted tome, hiding it from Science and Faith. Only one of Lamont blood could unlock it, ensuring her safety until the time was right," he explained, his eyes fixed on Robert.
Robert's mind reeled, questions piling upon questions.
"The tome, I found it at the dig site. It called to me," he said, the memory burning bright. The air in that ancient place had felt heavy, the silence broken by a faint hum from the earth itself. The tome, uncovered in an enchanted chest, had pulsed with purpose, scanning his soul and deeming him worthy, a moment burned into his core.
"Yes," the man said simply. "The tome you uncovered, releasing Moira and binding you as her Vessel to restore magic to Earth, led to this moment. The Green Man, a forest guardian of vast power, entrusted you with a charm, its aetherite crystal the key to Moira's tome, after his ancient magic analyzed your honest heart and Lamont blood—a test you didn't know you faced, still mundane before you became Moira's Vessel. Without it, the tome's protections would have reduced you to dust," he said, his voice resonant with truth.
Robert's hand went to his chest, where the charm had once rested, its simple weight a distant memory now woven into his mana core. The truth felt clear yet overwhelming, his journey's enormity sinking in. Lillia's magic, surging in Doras Dagda, had sustained him through the Warlock's attack, which shattered his Aetheric Crystal, leaving him defenseless until this moment.
The man rose, his presence filling the tower like a towering oak commanding a clearing.
"Without the Green Man's blessing, Robert, the tome would have judged you unworthy, its power too great for you to survive. Power, true power, comes only with understanding and intent. Purpose is its guide, and without it, destruction is inevitable," he said, his voice deep as ancient roots.
The man fixed Robert with a steady gaze.
"You must rebuild the Arch, Robert. The path forward begins there. But you will need this!" he declared, pointing a finger at Robert's chest.
Pristine white light shot forth in a cold beam, pinning Robert against the wall.
The light pierced his chest, magic flaring out of thin air. Robert could not move, only stare as the light gathered in his skin between his pectoral muscles. Something inside resisted, hot and hateful. Red sparks leapt from his flesh, attacking the chilling light, but the light absorbed them, pulling more corruption from Robert and dissolving it. Thin wisps of smoke rose from each spark, drawn into the light and solidified into a new aetherite crystal.
The crystal formed an eight-pointed star with a central ninth point, radiating pure energy. Each point glowed with a unique hue: crimson for Fire's passion, sapphire for Water's fluidity, emerald for Earth's stability, cyan for Air's freedom, gold for Light's purity, obsidian for Dark's secrecy, verdant for Life's vitality, ashen for Death's finality. The central Soul point shone silvery-white, metallic, its glow twisting colors. Reds to purple, greens to blue, a sacred balance in the Celtic number nine.
The crystal floated briefly, pulsing like a heartbeat, its points gleaming with elemental colors. Slowly, it descended and embedded into Robert's chest, fusing seamlessly with his body. The pain was sharp but brief, replaced by a sudden clarity of thought and sensation. Robert felt the crystal settle, its energy spreading like roots in fertile soil. His senses sharpened, and for the first time since the Warlock's attack, he felt whole.
As the crystal settled into place, Robert felt a presence return to his mind with soft static noise before a large prompt appeared in his vision, that looked like a computer boot-up screen.
[SYSTEM UPDATE - ADMINISTRATOR STATUS CONFIRMED]
User: Administrator Robert
DNA Match: Verified
Core Stats:
Strength: 30
Endurance: 30
Agility: 30
Intelligence: 30
Wisdom: 30
Charisma: 30
Fortune: 33
Perks: Online
Mana Connection: Restored
Spell Weaving: Online
Classes Installed:
Prismatic Magistrate
Aetheric Weaver
Skills: Reinitialized
Custom Program: "Archmagus Robert Lamont" - Program Active
Robert Boggled at this but before he could figure out what Custom program meant, The man in white stepped forward, his expression one of satisfaction. He interrupted Robert's train of thought.
"Nine points, Robert, a sacred number of balance and completeness, drawn from the Dagda's blessing. Eight for the elements, Fire, Water, Earth, Air, Light, Dark, Life, Death, and one for Soul, their unity. The Soul's light binds them, its glow twisting the world's hues to reveal hidden truths," he said, his voice resonant.
Robert's breathing steadied as he studied the crystal embedded in his chest.
"What just happened?" he asked, fingers tracing the star's points, eyes fixed on its gleaming colors.
"You carried a venomous corruption," the man replied, his tone soft but firm. "It hid within your magic's threads, feeding on despair. This crystal, an eight-pointed star with Soul at its heart, is both tool and shield, forged from your resilience and purity. Its nine points tell the story of magic's elements, guiding you to rebuild the Arch," he said, his eyes unwavering.