Strength Based Wizard (Book 1 COMPLETE)

Echoes of a Dead World, Part I

(Old Friends)

POV: The Trickster

The Trickster stood before the Beast, his reflection caught in the blood-red slit of the vertical eye splitting the lion-creature's forehead. "Hello, old friend," he said, wearing a smile so perfect it could have been painted on. Perhaps because it had been. It didn't reach his eyes, of course—nothing ever did anymore.

It Who Watches the End's eye spun lazily, rotating within its socket as if tasting the space around it. The light from distant stars bent and twisted across its surface, reflected and devoured at once. It was searching, he knew. For what, he wasn't sure he wanted to know.

The Beast's gaze fell upon him at last, and the Trickster felt a chill roll through him that had nothing to do with cold. When It Who Watches the End was awake, things were already too far gone. The end was nigh, and the Trickster's only hope was to control how it played out. After all, the lion was an echo of the System itself, a remnant of what the God Before Gods had built, hollowed out and left to slumber at the edge of Everything. It wasn't supposed to stir until the last Seed World burned bright, until the final Game ended, until the Gods departed to the Realm Beyond for the last time, shepherding the final integrated lifeforms, and left this carcass of a reality to die in peace.

But here the damn thing was, blinking at him with that unholy eye. An eye that saw all too much. An eye meant to bear witness and testament.

The Trickster spread his hands and forced a laugh that sounded too much like a sigh. "What causes you to stir, my friend?"

He called it friend, though no one sane would. The lion's hide was silver-white, luminous even in the void, and its mane drifted like smoke, endless strands curling through nothing. It was a creature older than time, vast enough to crush galaxies beneath its paws. The sound it made when it breathed was like the rumbling of mountains.

For a moment, it did nothing. Just breathed. The silence stretched long enough for unease to creep in, gnawing at the Trickster's nerves. He could feel it then—the faint hum of the System's power, the fragile framework of reality trembling under the weight of something wrong.

Then, the Beast grumbled. The sound rolled through the void like thunder dragged through tar. The Trickster waited. Patience wasn't something he'd ever been good at, but Tartarus had given him plenty of practice.

Finally, the lion's jaw cracked open. Rows of teeth like polished moons caught the light of distant stars. Its voice was a sonorous weight, pressing down on everything.

"Chernobog," it said.

The word vibrated through him, sinking deep, heavy as fate.

The Trickster's smile faltered. Just a little.

He'd hoped he'd misheard.

He hadn't.

The Trickster tore through the fabric of the Between like a stone hurled through glass. Reality cracked and folded around him in jagged, screaming shards—threads of space twisting in his wake, each one warping into some impossible geometry before snapping back to order.

He didn't care. Order could burn.

He was running on instinct now, clawing through the layers of existence with a kind of reckless, giddy fury. He'd seen the Beast awaken. Heard that damned name whispered like a death sentence upon the wind's lips. Chernobog. The word still rang in his skull, heavy as a funeral bell.

There was only one person he needed to speak to.

He stretched out his Will, flinging it through the Between like a net cast across an ocean. Nothing. He tried again—deeper this time—his essence lashing against the currents of the void, sparks of starlight bleeding from the strain. "Where are you?" he snarled. "How far could you have gone?"

Still nothing.

"Damn you," he muttered, and then, louder, shouting into the endless dark, his voice cracked as he screamed. "Damn you!"

He changed tactics, the way only a mad god could. If he couldn't find his brother, he would drag him here. The Trickster's Will condensed, hardening into a spiral of raw, radiant intent. The void rippled around him, a storm of light and sound as he poured his power outward, every ounce of it clawing toward a single word.

"Brother!"

His Intent would not be denied.

The call reverberated through the Between, rattling the bones of dead worlds, setting the threads of creation to trembling. He felt something give way inside him—a tearing in his Core, the sharp taste of his own essence burning as it left him.

And then… silence.

He waited.

Nothing.

Again, there was no answer.

He cursed then, a long and ugly thing, stringing together every forbidden name the System had ever known. The space around him hissed in protest, shivering at the blasphemy. His brother had always been like this—stubborn to the point of madness. Always the oldest, always the leader, always too proud to be summoned by the likes of him.

"So very like you," the Trickster spat into the void. "Can't even be bothered to pick up when the universe is in peril."

Then the air changed.

The space around him grew heavy, soaked with the taste of divinity. Light pooled before him, golden and soft at first, then searing bright. It unfolded into a doorway, a perfect circle of radiance that hummed with power.

The Trickster straightened, brushing nonexistent dust from his coat. "About time," he muttered, collecting himself.

Out of the light stepped The Silent One.

He was a tall figure, broad-shouldered beneath layered robes of white. His beard was pale gold, his long hair pulled back and held by a circlet that gleamed like captured sunlight. The lines on his face were cut deep—old lines, carved by duty and centuries of silence. His eyes burned with golden fire, the kind that could see straight through pretense and lies.

The Trickster's grin returned, though it looked strained now, pulled too tight around the edges.

"Brother," he said, voice smooth as oil on water.

The Silent One said nothing. He only looked at him, long and slow, as though weighing whether this was truly the Trickster or some new problem wearing his face. The Trickster hated that look.

He'd come all this way through broken space, half his Core scorched to ash attempting to summon him, and still, still, his brother managed to make him feel small.

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The Trickster's grin faltered when faced with his brother's silence. Always the same with him: still as stone, expression carved from the bedrock of patience itself. It made the Trickster want to gag.

"It Who Watches is awake," he said at last, pacing a slow circle around his brother. "It opened its eye, and it spoke. When it did, it only had one word to say." He paused, savoring the next words, letting them drop like stones into the still pond between them. "It said the name Chernobog."

The Silent One didn't move. Not a twitch. Not a blink. His golden eyes burned steady.

The Trickster frowned. "Nothing? No gasp of horror? No righteous fury? You were the one who defeated him. The one who locked him away. Remember? You said no power could break that prison."

Still nothing.

The Trickster felt the old chill crawl up his spine. Tartarus. Even saying the name made his skin crawl. He'd been in the uppermost layer—barely the threshold, really—and it had nearly unraveled him. His mind had been chewed to ribbons by the silence, the dark, the endless gnawing sense of time. He couldn't imagine the place where Chernobog had been buried. No god could.

Finally, the Silent One spoke—not aloud, but within his brother's mind, his voice a low rumble of thunder across distant skies.

What foolishness is this? None may be freed from that prison. Not without the work of all Twelve.

The Trickster threw up his hands. "Oh, yes, because we've never been wrong before. Because every grand decree we've ever made turned out exactly as intended."

The voice pressed deeper into his skull. You jest.

"Always." He flashed a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "But not this time. The Beast is awake. An Aspect of the System itself. It can't be wrong. You know what that means."

Silence stretched again—long enough that the Trickster wondered if his brother had withdrawn altogether, as he was prone to do.

Then, We shall see for ourselves.

The Trickster's stomach sank. He knew that tone. He knew exactly what his brother meant.

He forced a laugh, though it came out thin and bitter. "Oh, don't tell me. You want to go there."

We must confirm that Chernobog remains bound.

"Must we?" The Trickster's voice cracked on the edge of panic. "Because I can think of about a thousand better ideas. Safer ones. Ones that don't involve stepping back into the belly of the Nether."

The Silent One didn't answer. He didn't need to. His resolve was already a thing carved in the bones of creation.

The Trickster's smile returned, slow and sharp, though it trembled at the corners. "Fine," he said softly. "Tartarus it is. Let's go wake the nightmares."

POV: Joseph Sullivan, Muscle Mage and Retainer to The Master Slime

I'm out in the backyard, barefoot on damp grass under the soft amber glow of the porch light and the retina-burning white of the garage floodlights.

Lefty and Righty are out—my two loyal spectral fists. They hover at my shoulders like twin ghosts of bar fights past, each twitching with anticipation.

Unfortunately for them, tonight's opponent is... a slice of cake.

And a watermelon.

And a cardboard box.

Yeah, it's weird. But sometimes the best training routines are the unorthodox.

Jelly Boy burbles happily from the patio, wearing my old blue wizard hat. The oversized brim droops comically over one eye. I tell him he looks good, and I mean it. Somehow, the floppy blue wizard's hat completes his whole vibe.

On my head is the Behemoth Cap, looted from that wizard I had fought in the Bronze Gate. The one who had tried to take Veronica and Clyde. The hat is shaped much like my old wizard's cap, but is a plum colored velvet, with a long red line of stitches running across its floppy exterior.

Item: Behemoth Cap (Legendary)

Description: This hat contains the soul fragment of a fire elemental behemoth named Shogmoth. It naturally generates fire mana at a rate of 2 mana per minute. It is capable of using accumulated mana to cast spells through the conjured Maw of Shogmoth.

Despite it's appearance, it's a high-quality wizard's hat, which I can tell just by wearing it. The inside's surprisingly soft, actually.

The problem? The damn thing won't do anything.

The first time I put it on, I was greeted with the familiar haptic tingling and a notification window popping up in front of my face.

Attunement Threshold for this Item Not Satisfied.

Thanks, System. That's real helpful.

I've been wearing it every chance I get—on walks, while I eat, during workouts, even while pooping once—and still nothing. How long was it going to take for me to attune to this hat? Was it even possible? Or did I need to have a sufficient amount of mana to do so? Only time will tell.

"Alright," I say, gripping my Full Metal Staff. Its internal reservoir hums faintly as it greedily sips a few drops of my Stamina like a lazy vampire with a twisty straw. I'm in the process of forming another small disc of energy at one of its ends. "Training time."

Lefty and Righty bob in acknowledgment, ready for my command.

The long folding table in front of me holds the three sacred test objects: a slice of double chocolate fudge cake on a ceramic plate, leftover from dessert a couple of nights ago; a cardboard box with a loose lid, marked FRAGILE; and a whole watermelon.

The goal? Precision. And seeing if these Wizard's Fists can learn to handle some finesse tasks. When I modified my [Wizard's Hand] Spell to draw on my Strength stat, these two evolved into fantastic allies in battle. They even learn as I improve my own combat prowess. But what they have in power, they lack in control.

And god dammit, I could use a little more utility. How great would it be if these guys could interact with potential cursed and dangerous objects, or could steer my car for me?

"Lefty," I say. "Lift the lid off the box."

Lefty wavers mid-air like he's considering punching the box instead. But then, with a small puff of cold mist, the translucent hand glides forward.

Fingers curl.

The lid shudders.

And then—

SLAM!

It uppercuts the box across the yard.

Jelly Boy grows two small pseudopods and claps politely, like he was sitting front row at the Masters.

"Okay... not quite what I was going for."

I sigh, shift my grip on the staff, and look at Righty.

"New plan. Righty, gently lift the cake. And bring it over to Jelly Boy."

At hearing that, the slime wiggles with joy and excitement (my mom doesn't let him have more than one slice of cake per day, and he's already had his rationed slice).

Righty zooms forward like it's late for a street fight. It pauses above the plate, fingers curling delicately—so far so good—

—and then karate chops the cake in half!

Chocolate frosting sprays in a glorious splatter against the garage siding like sugary brain matter.

Jelly Boy deflates at the sight of his second slice of cake being turned into sugary gore.

I pace slowly, thinking, letting the staff continue sipping my Stamina as I channel more intent into the fists. They commands they truly heed are based on my intent, conveyed through a mental connection. Perhaps it was I who needed to train?...

I focus my entire intention on wanting to keep the watermelon whole, while transporting it safely from one end of the table to the other.

I look at the watermelon.

"You know what to do."

Both hands hover above it. They pause, perfectly still. The tension is so thick it could be cubed and served with dipping sauce.

And then…

SMASH!

They double-fist the melon, knuckles colliding, seeds and pulp exploding in every direction.

Jelly Boy leaps in place, catching a chunk mid-air with a delighted buzz.

I rub my face, dripping in melon juice, hat slightly askew.

"Well," I say, "progress."

The fists hover proudly.

And despite the mess, despite the splattered cake and the murdered melon and the box lying in the bushes, I can't help but grin. For a moment, I felt like something was just on the precipice of clicking in my brain. Of a real breakthrough… Only to be covered in watermelon juice and shreds of rind. But hey, like I said, progress!

"Alright," I mutter, flicking watermelon juice off my nose. "Let's set up some new tasks."

"What are you doing?"

I flinch hard, caught off guard by the voice. Damn, I let my focus on [Perception] and [Aura Sense] slip. I want to Skills to be as strong as possible when functioning passively. At the moment, their passive usage is no where near as consistent as I need. I turn to find Liv, standing next to Jelly Boy with arms crossed and one eyebrow raised so high it's probably on the moon.

"Training?" I offer.

Her head tilts. "Interesting. Training for what, exactly?"

"Guild assessments," I say, trying not to sound defensive. "I think I'm too much of a one-trick pony, so I'm trying to teach these guys to do more than just punch stuff."

As if on cue, Lefty and Righty chase down the cardboard box and begin flattening it with rapid flurries of punches.

I look back at Liv. "We're making progress," I say, deadpan, still dripping with pink fruit guts.

Liv just stares at me for a second. Then she laughs. The kind that's all chest and no judgment. "God, you're such a weirdo."

I shrug. "Weird's been working for me so far."

She steps forward and plops down next to Jelly Boy. "So, Guild assessments?"

I nod, my tone turning more serious. "Actually… a Guild reached out to me. Harvest Guild. It's official. They want to bring me in."

Liv's eyebrows shoot up. "Wait, seriously? Like, a Guild-Guild?"

"Yup. The real deal. They're offering me a spot in their Guild, but it really got me thinking seriously about Guilds. I'm going to explore my options."

"That's awesome," she says, slapping her thighs. "Tell me more. Now."

But before I can launch into a recap of my day with Labonte and Jerome, something goes… wrong.

I feel a tugging sensation in the pit of my stomach. Then, the air tears in the middle of the backyard. Reality frays around the edges of a swirling man-sized portal of blue-white energy.

Jelly Boy lets out a warbled squeal and launches backward behind Liv like a jiggly little bunker buster. Liv's up too, sliding behind me in a blink. Lefty and Righty snap into position at my sides, fists raised.

"What the hell…" I groan, lifting my staff.

The portal pulses once. It ripples, like the surface of a pond before something emerges from underneath. Something enters our backyard from the portal and I realize it's a face… Er, skull, I recognize.

"What the fuck is going on," I say.

The skeleton—Walter—clears his throat. Which is impressive, considering he has no throat.

"Joseph Sullivan?" he says.