A sudden Instant. Where did this come from? 500 likes, that's worth noting. Tomorrow—there will be another one.
Karazhan, the tower of the Guardian of Tirisfal, Medivh. Tall, towering over the cliffs, monumental. Built on a place of power, Ley lines, a concentration of a vast amount of magic. Built long ago—no one knows exactly by whom—but Medivh certainly moved into it after the fact. When the Tower Master was killed, the explosion was so great that this area became dead, and Biotics users in a significant radius lost their minds and fell into comas. The most famous example is Gul'dan, the power-hungry Orc warlock who betrayed everyone. But he wasn't the only one; mages felt significantly worse after that blast.
"A bit gloomy," Venidan said, as if reading my thoughts.
I can understand; this gorge is a crypt. There was a forest around, it's visible, but now everything has dried up, died. At the base of the tower lies a settlement, or rather a row of mansions for guests. And all of them are abandoned, not a trace of life. They have gardens, but nothing grows there; only gray sand remains. The trees withered long ago; there is no grass, no moss. Only sand and dust, and nothing more.
What happened here isn't like a Mana Bomb explosion, which Theramore might survive. But the destructiveness of Medivh's death cannot be denied. The entire gorge, all life in it ceased. On the level of strings, it's even worse; they are crudely torn, making the magical background here somewhat chaotic. The mere fact of it being a place of power makes the magic here denser than usual, but the cataclysm from the death of a mage of Medivh's level—who was also possessed by the demonic Titan Sargeras—created total chaos here. That doesn't stop us.
We landed the Pepelats right at the entrance to the tower, covering the machine with buildings as best we could. If someone goes to the entrance, the ship will be noticed. But passers-by, if there are any here at all, might just pass it by. If they even exist. No time was needed for clearing; except for the rare Undead, no one lives here at all. But just in case, I deployed a few mines and golems, you never know.
A portal opened near the ship, from which the Magister emerged. Instead of his ceremonial robes, he wore battle ones, with Armor inserts made of scales and sturdier pauldrons and bracers, with metal-plated greaves on his legs. And he pulled out a staff; it's the first time I've seen him like this. Veni also changed into Ranger attire, took her bow and daggers, and hung Alchemy and poisons on her belt. And then there's me with my staff and gauntlet—couldn't go without those.
Behind us, golems rolled out with a clatter, lining up in front of the entrance to Karazhan. We won't go in there without scouting. And even if I remember in general terms what exactly we might encounter there, a game raid is one thing. Reality is quite another. There will be more enemies; they will behave differently. In short, scouting is our everything.
Generally, the Guardian's tower looks quite grim from the outside. Yes, tall, monumental, but it's not made in the "soaring" elven style; it's much closer to Human architecture, and not that of mages. Whoever built it, it certainly wasn't Medivh.
There are three entrances to the tower itself. The main gates are closed and sealed with magic; we aren't welcome here, so we won't go that way. They are large enough for riders and carriages to pass through, and they'll have room to turn around. The tower is wide; essentially, it's a fortress built vertically. There is also a side passage through a small tower, also fused shut with magic. We aren't going there either. That leaves the third entrance, the servants' door. A simple, dry wooden door, albeit rounded at the top. Locked with a very ordinary lock built into the door. We were given the key; we can enter.
Standing in front of the door, we fell silent. Perhaps it was a sign of respect, or the need to gather strength before a difficult operation. I had a third option—jitters, the anticipation of everything we would find there. One way or another, we will do it. Today.
Finally, the Magister silently inserted the key into the lock, and it turned with a click. The door opened without a creak, as if it had been greased. But the puff of dust raised in the process shattered the illusion of cleanliness, revealing the real picture. This is a very dusty place!
"Achoo! Choo! Phew, Choo! Sorry. Achoo!" I shouldn't have stuck my nose in the door!
Yes, it's dusty. Very dusty. And it's dark, and the air is very stale.
"It's fine. Choo! Okay, golems forward."
With a clatter, four "wheels" rolled into the room, followed by my bird. With a few clicks, I rotated the necessary lens into place. Meanwhile, in the corridor, as if welcoming guests, the lights came on. Likely magic. Moving to a safe distance and clearing my nose, I began to control my scouts.
"What's there?" the Magister asked, keeping the tower entrance in his sights.
Unfortunately, it's too cramped for the bird to fly, but it can walk too. But for the golems, it's more than spacious; the stone vaults of this level are large enough to easily accommodate riders; the "wheels" are much more compact, as are the mines that followed them.
"Lots of cobwebs and dust, Magister, a layer of dirt everywhere. Lamps light up upon approach, magic. One moment, there's a fork. Okay, leaving two golems in the corridor, two more through the door. These are the stables. Dirt, dried straw, stone walls, and a dried-up carriage. Judging by the dust trails, no one has walked here in a long time. Oh, a Skeleton. Another one. Oh, an Undead horse. Just standing there, looking at the door at the far end of the stables, not moving. What do we do, Magister?"
Karazhan is quite large on the inside. Like I said, it's essentially a castle that was built upward into a tower. And as befits a castle, it provides for the keeping of a couple of dozen horses. Maybe more; the stalls are arranged in a circle around the perimeter of the tower. Yes, I think we're talking about fifty horses in total at full capacity. Anyway, that's trivia; how much Undead is here?
"I see... three more Skeletons in this block. Wait, those aren't Skeletons, they're Ghosts, Magister. Golems will be useless against them. Skeletons are lying here too, but they aren't moving. Just horse Skeletons, likely killed during the magic surge."
Once convinced there was no one else and no one was planning to attack, and that the Ghosts didn't give a damn about the golems, we went inside. But the horses reacted to the living more than vigorously and extremely aggressively. With a resonating, vibrating neigh, they charged at us, at blades and spells. The dull thud of hooves echoed off the walls.
"Ghosts are walking through Karazhan. The Ghosts of communism," I muttered, trying to breathe in as little dust as possible. Achoo! They could have cleaned up, given the service for guests here. Okay, quiet, DaVi, don't interfere, burn them.
Especially since the Ghosts hear us and flock to the noise. And they really don't like the living—radically so.
"I just can't understand," Venidan said, "how does a Ghost take physical damage? It's, well, a Ghost."
She said all this while dancing under the hooves of a ghostly horse. The horse is fast, but still limited by the mobility of the original, so the Rogue dodges the hooves quite successfully. The Magister, sending out Fireballs, replied:
"In that case, the Ghost itself wouldn't be able to do anything to any of us. Those exist too, of course. And they usually attack with magic. But these are clearly incapable of casting; they're too primitive. Their vulnerability is forced."
The horses, receiving a rain of ice and flame, honestly crumbled into nothingness, leaving us in an empty stable. Truly empty. On the left were mangers with long-rotted or dried hay, fenced off by long-withered wooden partitions. On the right were stalls where several more Ghosts "slept" on straw that was turning to dust.
Venidan is clearly a bit nervous, and I understand her perfectly. This otherworldly stuff, combined with the torn strings, anomalies, and clear traces of necrotic energy—and it's gross—creates a wildly depressing atmosphere. I'm also haunted by a sense of wrongness; none of this should be here. In such conditions, some "jitters" are perfectly logical.
"What are these horses even for? An army, or what?" Veni asked, smashing the Skeleton of a stable hand in tattered clothes and holding a pitchfork.
The Skeleton tried to pull itself back together, but the crushed skull forced the Undead to rest permanently. I answered, based on the knowledge in my memory.
"At a certain point in time, Medivh hosted so-called 'parties in Karazhan.' Both nobility from the human kingdoms and ladies of low social responsibility were invited," Venidan snorted, considering what her parents had raised her for. "Everyone wanted to talk to the most powerful mage of the modern era or show respect to the guests. Or, as an option, end up in their beds. That's what all these stables, the houses outside, and the servants' quarters are for."
And here come the servants.
"Intruders!" five bluish shadows burst out at us from the neighboring block.
They are dressed quite simply; in the scraps of clothing, one can recognize simple pants, boots, shirts. Stable hands, that's it. Armed with rakes, shovels, brushes, and shears. In short, not even close to combat units; even a couple of horses look more dangerous.
Actually, the clearing of the first level is going quite briskly: golems on scout duty, the local fauna doesn't react to magical creations at all. And then we come along, utilizing everything that runs and resists with fire, ice, and blade. After which we collect into jars brought by the Magister a transparent goo that doesn't look very appetizing on any level, magical included.
I clarified:
"What is this, Teacher?"
The Magister tapped the container, pointing to its contents. Transparent jelly with impurities; one dead man yields about a cup of this stuff.
"Ghostly essence, the core of these dead, their material component. A decent alchemical component, quite rare in our time. While Necromancers are found among Trolls, humans with their faith in the Holy have made life difficult for alchemists. Try not to trample it, ladies, and we'll pay for this entire expedition right here and now."
The pleasant smell of money significantly lifted my mood, especially against the backdrop of finances depleted in Dalaran. Veni spent almost everything on alcohol, and who knows what she was doing with whom there. I bought food and upgrades for the Pepelats. And the fact that we'll get money is nice. But my mood dropped when I felt the collapse of the strings of one of my golems. A few seconds later, the second one took damage. Unusual; the Undead had been ignoring them until now.
"Stop! Enemy!"
Pulling on my goggles, I looked around and found what the dolls had engaged. Midnight, a demonic horse. Essentially an ordinary horse that a Ghost Rider had sat on, and now the horse is on fire. However, the horse itself is definitely not bothered by such trifles. Nor by the poisonous bolts that hit its side, from which the hide and meat began to rapidly dissolve and fall apart into fibers. The horse neighed indignantly.
"Who dares touch my horse!" someone roared in a rage across the entire stable. "I'll lash you all! All of you!"
The author of the shouting turned out to be a Skeleton in rusty plate Armor and scraps of a scarlet cloak, wielding a two-handed sword. Clanking his sabatons on the stones, he ran out from the depths of the stable, shaking his fists. And everyone heard him; every step of the dead man was accompanied by the thud and screech of metal. And скрипы mixed with curses as the dead man brought the two-handed sword down on the third doll. I frantically ordered the bird to retreat while this pair finished breaking the "wheels"; the bird is too valuable for this. I, meanwhile, pulled in a new batch of "wheels," and mines too. Let them distract the Undead. Who, briskly rattling his plate, is running in our direction.
"Clank! Clank! Clank!" the mines went off.
A series of explosions followed, becoming quite deafening in the corridors of Karazhan. But the dead man's screams drowned even them out.
"Filthy insects! Well, no matter, a true Warrior can do without a sword! Where's a club or something? Sir Knight is going to rearrange your bones! You'll learn not to touch a warhorse, peasants!"
As soon as the "true Warrior" ran out at us, a stream of magic immediately collapsed upon him. Icicles work well against Undead; they shatter bones and hinder movement. Fire seeps into the gaps of the Armor, making what remains of the body burn, stink, and crumble. But the corpse clearly has its own tricks.
"To me, Midnight! We'll scatter this pathetic rabble!"
And the horse burned through my icy waves, making the magical ice boil and flow away, feeling no resistance at all, as if the ice wasn't even there. The Knight, with a screech, briskly leaped onto the horse with a Battle Shout. And we found ourselves against a full-fledged rider in a place where he has room to maneuver. Cheater.
"Hey, you lost your sword!" Venidan protested. "What a rip-off!"
And indeed, the Warrior's lost two-handed sword had returned to him. He swung it, whistling through the air.
"It's a tactical maneuver!" the dead man countered. "Join the army, I'll teach you even more! Only peasants fight low and dirty; a Knight won't stoop to that!"
"I believe you," Veni snorted.
The dead man seemed offended.
"So the peasants aren't just arrogant, but stupid too. No matter, a hundred of the toughest lashes teaches respect. Midnight, forward! Trample them!"
The fight with the Knight itself proved to be... like a fight with a Knight against a crowd. Yes, the Ghost Rider's horse didn't give a damn about my freezing at all, but otherwise, the opponent showed nothing fantastic. I used golems and a Mana Shield, the Magister summoned a water Elemental, and Venidan stuck a dagger into the Skeleton's eye socket. He swore at me in a dialect unknown to me, which is very insulting. But in the end, both the rider and his horse were finished. After which, naturally, we looted him.
"Veni, take the bracers. I see strings on them; they're magical."
The elf examined the leather cylinders with interest. Despite the time, they look quite good, if not exactly new. They'll need cleaning, but nothing more. Which the Rogue also noted:
"Looks decent. What's the effect?"
The Magister gestured for the gear. He examined it and said:
"Enchanted for stamina and agility. It suits you, Venidan; take them."
I definitely like this approach. And our trek through Karazhan continued. From the stables, we entered the official halls, led by a wide, well-lit staircase. And this place—it's huge. A couple of hundred steps made of white marble and black granite, intersected by rows of marble columns. This place, unlike the wood of the stables, was perfectly preserved. If not for the cobwebs, one could believe the castle was inhabited. But the guests are long gone; only their shadows remain. And Skeleton waiters.
And Ghosts, even more Ghosts. They seem frozen in time, continuing to play out a play that occurred in these halls decades ago. Guards stand at their posts, servants carry drinks, lords and ladies dance in the halls, younger couples in the corners. There is no music, and the guests have long since left the world of the living, but otherwise, everything is almost real.
"It's depressing," I whispered aloud. "Like they're alive, but not alive at all."
Naturally, seeing us, the guests were outraged:
"The rabble has no place here!"
"Flog them!"
Mda. The more I see this, the more it seems they are frozen in their past. In which they should have stayed, to avoid getting a Fireball to the face. The fact that they don't realize reality is perfectly obvious and perfectly irrelevant. You can't even play the role of a class-struggle fighter; they just won't understand it; there's too little personality. When we destroyed these shadows, they said:
"Alas, it is time to leave this hospitable house..."
Or:
"All good things must end. Alas, Lord Medivh, but I must go."
And this actually unnerves me more than anything else. As if we've interfered in something we shouldn't have. These aren't Ghouls or Zombies. These are party guests, even if the party ended a very long time ago.
Still, we continued moving through the dead halls, exterminating the guests and the masters of the castle. Skeleton waiters and Ghosts, generously doused in magic, were no obstacle for our small army. And in the richly decorated but empty halls, a total, tomb-like silence fell.
Near the ballrooms, our squad encountered the banquet hall. Empty tables with plates of ghostly food, drinks, and many new shadows. And though we try not to make noise, this celebration of non-life weighs heavily on the mind.
Naturally, we cleared the dining hall and the guests as well. Their general stupidity helps; as long as you don't interrupt their game, the shadows are completely indifferent to everything around them. You can carefully provoke them with a golem, lead them aside, and destroy them in groups. Then you collect everything valuable and repeat with the next batch. And yes, Karazhan is clearly larger on the inside than the outside. The butler Morouz made me a bit nervous, as did a lord and lady from the local, apparently, nobility. In the form of Ghosts. Or not Ghosts.
"Teacher, why is this Undead so strange and wrong in magical terms? They don't look like the Zombies we've seen before."
The Magister chuckled.
"I'm glad you overcame your squeamishness and noticed. Correct, this is not a product of Necromancy, but rather a product of Arcana magic. Constructs animated by magic, memories. These are not dead in the sense you are used to, merely memory captured by magic."
Venidan immediately clarified:
"So the ingredients we gathered are useless?"
The mage smiled.
"Not at all, Lady Venidan, not at all. They are just slightly different ingredients. Obtaining such magical Ghosts can be quite difficult. Utilizing them for a couple of potions—even harder. We'll all get our profit in any case, don't worry about that. Now, it's time for us to move on."
And we went further. Through abandoned banquet halls lit through huge windows with complex stained glass, expensive faded and dusty carpets, among numerous servants who played their roles to the last. The first floor, then balconies, and higher, and higher, and higher.
***
Beyond the halls were corridors with numerous bedrooms, luxurious beds and offices, statues and busts, tapestries on the walls. And Ghosts, of course. There are so many of them, and this place is so vast, that we even took a break. With our own food, of course. If any food remained here, eating it would simply be dangerous.
"This place is huge," Venidan sighed, taking a bun with mushrooms. "I'm actually curious how far we've come. Any ideas?"
I shrugged; the Magister thought for a moment and replied:
"I don't think we've gone particularly far. This is still the guest zone. The mage's dwelling should be further in, inaccessible to the curious."
By the way, further on, those girls I mentioned began to appear. Unlike the nobility, they were dressed in the lightest and most revealing outfits, clearly intended to please the guests. And their behavior is interesting. Despite the fact that, like all shadows, they mindlessly charge into battle, their "script" provides for much more polite and cowardly behavior. Threats to scream, questions about whether we're lost, and mentions that people like us have no place here.
There were also those who, while their hands tried to punch through Magic Shields, offered to play or even flirted. And I still insist that such a thing—is frightening. Again, the problem isn't that I'm seeing debauchery for the first time, but the dissonance between the playful, polite, or frightened tone and the attempts to simultaneously tear out your trachea, break your arms, and gouge out your eyes. But in the end, we passed through them too.
Past the theater, and a real theater at that. A full stage surrounded by rows of seats, balconies, and so on. And of course, full of shadow-spectators. Who were very unhappy that we were making noise and preventing them from watching the performance. Our magic is still cooler.
Soon my list of "frags" of the local Undead will equal what I cleared with turrets in Stratholme. And there I was firing from a distance, not looking closely. Here I have to work personally, observing the emotions on the faces of the shadows trying to play their roles to the very end. And they aren't the only ones. While the golems take apart the "guests," the stronger enemies have to be beaten personally. Especially in the theater, where there were many more Skeleton-men-at-arms in scraps of scarlet robes and with two-handed swords. We passed through them too, destroying each and every one, turning them into dust and ice statues. Only then was I able to exhale.
"I think we've passed through the guest zone. And it's still creepy," Venidan exhaled.
"Ugh. Looks like we've arrived."
We finally entered the "work zone." Instead of guest Ghosts, there are magical golems and anomalies here, clumps of Mana of all sorts and kinds. Naturally, trying to kill us. Но these are already quite material opponents, which makes them easier than the Undead. As does the general brainlessness inherent in golems. They don't try to play their roles, only to kill intruders by the most straightforward method. And the intruders—that is, us—reciprocated. All for the sake of getting to the Source of Magic knowledge.
Moreover, the local laboratory Ghosts are quite real. Ugly constructs bound by chains made of those vile, slimy strings, throwing themselves at us and not hiding their agony. Parts of Armor and clothing break through the energy flows, confirming—previously these magical clumps were quite real humans or Orcs. It's very likely they died along with the mage, killed by the magical surge and deprived of peace.
"The further we go, the more disgusting this place becomes," Venidan grumbled, crushing a large spider, about the size of a fist, with her foot.
I agree. It's as if we are moving through Medivh's history. If at first it was the life of a rich kid, a wealthy and debauched "golden boy," then the higher we climb, the lower the bottom we reach. Necromancy, and next, one must assume, will come forbidden knowledge and Demonology. He allowed himself more and more, until his very death.
And the castle itself underwent noticeable changes as we progressed. This part of the tower is much more damaged than the banquet halls. Traces of a large fire. Or an explosion that occurred due to the death of the possessed mage. If that's the case, then the souls—they really are the souls of soldiers who were in the wrong place at the wrong time. And yet, despite the traces of an extremely powerful explosion that tore a chunk out of the tower, it is clearly stable. One could say "they really knew how to build back then."
I'd guess one of the reasons Karazhan hasn't been thoroughly looted is the difficulty of entry. To get to the upper levels, you have to fight through a literal army of weak shadows, then a couple of dozen Ghosts, climb through sections destroyed by the explosion a couple of dozen meters up, and here a full-fledged mage's guard along with Undead awaits you. People here are superstitious; this sight must scare them quite a bit.
But that's not what's important.
"We are here," the Magister nodded, pointing to the magical golems standing at the end of the corridor.
Metal soaked in Mana made these humanoid figures glow with a violet light. Their bodies don't look like metal, but rather magically condensed crystals given a specific shape.
"Standing guard, protecting," I agreed.
Soon everything will become clear. We'll clear this place of magical golems and Elementals and get to work, or rather, searching for everything valuable. Fortunately, magical anomalies and golems are finite. And we certainly aren't complaining about magical power. And the fact that we've spent almost twenty-four hours here, so the clearing continued the next day, changed nothing. Actually, I'd suggest just clearing out the library and studying it in another, safer place.
By the way, an interesting fact: the hole in the tower wall is hidden under an illusion; Karazhan looks whole from the outside, and under the weaves, you wouldn't know it's a fake. But we took the trouble to remove the illusion from the inside, and using levitation, brought the Pepelats closer to save time. We'll rest on board and move on.
We continued our path the next day. The magical Elementals were shattered. The level boss—a huge golem, the Curator—was simply pelted with mines. The boss tried to throw ball lightning and hit with its hands, but we're talking about a golem; intelligence isn't their strong suit. And mines make "boom" regardless.
"And here we are. In the magical libraries of the Guardians of Tirisfal," the Magister said as we passed the wreckage of the construct and several of its brethren. "Let's see what secrets you keep here, Medivh."
***
This library doesn't look as impressive as the one in Dalaran. It's large, containing a mass of shelves and tables with books that were guarded by golems. But it's not even close to that scale. Venidan approached the nearest table and brushed the dust off a volume lying there.
Flash!
I recoiled from a dragon's snout that had stopped point-blank. Bluish-black hide, silvery chest, glowing otherworldly blue horns, claws, and inner surfaces of the wings. Not blue, but even white. On raw reflexes, I fired a fan of icicles, preparing ice spears. The dragon, the size of an elephant and taking up half the room, snorted in mockery.
"Reflexes are normal. That is good. Compose yourself; combat is pointless."
Recoiling from the thunderous voice, I nearly tripped over the Magister. He was frozen, looking for danger. Beside him were an Elemental and my golems. And there was Venidan... wiping dust off a book cover. They weren't moving, not stirring at all. Oops. I understood.
"Stopped time. And you," I pointed at the lizard, "are an Infinite Dragon."
The lizard gave a satisfied grunt.
"It is a pleasure to deal with the intelligent. Perhaps you can also tell me how you ended up where you ended up?"
That was the easiest part. I pointed at the Rogue.
"A trap on the book."
The dragon nodded.
"Bravo, bravo! The Guardians of Tirisfal have been in conflict with the Kirin Tor for centuries upon centuries. Created to protect against what mages call the darkness, the Kirin Tor wished to control their strongest creation. And the creation did not wish to be controlled—what a surprise, it was the strongest for a reason, after all. And it prepared traps for those who would be sent to spy. But here is the question, Wizard. The fact that the trap happened to be right at hand, at the exact right moment—is that a coincidence or a setup? Its power, despite how much magic the Guardian drained: a coincidence or a pattern? Or perhaps a pre-prepared trap?"
I already understood where you were going with this. But let's pretend I need validation. Because I really don't.
"The Bronze Dragonflight?"
The Infinite One burst into laughter, making the room shudder. A pair of golems ran out from the adjacent room, but the dragon exhaled a beam of violet energy, slicing through both the golems and a chunk of the wall. Satisfied with his actions, the dragon hummed and turned his attention back to me.
"Them. Reality was proceeding too successfully. Obviously, you wouldn't have agreed to slow down, so the probabilities fell this way. For the next few years, you wouldn't have been able to interfere even further. Fortunately for you, immortal, I have no reason to play along with those fools. On the other hand, I don't really want to get into a fight over a trap your subordinate so stupidly fell into, either."
The dragon looked at me, waiting for a reaction. I looked at the dragon, waiting for him to say what he wanted. The staring contest lasted about twenty seconds. Eventually, the dragon continued.
"I like how they fuss over you, unwilling to break their own rules and simply take your head. It makes them predictable, which is convenient. But simply letting you go from here would be... not right. Too easy and requires no effort. No, that won't do. Let's do something more interesting. I will rework the trap, turning it into a time loop with a twenty-four-hour cycle, and cover... this and the next two floors with it. When you figure out how to escape, you can help your friends. And yes, there is a way out, I can see it. You will achieve success, have no doubt."
The dragon shifted, clearly trying to stand up. Meanwhile, I was frantically realizing the size of the mess I'd been dropped into. An infinite Groundhog Day. And which of them was the bigger bastard—the Bronze ones with the timestop, or the Infinite One who locked me in with the dead and the golems—that was still a question.
Mamma mia... Why do I get such "luck"? And wait! Wait!
"Dragon!"
The lizard, who was clearly in no hurry but enjoyed playing the part, froze, turning his head toward me.
"Hm, what do you want? Ask me."
It was said as if he knew what I was going to talk about. I snorted. Why "as if"? Obviously, he knew.
"I am asking you."
The dragon shrugged and lay back down where he was.
"Prince Arthas will be disappointed that his new Wizard has vanished. But when the Kirin Tor finds Scholomance, they will decide you died trying to find information, perhaps even killed by the Cult. Especially since neither you nor your ship appeared anywhere else. Your body will be found by adventurers in the future and reported to His Majesty Arthas the Purifier. Despite the conflict with the mages, the Purifier will recognize you as a Hero of Lordaeron and erect a monument."
I immediately picked out the interesting part.
"Conflict with the mages."
The dragon nodded.
"Exactly. The Kirin Tor missed Kel'Thuzad, Scholomance. Because of their blindness, Andorhal was slaughtered and infected, Stratholme infected. Perfect scapegoats. And when the mages, instead of fighting the Undead, left the continent at the behest of, among others, Lady Proudmoore, it only got worse. By the way, your parents were evacuated; they were looking for you themselves and found the Admiral's daughter. She kept her promise. But the point is that from the Paladins' point of view, the mages were blind and only hindered them."
The dragon laughed hollowly.
"Who would have thought, right? As for the rest... you'll see for yourself when you get out."
And the bastard exhaled a blue beam into my face. When I lowered my shield and the flash dissipated, there was no one left in the room. He had vanished. Only the frozen Veni and the Magister remained, along with the golems, the smashed defenders, and the bookshelves. And God only knows what to do next.
***
Day 1. Version seven.
I decided to keep a diary, simply because there's nothing else to do. Everything around is so motionless, and I've frankly started to worry if time is moving at all. No matter what I do, no matter where I go, the day always starts at the exact same point. Everything lies in the exact same places. The sun doesn't move. If I write it down, I'll have one more piece of proof that yesterday—existed.
The biggest problem is finding something that doesn't change. The book that sent me into this trap fit perfectly, even if it is rather ironic. It's only the activator; there's no point in tearing it up. But I can still record my thoughts here.
Why else do I need a diary? This place is too empty. No movement, no wind. Nothing. Like a fly in amber, a section frozen in time. I can't leave; there's a barrier. I have no one to talk to; I see no movement. There is no-thing here! Perhaps if I express my thoughts in text, it will be a little easier. I feel like I'm repeating myself, but it's frightening. And the feeling of loneliness won't let go of me. The days are so long; if only I could talk to someone.
Day 3.
Medivh is a genius. Well, or Sargeras. Before looking for a way out, I decided to take an inventory of what I actually have here. I count the days by when I go to sleep, by the way. At a certain point, exhaustion just rolls over me, I pass out, wake up, and count it as plus one day.
So, there are books here on almost any topic. Runes, materials about Dwarves, Orc Shamanism, and Demon magic. Gnomish knowledge, Goblin knowledge, there's even something about the Ancient Gods and Titans. And about Demons! In short, a lot of material—just take it and study. It's a way to distract myself from the fact that there's absolutely nothing here and nothing is happening. Yes, reading will be my salvation.
Day 11.
I found a butler! He's not exactly alive, but he's slightly sentient and even reacts to my actions! Hooray! Hooray! Hooray!
Oh, right, to introduce him. That same skeleton guy we whacked in the guest room, but here he's a sort of Shadow. He calls himself Marius, but I don't care—you'll be Walter. Because I want it that way, and you can't do anything to me in Shadow form anyway.
Walter isn't the best conversationalist, but for the fact that he moves and reacts, I'm willing to forgive him. This place is too static. Nothing moves or happens. I was already climbing the walls from loneliness. But Walter doesn't mind listening. So no hard feelings, man. You're my new best friend.
Day 16.
This dragon joke with Za Warudo isn't funny at all. And the lizard is a tail-wagging sadist. For several reasons. The main one is that freedom seems so close. The anomaly covers the libraries and the laboratory of Karazhan, as well as part of the level with the explosion crater. Light doesn't penetrate inside, which is why it's always dark in the anomaly, but the hole in the wall is so tempting. And freedom seems so close. But it turns out to be so far away. No wind, no fresh air, no food or treats. Nothing. If not for the loop, I would have just died of hunger here.
At least The Sunwell breaks through; I can feel it filling me. I think when it stops, that will be a more than important signal. For now, it's not a problem. The task of finding a way out is complicated by the crowd of Undead and Elementals that resurrect every cycle. So I only have one day to reach the goal before trying again. Tail-wagging sadist.
Day 22.
Minimum program completed. I conducted an inventory and even found the necessary material for Arthas regarding Resurrection and the reliable destruction of Demons. Everything is as I remembered: saturating a weapon with Fel or the Twisting Nether. Surely a Demon can only be killed that way. That's good news.
The bad news is that I still can't get out. I'm still a fly in amber and there is no way out. Walter? Doesn't know either.
Day 35.
Mastered Mana condensation. The process is difficult, partly because the crystals are very, very fragile and start to fall apart at the slightest damage. But, considering that one crystal allows me to restore about ten percent of my mana pool and satiates me, it's still a success. I can eat them like candy, even if they're tasteless. So yes, I have candy!
Just kidding. Actually, no. There's nothing to eat here, and the ability to chew mana crystals really adds variety. Now I have not only books but a couple of candies a day.
Day 42.
I actually have no idea how much time has passed. This place is isolated. Locked. No clocks, no way to measure time. Essentially, my "days" are periods of sleep and wakefulness. Outside, it could have been a week or a year. Who knows what might be happening outside the barrier.
The barrier...
Barrier?
Barrier!
Eureka, you bastards! I've got it! I've figured out how to get out—I need to disrupt the structure of the barrier! Hm, but how? Drain the energy? We're sitting on a ley line; I could drain it for the next era. Lockpicking? Depends on the epicenter, the core. It's not the diary; I checked. Likely located somewhere outside.
Then only brute force remains. A Phantasm would help me, of course, but... I'm not a Heroic Spirit. A replica, but not a spirit. I need to try to write a code for a hack. My memory is good; I can remember what I wrote, and the resets won't interfere. That's it!
Day 61.
Still nothing to do, so I continue to improve in magic. There are tons of books here; there's plenty to learn. Yes, often the principle isn't explained, and I have to guess for myself by looking at similar spells and rituals. But there's nothing else to do here anyway. Walter doesn't speak, but I think even he is shocked every day to find out that he is indeed my best friend here. Watching his surprise is even amusing, but alas, it's not enough.
There are projects. A pseudo-Phantasm, mana capacitors, and a couple of new golem projects. But one problem stands tall here—time. I only have one local day until a full reset. I have to write, memorize, rewrite, and memorize again.
And study magic. I just have nothing else to do here. No, no one has returned. I'm the only living thing here. Like those damn... already two months here.
Day 62.
A funny idea occurred to me. If the book doesn't reset, preserving my notes, then what would happen if I tried to enchant it?
Day 70.
The tests were successful! I managed to place a funny enchantment on one of the pages, turning it into a primitive but amusing toy. A basic "Battleship" game.
By applying a random Mana pulse to the back of the page, a pseudo-golem charges the ink, arranging "ships." Then, by pinpointing the markings on the front side, I gave the command to process a hit and the counter-action.
I am a Genius! Now I'm less bored!
And based on this weave, I can make a full-fledged top-down map! If I project ships onto the battlefield, why can't I... for example, gargoyles or other objects. I've long wanted to make a projection from "long-range vision cameras" onto a tactical map in the Pepelats so that those on the bridge could watch the battle. Maybe give advice or plan. In short, I need to refine it while I have inspiration.
I did it! Ha! I'm good. Attaching the diagram; I'll implement it later when I get out of here.
Day 72.
Did I say I was a genius? Forget it; all that pales in comparison to the thought that visited me today...
I was playing my "Battleship" to stave off boredom. At the same time, I was thinking about the Phantasm and I was hit with an epiphany!
It is, the damn thing, literally the embodiment, the essence of a Heroic SOUL. Such a small word, and so important. All this time I've been overlooking the fact that not only does the diary not reset, but neither do I. My soul! I can write the magic code directly on it and it won't disappear! It will be almost a real damn Phantasm!
Of course, this means Warlock magic, Necromancy. But that's exactly not a problem; the Sargeras-possessed Medivh wrote all sorts of things.
And yes, I know it's unethical. I know that Mom and Dad, even the Teacher wouldn't approve. They wouldn't approve of studying such a science at my age at all, let alone applying magic to my own soul, which, in case of an error, I might not even be able to undo. But for me, this is the way out.
If I connect my mana system, soul, and analytical module to adjust the spell to the situation... I feel like I can do it. I feel alive; I feel like I can succeed.
Just in case: I'm sorry. I really am.
Day 80.
I am the terror that flaps in the night. Every day I wake up knowing that evil does not sleep! That Magic Elementals have overrun Gotham. They are plotting a nefarious villainy and hate life itself. Walter? Are we ready? Excellent. The city falls asleep. The mafia wakes up.
And Batman!
Day 89.
The study of Orc Necrolytes and Death Knights has borne fruit. The Lich King and Gul'dan, when creating their DKs, ripped out a piece of the soul and fused it into a weapon. This allowed them to separately strengthen the Warrior through, for example, vampirism applied directly to the blade. And the Knight was very hard to kill; it turned out almost like a Lich, just castrated.
I won't do it that way. On the contrary, I will apply all the necessary weaves directly to the soul, already attaching the gauntlet to it with weaves. Importantly, since most of the work will be done on the soul, I can do it gradually.
DaVi is smart, eat a mana candy. Mmmmmm, fizzy.
Day 114.
Almost four months have passed. Out of boredom, I study magic, create blueprints and projects. It's not hard when everything resets every day. Including a few half-beaten golems.
I don't know how many times I've written this. Maybe the fifth, maybe more. It's just my existence. That very thing that determines consciousness. Only books and projects keep me from falling into Zen and madness.
And Walter, talking to him is funny. It doesn't get to me anymore to tease him about his name, so I recount known news from Azeroth to him, and he gets all funny and surprised every time.
Projects? Well, the mana capacitor is finished at the blueprint level. Unfortunately, I won't be able to assemble it in a day. Just like the multi-armed golem. And the Manhack. Project "pseudo-Phantasm" is progressing.
That's actually my main problem right now: assembly. I simply won't have time to finish the work in one local day.
Day 117.
Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday, happy birthday, happy birthday to you.
Today I, Davilinia, turn exactly one year old after my memory loss and my actual birth in Azeroth. Well, probably today; the complications with the anomaly can't be ignored. But I still want to celebrate it. Especially since I found some bottle behind the shelves.
Day 118.
I don't remember anything. Memory gaps, damn them. And the time reset. I don't remember anything, and I can't even reconstruct yesterday from objects; nothing was preserved. I'm disappointed, you bastards!
It's a shame, it's annoying, but oh well.
I want to say that although my new life has become very difficult, I've grown attached to all of you. To Mom and Dad, to DaVi, and to the Magister. If you found this diary but not me, know this. I love you all.
Day 143.
I found a couple of treatises on Death Knights here and got caught up in reading. And throwing spells at everyone in sight. Since there's time, I'm not just creating projects but training. Shields, icicles and fireballs, beams of goodness, even simple curses. If you want to learn magic, everything is here. For example, draining mana from a living being, as used by Warlocks. I could basically sign up as a Blood Elf right now.
It seems the longer I sit here, the more I immerse myself in what the locals would call the "dark arts." Fortunately, I can't harm anyone anyway.
Day 172–174.
I successfully managed to apply the weave to my soul, seemingly without becoming a slave to Gul'dan or anyone else in the process. The desire to give my life for Ner'zhul, or make sacrifices to Sargeras, or say, Khorne, does not arise.
I'm not rushing, but still. The longer I sit here, the more chances of being late. In short, it's time to move on to practical tests.
Day 176, no 177.
The gauntlet exploded during testing. Mana crystals detonated from overload; everything worked differently than it should have. I'm writing this on the 177th day because for the first time in my life, I felt what it's like to lose an arm. Thanks, I don't want to do that again.
The gauntlet needs to be modified even further, but my main problem is still time. But I have an idea. Creating a terrain, like during the construction of the Pepelats. Create a laboratory that will fold into the necessary weaves, after which I'll immediately blast it. Yes, it will consume a mass of mana, but I just don't know how else to make the deadline.
My poor limb, I'm now wary of casting spells with the gauntlet.
Day 181.
Spent a few days forcing myself to stop being afraid of my own weapon. The experience of losing a limb was... too shocking. I can write this calmly, but make no mistake, at the moment the gauntlet exploded, I was not calm. And yet, this project is my way out of here. Half a year has passed, and I still want to get out. At any cost.
I'm ready to endure a lot. Loneliness, statues of loved ones. Pain, even if it's not easy. But I'm not ready to stay here and lose the remnants of my sanity. You won't get that!
Day 201.
It's time.
***
This day began as usual. I haven't flinched for a long time now when "waking up" each new day. One moment you're falling asleep, and the next you're standing next to the Magister and Veni, full of strength. At first, this was seriously disorienting; I even fell down. But over time, I got used to it.
I don't look around, I don't look for threats. There's no one here anyway. There are golems further down the corridor to the left. In the warehouse to the right—a couple of Elementals. And two ghosts on the stairs.
"Walter! Morouz, your... Walter! Don't sleep!"
The ghost of the butler materialized from the floor. I specifically found out what his name was. He's not alive, but he somehow recognizes his own name and reacts.
"Right then, you're Walter now. I'm a guest of this house; I've decided so. And don't scowl, it's not polite. Yes, I see everything."
The ghost gave a slight but very distinct bow. He does that every day.
"I need laboratory two, Walter. Please see to it that I'm not disturbed."
The ghost bowed again and dissolved. Another trick I discovered while being locked in Karazhan—many entities here "play at reality." This is expressed not only in behavior: if you ask the butler to clear the room of servants, he might well chase away the golems or ghosts, making my job easier. And that's important; time is limited.
So I went to the warehouse myself, killing a couple of Magic Elementals along the way that poked out of a room at the noise. Just in passing. It's all so ordinary and familiar. In Medivh's warehouse, there's a lot of valuable stuff lying around. Cloth, metal, magic crystals of a level I'd never find anywhere else. Sweep it all onto a tray and carry it with levitation; it's faster that way.
When I reached the specified laboratory, the golems were already long gone, and the ghost of the butler was frozen at the entrance.
"Good, Walter. I'm going to do some work here; make sure no one disturbs me."
The ghost nodded silently, remaining at the entrance. I entered a large, circular room filled with mana and magic seals. The second one like it is drained to zero, the seals faded and cold, devoid of magic. But this one still works. So, phase one:
"Territory expansion! Bread stall!"
I know my activation words sound stupid, so what? I had to entertain myself somehow. What matters is that mana flowed into the floor, overcoming the resistance of the environment. The first few times were very difficult, but I haven't been training here for just one week. New circles flared up, new formations. Not just green, but violet ones, covered in symbols. The process is very delicate; in normal conditions, the entire floor would have come running at the mana surge, but just one phrase to Walter works wonders. The mistress said no, and they simply don't enter because they can't.
Yes, there's logic in this. When all their behavior is tied to "scripts," the right command will lead to the desired result. I had plenty of time and absolutely nothing to do, so I figured it out.
The number of seals, weaves, and strings grew several times over; in a blue flash, magical tools and mechanisms began to manifest. Creating a terrain, but this time consciously and purposefully. It's still not the ultimate dream, but I need enough mana both to finish the assembly and for the shot. And everything—today.
In the center of the hall, a rough stone covered in green symbols materialized from magic. An altar. Excellent, phase one is ready. I stopped for a second, surveying the work of my hands.
"Good. Everything is good."
Now, lay out the parts. The gauntlet and the components gathered from the warehouses were placed on the table among the machines. I won't have to participate in the assembly personally; that's important, I'll be busy with more important things. Even though most of the weaves on the soul are already ready, connecting myself and the weapon still won't be easy.
I lay down on the altar. Hard and cold, but it has to be this way. Maybe it could be done differently, but there are books on Demonology here; I work with what I have. After which I carefully cut my palm with a scalpel, lay down, and turned the wounded hand over, allowing the blood to fall onto the stone.
"Phase two. Execute."
A flash. The world began to delaminate, breaking down into voxels, then into layers. Everything became black and gray. Emotions vanished. Nearby, a weave is folding into a specified construct. Disassembly is underway, integration of new crystals. Influence required.
Something lies on the gray stone. A soul. A formless weave of energies. One's own, blue. An overlay, muddy crimson. Intertwined with the blue, cannot be extracted without damaging the blue. Like the mark in the form of a curse sign.
A layer above are the weaves. They grow into the level below like a fungus, held together by magic arrays. Very complex and multi-leveled. The Shadow felt pride; the analytical construct turned out perfect. Arcana. Fel. Necromancy. The Barrens. Each seal carries conditions and conventions that allow adding different types of effects. Similar seals are also present on the disassembled construct.
Influence.
The fused layer reached for the stones and seals of the construct, connecting with them. Matter from the lower layers pulled, stretching and deforming along the guides, but returned to its original form. Fuse. Do not transfer. Completed.
Next stage. Assembly. Final fusion. The process of threads growing into the mechanism began. Interaction detected. Acceptable. Completed. Assembly. Waiting. Completed.
The formation around began to fold, applying another layer over the construction. The world blurred.
***
I jumped up from the floor with a gasp. It was dark. Now this hall, too, was completely drained, devoid of strings. And yet, a sense of rightness, a sense of completion. I mentally reached out to my new limb. It readily responded with the calibration vibrations of the analytical mechanism. And nearby...
I managed to stand up quite easily. No pain, just a slight disorientation.
"Good. So, light?"
A dim ball flared over my outstretched hand, showing the complete darkness of the room. And most importantly—the gauntlet. Now it looks completely different. Previously, it was the Main character's brother's gauntlet. A large but fairly simple plate construction, which I had supplemented with magic crystals of various effects using cuts and weaves.
Not now. Now it had been disassembled, reworked, and assembled from scratch. The base is the same, but so many changes have been made that it's a completely different mechanism. Black-and-yellow metal, shimmering crystals, complex, numerous, yet harmonious weaves.
Pausing for a second, overcoming some fear, I pulled it onto my hand. Though calling it a gauntlet is silly; it covers the entire arm. All the way to the shoulder, until my fingers slipped into the slots. I mentally braced myself, expecting defects or for the mechanisms to contract, crushing the limb, but no. No! Good, DaVi. Now, the test.
I extinguished the ball of light and snapped the fingers of my left hand with a quiet metallic clink.
"Light."
And the ball lit up, bright and steady. It works.
"It works! IT WORKS!"
In delight, I fired a series of icicles into the wall. Not enough! The arm feels as it should, like an arm. It's as if I'm not wearing a gauntlet but striking with my bare hand.
"Transforma—claws!"
Natural knives extended from the fingers, making the gauntlet visually double in size. I squeezed my hand with pleasure, clinking the massive paw. Now I can rip hearts out of chests. Or cut cake, as an option. More!
"Transforma—pile driver."
The mechanism ground, increasing in volume around the fist. A plate extended, protecting the knuckles. The outer side of the arm opened with a hiss, extending a cylinder. Yes, I mastered the creation of space "within oneself," so that an object is larger on the inside than on the outside. Well, what of it—local mages make bags like that; Dalaran is full of them. I want that too.
Anyway, the cylinder was positioned parallel to the arm and hummed softly, glowing with blue runes. I burst out laughing.
"Behold the true power! Thunderfist!"
And I struck the wall. The cylinder jerked forward and went dark, transferring the impulse to the plate. The explosion sent an impulse about two meters in diameter. The wall exploded in a rain of stone and dust.
"Yes! Yes, you bastards! Yes! YEEEEEEES!" — a very unhappy butler emerged from the dust, — "sorry, Walter, I'll be quieter."
The butler pointed at the wall that had collapsed into the corridor, covering the carpets and floors with a layer of dust, dirt, and debris. And he looks very, very unhappy. I waved him off.
"I'll fix the wall too, Walter. Later, when I have time. First—freedom!"
Exhaustion is already starting to show. I have no idea how much time has passed, but it's a lot. Another half hour or so, and I'll pass out, and everything will have to start from the beginning. No-no-no-no-no.
I rushed down to the destroyed levels. The exit, the exit, the exit will be very soon! Yes, I'm afraid of losing my arm again, but I have to try! So, ignoring everything and running to the very edge of the anomaly, I threw up my gauntleted hand, initiating the analysis protocols. Now, when the gauntlet and I are literally parts of a whole, it requires no special commands.
The mechanism clicked and reassembled again, and rotating, rune-covered magical cylinders formed around the arm. Just a second later, a casing hid them. Stepping back, I gripped my left arm with my right, aiming the gauntlet at the barrier, feeling the energy flow into the mechanism, and from it into the gauntlet.
The crystals lit up, forming a dark-purple vortex through which light was breaking. Green lightning ran across the gauntlet. Analysis... complete.
The vortex finally folded into a very dense and bright sphere, like a small sun. Formation... complete.
I feel very cheerful and want to scream with delight, from the sensation of pure power. And even though weakness isn't just rolling in, but my legs are literally starting to shake, and I barely have the strength to hold my arm, I will do it! Now!
"And even though I know you're a replica, I don't care! Uomo Universale!"
The sphere, giving the palm a final slight push, tore from the center of the palm and shot forward like a bullet, punching right through the barrier. With a crackle like glass, it began to crumble. I, laughing infernally while on my knees, listened to the distant explosion, turning my face to the wind with its barely perceptible smells of dust and rot. Even though my strength had left me, it didn't matter anymore. After so many months, these smells... The best smells in the world. It's the smell of freedom.
***
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