The Ascender's Legacy [A CHAOTIC STORM LITRPG]

A mind fragment is a tiny part of a Calamity's consciousness, imbued within their legacy seed. Even for such powerful beings, completely severing a part of themselves is not an effortless task, sometimes even bordering on detrimental. It makes one wonder why, then, so many powerful ascendants attempt it. Is there something they know that we don't? Is there something to benefit from leaving a mind fragment behind?

Duchess Madrassa Darlington,

High member of the council of lords, Central Kingdom (Lutia)

Year 2273.

Aodhán stared at Az'marthon Ranok, anger boiling within him. The heady scent of herbal tea teased his nostrils, filling him with a soothing sense of calm. The sensation intensified, becoming pleasurable, and though Aodhán just wanted to lean into the feeling and let it engulf him, he shook his head instead and frowned at his patron.

Az didn't deserve his calm, not after throwing him into a world like ÆFLYM with so little information and direction. He had been left to the wolves—literally—so underprepared for the world that awaited him.

For a long time, Aodhán had wondered what he would do to Az'marthon if he ever saw him again. A few times, he'd even wished to know the man, the sink being a prime example. But now that Az stood right in front of him, Aodhán was too pissed for all the ideas he'd cooked up.

His emotions took over, and he stalked forward, pointing an accusing finger at his patron. "You sniveling bastard! What are you doing here? Why did you bring me here?"

"Because I wanted to speak to you, of course." Az'marthon's smile widened in response to Aodhán's anger. He was completely unfazed.

"Well, too bad." Aodhán spat. "I have nothing to say to you. I want nothing to do with you—"

"That may be true," Az'marthon cut him off sharply, silver eyes hardening for a moment before softening. "But I'm here in response to your obvious need, Aodhán. Our paths may have diverged, unfortunately, but you are still my legacy, and I, your patron."

His smile returned, and he gestured to a chair that had appeared out of thin air. "Now, why don't you sit down and think. I'm sure you have a dozen things to ask me about."

Aodhán did have a dozen things to ask Az about, but he ignored the chair and instead emphasized his authority over the dream space by creating a better-looking chair for himself and setting it down with a thud.

Az'marthon raised a surprised eyebrow at his display, but before he could speak, Aodhán fixed him with a scathing glare. "Have you been watching me? How do you always show up whenever—"

"You need me?" Az suggested with a knowing smile.

Aodhán's scowl deepened. "Whenever you think I need you."

"I only show up when you need me to."

Aodhán forced himself to take a deep breath, fists clenching by his side. "You haven't answered my question."

"I don't need to—the answer is as clear as day." Az's smile never wavered. "I reside deep in your subconscious, not quite awake, until I'm triggered by occasions of deep distress and helplessness. Right now, I'm responding to your cry for help."

"I'm not crying to you for help."

"And yet you need it." Az whispered, and the smiling façade crumbled to one of genuine concern. "I'm not your enemy, Aodhán. Deep down, you know that. You've found yourself in a mess. Let me try to help."

It wasn't an apology, nor was Aodhán fishing for one, but the words were like a balm to his rage. Aodhán hesitated, his scowl lessening slightly, and he gestured vaguely in Az's direction. "Why do you seem weaker than the last time I saw you?"

Az grimaced—the expression foreign on his perpetually smiling visage. He let out a deep breath and placed his teacup on an invisible tray. "I am merely a fragment of Az'marthon's consciousness. I was created with a certain amount of power, but it's not infinite. Every time I show up, I lose a part of that power. One day I will be no more, having dissolved into motes of mind and storm essence swirling in your core."

The words were like a bucket of ice-cold water on his anger, and after a moment of hesitation, he sighed. "Okay. You want to help me? Tell me about Attilan, the Cultists, and the four kingdoms."

Az leaned back in his chair and chuckled. "That's a long story. Where to start..."

"The beginning. I already know bits and pieces of it, but I'd like to hear the whole story."

Az nodded slowly, considering his words for a moment before sighing. "Roughly a millennium ago, the continent of Lutia, as you now know it, was called the Empire of Valdris. It was one of the most powerful empires in all of ÆFLYM, with a landmass so large, it was the envy of many. The empire was prosperous, filled with resources so vast and a people so strong that none of the other empires dared attack."

Az paused, his expression growing darker. "All that ended when a coup rose from among the emperor's most trusted allies. The emperor was slain, alongside every member of his family and bloodline. Four usurpers rose from the chaos, and the empire was divided equally into four."

"Still, even separated, the four kingdoms were impossibly powerful, and they prospered. The new kings reworked their kingdoms in their favor, deleting and rewriting their incriminating history." His voice carried a note of disgust. "But so early into their reign, no one could forget their atrocities."

"When Sárán awakened nearly a century later, he rose against the usurpers, campaigning and evangelizing for the return of the empire. He had the gift of prophecy, and so I believe his intentions were noble. At first."

Az'marthon's gaze grew distant. "He had seen what the future held for the four kingdoms and was determined to fight against it. However, somewhere along the line, Sárán's motives shifted. His ideals evolved into dominion and conquest. His dreams turned to ambitions, and his noble aspirations withered under the weight of it all."

"He created an army of like-minded individuals, drawing passionate people from all corners of the four kingdoms. He was young still, but he had utterance and an infectious zeal that hardly anyone could resist. And so, his army grew—hundreds, thousands, and finally tens of thousands. All with a mind to tear the usurpers from their stolen thrones."

"They marched on the four kingdoms, growing in numbers even as they went. However, the kingdoms were too powerful and allies to boot. They destroyed Sárán's army once, a second time, a third time, and then a fourth time."

"Sárán didn't give up, though—he'd become maddened with conquest and passion. With every defeat, he gained more people. He built a new army and attacked again and again until finally, a century later, his resilience was rewarded. The constant wars had whittled down the strength of the four kingdoms, and though Sárán still failed to tear the usurpers from their throne, losing his life in the final massacre, the four kingdoms had become a shadow of their former selves."

"Their lands had been destroyed, scarred brutally by war and magic. Their resources were drained, soul wells drained dry, and their strongest champions beheaded." Az's expression hardened. "It should have been the perfect moment for them to recuperate and regain their strength, but Attilan chose that moment to strike. A much smaller empire than we were, they envied the power and resources of the four kingdoms."

"The next fifty years were brutal for the four kingdoms as they fought desperately to hold on to the thrones they had stolen. They lost too easily, and the red witch and her emperor placed a curse upon the entire continent—a curse so complex that it's almost self-sustaining."

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Aodhán swallowed and whispered, "The curse of the Limit."

Az'marthon nodded. "The curse can only be broken when the four kingdoms band together under one ruler, becoming an empire once again. Of course, that isn't all, but that's the first step. However, the red witch was very cunning, and she made it so that the only acceptable ruler to break the curse of the limit had to bear the bloodline of Sárán Béithir."

Aodhán scowled, knowing just how the rulers of the four kingdoms would react to such an ultimatum. To make the children of a man who had weakened them and opened them up to attack their sole ruler? The four kingdoms couldn't do it.

"They couldn't," Az nodded. "They killed all of Sárán's children to prevent it. Anyone carrying his blood, awakened or not, was publicly executed. And so began the centuries of suffering, until Raol came."

"He gave us the knowledge to avoid the limit."

Az nodded. "He did, and that is all we've done since then, aside from battle amongst each other, of course." He smiled and shook his head. "The cultists want to free the continent by placing Sárán's legacy on the throne, but you of all people know that they are no saints either."

Aodhán nodded absently, his mind piecing Az'marthon's words together. It all made sense now. The cultists had told him that the four kingdoms were the enemy because they refused to band together to save the entire continent, but the fact that there would be no solution until a descendant of Sárán Béithir sat on the throne made the kingdom's reluctance understandable.

Sighing, he shook his head and muttered, "It's all so twisted. How did you serve the usurpers without rebelling?"

"I did rebel. Multiple times." Az'marthon chuckled and smiled sadly. "But then I was troubled myself. I'm sure you've read my biography."

"So the history books didn't lie about that one?"

Az smiled widely. "No, I'm afraid they did not. I remember I was scared of myself at some point."

Aodhán shook his head, his mind flashing back to all the stories he'd heard about Az'marthon and the vision he had seen. After a moment, he brought his mind back to the situation at hand and sighed. "I've been captured by cultists and am now undergoing a tribulation that might just take my life."

"I'm aware of your current predicament." Az smiled and raised a cup in his direction. "If I didn't know, I wouldn't be here."

"Advise me on how to get out of here."

Az's smile widened, and he stood to his feet. "The realm of Abyssos is not completely unfamiliar, though the cultists have made some improvements to what I once knew. The fact, however, remains that this kind of realm is not one that is easily accessible or located. I suspect those outside will be trying, but they will fail."

Aodhán felt a flash of panic. "So there's no hope?"

"There's always hope. It's just not where you're searching." Az'marthon frowned at him, silent for a moment before he asked, "Tell me, Aodhán. What do you know about the origin planes?"

Aodhán frowned, confused by the question. "Only what is widely believed—that they are fragments of a previous reality corrupted by chaos." He paused for a moment, then added, "Personally, I think there's a grain of truth in that and that the planes were grafted into the framework of our reality by the system."

Az'marthon tutted in amusement and shook his head. "You know, on earth, there's this popular religious saying: 'My people perish for lack of knowledge.' Have you heard of it?"

"Yes. How do you know it?"

Az'marthon's smile widened, but rather than answer Aodhán's question, he continued. "There was a reason I was so feared during my time, and it's because I chased after knowledge above all else. I experimented with my skills and abilities so much that I stretched them all past their natural limits."

His lips stretched sideways in a smirk as his gaze raked Aodhán from head to toe. "Half your skills are underutilized, and unknowingly, you've limited yourself. You are far more powerful than you think you are, and you don't even realize it."

Az's words struck a chord in Aodhán's mind, and his gaze hardened with determination. "Help me realize it. What am I doing wrong?"

"It's not so much what you're doing wrong as what you're not doing at all."

"Just give me a straight answer, Az. I'm willing to learn if you'll teach me."

Az shook his head. "Our paths have diverged too much for anything I teach you to benefit you. Teaching you my ways will only taint your progress and lead you back to where you started."

He smiled, eyes growing distant for a moment before he spoke again. "You are wrong, you know. The origin planes aren't remnants of a shattered reality, nor are they forgotten realms polluted by chaos. Instead, they are the living essence—the very consciousness of each elemental or conceptual force that exists. They are alive, aware entities that flow just beneath our reality like invisible rivers."

Az'marthon's voice took on an almost reverent quality. "Imagine ÆFLYM as the surface of a frozen lake, and beneath it flows this ethereal realm where the consciousness of all magic moves like living water." His smile widened as if in remembrance, and he shook his head gently. "When you open yourself up to the origin plane, you're not traveling anywhere. You're reaching down into these ethereal currents flowing right beneath our reality. Always present. Always aware."

He stretched a hand out to Aodhán. "When you open the channel of your spirit, you deepen your connection with your origin plane, and suddenly, the current feels like it's flowing all around and through you, pressing against the membranes of our reality from all sides. You can suddenly feel it like a river, superimposed on your reality. What a joy."

Aodhán breathed deeply, overwhelmed by the weight of Az's words as he watched the longing on his face. A gentle silence reigned for a few minutes as Aodhán tried to process the heap of wisdom and insight Az'marthon had just dumped on him.

The history of the four kingdoms had barely settled, and now this?

It was too much. Such profoundness hidden in mundane words. Truths and insight woven into a lecture of mega proportions.

Az'marthon watched in silence as Aodhán worked to process his words. He nodded occasionally, frowning as more insights revealed themselves, glittering like grains of Silverlight in his mind.

After a few more minutes, Aodhán looked at his patron. "It makes so much sense to think of the planes as ethereal rivers flowing around our reality. The way they breach reality and rush into our spirits supports that theory. I just don't understand how they overlap and intersect with each other without mixing."

"Think of it this way," Az'marthon explained, settling back into his chair. "Magic isn't a single uniform force. It changes, moves, and evolves. The origin plane of space cannot exist without gravity and time. The plane of void cannot exist without space and gravity. And in the same manner, the plane of storm cannot exist without wind, sound, shadow, water, and chaos. So it's not so much that they overlap. They just exist. Simultaneously."

Aodhán frowned, his mind straining as Az'marthon added another heap of insight. "If your words are true, then that makes them all concepts."

"There are no such things as concepts or elements," Az scoffed, shaking his head. "There is just magic. The origin plane of fire embodies the very soul of combustion, heat, and transformation through destruction. The void, a living awareness of untapped potential. And the storm, a living consciousness of chaos given purpose—not just random destruction, but the awareness of change itself."

Az'marthon leaned forward, his voice growing more intense. "It isn't just a collection of aspects, but a consciousness of transformation through upheaval. When you open your spirit to the origin plane of storm, you're not just calling upon the weather—you're touching upon the consciousness that drives all sudden, necessary change."

The words were heavy, so full of enlightenment and wisdom that Aodhán's mind shuddered to absorb them all. Some evaporated from his mind almost immediately, too profound for him to grasp.

He meditated on what little he could for a long moment before sighing. "You still haven't told me how to get out of Abyssos."

"Oh, but I have." Az smiled. "If the origin planes are ethereal currents flowing like rivers, then they carry things from place to place. From person to person. A cry for help, perhaps. Or a will imprint carrying your core signature and broadcasting your location to the world outside Abyssos like a lighthouse at the center of an ocean."

Aodhán's eyes widened in shock. "Will that work?"

Az smiled. "Will the sun shine?"

Aodhán shuddered as relief rose within him like an overwhelming tide. A will imprint was a smaller version of the explosion Daruk had made earlier. It would be like a beacon, carried by the origin plane until someone else came across it.

There was no telling when that would happen, but it was a more viable plan than sitting on his hands hoping that the four kingdoms would come and save them.

"Thank you, Az'marthon." Aodhán whispered and smiled. "I haven't forgiven you yet, but I'm grateful."

"You're welcome, little seed. I promise you've barely scratched the surface of what you're truly capable of."

"Thank you, Az. I appreciate this."

Az chuckled, and his figure began to blur. Their time was up.

"Stay safe, Aodhán. And remember, a storm is simply a gathering. In its most basic form, it's a gathering of clouds, but it can be so much more. Do not limit yourself, Aodhán. Remember, magic in itself is to deny the impossible and break boundaries. Push yourself. You have all you need to be overpowered lying dormant inside you."

The last words were but a whisper as Az'marthon's form completely faded from view, but the words never left Aodhán's mind. Of all the insightful things Az had said, they seemed to be the most important, ringing in his mind like a mantra, a grain of wisdom that he should not have had yet.

Even when the dream realm began to melt away, like butter off a steaming pan, the words didn't stop ringing, promising to shift Aodhán's perception entirely. Aodhán gave one last look at the chair Az'marthon had vacated and gave a deep bow, grateful for all the wisdom he had just gained from his patron.

The vision melted away a moment later, and the origin plane of storm revealed itself in all its glory. A realm completely covered in howling storms and turbulent winds. Rain fell heavily, drenching the layer of clouds beneath them. Lightning arced in multitudes, painting colors on the dreary sky and bringing light to the gloomy realm. Thunder rumbled constantly, so loud it was deafening.

But this time, something was different.

The whispers of chaos were silent.