Art thou, my childhood idol?

With the matter of the goblin resolved, there was nothing to keep me in England. I now set out to return to the continent. My first stop was at Gringotts, where I intended to open an account, although this was not my primary objective. My main goal was to observe how my newly acquired spiritual artifact would react in the presence of xenos cannibals.

As it turned out, although the chain reacted to xenos, it did not affect me. This was likely due to the non-aggression pact between goblins and human wizards, which restrained goblins from attacking anyone but their own kind. Without this treaty, the chain would likely have compelled me to eliminate them. However, since I had no objection to such action, I chose to test the chain on goblins. Generally speaking, if they remained in their dungeons, honoring the treaty, they would survive.

My journey now lay towards the Moldavian principality, specifically Transnistria, where my next destination awaited.

Five years ago, the Holy See finally began to utilize my repositories as libraries. Church officials began to transfer their historical records and archives into the first of these repositories, which I periodically perused. In my former life, I was a voracious reader of both fiction and non-fiction, so the archives of the church served as a substitute for all the literature I had been deprived of. Three years ago, I discovered the diary of a Franciscan monk who had journeyed to Moldavia in the Vatican archives.

One day, the monk stopped in a nondescript village where the previous day a young boy had gone missing. He arrived just before he could stay with the headman's family, and it transpired that the boy, like many children throughout history, had been enticed by tales of a mysterious black mound where nothing grew, and his curiosity had led him to investigate. The following day, as the parents were about to launch a search party, the boy returned home unaccompanied.

The young man arose early one morning and set out towards the mound, carrying a piece of bread and a few apples. The journey from the village took four hours, but for the boy it took twice as long to reach their destination as it would have for an adult. As the young man later recounted to me, he could not articulate the impetus that had driven him there, but he climbed to the summit of the mound and descended into its interior. Again, no further details. He recalls standing at the summit and then leaping, and his next recollection begins within the crypt.

According to his account, he found himself in a dim chamber, its walls lined with stone. Along the entire perimeter of the chamber sat mummified figures in unfamiliar armor, which initially filled him with fear. In the center of the room stood a lofty altar upon which a body was affixed with numerous swords. The figure on the altar appeared more recent than ancient, as if it had only recently been laid to rest. The young man recalled no further events: neither his escape from the barrow, nor his return to the village.

Upon hearing the first-hand account of the incident, the monk was determined to visit the village in person in order to witness the situation for himself. His motives may have been somewhat more altruistic than purely selfish, but in any case, the friar maintained a high degree of discretion. He did not even confide his own private thoughts in his journal, merely noting his intention to inspect the mound the following day to ascertain its safety for the Church and ensure that any valuables therein were not lost.

His desire to secure any artifacts that might be present was evident, but upon awakening the following morning, it became clear that the friar had forgotten all about his original plan.

With the first cacophony of roosters, a shriek emanated from the dwelling where the child resided. It was the mother who had discovered the mummified remains of her son in his bed.

The events chronicled in the friar's journal occurred in the year 1310. The journal fell into the possession of the Inquisitorial office, charged with discovering heresies and eradicating all traces of paganism. However, based on the note appended to the journal within the Vatican archives, it appears that the Inquisitors have yet to lay their hands upon this particular case, and thus the hillock may still remain undisturbed. My estimation suggests that it may serve as a burial site for either Scythian or Cimmerian remains dating back at least three millennia.

A sense of curiosity prompted me to investigate further. My imaginary birds had previously visited this location, having even discovered the mound among the many hills in the vicinity. Among all these hills, this one bore the closest resemblance to the description, with a dark patch on its summit devoid of vegetation. A small settlement likely emerged from this village some two hundred and sixty years ago, coinciding with the timeframe when the Franciscan brother witnessed the events described in his journal.

Having waited until late in the afternoon in those regions, I apparated direct from England. Before ascending the hill, I employed several personal protections, activated protective artifacts, and cast several specialized spells upon my aura. These measures were intended to serve as safeguards against encounters with undead entities, demons, or any other potential adversaries.

However, my preparations extended beyond these defensive measures. I summoned three elixirs from a spatial pocket and consumed them individually. The first elixir enhanced my mana regeneration, while the second augmented my already substantial physical attributes. The third elixir served as a versatile antidote, although my innate resistance to the venom of a Naga Basilisk was also effective.

Within my grasp, I held a battle sword forged by a master smith in Toledo, whose craftsmanship had been personally enhanced by me. The blade had been consecrated with silver, a gift bestowed upon me by the Pope.

Upon reaching the summit, I encountered a peculiar spatial distortion in its very heart. Upon closer examination, I discerned that it provided access to the interior of the mound, concealed behind a barrier that even my skills could not breach without preparation. I contemplated whether to venture within. The security system was formidable. Whatever it sought to conceal appeared to be of a menacing nature. However, there was no time for deliberation. The anomaly grew in size, capturing my essence and dragging me into the depths of the mound.

My disorientation vanished, thanks to my extensive training in dimensional displacement and the art of navigating through hyperspace to return to three-dimensional reality.

Where in the world have I ended up?

I found myself in a small circular chamber. Against the walls, their backs pressed against the surface, sat eleven corpses of fallen warlocks. How could I tell they were not mere soldiers but also sorcerers? Each was adorned with amulets and trinkets, and a dagger protruded from their chests, positioned directly opposite their hearts.

As I proceeded through the hall, maintaining a respectful distance from the mummified remains, I began to examine their attire and artifacts, which, despite having endured the passage of millennia, still retained some functional capacity. Unfortunately, without conducting a diagnostic ritual, I was unable to fully comprehend their purpose. This was the first encounter with such a unique form of artifacting.

The warriors were clad in tanned leather armor adorned with small bronze inlays for protection. Once, these garments were imbued with powerful enchantments, although time had taken its toll, leaving only faint traces of their presence in the astral essence of the armor. It was challenging to determine the exact race of the deceased based solely on their desiccated and gnarled features. Their attire suggested a nomadic lifestyle, but there were hints that they hailed from Europe.

A notable feature was the fact that each corpse had their arms amputated at the elbows.

To which nation did these martial sorcerers belong? A fleeting detail niggled at my mind, and I focused on it. My intuition immediately took hold, growing from a faint whisper to a shout, proclaiming that something was amiss, and I was in grave peril! Her shrieks were already edging towards hysteria.

Then it struck me: why on earth had I not employed my spiritual vision yet? All the while I had been in the tomb, I had avoided looking at the altar, with its corpse nailed to it by a sword. I had glanced at it briefly in the beginning, and that had been it!

Upon my initial comprehension of the situation, I fixated my gaze upon the altar with an ethereal intensity. The sight induced a shiver that ran down my spine, as I became acutely aware of the predicament in which I found myself.

Upon the altar, a humanoid, chthonic entity lay before me, its single, unblinking eye fixed upon me with an expression of abject malevolence. The creature stood at a height of approximately two and a half meters, its snow-white complexion giving it the appearance of a plaster statue more than a living being. Instead of hands, the creature possessed claws, and its face bore a resemblance to an extraterrestrial creature from the film «Predator», with its sinister mouth and a meter-long, screw-like horn protruding from its forehead.

The creature's body was adorned with numerous needle-like mouths, each housing needle-like teeth, arranged in specific locations: two on each shoulder, two on the inner folds of its arms at the elbow joints, two between the joints of its claws, one where its genitalia would be, one on its solar plexus, and the largest mouth, in its proper position, on its head.

Each of the maws was pierced by a blade that held the spirits of fallen sorcerers of yore. Each spirit was spent and utterly focused on containing the creature. Only one of the blades remained unclaimed, piercing the maw that faced them. The severed, mummified hand remained in place, but its spirit was not.

In an instant, I assessed the situation and all I had seen. Time slowed to a crawl as my mind processed the information and accelerated my thoughts. My intuition told me that this was the cat's journey, and I immediately understood what it was trying to convey.

The creature, having barely realized that its ruse had failed and that I had managed to turn my attention towards it, extended its aura throughout the room. Its inability to comprehend its spectrum and affiliations hinted at the fact that I was confronting the most challenging and dangerous adversary possible. This entity, nothing less than a manifestation of chaos, was beyond comprehension.

Finding myself enveloped by the aura of an entity orders of magnitude stronger than myself, I felt akin to a lollipop in the grasp of a highly experienced connoisseur. My soul was subjected to licking and sucking, as if it were the most exquisite delicacy. From this preliminary encounter, my soul began to sustain wounds, akin to being sandpapered or shovelled, causing excruciating pain. However, it was not my physical body that suffered but rather my very soul itself.

My mind was on the verge of succumbing to panic, yielding to the instinctive urges of my gut. It was howling that this adversary was not of my league. We were in different weight categories, and I had no chance against him. Not even being chained to a rock would deter him from consuming his prey!

Instead of allowing my mind to spiral into panic, I acted.

Dahlia's chain slithered into my grasp, elongating as it whipped towards the monstrous form. Wrapping itself around the creature, the chain burrowed into the demon, its silver spikes elongating and resembling barbs.

These actions elicited an otherworldly howl in the ethereal realm, but fortunately, my mental shields now formed an impenetrable bastion. Rather than a roar, a low rustling emanated through the defenses of my mind.

However, the demon was not only being tormented by the holy chain. The anti-demon spells I had prepared before entering the cavern, such as "Word of Solomon" and "Seal of Marduk," had already erupted from my aura, these spells being the most potent in my arsenal against entities from the infernal planes.

Undeterred, I continued to cast the next two spells, summoning an artifact I had crafted under Alfonso's tutelage during my demonological studies from my dimensional pocket. The artifact appeared as a small silver jar, an absorber crafted with technology hailing from the ancient Persian school.. These were the cells in which Jinn was confined, and she was capable of containing even an archdemon within them. However, there is a catch... I doubt that he will be able to keep the soul of that deity imprisoned for long! Oh my, I am only now realising the magnitude of what I am up against.

Wait a moment, you vile creature!

I have now realised that I am not a demon, but a god — albeit a weak one, yes, without a following. But this does not negate the fact that I possess a ninth shell and my ba-hyon surpasses his mana. I can fight him here until the end of time. One of my five streams of consciousness is already preparing the ritual of exorcism and sealing, while I open my soul wide to the cross — a direct path to the egregor of the One on Earth.

Receive it, creature!

All my spiritual shells and chains become conductors for sacred energy, which flows into the demonic deity of a vanished civilisation. Even I am now sickened by the shriek of the Dark God, which my barriers cannot fully shield.

The spirits of the martial sorcerers, during my assault, did not merely repel the infernal deity. Beholding my actions and the fate of their captive, whom they had guarded for eons, they seemed to find a renewed vigor. The blades in their hands, which had pierced the entity, also hurled spells through it. They joined in the agony of the Dark entity's spirit.

Thus, it was done!!!

My ritual commenced its effect, and I struggled not to cry out from the anguish of my soul. It was akin to being immersed in searing oil, forced to consume it, consuming my very being.

Yet I persisted, clenching my teeth! Just a little longer, come, come! Come, creature, abandon your physical form and enter the vessel! I felt as if I had been engaged in an eternal conflict with a daemon for millennia.

Aye, aye, aye! I have succeeded! I persevered and vanquished the creature, joined by eleven heroes from a bygone age. But my strength was spent. The immense mental strain, the weariness of my spirit, through which an ocean of sacred energy flowed, and the injuries inflicted upon me by the demon as he licked at my spiritual barriers with his aura, all took their toll. I sank into unconsciousness, yet I was aware that the sacred energy continued to pour into me. Yet it did not come in the same abundance, for it was now focused on healing the spiritual wounds I had sustained.

Arising from slumber could not have been more disconcerting. Before lifting my lids, I cast my gaze inward, where my spirit lay riddled with countless minuscule abrasions, already forming scabs. Were I to use the term aptly, they were beginning to calcify. Hmm. It would take at least a decade to fully heal my soul of these micro-traumas. That is, provided I do not take steps to expedite my recovery. In my present state, it is strongly advised that I refrain from employing higher-level magics for at least one year.

Now, then. Time to rise and open my eyes to the world.

Oh my god! Those fossils terrified me! I was lying beside the altar, my chain tracing a wide circle around me as I sprawled on the floor, trying to ward off the ghostly warriors. They were still there in the tomb, their eyes fixed on me, dead and intangible.

When he saw that I had regained my senses, the leader of the undead waited for me to recover from the experience before speaking. Then, he tapped my mind, inviting me to join him in conversation.

Today's wizards, those who call themselves mages, have only a vague understanding of mental magic. They believe that it allows them to directly interact with their own minds or those of their opponents. But that is not the case. Magical manipulation of memories and thoughts occurs in the sixth layer of the soul, the mental sphere.

Most illusionists would disagree, failing to envision the possibility of scanning another's mind without the need for direct eye contact. However, their assumption is incorrect. They lack the expertise and proficiency required to penetrate another's psyche without an intermediary, in the form of the eyes.

Why is it that establishing mental contact is facilitated through eye-to-eye contact? It is due to the fact that the eyes are aptly referred to as the mirror of the soul. They serve as the second most significant organ of the human body, closely linked to the sixth layer of the soul.

However, accessing the brain without the necessity for trepanation remains impractical. Consequently, illusionists employ their own eyes as a conduit to establish a link between their sixth layer and that of their adversary. This approach allows for a more seamless interaction. This is the origin of such a prevalent stereotype, which they foolishly adhere to, believing it to be impossible in any other way.

Now, standing at my full height, I received a mental invitation from the leader of the fallen warriors to engage in dialogue. My mind reached out to his, creating a pre-battlezone where our mental energies mingled in a state of approximate equilibrium. Should he choose to attack, he must first neutralize me in this boundary region. Only then could he hope to breach my defenses and invade my thoughts.

As I accepted his summons, we found ourselves within a shared mental space at the threshold of our psychic contact. It resembled Salazar's sanctum in his chambers within the Chamber of Secrets, though with a distinctly different ambiance.

In my previous encounters, I had perceived the spirits of these fallen warriors as ethereal apparitions, shimmering with a translucent blue-green haze. However, in this moment, the warlock appeared before me as he would have been in life, clad in his leather armor that gleamed with newness, adorned with bronze rivets and metallic inlays. His presence was commanding, with a slender frame, powerful limbs, and piercing blue eyes, his dark red beard cascading down to his chest like a flowing river.

Greetings, Warrior! My brethren and I extend our gratitude for your assistance, which enabled us to vanquish the ancient malevolence — through telepathic communication, we encountered no difficulties in translation. The essence of his message was rendered in my mind, facilitated by the power of my intellect and the repository of meanings inherent in my vocabulary.

We could only contain it for twenty thousand years, aware that our abilities were inadequate to seal it or banish its existence.

Remarkably, he revealed to us his identity and the nature of the dark deity he embodied.

The Kha'ammarriya were a people known as the Ghost Warriors. According to their legends, they were descendants of the first human tribes that encountered the celestial beings called Ammarri near the Ural Stone, which I am certain refers to the Aryan Fae. These distant ancestors revered a benevolent race that taught them the art of weaving cloth, working hides, creating fire, and later, forging various objects from metals. Was this an experiment by the Fae, or were they simply compassionate and peace-loving?

In addition to their assistance in shaping their civilization, some Cro-Magnon individuals (who else could these early humans be?) also managed to intermingle with the higher beings and bear offspring from them. How this was possible, I cannot say for certain, but I would certainly not dismiss the idea of primitive savages having any role in it.

Over time, from generation to generation, these pregnancies became more common, until almost everyone in the tribe bore a trace of Fae blood.

In the language of the earliest humans, «kha» meant «child». Thus, the name of their race emerged, in whose veins flowed not only the blood of Cro-Magnon, the first humans, but also that of the Fae — Ammarria, or Aryans. For a long time, these Fae coexisted with non-wild tribes, who, thanks to knowledge imparted to them, built their own unique civilization. However, for reasons known only to them, they eventually decided to leave Earth, leaving behind their legacy of magic to the Kha'Ammarrians.

Centuries, millennia, and eons passed. The Kha'Ammarrian race flourished. But then a rift developed among them.

A sliver of the Kha'Ammarrian population began to venerate imaginary deities, elemental forces, and other spiritual entities. Prior to the arrival of the Aryans, who instilled a sense of pride in the Kha'Ammarrrians, they had not engaged in any form of worship. However, the Aryans partially succeeded in instilling this pride, and when the Fae retreated, the Kha'Ammarrrians continued to honour only the memory of their ancestral lineage, the High Ones, whose lineage now coursed through their veins.

These dissenting elements of the population resided on the eastern fringe of their territory. They frequently encountered nomadic tribes, likely descendants of proto-Manjuri or proto-Chinese peoples, who already possessed their own pantheons and gained support from these deities, making them a formidable presence in their region.

The boundary between two territories is often a zone where cultures intermingle, and the Kha'Ammarrians, who inhabited this area, were deeply influenced by this concept. It became a means for them to seek the favor of a deity, demon, or spirit they chose as their patron, to whom they offered their prayers.

On the other hand, the Kha'Ammarrias rejected the idea of any form of worship, recognizing a supreme creator, yet finding no purpose in honoring Him. Why should a being of such great power require their prayers? This divergence eventually led to the division of their society, with those who embraced their chosen deities being referred to as SkhyFrah in their language, meaning "deceived child."

Thus, a once united people became separated, with those remaining loyal to their traditions becoming a minority within a few generations. Over the course of centuries, little remained of shared heritage between the Kha'Ammarriyas and the SkyFrahs, save for their ancestry. When the accumulated differences transformed them into essentially distinct cultures, a war erupted between them.

Khokhnan had already been four centuries old during the initial military conflicts. As the leader of his people, he confronted the cultists who had invaded his land. There were no established religions at this time, only small sects that ranged from tens of thousands to several million followers. Thus, the gods were relatively weak.

The war between the two factions lasted for more than two centuries, claiming the lives of many on both sides. Before the conflict, the KhaAmmarrian population numbered around ten million. After a century of warfare, their population had dwindled to less than one million. In contrast, the SkyFrakh began the conflict with a population three times larger than the KhaAmmarrrians. However, after two centuries of relentless battles, their population equaled that of the KhaAmmarrians and did not exceed one million.

The initial appeal of worshipping a deity may seem enticing, particularly for those who find themselves in a state of weakness. In such circumstances, the perceived advantage may appear substantial, akin to an infusion of unparalleled strength. However, when viewed in the context of one's inherent insignificance, even this "little" amount of strength can appear as an extraordinary boost.

Yet, if one aspires to pursue a path of systematic growth and true empowerment, the relationship with the deity becomes more akin to that of a sponge, steadily extracting energy from its worshipper. This dynamic inevitably hinders progress, rendering it noticeably slower, potentially even by tens or hundreds of times.

While the Kha'Ammarriya sects were channeling the vital energy of their souls into the deities and demonic entities they revered, the genuine offspring of the Aryan race were not developing their own magical abilities. Instead, they devoted their energies solely to personal growth. As a result, by the onset of the conflict, the population of the Kha'Ammarria was approximately one hundred archmages strong, while the forces of the Sky'Frakh numbered fewer than twenty. However, they possessed numerous priests who, for a time, could rival the power of the Archimages. Yet, in this instance, quantity proved insufficient to overcome quality. The Kha'Ammarrans overpowered the Sky'Frakians, continuing their onslaught until the deities and demons realized that they faced imminent defeat. In fact, they might even lose their own existence, as the Archmages of Kha'Ammarrius had dispatched several of them, including the weakest, into non-existence.

The demon god, whom I had recently confined and left unconscious on the floor of the crypt for more than a month, was the last of the deities not yet vanquished by the archmages. The final confrontation between the surviving twelve archmages of KhaAmmarrius and the Dark Deity and his seven priests took place at the site of his former temple, in Moldavia.

This battle between the archmages, the dark god, and his followers lasted for weeks, with the priests not lasting even a few hours before being swiftly eliminated. Most of their strength was borrowed, and, in the midst of the conflict, their deity showed little concern for his servants.

The battle was a severe ordeal for the Archimages, as this creature was one of the most corpulent deities in the pantheon of Skyfrakh gods. However, they persevered and temporarily subdued it. The mages of Khaammarrius had devised several rituals early in the war with the gods, enabling them to vanquish creatures possessing nine soul layers. Nonetheless, their current adversary proved to be formidable, still harboring a sizable portion of its essence. This could potentially serve as the foundation for its revival. Consequently, they were compelled to employ the most taxing and intricate ritual, one that they had not previously attempted. The goal was not merely to banish the soul into Chaos but to completely disintegrate it, eradicating all traces of its presence.

However, events did not unfold as planned. With all preparations complete, the ritual circle had been drawn, and the altar stood ready, its chained deity awaiting the climax. The daemon struck. The archimagical entities were tasked with breaching the nodes of energy within the physical form of the god, allowing their essence to flow through these points and into the altar where the immobile deity lay. Thus, they initiated the process of dismantling the shells that encased the deity's soul.

With a mighty thrust, he drove the blade of Khohnan, the most powerful archmage, into the strongest point of his chest. Ten of the twin swords penetrated the remaining nine. His eldest son impaled the one in its jaws on its face.

However, the demon was not about to surrender so easily. As the hand holding the sword plunged into its mouth, the Dark God summoned all his remaining might to break the shackles on his head for an instant, extending his horn and piercing his son Khohnan's hand with it. A torrent of blood flowed from the wound into the demon's open maw.

Exploiting the blood bond, it could now devour the soul of the Twelfth Archmage, weakened after a prolonged battle. Taking advantage of the moment when the ritual of the Archimages had not yet fully taken effect and his head was partially liberated, the Demon Lord unleashed a surge of energy from its horn, breaching the protective barrier erected by the Archimages to contain its disembodied form.

The ritual had already commenced, yet it remained in a state of limbo. The archmages, having bound the demon, lacked the necessary energy to commence dispelling the divine essence. The eleven remaining archmages found themselves in a perilous predicament.

Having absorbed the soul of the Dark God's son, Khohnan, the Dark Deity had nearly recovered, leaving the archmages fatigued after their arduous battle. They were faced with a bleak prospect. Should they release their hold on their weapons, through which they maintained the seal confining the Dark God, he would break free, leaving them without any hope of salvation for themselves or their people.

Outnumbered and depleted, they stood in stark contrast to the restored Dark God, a bloodthirsty entity that would undoubtedly descend upon their lands once it had vanquished the last of their protectors.

And so they resolved. Each of the archmages performed a ritual designed to create a phylactery. The name of this ritual was translated by my mind, but there was a degree of certainty that it was not an accurate representation of what they had done to themselves. My vocabulary is not sufficiently extensive to fully comprehend the thought process conveyed by Khohnan.

By severing their hands, the archmages enclosed their souls within the phylacteries, which were formed from their own limbs. Their intention was to remain within this mound as eternally bound guardians of the Dark God, preventing his escape and subsequent destruction of their nation. These phylacteries served as repositories of their essence, and the severed hands were the vessels that fueled the ritual, allowing them to maintain their existence.

The issue at hand was that the Dark God had the ability to breach a flaw in the protective shield, through which he employed his own horn as a conduit to attract lightning strikes that targeted the mound. This permitted him to sustain the cursed gateway he had established, which allured hapless travellers to the realm of the Dark God as their fate. Throughout his confinement, he managed to devour over two hundred lost souls who ventured into his realm. However, this number of spirits was insufficient to grant him the power necessary to shatter the chains that bound him and surmount the efforts of the eleven archmages of old who sought to restrain him.

Thus, he released his latest victim, a young boy, but not out of benevolence. He deliberately first showed him the prison where the corpses of his captors laid, and then cast him out. In this manner, he sought to play on human selfishness and avarice. However, no matter how ardently the demon attempted to shield the boy from the deleterious effects of its aura, it was futile. When the villagers awoke in the morning to the wails of the mother whose son had met a grisly end, no would-be tomb raiders were willing to tempt their luck.

Upon their recounting, Khohnan and his comrades wished to express their gratitude for sparing them the fate of eternal captivity under the demon deity. The most precious gift they could bestow upon me was their knowledge and the artifact containing the Great Horse Spirit. Or rather, not so much as imprisoned as a willing companion of Khohnan's own accord. You would strain your vocal cords attempting to pronounce that name.

- Would you accept our thanks, demon slayer and fellow traveler?

Why am I suddenly a demon slayer? Is it because of Georgie's chain? I would gladly embrace this role. I have always been dedicated to the pursuit of knowledge. But how do you come to such a conclusion about my demon-slaying abilities?

Your weapon, the serpent of wisdom, has informed me of this. Well, it makes sense. It would be peculiar if a high mage could not comprehend the nature of the mystical artifacts used against him. I did not realize he was a high magician until I awoke from my slumber after the conflict. After all, they had confined the dark deity to the altar for two decades, and their energy reserves had nearly depleted, all their power expended in the struggle against the demonic entity. Yet now, he shone like the sun in my spiritual vision. Like all his companions, he had almost reached the pinnacle of archimage power, the threshold where they required only a single step to ascend to the realm of high magicians.

The High Magi are unequivocal gods of magic. Upon attaining the pinnacle of power, between the seventh and eighth levels, a mortal becomes an Archmage, commencing the formation of their eighth, immortal soul shell. Of course, this assumes they did not possess one previously. However, upon breaking through to the ninth level, their essence is reborn in the wellspring of magic, initiating the development of their ninth soul shell.

I, too, once possessed a source of magic, albeit not of humanoid origin, having been reborn as a creature of utmost danger category XXXXXXX. This is why we hold such a status, for from birth we are imbued with a limitless source of magic unlike a mere magickal core, with only the current potency of my source corresponding to the seventh level.

The distinction between the core and source is of great significance in the realm of spirituality and magic. The core, in this context, refers to the energetic and spiritual organ located within the seventh shell of the soul, functioning as a vital component of the atman, or the essence of the soul itself. This core operates on the energy generated by the atman and processes the magical energies of the universe, converting them into personal energy for the individual.

On the other hand, the source represents a spiritual organ capable of generating mana independently, without requiring any external input of energy. With such a source, one can engage in magical practices even in regions devoid of any external sources of energy, making it a powerful tool for those seeking to explore the depths of magic.

My interest in this subject was primarily driven by my thirst for knowledge, but I was also intrigued by the prospect of discovering hidden treasures. The speaker's description of me as a "serpent of knowledge" resonated with my inner desire to delve into the mysteries of the Kha'Ammarriya civilization, which had vanished into the annals of history.

The KhaAmmarrya may be either the progenitors of the Cimmerians themselves, or they may be the same entity. The SkhyFrakhs, on the other hand, could be the Scythians, or their forebears. Wait a moment! Khohnan — Conan, is it not? «No», or «yes», is it mere coincidence? Am I gazing upon a legend from the sagas, Conan the Cymeric?

Good heavens! It may well be that I am correct. He bears a striking resemblance to Arnie, albeit with a leaner physique and less hair.

Once I had a poster of Conan the Cimmerian hanging over my bed.

Could I ever have imagined encountering this legend in person?