When he woke up, feeling refreshed apart from a vague sense of unease from a forgotten dream, Gorren went straight back to work.

Having only a rough sense of what his limits were, he focused on trying to find a rhythm that would allow him to maximize his efficiency. As much as it pained him to rush things, he really had to work as fast as possible. Finding from the beginning the pace most suitable to his endurance would greatly improve his efficiency in the long run.

He started by working with the Crucible, summoning shards of Kor and measuring how his stamina held up. The exercise was meant to have a measure he could use as a reference to build a rough energy needed-material created ratio.

For a moment he thought about writing his findings, but then decided against it. His mind took notes like a chalkboard, he didn’t need it.

He worked for a couple of hours, accumulating small mounds of shards before the mental efforts started taking their toll. Using his specialized mind magic, he formed a mental compartment into his memory and put his findings in it. He counted it would be the beginning of a thought-archive he could use for future references.

Done that, he took a break, ate some hard biscuits and gulped down some water.

As he inspected his supplies, he was unpleasantly surprised to find traces of corruption. Inspecting better, he saw that the goods showed more or less the same rate of perishability that they would have shown on the material realm.

That was something he could really do without. He had counted those supplies to last him a lot of time. Instead, he would have to spend precious efforts to summon more, and perishable goods would have to be used quickly. Ack! Well, at least the discovery gave him some insight into the nature of his refuge. It stood to reason that with solid form, qualities of the Astral Plane would go lost, while properties of the Material Plane would set in. He entrusted the information to his memory for later investigation.

Waiting for his strength to return, he moved to the alchemical table. He controlled some of the substances he had set under process the day before, and nodded with grim satisfaction at their state, before setting to work with flasks and fire and chemicals. To be sure, his means were limited, but a lifetime of trafficking with substances of all kinds had given him a profound insight into their composition. Often, he didn’t even need the memory-trance to recall enough of them to summon them from the Crucible.

Today, he wanted to try his hand at enchanting.

He took out some of the metal plates he had summoned previously and laid them over the table. They were the less well-made amongst those he had summoned, the metal bent, warped or too weak, but that only made them more suited for experimentation.

He fiddled with them for some time before throwing them away with a disgusted sneer. To make proper enchanting he needed to be able to work with the material as it was being forged! Like that, it was just scrap metal. Yes, he could still use it, but the end result would be much under the level of quality he aimed for.

The Sentries and Batteries he had already built were emergency devices, their quick construction propelled by urgency and necessity. To say that they were garbage would be being generous. The Batteries leaked Mana and would have to be recharged periodically, even without usage. Also, the Mana leakage was detrimental to health in the long-term and while he didn’t share Timothy’s annoying refusal to endure some minor mutation in the name of knowledge, he needed to work in a controlled environment as much as possible. And he didn’t even want to start to talk about how badly they loaded power, how badly they transmitted it, how bad the energy-transmission of the Sentries was, how bad was the ratio between energy channeled and energy discharged.

Bad bad bad. He didn’t like bad. He decidedly didn’t like bad, especially if it was about the things he had to depend on for his security. He wanted good for those. Problem was, for the good he needed to be able to work on the material as it was forged. So, metal was no good.

Gorren dwelled over the irony of being limited by a source of material that should have been limitless only for a moment. His mind shifted, quick as quicksilver, to other concerns, even while it searched for solutions.

He tried to summon metal that was already enchanted. It was massively exhausting and yielded pitiful results in an exchange for far too much effort, so he discarded the method quickly. He took a glance at the shards of Kor and it was enough to discard that path as well. Too complex as a base material. He would need more time and tranquillity to work a way to make it useful for what he aimed for; and the problem with too much effort for too little result was also there.

He thought about it for a few moments, before recognizing that there was just a port for him to land.

It was frustrating and ironically hilarious at the same time. He had worked with the best kind of magically-charged materials to make the delicate instruments he had needed for his research. Now, at the supposed pinnacle, he had to return to the start. Someone wise had once said that existence is a circle. He could even start to think the old bugger was on to something there.

Bah! Dirt is, then!

Young mages, “modern” they liked to call themselves, squawking chicks he called them, seemed to have forgotten the noble material known as dirt. They were all about gold, and platinum, and Mythril, and orichalcum, or whatever fancy stuff shined the most or they could babble about the longest.

Their idiocy made Gorren’s brain hurt.

How could they forget dirt? Dirt, goddammit. Where the plants rose from? Dirt. Where the water flowed from? Dirt. From what the humans had come from, and where they would return? Dirt. What was the world made of? Goddammed dirt.

What was dirt if not ground life, a holder of lifeforce waiting for a seed to nurture? What it was if not the element from which the other three sprang? Its potential as a base material was enormous, as well as the idiocy of those that undervalued it.

Gorren had to lean against the wooden structure he had summoned, strength failing him for a moment. A simple brush with his past life of the university, and it still hurt so bad. He heaved a shuddering breath, struggling against the vice that seemed to have taken hold of his heart.

When the moment passed, and the memories were securely locked once again, he gratefully moved his attention to his work.

He had summoned another table, smaller than the first, and crammed it with potters’ tools. All kinds of utensils to mold clay and soil, some rock shapes, a bowl of water and a plate he could make rotate with a pedal. And finally, last but not least, a bunch of thick bricks of carefully compacted clay of different colors and mixture.

Gorren started to work right away, half out of impatience and out of fear of returning memories. He took a piece of clay, watered it with water and flattened, then started to knead it. He worked slowly and methodically, taking the clay apart piece by piece to take out any hard bits and then molding it back together. He infused it with his own Mana as he proceeded, both to make it into a material that would be suitably receptive to enchantments and linked to him when it was made into the final product. The Mana he infused, he wove into spells of gentle coaxing and steady change, a tiny echo of the rumbling songs that the earth sang as it heaved and cracked into its ceaseless struggle.

When he judged the material to be suitably infused, he bunched it into a ball and smacked it on the plate. Taking a seat on the stool before it, he started to work the pedal.

Under his fingers, the clay seemed to grow on its own, stretching and thinning like a plant seeking the light.

Gorren started to sing, his baritone voice raising into a thrumming chant dense with power. His song filled the room, pushing against the walls. It spoke of the silent shifting of the earth, eternal and steady while the world above changed and ran, nurturing and maternal while the world below smoldered with the fires of eternity. It sang of life hidden into the welcoming darkness, waiting for the moment to come to life.

The old archmage sang, and in the song he put his power and will, coaxing the humble soil to become the vessel that he needed it to be.

When he was done, molding and taking apart, attaching parts and forming shapes, he stopped and admired his work.

A clay doll, roughly the size of a small child, slumped atop of the plate, held from falling and in position by a wooden frame. It was very simple, its limbs stick-like and with just indentations to mark the positions of joint, while the hands were roughly shaped. A round head stood atop of a very short, very thick neck, with no features but a blank. All in all, a very simple job. Still, Gorren felt a little drained by having to constantly focus and infuse his Mana while concentrating on the work.

That was why Golem builders did only that, and why he had never taken to magical constructs in the first place. His needs had always been very simple and while a silent servant that would keep his tower in order would have come very much in handy, it was simply too much of a hassle to make one; and even then a basic golem would lack the proper finesse even to handle something as simple as a broom, and he sure as hell wasn’t making an advanced one for such a stupid thing. He could sweep the rooms by himself and get done with that much quicker. The rest of the place could rot for what he cared.

Still, that was the main reason why he had swallowed the idea of an apprentice. Funny how fate worked.

Not going there.

Carefully, he picked up the frame with the door, taking care that its position wasn‘t disturbed. The stone oven he had built with summoned bricks burned brightly already, but it wasn’t time to cook the clay yet. Instead, he set the frame before the opening of the oven, so that it could dry, while the enchantments he had laid over the clay took root. A battery close by provided constant bathing of his Mana over it.

The satisfaction with which he gazed over his creation wasn’t shy from a flick of apprehension. There was a load of myths about how the Gods had created the first man by mixing clay and the divine element that each culture deemed the most appropriate. In his case, the mixture was clay, mana and… he glanced at the Crucible. With the sheer creative potential of the Crux on display, it wasn’t completely out of the realm of possibility that…

He shook his head, refusing to acknowledge the way his heartbeat had gotten faster. For a moment, he entertained the idea of moving the oven and doll into the other room but quickly discarded the idea. It would be too much of a hassle now, having only vague suspects as a base. He refused to invest his precious time with only that as a motive. And… he was curious, he guessed. The tickling push of that damned curiosity wouldn’t leave him…

He stood watching the doll for a few moments, unsure, before finally ripping himself away from it. Bah! He had more work to do!

Next, he wanted weapons.

… or don’t. He guessed that the “making clothes oath” was still hanging by the door.

Grumbling, he set to work. He managed to make for himself a pair of trouser before snapping and starting to rant at the horrible waste. That, and the fact that the trouser had to be as small as those that a teen could be wearing. It was tough being short.

Some thrown pottery and snarled imprecations later, his frame wasn’t naked anymore. He wore a simple, worn-looking pair of linen trousers that opened at knees so that he could have the best freedom of movements. Also, his body seemed to dispel warmth perfectly on its own and he didn’t want to impede it too much.

He would have gladly remained bare-chested and bare-footed, but a quick evaluation convinced him to grudgingly choose otherwise. He would be working with hazardous chemicals after all and even if his body looked sturdy as an oak, he really didn’t want to discover its limits through chunks of acid.

So, he also made a sturdy apron, two cloaks with hood, two pairs of boots, a pointed hat, long gloves, a short robe, a tunic, a blanket, rags, some pants and a lead mask. Apart from those he would be using during his experiments, that were made of tanned leather, he had it all made of simple linen, with nothing stupid like embroidery or whatnot.

The work gave him an unexpected new insight. It seemed that he could easily summon organic materials. He would need to think about that…

But enough clothes or stupid things like that. After a quick break and a quick snack, he gladly started to think about more useful tools.

That said, weapons. He needed them, lots and lots if all possible. But where was he to start from?

Obviously, his main weapon was his staff. No warmage could do without one.

A staff, properly built, charged and tuned on the wavelength of its user’s magical aura, was to a warmage like a sword was to a warrior. It helped him to speed up spellcasting, acting as a support during all four phases and, more importantly on the battlefield, as an amplifier, allowing the caster to call upon more of his Mana reserve and to launch stronger spells while helping focus. It was akin to having a third arm, an advantage that was too good to be passed on.

As good it was in life or death situation, its same uses made it almost always a surplus during research work, where every step had to be conducted with slow, methodical precision and more importantly you didn’t risk having someone stow your skull in.

Gorren took the staff into his hand, testing its weight. It appeared to his mind like a firm point amidst the sea of Mana; like a podium, waiting for the conductor to step on it and from there, safe from the waters underneath, direct the waves into crescendos of emotions and symphonies of light and dark.

He channeled his Mana into it, feeling it lit in response, like a friendly firefly. Other mages could have felt their staves as a rock, sturdy and strong while they jutted out from a raging sea, or like a series of handholds, allowing to better scale a steep cliff. His apprentice felt it as a hand, gently guiding him toward the light.

Gorren liked to think himself immune to such emotional lean-to. His staff was a baton, firmly held into his hand, waiting for him to use it while an orchestra waited for his commands, invisible in the darkness beneath his podium.

He closed his eyes and took a long breath, then cut the air with a sharp motion.

From the darkness rose a single note, the loud call of a trumpet. Fire, surging tall and fierce. Gorren slashed before him. Cymbals made their strident sound be heard. Water, smashing against the coast with raging fury. Gorren flicked his wrist. A clarinet chirped with cheerful mirth. The wind, gentle and caressing as it flew across the world. He brought his baton down into a downward motion. The bass drum filled the darkness with its brooding voice. Earth, unmoving, and patient. He raised both hands to the sky. Violins chanted with breathless harmony. The Light, soaring the heavens. He traced a quick pattern in the air. The dark writhed with the organ’s mournful wail.

He lost himself in the music, directing the instruments one after the other. To his motions, a symphony of matchless beauty rose, the elements singing into unison, fighting and joining, raising and falling, chaos and order intertwined.

More and more he moved and directed and sang with the unbrindled Mana, more and more the elements danced for him, weaving a tapestry of savage power and eternal beauty. More and more he lost himself into the harmony and chaos and…

Amazing, Master!

A note out of order, an ear-splitting shriek of anger and grief. The symphony crumbled into pieces. Gorren flailed as the chaos fell upon him, all direction and control lost.

And then it was over.

He seated on the floor of the laboratory, his staff laying a couple of meters away, slightly smoking. He gulped air, trying to slow the heart hammering in his chest. The feeling of loss scratched his mind raw, left him breathless with its immensity.

All of them, i lost all of them. Tim, my apprentice, i lost them, the people you entrusted me. The legacy you put in my keeping. All burned to the ground. And now only i remain. I failed, my apprentice, i failed.

He grabbed fistfuls of his beard and pulled, ignoring the spikes of pain, despair and anger mingling. There wasn’t an atom of him that didn’t scream and snarled, that wasn’t wretched and wrathful at the same time. Desperate power burned behind his eyes, barely held in check.

“Cursed be the day i welcomed you in my house.” He hissed.

Someone had once said that loving and losing was better than not loving at all. In that moment he knew that whoever it was, it was nothing but a fool. Nothing could be worth the pain that he felt splitting his heart apart. Nothing. If that was the price, he wished to have never loved at all.

He remained there on the floor for a long time, but eventually the flood of despair receded, leaving his soul an empty, rock-strewn desolation.

True, his old life had burned away along with everything he had ever known, but he was still there, he was still alive. None of the deaths wrought by the Flaming Light was a waste, his presence there the greatest proof of it. Nor would they go unpunished, he would make sure of it even if it took him a thousand years.

His conviction was strengthened by those thoughts, and he felt like himself once again. Darkness still lurked into the pits of his mind but for now, he had managed to repulse it. Before it had a chance to rise again, he ran back to work. He needed to busy himself.

So, weapons.

As much as unpleasant his test with the staff had proved itself to be, he had at least found that his ability with it hadn’t dulled. An average warmage could throw fireballs that splintered shields and threw warriors to the ground. A powerful one could bathe entire corridors in flames intense enough to melt armor and scourge flesh from bone. If he had to make a rough estimate, his ability reached between the two levels, more or less. More testing would be useful, but he… he didn’t feel ready to face it again. Later, yes. Later.

Instead, he moved to other concerns.

He would train, yes, raise his combat level, but that would take time and time was just what he didn’t have. What he needed was a power boost right away.

Thinking that, he gathered the pieces of Kor he had summoned and started to mold them.

Molding it into precise forms was more difficult than using it for building, but with patience and focus, he managed to master the process with just a few attempts. That substance reacted marvelously well to his inputs and he could recycle every bit, no matter how small.

First of all, he made himself a shield. He made it round, light enough that he could carry and large enough that he could huddle behind it if needed. He still fumed at how the beast of the library had pierced his defences with that ridiculous spell. With that shield, that wouldn’t happen ever again. Not even the Crux could pierce the Kor.

After that, he made a smaller shield, one that he could easily carry strapped to his forearm. The first one had to be large and that made it cumbersome; having a smaller, more agile version, could come in handy, especially because he could hold his staff together with it.

With what remained of the Kor he manufactured a crude spear, lashing a sharpened shard of Kor to a wooden pole he summoned from the Crucible. His body was as weak as it was small. The best was trying to go with reach and hope for the best. Not like he wouldn’t do everything he could to avoid stepping into an actual battle. In fact, he hoped that his defenses could make them work, while he huddled into his bunker. Those weapons were more of a last resort.

Done that, he passed the rest of day summoning Kor, materials and measuring his endurance. Day according to his interpretation, of course. He stood there as much as his mental strength allowed him, pausing only to get some refreshment and quickly losing himself in the process.

He kept his weapon, shield, staff and spear close by all the time. Despite being primitive weapons, his hands almost itched from the wish to use them. Was the leftover of the crisis of earlier? Was thirst for revenge against the beast?

He wasn’t exaclty sure, and he didn’t care. He just stood there, in his little world, working without pose, pointed teeth bared and mind stubbornly focused to a sharp point as no to invite unwelcome memories.