The Wandsmith [LitRPG, Isekai, Harem]

Downstairs, the once quiet pre-dawn of the inn had turned into a bloody triage centre. The tables and chairs from last night's dinner had been shoved aside, clearing space around the bar. A dozen men in mismatched armour and gear were gathered in the centre. Five were wounded, all humans, most of them mortal and all grievously so. The smell of blood, sweat and mud hung heavy in the air, matching the sounds of groans and shouted orders.

The innkeeper, the older woman, crouched beside one of the injured, a hooked needle and thread in hand as she stitched shut a bloody flap of skin peeled back to the white of bone. Across from her, Ophelia knelt beside another man, pressing a blood-soaked towel against a gut wound that pulsed deep red onto the floor.

Ori's mind raced.

'Freya?' he called silently, reaching out to his familiar through the bond.

"Ori?" she replied, emerging from his soul space before shifting into her pixie form and landing lightly on his shoulder.

"I'm going to heal these people."

"Okay, Ori, but aren't you worried about revealing yourself?"

"I am. Any ideas?"

At that moment, Ruenne'del stepped up beside him at the balcony rail overlooking the common room below. With so many ways he could help, Ori found himself momentarily paralysed, not by inaction, but by the likely consequences. He could heal them all. He could even bind them to silence through soul oaths if necessary. But the scope of such an act and its ripples eluded his full understanding.

'Avoid anything flashy,' Rue said through the bond. Only do enough to stabilise the worst of them. You could likely heal everyone with a single spell, but there's a world of difference between being a healer with some magical aid, and... what you are.'

'Most of them are mortal. Just a second of my magic would be enough.'

'Then consider this a form of training. Disguising your abilities will have to become a more important part of your craft going forward.'

Ori nodded, retrieving his recently crafted Sovereign Channelling Wand of White Magic. Made from the horn of a Sovereign-ranked, Aether-warped deer, he had created the channelling focus back in the village of Ike as a less conspicuous alternative to Seraphine's Beacon. Outwardly, it appeared to be a simple ivory stick, unadorned and crudely carved, the etchings offering no obvious magical utility beyond its disguise. In truth, Ori had etched a series of layered enchantments within its core, each carefully tuned to light magic and healing.

The complexity of the internal structure had automatically promoted the item to Sovereign grade, accidentally overachieving in an outcome that, at the time, had frustrated Ori. Such artefacts were rare and valuable, often drawing attention from Awakened who could recognise their grade on inspection. In a way, it defeated the purpose of subtlety.

Now, Ori intended to use the artefact as a double bluff, drawing attention to the wand rather than the wielder.

He received several wary looks as soon as he reached the ground floor. Silently, and without outward sign, Ori cast Death Ward on all five wounded. Then, with a touch of showmanship, he allowed a soft pulse of light to radiate from the ivory wand, drawing gazes toward it as he knelt beside the man Vision of the Progenitor and its Triage transmutation identified, as closest to death.

'Say after me,' Freya instructed over the bond. Ori repeated her words aloud:

"Wand Spirit, cast Purify and Cure Wounds, and heal thee of thy mortal affliction."

As he spoke, Ori cast Purifying Light, followed immediately by the healing spell Lady Seraphine had taught him, weeks ago by his reckoning, though perhaps centuries by a more objective viewpoint. The shouting quieted as the focus of the room shifted to the man beneath his hands. Ori channelled his magic, working to repair a shattered skull, broken ribs, and a deep laceration running the length of the man's thigh.

He supplemented the spell with his own lifeforce. If the healing drew entirely from the patient's reserves, there was a real risk the man might die of premature organ failure before his wounds ever killed him. Even after the changes wrought by the Leanan Sídhe bond, Ori still carried enough lifeforce for a thousand mortal men thanks to his Aethermancy. That wasn't the issue.

No, the problem was finesse.

Despite his strong control over mana, lifeforce supplementation required a precision he wasn't used to. Even during the healing of the former enslaved at Kelwyn Ford, their injuries hadn't needed such direct, life-saving intervention. Now, he had to carefully mute the spell's effects, slowing visible progress, halting surface changes, and redirecting most of the light and magic to the wand to maintain the illusion.

'How's this?' Ori asked through the bond.

'Good,' Freya replied. 'Though this will still draw attention. That wand will seem a valuable treasure to many.'

'How valuable? Gangs-of-militia valuable, or nations-going-to-war valuable?'

'Somewhere between the two? It may draw the attention of Sovereign-rankers. Stabilise this one, then move on. The less miraculous your healing appears, at least on the surface, the better.'

Ruenne'del stood beside him, her greatsword sheathed but in hand. An aura hung about her, something Ori hadn't seen before. Though small and normally inconspicuous despite her shocking pink hair, here, her presence radiated a quiet authority that made her seem far more imposing. She caught the eyes of several men in the room, meeting their gazes with challenge. It was a sharp contrast to her usual practice of muting or inverting her presence entirely.

They moved from person to person until Ori reached the man the waitress was tending to.

"Can… can you help him?" she asked, eyes wet with tears.

"Tend to the others first," the young man beneath her croaked. Unlike the rest, he was Awakened. Though blood pooled around him in volumes that would have spelt death for any mortal, the toughness and lifeforce of an Awakened ranker had kept him alive, barely.

"What's your name buddy?"

"He's Anton, can you help him?" Ophelia said with a pleading look that left little doubt towards who this man was to her.

"Anton, the wand spirit tells me you're the only one likely to die without immediate aid," Ori said, closing his eyes as he touched the man's shoulder, casting Cure Wounds to inspect the internal damage.

"Purify," he intoned, raising the channelling focus like a torch. Its light seared over the man's body as Ophelia moved the bloodied towels aside, exposing the gashes to the searing, sterilising glow. Unlike his usual castings, the spell left most of the blood behind, cleansing the wounds without overt spectacle.

"This will be the last it can do," Ori added, then spoke. "Cure Wounds."

The healing light spread across the man's abdomen and chest, targeting internal bleeding and early necrosis. He grunted and gasped as nerves reconnected and torn muscles knit themselves back together. Ori halted the spell just before the skin could seal.

"He should live," he said, feigning disappointment, "but someone should stitch the wounds shut before they open again."

"Oh goodness, thank you—thank you," Ophelia cried, clutching Anton's hand with fierce relief.

"What happened?" Ori asked. "Most of these wounds look like they came from weapons, not beasts."

"Aye. Flesh traders," the man muttered. "They're a scourge. Something's driven them north. When they're in small bands, they mind their business, but in these big groups we've been seeing… well, it's best to avoid them altogether."

"Are they in the town?" Ori asked.

"Nawh. We were out clearing nearby rifts, hunting the warped like usual. Then we stumbled into a gang of them. At first we tried to back off, but more and more came pouring out of the forest. Dozens of them, rankers too. They'd have slaughtered us all if Jerrol hadn't stayed behind to buy us time to escape. I owe him my life… and I owe you and that wand spirit of yours too." His gaze shifted to the artefact, then to the fairies surrounding him.

Ori nodded. "How far out was this?"

"Why? There's too many of them. Best to steer clear and let them pass."

"Yeah, we were planning to head up the road today. Just wanted to know where to avoid."

They both knew it was a lie, but the man nodded anyway.

"If you're travelling up-road, you should be fine. We ran into them an hour or two off the Shire road. That stretch is crawling with them cretins."

Ori nodded and stood.

"Have we got everything?" he asked, turning to Ruenne'del.

She gave a nod, paired with an infectious, mischievous smirk. Ori chuckled as her presence shifted, one moment an arch-fae radiating immense power, the next a small, seemingly inconspicuous girl trying to remain unnoticed. The sudden transformation was just as deliberate, just as intimidating, and served as a silent warning to those who had been watching too closely. It also helped, in addition to the wand, to further shift attention away from Ori to the woman by his side.

Ori returned her nod, took one last look at the inn, the blood-stained floor, the gawking onlookers, then left without a word.

With the upgrade to his empathic bond with Ruenne'del, not only had the range of their near-telepathic link increased, but emotions now carried context. It required focus and concentration, but with most of Ruenne'del's frustrations or exclamations, Ori could now glean the reasons behind them.

Now, as they left Redharrow, he sensed her anticipation. It was like a child watching the opening credits of their favourite show, an eager thrill that something exciting was about to happen. Through her emotions, Ori could pick up on the subtle theme beneath it: 'he's about to do it again.'

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He turned toward her with a bemused chuckle. "You crazy."

Rue's only reply was a silent smirk.

An hour later, Ori pulsed his domain and picked up a dozen Awakened signatures, along with a handful of Nascent and Greater Rankers, and three Sovereign-ranked individuals deeper in the forest. They were spread across loosely formed camps, likely travelling in a fragmented convoy as they fled north, possibly toward a newly established Infernal Nest or the headquarters outside Cear'hallen.

Unlike the group Ori had intercepted outside Kelwyn Ford, this one carried no slave wagons. There were few, if any, Ori believed to be captives or innocents. More likely, they had been killed to ease the fugitives' escape.

"Ori," Freya said from atop his shoulder, her voice low. "While I know you could probably massacre these people with a single cast of Starfield, perhaps consider the consequences? The people back at Redharrow know you left in this direction. They know what you intended."

"What are you suggesting?"

"Instead of leaving behind another conspicuous signature, something that would clearly feed rumours strong enough to outpace your rise, why not muddy the waters a bit? If you must kill them, use different means," Freya cautioned.

Ori considered her words, then turned his thoughts to implementation.

Instead of spells, why not test his blades?

He layered Flenser and his Prototype Array with Prismatic Weapon, enhancing them further with sharpness enchantments via Mind over Magic. The seven blades shimmered faintly under the forest canopy, six cross-guardless swords floating in the spectral grip of conjured hands, with Flenser held firmly in his right hand.

Ruenne'del unsheathed her greatsword as Lysara was instantly summoned from scouting several miles ahead in her forward patrol.

'Lysara,' Ori sent through the bond, 'act as backup and support. Keep track of anyone on the ground.'

He turned to Freya. "Help me keep watch above and alert me to anything magical."

Then to Rue. She nodded once, crouching low as she moved into position behind him.

With instructions given to his bonded, Ori moved through the forest, silent and focused.

With Reach of the Progenitor's spectral extension of his will, Ori rediscovered one of the buried truths of his Aethermancy. With every kill, every slash and stab of his blades, he could feel everything. The way flesh gave way under pressure, the resistance of bone, the sudden spray of warmth as blood misted through the air.

His domain stretched outward, more than five thousand yards and within its radius, every man he could see, he could cut, giving them no warning and almost as little mercy.

A crossbow bolt zipped from the underbrush, fast and well-aimed, racing straight for his eye. Prismatic Shield flared with overlapping, shimmering hexagonal patterns as the bolt deflected in a burst of refracted light. A heartbeat later, a scream echoed from the trees as one of his spectral blades struck deeply through the neck of the bowman. The scream turned into a wet gargle, and then Ori advanced.

More movement followed. Shouts, the clatter of steel, ragged breath. Men called out to one another, some rushing toward him, others too slow to understand what they were facing. The forest stank of churned mud, of blood and bark. One of the slavers broke cover, face hopeful at the sight of the fairies orbiting Ori, until a pale blade curved in from the left, slipping under his ribs and out through his back. Ori felt the blade pass through the man's lung, the way his body twitched and folded.

Another man swung wide with a rusted axe. Ori sidestepped and drove Flenser into the man's stomach. The impact was thick, tugging before piercing through the many layers the man had worn. Muscle tore. Bone caught. Then spine cracked, Ori twisted, the body folded in half before it dropped.

The spectral blades moved around him like hummingbirds, blinking in and out of existence with sprays of arterial blood and dying screams. One looped under a chin and lifted, taking the head clean. Another slammed through collarbone and clavicle, carving through the torso with surgical indifference. The hands wielding them were ghostly and efficient, but every strike still carried sensation.

It was ugly and personal, even at a distance, in a way magic rarely was and more emotionally taxing than he liked.

Some of the flesh traders fought. Others froze or ran. A few, branded with infernal corruption, dropped to their knees, either in panic or prayer. For those who didn't attack or tried to escape, Ori offered one star from Starfield each, not to kill but to judge and read. It was a compromise. He would not leave survivors who had committed atrocities, nor would he execute blindly, but if evil stood in front of him, he would offer only a single form of mercy.

'They're running,' Lysara said through the bond. 'Word of the Demon Bane is spreading among them.'

'Which direction?' Ori asked.

'North.'

"Shall we?" he said softly, turning to Ruenne'del and reaching for her hand. She took it without hesitation.

Ori activated Dream Domain.

They reappeared at the northern edge of the convoy, emerging from nothing as if they had always been there. Ahead, dozens of men stumbled to a stop, disbelief and fear crashing into each other across their faces.

"R... Redeemer," one stammered, dropping to his knees.

A larger man stepped up behind the kneeling figure and, without hesitation, smashed his fist into the back of the man's skull. Blood sprayed across the moss as the head burst like overripe fruit.

Two more Sovereign-ranked individuals emerged from the rear.

"So you're the one they call Demon Bane?" one asked.

"Doesn't look like much to me," the other goaded.

The one who had just spoken was human, tall and broad-shouldered, his skin marred with burn scars and demonic tattoos. His gaze was flat, the eyes of a man long past caring. Beside him stood a grey-scaled drakeling with slitted, unblinking eyes. Armour fused to his body like bark, and arcs of lightning crackled across his shoulders with each breath. The last had once been an elf, but his transcendent vision recognised the truth, he was a wight. Tall and hollow-cheeked, with skin like old parchment stretched taut over darkened bone. Shadows clung to his every step, and his smile curved into a cold, mocking crescent as if the world had already lost and simply hadn't realised it yet.

"You're what, not even a Greater Ranker? What tricks did you use to earn the moniker, I wonder… Redeemer?" the wight asked, his voice smooth and brittle.

"You fools," the drakeling cut in. "He was behind us moments ago, and now he stands in front of us, unafraid."

"Ignorant, more like," the human scoffed.

"No," the drakeling said, gaze hard. "Those are not the eyes of someone afraid to kill. Those are the eyes of someone deciding which blade to use. You're not going to let us stay, and you won't let us go. Why push this to a dead end, Redeemer?"

"Is Jerrol still alive?" Ori asked idly. "Part of a local militia your men stumbled into this morning."

The drakeling glanced around with a twisted frown, catching head shakes and sullen looks from the men nearby.

"Fuck this," the wight snapped, casting a necrotic curse that splashed against Ori.

You have been afflicted with Withering Grasp. This necrotic curse will cause your limbs to weaken and decay, reducing strength and agility for seven days or until dispelled.
Curse Dispelled.

Law of Radiance dispelled the curse before it could take root, as Ori activated Will of the High Human and unleashed his aura. The wight continued its assault to no avail. With Law of Radiance woven into his aura, bolstered by both class and racial effects, a Sovereign-ranked undead curse magician was the least of the threats in front of him.

Ori channelled Lightning, infused with his Celestial affinity. With his improved mana comprehension and the spell woven through Law of Radiance, it struck like a pulse laser from a phantom hand that appeared beside him without warning. The wight screamed, its eyes bursting into flame as the undead soul was forcibly exorcised from its long-dead corpse.

With glowing eyes, Ori watched the spirit, bound in thick infernal chains as it was dragged screaming toward the infernal plane.

"Fooock me! The Demon Bane's a bloody pocket Archmagi!" the human infernal laughed with astonished pride, which was curious, given the situation. The drakeling cast him a single unamused glance before returning his calculating gaze to Ori.

"Fine. I can accept that," the man said, grinning. "Come on, then. I'll be your stepping stone, Redeemer. Just make sure the legends mention me, Kell the Bloodmarked, in the songs!"

By the time the Sovereign-ranked bruiser charged, Ori had already entered Mind over Motion.

Every tenth second, his blades flickered in and out of existence, thrusting, stabbing, slashing, decapitating. Kell the Bloodmarked made it only three steps before his head tumbled in front of his falling body. His Sovereign-rank lifeforce and constitution required seventeen separate stabs to the chest before his final death.

As he died, so did the rest scattered through the forest, until only the drakeling remained, kneeling, blood pouring from over a dozen wounds, each breath bubbling through the ruin of his chest.

With a single star from Starfield, Ori watched as the man died in horror. His memories and deeds were judged and found unworthy of existence. And within seconds, his body crumbled to ash, his soul scattered, too tainted to redeem, too hollow to hold together.

As Ori appeared lost in thought, he subconsciously tightened his grip on Flenser. Through his improved bond, he could feel the 'ah… he already knows' sing-song undercurrent behind Rue's premonition, and he was indeed ready.

Vision of the Progenitor flared without warning, and Ori saw it, the owl. The silent, invisible hunter that had stalked him across the lower expanse of Twilight. It was already closing the distance, cutting a glide path through the canopy air like a blade through silk. Thirty yards. Twenty. Ten.

At five, Ori cast Mind over Motion.

Time flexed.

The Prototype Array of Duælism surged to life around him, six blades igniting with Prismatic Weapon, woven through with Channel Lightning. The air crackled. Colours bent. His weapons hissed and screamed under the strain, their edges cooking in arcs of nuclear fire as the spell effects rippled across the metal.

He didn't aim for the body.

The first blade punched through the owl's left wing. The second buried itself in the root of the right. The others followed in brutal precision, striking not to kill but to disable, muscle groups, tendons, nerves, and mana pathways. The beast shrieked as radiant plasma lit the air around it, overwhelmed by his Flux affinity.

It dropped screeching like a comet. The great creature crashed violently through branches, slammed into the earth, and rolled until its body shattered against a thick tree trunk. Broken wings twisted at unnatural angles, convulsions rippling through its massive frame.

It tried to rise, once.

Ori walked forward with the liquid calm of supercooled helium. Each step was slow and deliberate. Sparks danced over his aura, arcs of lightning flashing harmlessly between them. The shattered owl, a peak Sovereign-ranked creature, convulsed, chest heaving with ragged breaths. Its feathers, more light than flesh, flickered erratically as magic failed to repair what had been deliberately ruined.

Ori stopped beside it, the eyes of the Progenitor softly glowing.

'Kill me,' the bird rasped.

Ori blinked. Its words were sharp, primal things, yet he understood them. Instinctively, he checked his page in the Library of Fates, and there it was, three more languages had been deducted from Boon: One Thousand Tongues of the Greater Succubus. He coughed, throat raw, as he formed a reply in the same breathy cadence.

'Do you really want to die?' Ori cooed back, the sound unnatural in his human throat. 'Or do you want to break your bottleneck and live…?'

After hours of pondering why such a beast would go to such lengths to stalk him, Ori realised its affinity likely a needed catalyst, perhaps through consumption, for ascension to the Immortal Rank. It had been a faint hope, one dependent on forming a connection during a moment otherwise fraught with peril, animus and conflict. But discovering that he could speak with it, that it was already sapient, changed everything.

The owl didn't speak immediately. Its wide face rotated as it tracked his approach, its alien gaze and obsidian, triangular beak now steady as lightning no longer ravaged its body. Its black eyes, once endless oceans, seemed to measure and reassess its former prey.

'How?' it whispered, voice frayed and tired.

Through the bond, Ori felt Ruenne'del's glee. It was as if she were singing her favourite theme tune to herself, delighting in the turning of destiny before her, in contrast to the slaughtered slavers around them and the solemn air Ori believed this moment demanded.

For now, Ori ignored her, lowering his voice.

'Swear to me,' Ori said with finality. 'Become my final familiar, and I will make a reciprocal oath. I will name you, command you, honour you, and protect you. You will live forever. You will follow me to transcendence.'

The owl stared up at him, a creature bred for silent death, a Sovereign beast, half-elemental and half-hunter, now broken and burning at the roots of a twisted tree.

Its wings trembled. Its beak opened and closed.

'I do not even know your name,' it said, barely audible.

Ori knelt beside it. His voice dropped further.

'I am Ori Suba, the High Human Progenitor, Duælist, White Mage, High Redeemer, Bondweaver, and… oh yeah, I'm also a Wandsmith.'