The North Sea Ghost rocked and pitched in the swells of the Sea of Ghosts.
Skyl lay on the wooden bunk, pinching his pendant and staring into space.
He picked up the Mora-book and rubbed its cover, murmuring with a sigh, "Half a year of hard work, and back to square one overnight. Mora, Mora… just to deal with you, I practically bled the Eye of Magnus dry."
During the fight against Mora, Skyl hadn't held anything back from the Eye of Magnus's stored eternal divine power—because only power at that level could push his spells and magic to actually take effect on a Daedric Prince.
And forcing the door-shaped sigil to unleash its might had consumed the most divine power of all.
Speaking of the door-shaped sigil—the crest that had appeared so suddenly on the back of Skyl's hand—its "rank" felt far above even Hermaeus Mora's, yet Skyl knew almost nothing about it.
All this time, he'd been deeply curious about where it came from, and even more confused about what he truly was.
Sometimes he wondered if he was some projection—an avatar cast by a greater god. Otherwise, how could he have been handed such an absurdly powerful cheat?
But Skyl couldn't truly see himself clearly. It wasn't as simple as shouting I am a god and instantly awakening some past life, unraveling the sigil's mystery.
Skyl didn't understand himself. Some days, he felt like a player who'd barged into a story uninvited; other days, he imagined waking up one morning to find it had all been a dream; and sometimes he even thought—half-joking, half-afraid—that he might be a fish being fattened in some big shot's pond, waiting to be eaten when the time was right.
He never showed this uncertainty to anyone. He didn't even reflect on it much himself—maybe out of fear, maybe because he saw no benefit in digging.
So Skyl decided to enjoy every day he had. If something was funny, he'd laugh. If food was good, he'd eat. If knowledge intrigued him, he'd learn. If someone was suffering, he'd lend a hand. And if someone did evil—he'd step up and give them a reason to regret it.
In short, he'd live happily, and try to make the world around him a little more lighthearted.
His trip to Solstheim had been exhilarating… but in the end, still not quite satisfying.
He remembered why he'd come in the first place: to make Miraak spit out those stolen dragon souls. Instead, he'd shown up to collect a debt, accidentally beaten the debtor to death—and, while he was at it, knocked the deadbeat's landlord into a vegetative state.
As for the dragon souls Miraak had stolen—if he couldn't get them back, so be it. He had plenty more now anyway.
Somewhere within the Tower of Tomes, four great dragons were currently coiled up, nesting.
Miraak had once enslaved them, but when Apocrypha collapsed, they'd fled into the Tower of Tomes.
A nuclear blast couldn't kill an immortal dragon—but having your flesh-body blown into powder still felt absolutely miserable. So the four dragons chose to submit, taking shelter beneath the High Tower King.
After the Tower of Tomes devoured Apocrypha's domain, its spacetime had expanded to a diameter of one light-year—and it had inherited the complete divinity of the knowledge Daedric Prince. Within the Tower, Skyl began to develop abilities that no longer fit within the bounds of mere spellcasting—strange gifts that crossed into something else entirely.
His inspiration seeped into all vessels of knowledge—books, inscriptions, tablets, anything that could bear words. When someone read, the emotions stirred by the text could be faintly caught by him. And the books that drew Skyl's attention would become his ritual foci—objects that could be used to summon his gaze, or to bestow divine miracles.
The reach of that inspiration was broad. As long as a member of the Tower of Tomes existed within a given universe, Skyl could sense it.
And through the minds of those readers, he could understand the contents of their books—letting others study and research on his behalf, freeloading on their brainpower. It was, in fact, Hermaeus Mora's favorite pastime.
There were ways to avoid being leeched like that. One was to spread knowledge without a medium—through oral transmission, through heart-to-heart understanding. Knowledge passed down through generations in that way was, to Mora, a treasure beyond price—irresistible bait.
Having devoured Mora's divinity, Skyl had already begun evolving—almost involuntarily—toward a higher form of life. His mortal body would slowly strengthen: strength, agility, vitality, regeneration, resistance to illness and abnormality—everything would rise, until his flesh reached the level of a demigod. At the latest, the process would take less than a century.
All things considered, Skyl was satisfied with what he'd gained on Solstheim. His only headache was that his reserves of eternal divine power were nearly drained dry. From here on, he had to be frugal. He couldn't keep throwing magic around like he used to.
There were only two solutions.
One: find another powerful magical artifact to serve as a battery. But artifacts like the Eye of Magnus were extremely rare in The Elder Scrolls—practically irreplaceable. The world of Elden Ring might have sources of power that could help, but none would be as clean and convenient as eternal divine power.
Two: stop being human.
Ignite the divine fire. Ascend to godhood. Convert faith into divine power, and walk the slow, steady road of building a divine kingdom—saying goodbye to the bustling beauty of mortal life, only occasionally wandering the world through a mortal avatar.
Skyl didn't plan to ignite the divine fire for now. The impact of that step would be earthshaking, and he wasn't sure he was ready.
Besides, Skyl no longer relied on the Eye of Magnus the way he once had. As his body continued evolving toward demigodhood, his own magic would keep growing, enough to handle most situations. There was no need to chase power blindly.
Within the door-shaped sigil, the fourth world he could travel to had also unlocked not long ago.
Skyl planned to return to Winterhold, deal with the heart stones, and then set out for the next world.
That was when someone knocked on his door.
He figured everyone was probably drinking again—maybe someone had come to drag him into the feast. Put a single Nord on a ship, and within a week, the whole ship would turn into a Nord banquet. That was what they lived for: drinking together. Their greatest wish was to become heroes, die, and go to Sovngarde—feasting forever with their ancestors.
But the one knocking wasn't a sailor, nor the Dragonborn, nor a College mage.
It was Dumbledore.
"Professor? Come in."
Dumbledore entered the cabin at Skyl's invitation and sat down in a comfortable armchair. Skyl sat on the edge of the bed. With the ship swaying, they didn't bother with tea—no sense spilling it everywhere.
"Skyl," the old headmaster began, troubled, "I've been thinking about how to build a magical industry at Hogwarts. But it isn't easy. Our world doesn't have abundant ambient magical energy."
At the mention of magical energy, Skyl's own head started to ache again.
The two of them sighed at the same time.
"Maybe we rely too much on magical energy," Skyl said. "But we can deal with that later. Professor, I'm preparing to travel to a new world. Want to come with me?"
Dumbledore chuckled warmly. "Of course. Summer is still quite long. This old codger will follow the guide's arrangements."
…
After the North Sea Ghost returned to Winterhold, the mages began developing an automatic enchanting machine based on the properties of heart stone ore. And though the Dunmer Neloth complained about the College as always, he still stayed—very honestly, and very stubbornly.
His goal was the Oghma Infinium rumored to be hidden within Winterhold's hold. But what Neloth didn't yet know was that with Mora's divine spark taken by Skyl, the Daedric Prince's magical artifacts had begun failing one after another. Neloth's treasure hunt was doomed to end in nothing but empty excitement.
Brelyna intended to use this time to try and invite Neloth into the Tower of Tomes.
The Dragonborn, meanwhile, was preparing for his decisive battle against Alduin the World-Eater. Hearing that Skyl would be adventuring in other worlds, he was filled with longing, and even made an agreement: once he'd slain the dragon, he'd come back and join the party for cross-world travel.
Skyl told him, with a grim look, that with a great battle imminent, he shouldn't go around jinxing things. The Dragonborn listened, baffled, but still set off—Lydia at his side.
Moonshadow had now been hired as Hogwarts' Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. She'd grown impatient with this world long ago; the moment she heard there was a new world to visit, she packed at dawn and waited outside Skyl's dormitory door with her luggage.
"Just so we're clear—this new world is one I've never been to either," Skyl said as he gathered the companions for this trip: Dumbledore, Moonshadow, and Aranea. "Once we're there, we play it by ear. I'll keep the portal open. If we run into a risk we can't handle, we retreat to the Tower of Tomes."
Everyone nodded.
Skyl opened the portal, and they filed through.
The scenery changed in an instant.
Sunlight. Grasslands. Rolling hills. And small Hobbits weaving through the market street of a countryside fair—this was a lively, peaceful little village, nestled in a world rich with fertile beauty.
Dumbledore stroked his beard, surveying the Hobbit village. The locals stared in astonishment at the four travelers who had appeared out of nowhere.
A Hobbit farmer pointed at Dumbledore and shouted, "Oh! It's Gandalf! I recognize him!"
"No, he's not Gandalf—Gandalf wears grey robes. This man's wearing purple!" his companion argued immediately.
Another Hobbit woman hurriedly added, "He really isn't Gandalf, even if they do look terribly alike. Besides, I saw Gandalf just this morning—he went to visit the Baggins family's smial. He can't have gone far. Might not even be gone yet."
As they spoke, an old fellow arrived at the market—blue pointed hat, grey cloak, silver scarf, a white beard hanging down to his waist, leaning on a staff.
And among the travelers stood another old fellow—pointed hat, a purple wizard's robe, and a white beard reaching his waist.
When the two met, neither spoke for a moment.
The onlookers found it fascinating. They rarely saw two people who looked so absurdly similar. After a while someone snickered—and then the laughter spread. The locals laughed, the offworld travelers laughed, and Dumbledore and Gandalf laughed until they were clutching their stomachs, filling the little Hobbit village with a bright, happy air.
The grey-robed Gandalf stepped forward. He gathered himself, pressed a hand to his chest, and offered the travelers a solemn salute.
"Greetings, travelers from afar. Welcome to Arda (in Quenya, meaning 'the Earth'). I am Gandalf, bearer of tidings for Ilúvatar—also called Eru, the Creator. He has come to Aman, walking the shores of the Outer Sea, and waits there for your visit." He looked at Skyl and Moonshadow. "Especially you two honored guests. Please—do attend."
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