Bastard Arcanist

The explosion had been near-instantaneous. Altha froze, every muscle wound tight as the world around him seemed to hold its breath. Time thinned, stretched—almost grinding to a halt.

Until a faint crimson string unraveled in the direction of the violent outburst. It pulsed faintly, tugging at something deep in his chest.

He sighed. "Maybe it's people-" His mind flashed with the image of an abandoned cathedral and the strange Arcane Circle surrounding a tree of golden leafs. "Best be careful though. No greater lie persists quite like certainty"

Silently making his way over he sprinted, his speed faster than what he had intended, nearly tripping on the initial launch. Quickly adapting to his new found physicality he tried to readjust, the ground blurred beneath his feet. His body moved too quickly, like instinct had outpaced thought—nearly launching him off-balance with his third step.

A trailing gust of dust marked his path, and though he quickly adjusted to his newfound strength. He stumbled—feet scraping stone—before crashing shoulder-first into a canyon wall nearly cratering himself into it.

Groaning, he rose and peered around the rock face, following the hypnotic glow of the crimson thread.

What he saw stopped his breath.

There, in a clearing stood a figure in scorched black metal—towering, silent, terrible. Cloaked head-to-toe in onyx armour, its silhouette had three arms on each side.

Surrounding the figure were seven black wolves with flaming manes and eyes that blazed like fresh-forged coals. They circled the knight with reverent hatred, stepping low and slow, like predators too wary to strike blindly.

The scene acted like a delicate dance, one they had experience in. As every step and turn strengthened their formation while becoming more spontaneous for their target.

They were like beasts stalking prey, knowing any mistake could be their last.

On the ground four other wolves lay, their forms partially turned to ash by now. Their soul fracts barely visible under the thick coating of ash.

Behind the knight's iron-clad helm, three horns jutted skyward. From within the visor, two ember eyes glowed with unrelenting fury—quiet, disciplined, eternal. Yet the knight did not watch the pack. It watched only one:

A larger wolf with a deeper crimson mane ablaze with orange flames. Its eyes burned differently—sharper. A predator of predators.

Was it their leader? The alpha? King? Altha wasn't certain. Only that violence was fast approaching. Altha tensed.

Five of the arms were sheathed in red armour while the top arm on the left remained onyx coloured. In each arm except the black, In the others, swords of varying size and origin gleamed. Blades forged for war, for ceremony, for death, for rebirth.

There was a tenuous silence almost like a calm before the storm.

Then—

SNAP.

One wolf leapt, teeth bared for the back of the knight's neck. Two more struck low, gunning for the knees.

The knight moved.

Before Altha could blink, two heads spun into the air, trailing fire and blood. A third wolf thrashed in the knight's hand as it was lifted by the throat. With a sickening twist—crack—the body fell limp.

Altha blinked. The knight was already moving again.

Charging the Alpha.

Another wolf jumped in the way of the knight's assault—but it exploded beneath the weight of its dead kin, as the corpse in the knight's hand slammed into it like a meteor. Splashing into a puddle of flesh that quickly eroded to ash.

The other two wolves leaped into the fray as the leader unleashed a torrent of fire, a furnace birthed from its lungs.

But unrelenting, the knight cut the air with a slash of its greatsword. The air pressurized around the blade following its motion before reading into an unseen slash that split the jet of fire in two and sliced the creature in half.

The remaining wolves didn't even have time to whimper. Their bodies collapsed before the realization of death reached them.

A single heartbeat of silence followed.

Then ashes danced on the winds.

The knight strode forward, its boots thudding into the scorched earth. With a single, fluid motion, it tore its shield from the rocky plain. The other weapons dissolved—fading into a hail of ash.

Then, wordlessly, the knight reached outward and collected the scattered soul fracts. There were about twenty in total by Altha's count, before vanishing into the knight's armoured gullet.

Altha grimaced.

"I'd better get out of here before I end up like them."

He turned, briskly retracing his path and ascending the plateau's steps with a cautious urgency. The fountain greeted him again—silent, patient.

With no other option, he chose the third path. He ascended the stairs.

Beyond the weathered archway veiled in ivy, the garden unfolded like a memory sung into stone as sunlight streamed through towering, vine-wrapped pillars—each a sentinel of ancient grace—rising to support a vaulted dome of faded mosaics. Soft ribbons of light played against the sculpted marble and dew-soaked blossoms.

At the heart of the garden stood a marvel of forgotten artistry—forged of copper and crystal, cradling a globe made of crystal floating inside the unmoving rings, stuck in rotation. They hummed with silent energy.

The device pulsed gently, casting soft cyan hues upon the surrounding statues—six in all—each one robed in flowing garb, their faces serene, hands outstretched toward the orb except one, whose hand lay on the ground next to it. The other four of the six had missing heads.

Squinting his eyes, Altha noticed runic script carved into the rings.

"A 3D Arcane Circle… Interesting."His gaze slid from the contraption to the statues, then to the carved insignia beneath.

"Whoever owned this place must have been quite the rich bastard, an accomplished arcanist, or an accomplished bastard." He chuckled.

Sighing, he moved on, and headed to the large building. Upon entering. he was met to a dimly lit hallway with three doors.

The hallway stood as a relic carved from the bones of an empire dusty and forgotten, every stone slab whispering of glory and worship.

Shafts of pale daylight streamed in from a ring of narrow clerestory windows far above, illuminating the dust in golden shafts and casting long, eerie shadows that crawled across the floor.

The walls were a tapestry of cracked beliefs and sunken murals, their once-vibrant gold leaf now faded and flaking, revealing the solemn stone beneath. Each panel depicted scenes of divine battles, celestial lawgivers, and condemned kings—locked forever in judgment and repentance.

Between these murals rose massive columns, each thicker than a tree trunk and intricately carved with spiraling scripture in runic script. Perched atop them were life-sized statues of sentinels, some cloaked in robes of stone, others armored and brandishing weapons, their gaze eternally cast downward as if looking at all those who pass by.

Walking toward the center of the chamber, Altha paused beneath a shaft of light that poured from high above.

Dust danced in the golden column, swirling like spirits disturbed from slumber. Overhead, the vaulted ceiling loomed vast and hollow—its dome painted in a weathered fresco of constellations and strange beasts, their outlines faded but no less ominous.

He turned in a slow circle.

Two doors flanked the chamber on either side. One stood behind him—the way he came. The fourth stretched ahead, unnaturally tall, nearly reaching the ceiling

He peeked through the one to his left which led to a library with dark stone walls softened by the warm golden glow of hundreds of hanging lanterns—each flame casting a soft halo of light over aged tomes and polished wooden surfaces.

Massive glass windows dominated the far wall, arching nearly to the pointed ceiling. They bathed the room in fractured morning light, casting shifting mosaics on the floor and tables.

Bookshelves rose three stories high, lining every wall with endless rows of ancient volumes—spines worn, gilding faded, their secrets pressed tight within.

Ornate ladders and spiral staircases curl up toward mezzanines and suspended bridges, Up above, faint figures moved—silent as ghosts. Altha could almost feel their scholarly gaze, flickering from parchment to parchment, as if unaware that centuries had passed them by.

He rubbed his eyes and suddenly nobody was there.

"Note to self: Sleep more often." He paused remembering Isolde's notes about the Astrals and the Outer "Note to self number 2: Don't do that, don't be a dumbass."

He stepped back, a frown pinching his brow, and opened the next door—the one directly opposite the first.

Another library.

Identical. Completely, eerily identical.

Altha's mouth twitched. "Uhh... weird."

He tried the third.

Same room.

He blinked slowly, then took a step backward—and nearly tripped over his own foot.

Then as sudden as a lightning strike he heard:

(Systems: Functional)

(Storage Space: Functional)

(Integration: 50%)

Altha jumped, half-expecting a shadow to descend from the ceiling. He looked down to his wrist.

The bracer. It pulsed faintly with orange-red light.

"You can talk?" he muttered, eyes narrowing.

Silence. The device offered no response, just the residual glow of something ancient waking up.

He tapped it, then slid a finger across its surface. "Come on, don't be shy."

Nothing.

He sighed. "Alright then… Open Storage?"

The bracer pulsed once. A faint whir echoed from within, and then—like fog condensing into form—a floating screen shimmered into view.

> [Clothes]

[Armour]

[Weapons]

[Tools]

[Objects]

His finger darted to [Clothes] almost reflexively.

A soft hum preceded the materialization of a folded bundle, which dropped neatly at his feet. He let out a long breath.

"Oh thank heavens. I was beginning to think the multiverse was trying to turn me into a streaker. Or… wait—is the proper term nudist?"

He dressed quickly.

An oversized white shirt draped over a sleek black jersey. A crimson cloak curled over one shoulder like blood wrapped in silk. Across his left side, a shoulder guard locked into place—black polymer plating embedded in a neoprene-like harness that hugged his frame like molded tendon.

His pants hung loose and heavy, layered in asymmetrical folds that shifted with each step. Tapered at the calves and cinched above sleek sneakers, they looked part streetwear, part combat gear. A bold white sigil marked one leg like a warning, while deep pockets and stitched flaps hinted at hidden purpose. They moved with him like shadow—quiet, defiant, and ready.

The armor wasn't decorative. It was practical. Modular. The kind of gear used by those who slipped through warzones instead of marching into them.

"This… feels oddly right," he muttered. "Weird."

Curiosity tugged at him again. He clicked through the other storage tabs.

> (Empty)

(Empty)

(Empty)

With each utterance of the word he felt his lips cement themselves deeper into a frown. He was slowly losing hope until he pressed (objects) and the bracer displayed images of three books. They read:

'Eidolomancy Script: Vol.1'

'Arcana-Mathematica: Vol 1'

'Inscriptor's Tome: Minor'

He stared at the titles, one brow lifting higher than the other.

"Yup. Even out here in the Outer, she's still making me study."

He rubbed the back of his neck, attention drifting once more to the triad of doors.

"Okay. Time for some science."

He ran outside and grabbed a bunch of stones. Rushing back in, he threw two into the middle door, one stone to the door on his left, and three to the door on his right. One, two, three. Each one vanished into the gloom beyond.

He picked a door at random and stepped through.

Inside, the library waited—still, sacred, unchanged.

Six stones lay in a loose pile on the floor.

He stared at them for a moment, lips parting as if to speak, then simply let out a low whistle.

"Huh."

He knelt down and picked one up, rolling it between his fingers.

"Three different doors. One space. That's... poetic. If I were an Arcanist designing metaphysical architecture, I'd probably do this too just to mess with people."

He stood and looked back toward the doorway.

"Seriously though, all diverging paths leading to the same destination. There's so many ways to interpret this, like branching timelines, maybe or a statement about fate? Or futility? Or some cosmic joke?" He squinted toward the ceiling.

Altha walked toward one of the tables and slumped into the seat beside it.

"Well. If there's any hope of escaping this reality-quilted riddle box…" He gestured loosely to the shelves. "...it's probably buried in one of these."