Wegland was resigned. His memories kept failing him, causing him to think himself a young up and coming mage most mornings. It took him hours of bewildered shouting and begging before realising that he was a young man no longer. He used to feel a timid appreciation for the future on his worst days. He never was a happy nor a depressed person, just a dogged mage that loved mana and magic and wanted to make it his life’s work. He remembered that he used to think he succeeded in this task. He still felt this way even now, but the reason why kept slipping his mind. He flipped his diary back to the important page. The magical book’s pages cascaded by endlessly, an impossible amount of paper contained in an impossibly thin cover. He read the same passage again and again, only for it to slip his mind not a minute later.

This was how one of the greatest mages in the Empire had been spending his time over the past month. He woke up and wandered around in his nightshift until one of the unfamiliar assistants found him. He was then forcefully dressed and given an empty mana crystal. Years of filling the bloody things made him pour in power by sheer instinct. Filled mana cores are highly regulated items, but he could have been producing the blasted objects constantly for all he knew. He was probably making some unscrupulous black market criminal millions, he suddenly realised. This memory was also taken away by the mists of forgetfulness twenty seconds later, leaving Wegland sitting in his tower with a half-formed spell construct he didn’t remember casting. He dissipated the purposeful shards of floating mana and stared at this diary again. The words seemed foreign and alien, even though he recognised his own handwriting.

‘I’m done. It’s happening. I hope you have the courage, for I do not. The curse is upon me, and I will become a raving demon within this decade. I feel it in my bones and my water. This is one of the last clear moments I have. The brain rot is upon me, and I must go quietly into this horrid night. I want this not. I will this not. Yet like cursing the sun for rising, this is what is happening nonetheless, and it cares for my woes and wants not one bit. Remember her. Please do not become him. Please have courage and power. I hope with all my heart that you will, because I have them not.’

Eloquently written and containing traces of a extensive education in classic and contemporary literature and culture, this passage in his diary is marked as of paramount importance. The magical tome has been Wegland’s most important, trusted and inseparable companion his entire life. The way to open the slim booklet to the most important and recent page is deeply ingrained in both his muscle and memory. And yet, despite the many precautions the archwizard has taken over his long life, they all pale when compared to his sheer will to live.

Wizards all suffer this fate, be they blessed enough to live until their old age. There is much reason why a talent for the magical arts is seen as a blessing and a curse. The wielder of mindfull mana either dies early as a hero, or they die of old age, a raving lunatic or demon. The comfort of effortlessly doubling their lifespan that is the lot of instinctual mana control soldiers is not something mages can find comfort in. Wegland Talmanael, first and last of his supernatural line, hero of Fallstadt, wielder of the Will of Pomacina, archmage of the first order, in service of the One True Emperor, knew that this would happen years ago. The first time he woke up without knowing where he was for more than a minute, he should have killed himself. He should have repaid the Empire for all the luxuries bestowed upon him by plunging a dagger into his heart the second he knew he was suffering from brain rot. Yet he did not. Instead, he thought he could save himself. Instead, he thought himself better than the thousands of mages that went before him. He incorrectly judged himself of a higher mental and magical calibre.

And now he couldn’t commit suicide even had he wanted to. The shortest self-termination spell still takes a full minute to cast. The last time he had been lucid for an entire minute was two months ago. Now, he was a jibbering wreck stuck in the past. He kept leafing through his diary, reliving old memories as unknown upstarts handed him empty mana crystals. The layer of fat that had started surrounding his bones was long since gone. No longer did his loyal assistant bring him cake each day. Instead, he was being systematically starved by a calculating and conniving mind. And Wegland didn’t realise any of this.

Actually, he had realised this fact two hundred twenty-three times in the past week alone. His fading mind had managed to put this all together over two hundred times, his highly trained wits leading him to conclude this fact from circumstantial evidence over and over. He had failed to act every time.

Any inquisitor worth their salt would have put a sword through his neck two hundred twenty-three times by now. This fact had kept him from alerting the proper authorities through one of the many means available to him. Alerting the proper channels about an illegal crystal filling operation happening under his very nose will undoubtedly lead to his own death. This fatalistic line of reasoning had made him hesitate long enough for the brain rot to rob him of his short-term memories once more. Each and every time, he had gone galavanting in his long-term memories in a willful and highly treasonous ploy to keep living a little longer. Memories of days long past seemed to be afflicted by brain-rot less than recent events by several folds.

Fredic had calculated all of this. His background was the perfect preparation for this exact circumstance, by pure coincidence. He had arrived here three months ago, posted as an intern to one of the great archmages. His parentage, school, social connections and test results had pretty much guaranteed him this job and position. The only variable he had needed to account for was the commoners' background of his fellow assistant - some useless and easily manipulated chap called Winn. Fredic’s rich family history allowed him political know-how when it came to brain rot. The certain knowledge that mages past a certain age start becoming malleable pieces of clay allowed his family to gain rank through many shady circumstances.

Camprisse’s family had gotten her this position through comparable but diametrically opposed means. Instead of looking for incompetence to exploit, her entire family style was built upon the manipulation and exploitation of those who deemed themselves higher. She had been spoon-fed the tenants of manipulation and manoeuvring from positions of weakness since she was but a babe.

Winn was one of the odd ones out in this picture, to be honest. His family had worked themselves up from the dirt of common citizenship. His grandfather had been a respected knight, winning himself a place in higher nobility through sheer strength of ‘I will kill you if you disrespect me’. His grandfather had been a prodigy in the sword, able to beat other men his age despite a significant disadvantage when it came to training techniques, let alone a lack of magical training information.

In short, Wegland had reverted to the political position of a duckling surrounded by a backstabbing jackal, a smooth-tongued viper and a proud hound-pup about to be roasted alive.

Not a single party involved in this political clusterfuck had predicted Felicia, though. Even Camprisse, who had started the negotiation process with the business-minded wildcard from an extremely advantageous position, did not take into account the merging of dungeon core with an extra-universal human through a standard cleanup procedure that had created the businesswoman with a diamond stuck in her throat.

All parties involved with the escape event had been trained for specific goals. Wegland was rooted in a scholar mindset, the knowledge of books impressed upon his young psyche from a very young age by his learned parents. The later studies of practical and theoretical magical warfare had prepared him for war in a distant manner. Dismantling enemy traps from behind the frontlines and pelting the opposing force’s frontal troops with long-range spells never required him to be in the thick of it himself. The Empire knew better than to let one of their precious mana casters be endangered by some cheaply trained mundane flinger of arrows, after all. It was thus unfortunate that he was met with physical violence in a rather direct way.

Camprisse was pressure cooked with royal gossip, high-speed learning of historic events and copious amounts of comfort and utility magic. She could have saved the day if she had been trained in brute force magic application. Instead of a single solid shield spell, she knew dozens of specific elemental shield spells. Instead of training brute power able to resist large forces, she was the master of a myriad of utility magics and skilled in fine manipulation. None of them did her any good when the cells where breached.

Fredic was extensively trained in infiltration and knew perfectly how to influence a vote in parliament without tripping any alarms or magical detectors. The wall that exploded into his face cared little for his subtle magical mood manipulation.

The only person able to withstand the brute force that was being employed was Winn. His grandfather had grown up with a sword. His father with the sword and financial balance book both, and the boy had been no different. Winn was too occupied with decorating the cake. Both Fredic and Camprisse had told him to distract Wegland by faking another birthday party. So when Felicia’s tank burst through the wall, Winn was too focussed on getting the frosting pattern just right to really care about matters of Empirical security.

Fredic was spared through sheer luck, as he was too busy searching the deep cellars below the tower for hidden valuables.

Wegland stood up. His book grasped in his hand and the partially filled gem rolling away forgotten. No matter how bad his memory might be, the growing rumbling sounds were too ominous and loud to ignore. He shuffled over to his balcony, grasping the ornamental railing with wrinkled hands. He managed to keep his wits about him long enough to cast a few observation spells, and the standard set of scouting augments enhanced his senses to superhuman levels. Then he saw a cell wall fall. Looking closer, he tuned the magical matrix surrounding his left eye, causing his sight to zoom in further. To his great shock and astonishment, he saw a long line of partially crumbled walls behind the newest damaged one. The six-sided pattern of straight walls had a clear line of breaches running through them, a jagged arrow that seemed to be aimed straight for his position.

Wegland looked down, expecting to see the crystal hanging above the teleportation formation shining with activity. He did not expect to see the dull emptiness of a depleted mana crystal. He wondered what happened to the alarm systems, but saw that those crystal mounts held either nothing or were empty. His analytical mind was confounded for a brief moment. He could swear that they should be full up, good for a week under maximum load at the minimum. He looked over the inlaid mana channels, finding no fault in the magical metal that formed the complex teleportation spell and all the control circuity surrounding it.

Then the closes cell wall exploded into fragments and Wegland looked up. He had analysed the crystals and formations a couple dozen times - forgetting his conclusions each time - before his peaceful courtyard was breached with thunderous roaring and violence. The detail of guards had long since stood ready in a basic defence formation, the front row holding shields and swords while the second row held spears. Then Wegland saw the culprit of this rather unusual disruption of the usual order.

A goddess of war stood upon her chariot of destruction. Dust swirled around her, but none of it dared lay upon her immaculately cut clothes. Wegland drunk in her figure, covered in darkly striped fabric that clung devilishly to her curves. She had none of those voluminous layers of frills meant to entice that were so common in high society. No low neckline or bejeweled golden trinkets adorned this woman. No, she was clad in simple layers of creased perfection. Dark hair fluttered above eyes that crackled with icy blueness. Smokey lashes surrounded those piercing and bright pools of swirling fate.

Then Wegland saw her steed, and he wept. His shaking heart had fallen in love with the warrior queen storming his castle. His mind now became smitten with the mechanical perfection of the object she rode in on. Dark metal was formed in plates and sharp angles that screamed war. Two thick bands of interlocked death were rotated over wheels that turned with the inevitability of the universe. A brutal contraption made from spikes and bars was mounted in front, many dents and malformations proof that the object had plenty of physical power, enough to smash through magic wrought wall that was flooded with strengthening and repelling magic. It all made such a noise.

A brief thought told Wegland that the mana crystals feeding the strengthening runes lay empty below.

Then the massive barrel standing proudly in front of the house-size slab of moving metal exploded with a sound rivalling the most powerful magical artillery spells, and the tower exploded. At the same time, the tank rolled over the bracing soldiers, their trained physiques and magical equipment not giving Felicia's tank a single iota of resistance or hinder. Wegland's gaze didn't leave the proud woman as she drove below. He kept looking at her eyes as his fingers clutched his shattering balcony. Then he fell, she looked at him, and his heart and mind where both lost.

Then Wegland smashed into the ground and died, large parts of his tower falling apart behind him.