Bastian wandered through the encampment, lost in thought. It had been two weeks since he arrived in the Valley of the Giants. Each day brought waves of refugees, their faces marked by fear and exhaustion. Casualties mounted exponentially, and the war's one-sidedness became increasingly apparent.
"Destroy the spires everywhere?" Bastian mused aloud, shaking his head. "That's unrealistic. Those spires are deep within the core areas of the elf tribes. Taking them down would be akin to overthrowing the elves entirely and that's assuming we could even find them all."
Bad news streamed in from the front lines daily. Even the Bram The Great, their mightiest warrior, was being deployed more frequently. Despite his efforts, many fronts were collapsing, teetering on the brink of disaster.
Anxiety and despair spread like a plague among the coalition forces. Hope dwindled with each passing day, replaced by whispers of defection and the grim toll of those lost in battle.
One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, a messenger burst into the leaders' tent, his eyes wide with urgency.
"An elf insider who sympathizes with us has provided a clue!" he exclaimed. "All the tribes are gathering, and Bastian, your presence is requested."
Bastian's heart quickened. Could this be the breakthrough they so desperately needed?
In the war council chamber, a hushed excitement filled the air. Maps and scrolls littered the massive table at the room's center.
"What have we learned?" Bastian asked, stepping forward.
An elder pointed to a rough sketch of a towering black spire. "The Alchemy Tower," he said gravely. "Ever heard of it?"
"Alchemy Tower?" Bastian repeated, eyebrows raised. "Is that just a name?"
"Our spy chanced upon this tall black spire within the elf tribe," the elder explained. "When he inquired, all he got was the name. It's a forbidden area, even ordinary elves can't approach it. Only alchemists are allowed near."
"Alchemists?" another leader questioned. "What are they? Do they refine gold or something?"
A young scout stepped forward. "They're a new branch of Elf Mages," he explained. "A profession that's emerged in the past hundred years. Rumor has it they can turn stone into gold."
"The ocean of magic is boundless," the elder mused. "New disciplines and specializations emerge every day. There are countless branches of spellcasters focusing on different areas."
"Like Necromancers," Bastian added. "They're a branch that only clairvoyants can pursue. But new branches often go unnoticed, even if they can turn rocks into gold. In these times, power is valued over wealth."
"Turning one substance into another..." Bastian murmured, his face clouding. "That's the worst possible answer."
"Why do you say that?" asked the elder, leaning in.
"With my limited knowledge of magic, it suggests they're manipulating the very essence of matter," Bastian replied. "If they can do that, who knows what else they're capable of? It could be tied to their 'infinite magic power.'"
Silence settled over the room as the leaders absorbed his words.
"Even with these clues," Bastian sighed, "we're no closer to a solution. The situation feels more dire than ever."
He looked around at the anxious faces surrounding him. Their eyes pleaded for guidance, but he had none to offer. All he could do was sigh helplessly.
In his heart, Bastian felt a disconnect. "Perhaps this war has little to do with me now," he thought. "I've fulfilled my commission from the giants. Maybe it's time to return to my own life, whatever that may be. I can only hope that the world beyond death isn't as cruel as this one."
Despair weighed heavily on him. Each day's battle reports brought nothing but sorrow. Without a way to counter the elves' infinite magic power, the tide of war would inevitably turn fully in their favor.
"Even though the Bram The Great fights valiantly every time," Bastian mused, "he can't be everywhere at once."
"There is only one Ion," a nearby warrior echoed, "but there are countless battlefields."
Bastian nodded grimly. He felt a sense of resignation settling in. "Maybe it's futile to keep fighting," he thought. "Perhaps death is just a long sleep, a respite from this relentless suffering."
But fate is seldom so kind. Just when Bastian thought he might fade into the background, destiny intervened.
What was meant to happen still unfolded.
It all started with a dream.
THE BLACK SNOW DRIFTED FROM THE HEAVENS, BLANKETING THE WORLD IN A SUFFOCATING STILLNESS. DARK CLOUDS, THICK AND UNRELENTING, SWALLOWED THE SKY, LEAVING NO TRACE OF COLOR, JUST A STARK CONTRAST BETWEEN BLACK AND WHITE, AS IF ALL LIFE HAD DRAINED FROM THE LANDSCAPE. IT WAS THE END OF DAYS.
AMIDST THE CRUMBLED REMAINS OF CIVILIZATION, A SOMBER PROCESSION MOVED SLOWLY FORWARD, GIANTS AND DWARVES, SHACKLED TOGETHER, THEIR ONCE MIGHTY FORMS NOW REDUCED TO CAPTIVES. THEIR DESTINATION LOOMED AHEAD: A MENACING BLACK SPIRE PIERCING THE ASHEN HORIZON.
SURROUNDING THEM WERE THE "PUPPET GUARDS", COLD, EMOTIONLESS MACHINES, DRIVING THEM RELENTLESSLY ONWARD. THE CHAINS AROUND THE PRISONERS' NECKS CLINKED SOFTLY AS THEY TRUDGED THROUGH THE RUINS, THEIR FATES SEALED. NO RESISTANCE, NO REBELLION, ONLY THE QUIET SURRENDER OF THOSE WHO KNEW THERE WAS NO ESCAPE.
WHEN THEY REACHED THE BASE OF THE SPIRE, THERE WAS NO CEREMONY, NO QUESTIONS, AND CERTAINLY NO MERCY. THE PRISONERS WERE HERDED INTO A YAWNING PIT LIKE CATTLE, THEIR CRIES SWALLOWED BY THE EMPTINESS. THE METAL PUPPETS, BUILT FOR PRECISION AND CRUELTY, RAISED THEIR SAW-LIKE APPENDAGES, CUTTING THROUGH FLESH AND BONE WITHOUT HESITATION. THE KILLING WAS EFFICIENT, MECHANICAL, AS IF LIFE ITSELF WAS JUST ANOTHER RESOURCE TO BE HARVESTED.
THE DEAD WERE DISCARDED LIKE REFUSE, THEIR BODIES STREWN CARELESSLY, BUT THE SCREAMS OF THE DYING COULDN'T HALT THE RELENTLESS MARCH OF THE IRON EXECUTIONERS. THESE ARTIFICIAL KILLERS FOLLOWED THE COMMANDS OF THEIR CREATOR WITH PERFECT, SOULLESS OBEDIENCE.
HIGH ABOVE, ATOP THE TOWER, A GROUP OF MAGES CLAD IN YELLOW ROBES WATCHED, UNMOVED. THEY HAD NO INTEREST IN THE BLOODSHED BELOW. THEIR FOCUS LAY ELSEWHERE, THE SOULS. ONE BY ONE, THE SOULS OF THE SLAIN DRIFTED UPWARDS, DRAWN INTO THE SPIRE LIKE MOTHS TO A FLAME, VANISHING INTO THE DARK DEPTHS OF THE TOWER. THE MAGIC THAT POWERED THEIR SPELLS, THEIR VERY EXISTENCE, WAS DRAWN FROM THIS SOURCE, THE SOULS FED THE TOWER'S HUNGER FOR POWER.
IN THE HEART OF THE TOWER, A GOLDEN LIGHT PULSED FROM A CORE OF ANCIENT METAL, SHIMMERING WITH AN UNNATURAL BRILLIANCE. IT SEEMED TO DEVOUR EVERYTHING, ABSORBING THE ESSENCE OF THOSE WHO PERISHED BELOW.
"BASTAIN... BASTAIN..."
A VOICE ECHOED FAINTLY IN THE DISTANCE. WHO WAS CALLING HIM? WAS IT SOMEONE FAMILIAR, OR JUST ANOTHER TRICK OF THE MIND? BASTAIN STIRRED, DISORIENTED, HIS HEAD SWIMMING AS HE CAME TO.
SUDDENLY, HE JOLTED AWAKE.
"BASTAIN! THE MAGES NEED TO SEE YOU, URGENTLY!"
IT TOOK HIM A FEW MOMENTS TO GATHER HIS SENSES, PIECING TOGETHER THE FRAGMENTS OF HIS DREAMS AND THE HARSH REALITY THAT AWAITED HIM. THE WAR WAS GROWING WORSE BY THE DAY, AND THE COALITION OF SPELLCASTERS WAS DESPERATE. IN THEIR FRANTIC SEARCH FOR AN EDGE, THEY HAD THROWN THEMSELVES INTO A DANGEROUS EXPERIMENT, THE ALCHEMY TOWER.
BASTAIN HAD HEARD WHISPERS OF IT, HOW THE COALITION'S SCHOLARS HAD SCOURED ANCIENT TEXTS, HOW THEY HAD POOLED THEIR KNOWLEDGE TO UNEARTH FORGOTTEN SECRETS. ALCHEMY, A RELATIVELY YOUNG BRANCH OF MAGIC, WAS REVERED AMONG THE ELVES. ITS PRACTITIONERS EXCELLED AT TRANSFORMING METALS, ENCHANTING OBJECTS, AND CRAFTING MAGICAL ITEMS, MAKING THEM INDISPENSABLE TO THE WAR EFFORT.
DESPITE ITS IMPORTANCE, ALCHEMY REMAINED MYSTERIOUS, EVEN TO MANY SEASONED WIZARDS. IT HAD ONLY BEEN PRACTICED FOR A HUNDRED YEARS, AND IT WAS STILL A GUARDED ART AMONG THE ELVEN TRIBE. ALCHEMISTS WERE RARE, THEIR CRAFT VALUED AS MUCH FOR ITS POTENTIAL AS FOR ITS SECRECY.
UNLIKE TRADITIONAL SPELLCASTERS, ALCHEMISTS PREFERRED TO WORK IN THE SHADOWS, SELLING THEIR ENCHANTED CREATIONS TO FUND THEIR EXPERIMENTS. THIS HAD LED TO CONTACT WITH WIZARDS OF OTHER RACES, AND THROUGH THIS, A CAUTIOUS EXCHANGE OF KNOWLEDGE HAD TAKEN PLACE.
BUT SOMETHING ABOUT THE ALCHEMISTS DISTURBED BASTAIN. "THEY CAN CREATE MAGICAL ITEMS, INFUSE MUNDANE OBJECTS WITH POWER... IT'S EERILY SIMILAR TO WHAT I DO," HE MUSED. COULD IT REALLY BE JUST A COINCIDENCE, OR WAS THERE SOMETHING MORE SINISTER AT PLAY?
IF THE ALCHEMISTS HELD THE KEY TO "INFINITE MAGIC POWER" IF THEIR WORK WAS TIED TO SOULS, TO THE VEINS OF THE EARTH ITSELF; THEN THE COALITION'S SPELLCASTERS WERE IN OVER THEIR HEADS. AND IF CLAIRVOYANCE, THAT RAREST OF GIFTS, WAS A PREREQUISITE FOR ALCHEMY, PERHAPS THE TRUTH WAS EVEN DARKER THAN ANYONE IMAGINED.
BASTAIN SHOOK HIS HEAD, TRYING TO PUSH THE TROUBLING THOUGHTS AWAY. CLAIRVOYANTS WERE FEW AND FAR BETWEEN, HIDING THEIR ABILITIES FROM THE WORLD. BUT IF ALCHEMY WAS INTERTWINED WITH THE VERY ESSENCE OF LIFE AND MAGIC, THEN THE COALITION'S SCHOLARS WERE MEDDLING WITH FORCES FAR BEYOND THEIR COMPREHENSION. AND THE CONSEQUENCES... COULD BE CATASTROPHIC.
"WHAT IS IT THAT YOU WANT TO DISCUSS WITH ME?" BASTIAN ASKED, A MIXTURE OF CURIOSITY AND APPREHENSION IN HIS VOICE.
HE WASN'T THE ONLY ONE SUMMONED. AROUND HIM STOOD HIS FRIENDS, ALL BEARING THE SAME BEWILDERED EXPRESSIONS. THEY WERE ALL CLAIRVOYANTS, INDIVIDUALS GIFTED WITH THE RARE ABILITY TO SEE BEYOND THE PHYSICAL REALM. TOGETHER, THEY HAD ONCE BEEN TASKED WITH INVESTIGATING THE MYSTERIES OF THE ALCHEMY TOWER, BUT DESPITE THEIR EFFORTS, THEY HAD FOUND NOTHING.
BASTIAN REMEMBERED THE DAY THEY WERE TAKEN TO THE TOWER'S RUINS, TO THE GREAT "DEEP PIT" THAT LAY BENEATH. IT WAS A DARK, YAWNING CHASM, BUT STRANGELY, NOTHING STIRRED WITHIN. NO LOST SOULS, NO LINGERING TRACES OF MAGIC, JUST A VOID AS PRISTINE AND EMPTY AS A SACRED CATHEDRAL AFTER A SERVICE. THEY HAD LEFT EMPTY-HANDED, WITH MORE QUESTIONS THAN ANSWERS.
"IN FACT, WE HAVE A NEW PLAN," THE MAGE IN CHARGE BEGAN, HIS TONE STEADY BUT LACED WITH URGENCY. "WE NEED VOLUNTEERS."
BASTIAN STIFFENED, FEELING A CHILL RUN DOWN HIS SPINE. HE GLANCED AT HIS COMPANIONS, THEIR FACES TENSE WITH ANTICIPATION. THE COALITION'S LEADERS HAD, AT LEAST, CONFIRMED HIS PREVIOUS REPORTS ABOUT THE EARTH VEINS, THE THEORY THAT THESE MAGICAL CHANNELS RAN DEEP BENEATH THE SURFACE, CONNECTING THE LAND TO UNTAPPED SOURCES OF POWER. BUT THEORIES ALONE WOULDN'T TURN THE TIDE OF WAR.
"WE NEED MORE THAN JUST THEORIES," THE MAGE CONTINUED. "WE NEED PROOF. AND TIME IS NOT ON OUR SIDE."
BASTIAN'S HEART SANK AS THE WEIGHT OF THE SITUATION PRESSED DOWN ON HIM. THE WAR WAS GROWING INCREASINGLY DESPERATE, AND THE COALITION'S SPELLCASTERS HAD DEVISED A PLAN; BOLD, RISKY, AND ENTIRELY BASED ON CONJECTURE.
"YOU WANT US TO GO INTO THAT PIT, DON'T YOU?" ONE OF BASTIAN'S FRIENDS SPOKE UP, HER VOICE A MIXTURE OF DISBELIEF AND FEAR. "WE'LL FALL TO OUR DEATHS BEFORE WE DISCOVER ANYTHING USEFUL."
THE MAGE'S EXPRESSION DIDN'T CHANGE. HE KNEW HOW IT SOUNDED, INSANE. BUT THE PIT BENEATH THE ALCHEMY TOWER WAS NO ORDINARY HOLE IN THE GROUND. EXPERTS HAD EXAMINED IT, AND WHAT THEY FOUND DEFIED EXPLANATION. THE PIT WASN'T THE RESULT OF THE TOWER'S COLLAPSE; IT WAS PART OF A FAR OLDER, UNFINISHED TUNNEL THAT RAN BENEATH THE EARTH, ITS ORIGINS SHROUDED IN MYSTERY.