reseter18

A reclusive sorcerer with unlimited mana, a suspiciously misplaced fortress, and a deeply regrettable experiment has found himself stranded in a world where spirits power everything from kingdoms to kitchen appliances. His fortress is falling apart, his magic is flickering like a dying candle, and—oh, right—the cosmic horror he accidentally woke up is now very interested in his existence. Fantastic. With paranoia as his closest friend and alcohol as a questionable coping mechanism, he must navigate political chaos, reluctant spirit contracts, and a reality that seems personally offended by his presence. Fixing the Nexus should be priority one, but first, he needs to survive long enough to do it—preferably with all his limbs and sanity intact. No promises on the latter.

The Recluse Sorcerer

Sitting there at the long table, I looked at my left palm where the mark was, trying to make sense of everything that had happened.

I exhaled. Inventory first. Theories later. Theories got me into this trouble, after all.

Met a cosmic horror who mind-raped me and branded me like cattle.

The shadows of the towering bookshelves around me danced.

I exhaled sharply, glancing at my surroundings. The walls, the wards, the safeguards I had meticulously built—were they still functioning as intended? Were they functioning at all?

I reached out, just enough to test the boundaries. No immediate reaction. No sudden collapse of protection. But that meant nothing. Just because something hadn't failed yet didn't mean it wouldn't.

A faint hum ran through the walls—off-beat, unsteady. The arcane circuitry embedded within them thrummed unevenly, like an instrument slightly out of tune. The air carried a weight that hadn't been there before, like a pressure building beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to rupture.

I clenched my jaw. This changed things. Not just in theory, but in practice. I had been prepared for personal consequences, but this? This was larger. More insidious.

The implications churned in my mind, each possibility worse than the last. How far did this extend? Was it only my magic that had changed, or was the world itself shifting under my feet? If I left this tower, would I even recognize what waited beyond?

A crackle echoed through the room as a sigil on the far wall pulsed, dimmed, and then steadied—its once-fluid glow now jagged and inconsistent. Another flicker. Another reminder that I was on borrowed time.

The thought gnawed at me, but I forced it aside. One problem at a time.

I needed a new baseline. A new system. And for that, I needed controlled experiments. I couldn't afford assumptions—not when the rules I had once relied upon had been rewritten.

I took a slow breath, steadying my thoughts. This was fine. I could adapt. I would adapt. That was the only option. I had clawed my way back from worse. And if the world thought it could throw me off balance with a mere rewrite of the fundamental forces of magic—well. It had another thing coming.

Still, beneath the cold rationality, a nagging uncertainty remained. Unseen consequences loomed on the horizon. A shift of this scale would not go unnoticed. Not forever.

A low creak resonated from the floor below. The kind that shouldn't have happened. The fortress was supposed to be silent.

The lights flickered again. Dimming further.

And with my luck? I was definitely going to regret this later.

Gather your strength. One day at a time. If the universe had decided to rewrite the rules?

Fine. I'd just write my own. And make damn sure they stuck.

Chapter 11