While empires and demon kingdoms plotted world-altering strategies centered around him, Lyno was facing a crisis of a much more immediate and personal nature: Drip. Drip. Drip.
It had started raining. Not the gentle, magically-suppressed drizzle the Imperial mages usually allowed, but a real, stubborn, three-day downpour. The Emperor's new "cold war" strategy meant the Arch-Mage's resources were being quietly redirected from "ambient tranquility" to "demon army surveillance," and the weather-ward over Oakhaven had been slightly neglected.
The roof of the "Tome and Trinket" was, to put it mildly, not up to the task. It was an old roof with character, which was a polite way of saying it was full of holes.
And one of those holes was directly above Lyno's wobbly armchair. Directly above the Throne of Flux.
Drip... plink. A single drop of water landed on the armrest.
Lyno stared at it. It was a dark, spreading stain on the worn fabric. A violation.
Drip... plink. Another one. This one landed on his book, smudging the ink.
[No,] his mind whispered in despair. [Not here. Not the chair. It's the only comfortable place I have left.]
The quiet serenity he had been enjoying for the past few days, the peace bought by grilled cheese and polite worship, was shattered by the simple, inexorable tyranny of a leaky roof. This was an enemy he couldn't hide from. It was a mundane, structural problem, and it was infinitely more stressful to him than any roaring demon.
He let out a long, frustrated groan. "Uuuuuggggghhhh."
The effect on his followers in the room was, as usual, instantaneous.
Ren, who was presenting a small plate of "thoughtful shortbread," froze mid-step, the plate trembling. The Master was displeased. Was his shortbread not thoughtful enough?
Brother Tepin, who had been composing a hymn about the Master's divine blinking pattern, stopped humming, convinced the Master's groan was a divine rebuke of his choice of meter.
But it was Valerius, Seraphina, and Aurelia, gathered around the table-altar, who understood the true gravity of the situation. They saw the water spot. They followed Lyno's despairing gaze upwards to the ceiling. And they understood.
The Sanctum... had a structural flaw.
Valerius's face went pale. "The heavens weep," he whispered, "and their tears have breached the Chamber of Stillness. The sanctity of the Throne has been... compromised."
Seraphina's expression hardened into one of cold, murderous rage. Her mission was to protect the Master and his sanctum. She had scanned for assassins, for demons, for rival gods. She had never thought to scan for... shoddy roofing. It was a failure of imagination, the one sin an assassin could never forgive in herself. She felt a profound sense of shame.
Aurelia's mind went to the political and symbolic implications. "A flaw in the vessel," she murmured. "The outer shell that contains the Master is imperfect. Is this a metaphor? A sign that the world itself is unworthy to contain his greatness? Or a practical test of our ability to manage his domains?"
Lyno, meanwhile, just wanted the dripping to stop. He stood up, grabbed the wastebin where the Holy Teabag now resided (it had since been moved to a proper reliquary), and placed it on the floor under the drip.
Drip... plunk.
He then went to his closet and pulled out a rolled-up bundle of old maps, which he intended to use to find the leak in the attic later. He dropped the bundle on his bed with a frustrated sigh.
These simple, practical actions were, to his followers, a series of profound and layered commands.
The placement of the bin was seen not as a practical solution, but as a symbolic act.
"He places a vessel of refuse to catch the tears of the sky," Valerius interpreted, scribbling frantically. "He is saying that the world's sorrows are, to him, naught but refuse to be collected and discarded. A powerful statement on his detachment from mortal suffering!"
The unrolling of the maps was the final, stunning command. Lyno spread an old, dusty map of the local province on his bed, trying to remember where the attic access was.
"A map!" Aurelia gasped. "He has unrolled a map of the province! He is not just concerned with the leak. The leak is the catalyst! His displeasure is not with the roof, but with the entire domain represented by the map! He is telling us that his sphere of influence, his sanctum, is not just this building. It is the entire region! And it is flawed. He is giving us a new, grand mission: to 'fix the leaks' in the entire province!"
Seraphina's eyes gleamed with a new, deadly purpose. Leaks. Assassins were experts at plugging leaks. Of the informational and biological kind. "The criminal gangs, the corrupt officials, the lingering demonic cults in the deep woods... these are the 'leaks' in the Master's domain," she hissed, her mind already compiling a kill list. "He wants us to perform a province-wide purge. To purify his lands. It is a cleansing. Of course."
They had misunderstood him on a whole new architectural and geopolitical level.
Lyno, oblivious, looked at his followers. The dripping was contained, for now, but he needed to fix the source. This wasn't something he could trust them to do. They'd probably try to patch the hole with a crystallized paradox or a small, bound black hole. He needed a ladder. He needed some tar. He needed to do it himself.
He pointed a finger at the ceiling. "That leak," he said, with the firm, determined voice of a man at the end of his rope. "I am going to fix it."
This simple declaration of home improvement was heard as the most epic proclamation since the dawn of time.
He is not commanding us to fix it, Valerius thought, his mind reeling with the humility of his god. He is going to do it himself. He is going to personally engage in the act of 'mending the world.' He is teaching us the lesson of personal responsibility, of direct action! We are not just to delegate and command. We are to be like him! To put our own divine hands to the sacred task of repair!
The followers looked at each other, their faces filled with a new, fervent zeal. The Master had given them their grandest mission yet. Not through a subtle parable or a quiet gesture, but through a leaky roof and a frustrated groan.
The Great Purification and Mending of the Province of Oakhaven had officially begun. Their first step: to "assist" their master in fixing the roof, an act they would approach with the gravity and metaphysical significance of building a new wonder of the world. And they would start by purging the town of anyone with a reputation for shoddy craftsmanship. The local builders' guild was about to have a very, very bad day.