Kalagar S. Sully spent an entire day in his new study, ignoring the world. He read, he napped, and he came to a conclusion: his disciples were a menace, and his only true sanctuary was this single, locked room.
But the lock was just a simple iron latch. It felt... insufficient.
He summoned Boro.
"Master! You require me!" Boro knelt, his heavy frame thudding on the glowing wooden floor.
"Boro," Kalagar said, pointing to the door. "This... is a latch. I require a lock. A proper one. From my homeland." He sketched on a piece of parchment. "See? A 'key' goes into a 'keyhole.' It moves the 'tumblers.' It retracts the 'bolt.' It is a mechanism of security and privacy. Can you build this?"
Boro stared at the simple, childish drawing of a pin-and-tumbler lock.
His "Artificer-Genius" mind did not see a simple mechanism. He saw a parable.
A 'key'...
A 'lock'...
The Master desires... 'privacy'. But not just physical. Conceptual. He desires a 'lock' that only the correct 'key' can open. A 'key' of intent!
He is not asking for a 'lock'. He is teaching me Access-Control!
"Master..." Boro whispered, his eyes wide with revelation. "A conceptual lock. A Runic-Access-Protocol. A lock that cannot be 'picked' or 'broken', but only 'answered'?"
Kalagar, who had just wanted a deadbolt, just stared at him. "...'Answered'?"
"Yes! A lock that asks the key, 'Who are you?' And the key must answer correctly! Master, your wisdom is... it is... secure! I will build it at once!"
[System: Disciple 'Boro' is attempting to comprehend [Lesson: The Key-and-Lock (Privacy)]...]
[...Comprehension: SUCCESS!]
[Disciple 'Boro' has comprehended: [The Conceptual-Mandate-of-Access] (Top-Tier Runic Art).]
Boro scrambled away, roaring in a creative frenzy. An hour later, he returned and installed a new, beautiful, brass keyhole and handle on Kalagar's door. He presented Kalagar with an equally beautiful, intricate brass key.
"It is done, Master! As you commanded!"
Kalagar took the key. "Thank you, Boro. It's... very pretty."
He shut the door, locked it, and sighed in relief. It felt more secure.
What he didn't know was that Boro hadn't just built a physical lock. He had engraved the entire doorframe with a [Mandate of Access]. The door was now, effectively, the most secure object on the planet. It could not be burned, broken, or un-zipped by Valerius. It would only open if and only if the holder of the key (Kalagar) intended for it to.
Kalagar, blissfully ignorant, finally had his "disciple-proof" room.
He enjoyed his privacy for exactly six hours.
A polite, hesitant knock echoed from the pagoda's front door, three floors below.
His disciples, he noted, did not knock. They just... appeared.
This was... new.
He heard the muffled, tense voices of his sect.
"State your purpose." (Valerius)
"Why do you hide your power?" (Sylvie, her voice like cold silver)
Kalagar's curiosity overcame his annoyance. He unlocked his (now-conceptual) door and padded to the balcony, looking down.
A woman stood in the clearing, surrounded by his four disciples. She was dressed in the simple, grey, homespun robes of a traveling scholar, her hair tied back in a severe, practical bun. She held a simple, wooden staff. She was, Kalagar noted, the most normal-looking person to arrive on his mountain since... well, ever.
His disciples, however, were... tense. They weren't just "alert." They were bristling. Valerius had his hand on his hilt. Lila's hands were crackling with green [Anthem] energy. Sylvie's "sentient jungle" was rustling, its silver branches slowly, silently, aiming at the newcomer like a hundred spears.
"Peace," the woman said, her voice calm and melodic. "I am... just a scholar. My name is Elara. I am... traveling. I heard tales... of a 'Sage' on this peak, and I came to... to ask a few questions."
Valerius (a high-noble) and Sylvie (a celestial-princess) exchanged a look of pure, unadulterated panic.
They didn't just feel her power. They knew it.
Level 8. Archmage.
This was Archmage Elara, the "Psychic-Hand" of the Arcane Empire, the Headmistress of the Imperial Academy, and the most powerful (and feared) mental magician in the world.
And she was here... disguised as a "humble scholar."
This was not a visit. This was an infiltration.
"We... do not accept..." Valerius began, his voice cold.
"A SCHOLAR?!"
The booming, joyous, ecstatic roar came from the balcony.
Kalagar S. Sully was beaming, his face lit up with a joy his disciples had never seen.
"A scholar! A real, actual, normal scholar! Wonderful! Magnificent! Welcome, welcome!"
He practically bounded down the stairs, pushing past his (utterly baffled) disciples. He grabbed Elara's hand and shook it vigorously.
"Kalagar Sully! A pleasure! A true pleasure! Come in, come in! Disciples, stop... bristling! She's a guest! Make tea! The good tea! The magic-apple-leaf kind!"
The four disciples were paralyzed with shock.
The Master... this Primordial Being... was shaking the hand of a hidden, infiltrating Archmage? He wasn't vaporizing her? He wasn't scolding her? He was... beaming?
They looked at each other.
Of course.
Their Master's intellect was so vast... he knew she was an Archmage. He knew this was a test. And he was playing along. His casual, fearless, patronizing joy... it was the ultimate power-move. He was treating a Level 8 Archmage like a... like a student.
They bowed in unison. "Yes, Master!"
Archmage Elara was, herself, completely stunned.
She had come here, her mind shielded by 14 different spells, expecting a fortress, a monster, or a rival Demigod.
Instead, the "Primordial God-Sage" who had erased her entire school of magic... was a thin, excitable man in a simple tunic who was now... dragging her by the arm into his pagoda.
He had... no magical defenses. He had no guards. He had no fear.
He knew what she was. And he... wasn't concerned.
Her first, and most important, misunderstanding clicked into place: He was so far beyond her, she wasn't even a threat. She was a... curiosity.
"Please, please, sit!" Kalagar said, gesturing to a comfortable chair in the pagoda's main hall. "It has been ages since I've had a decent conversation! These four..." He gestured to his disciples, who were dutifully preparing tea. "...their hearts are in the right place, but they are... artistically minded. All 'concepts' and 'voids' and 'life-anthems.' No rigor! No textual analysis!"
Elara, a master of psychic-interrogation, found her entire script had been thrown out. She sat, trying to regain her footing. "You... are a scholar, then, Sage?"
"Sage? Oh, please," Kalagar laughed, waving his hand. "Just Kalagar. And yes! A generalist, mostly. Epistemology, metaphysics... but my true passion is 14th-century continental philosophy. You?"
Elara's mind reeled. Epistemology? Metaphysics? These were the exact divine concepts he had been re-writing. He was naming his crimes to her face!
"My... my field..." she said, her voice cautious, "is... the mind. The nature of... 'Self'."
This was it. Her probe. She had to know what he had done.
Kalagar's eyes lit up.
"The 'Self'!" he clapped his hands. "The Cogito! The fundamental question! Oh, this is wonderful! My disciples..." he lowered his voice conspiratorially, "...they wouldn't know Descartes from a doorstop. It's so simple, isn't it? The bedrock of all thought!"
Elara leaned forward, her entire being focused. "Simple, Sage? How... how would you define... the 'Self'?"
"Oh, well, it's not my definition," Kalagar said, taking a sip of the tea Lila handed him. "It's the classic axiom. People here try to define 'Self' by... I don't know... 'mana-signatures' or 'bloodlines' or 'souls'..." He scoffed, as if at a childish idea. "It's all nonsense. It's just one simple, beautiful, inescapable truth. 'Cogito ergo sum.'"
Elara stared blankly. "...'Cogito'... 'ergo'... 'sum'?"
"Ah, an old phrase from my... homeland," Kalagar said, smiling warmly. "It means... 'I think, therefore I am.'"
Clack. Shatter.
The delicate, priceless porcelain teacup slipped from Archmage Elara's hand. It hit the glowing wooden floor and exploded into a dozen pieces.
She wasn't looking at the tea.
She was staring at Kalagar S. Sully.
The [Mandate of Self].
The Forbidden-Rank Law that had shattered the Mental Conclave.
The divine, conceptual truth that had erased her entire school of magic...
The phrase that had ruined her life...
...was not a cosmic, ancient, secret spell.
It was a quote.
An academic quote.
A folk-saying from his "homeland."
And he... he was smiling at her. A warm, friendly, collegial smile.
Her blood turned to ice.
He knew.
He knew she was the Archmage of Psychic Magic. He knew she had come here to investigate. And he had... calmly... politely... and with a smile... just told her exactly what he had done.
This wasn't a sage. This wasn't a god.
This was a monster. A smiling, tea-drinking, academic monster of unimaginable power and arrogance.
"Oh, dear," Kalagar said, his face full of concern as he saw her pale, horrified expression. "Was it something I said? Don't worry, it's a common reaction! It's a bit of a mind-bender, isn't it? The first time you really think about it..."
He knelt, picking up the broken pieces. "Lila, fetch a cloth. Our guest seems to be a bit... overwhelmed."