The Legendary Fool

“It will be done, your holiness. Pray tell, who is the one who has drawn your sacred gaze?” The older man, who was clad in silken white vestments that were trimmed in a deep crimson, asked.

“That is beyond your station to know,” Zephni replied, her visage a mask of cold composure, as impenetrable as it was still.

“Apologies, your holiness,” The older man softly replied. Appearing to be in his late thirties, his golden-blonde hair was pulled into a tight braid behind a silver circlet. His eyes were colored a mundane slate, concealing a sharpness that was deadlier than any blade, much like the older man’s angular features.

Zephni did not respond, instead choosing to tug the Wand of Jñāna out of what appeared to be thin air.

Both men reverently clasped their hands as Zephni waved her wand a single time. That was all it took for the chamber’s perimeter to be covered by a singular constellation, a mesh of connected stars that enshrouded the flooring beneath them as well as it did the vaulted ceiling.

“It would be beyond your stations to know, if these circumstances were normal. But they are far from it,” Zephni revealed, her visage as composed as ever even though she was admitting to a vulnerability. “As the commander of the Legion of Light, you have served me well, Verstais. Never have you given me a reason to doubt your loyalty to the cause, a notion you have reinforced by displaying unerring competence in the face of all I have asked of you.”

“The honor has been mine, Your Holiness,” Verstais replied softly.

“So I will leave the decision to you. Would you trust your son with the fate of Artezia, of all that remains?” Zephni asked, her tone heavy with a weight she had carried across centuries.

Even Verstais, Commander of the Legion of Light, could not remain unflappable in face of such an ask. To his merit, the older man recovered remarkably quickly from the surprise that had been reflected clearly on his visage, as he hurriedly moved to reply, “I trust him completely, Your Holiness. Any task you bequeath upon him, he will prioritize over his own life and even my own, if the situation calls for it.”

Zephni sighed in a rare display of emotion, before speaking, “It pains me to ask this of you and your son, Verstais. But we are up against the Necromancer Archon and every moment we waste, we risk losing everything we have fought so hard to hold onto. Not a single person outside this chamber can know, otherwise all may be lost.”

“What has happened, Your Holiness?” Verstais asked.

“The Fool has finally revealed themselves to the world,” Zephni revealed. “The stars tell me that I can only send a single person to find him and even then, there is no guarantee that the other archons won’t decipher our actions. While the Necromancer Archon will keep this discovery to himself, he might suspect that I am in the know. The Fool must be found and brought to my side, but the other archons cannot be made aware of this discovery.”

Silence reigned in the hall.

It was not Verstais, who seemed to be trembling before the revelation, but rather his son who broke the silence.

“What must I do, Your Holiness?” The younger man, Oren, asked his words tinged with a conviction that stood in contrast to his father’s silent fealty. In hue alone his gray eyes matched his father’s, but the raw hunger contained within was markedly different from the intelligence within the older man’s gaze. His golden-blonde hair was streaked with strands of crimson, held short and swept back, offering a roguish charm.

“The Fool was last seen in one of the toy kingdoms on the surface world. His current location is unknown and while finding him in his current state would not be a challenge if I used the Bastion’s resources, doing so would tip our hands to the archons. They do not possess the means to scry past my obfuscation, but scrying is far from the only means to gather information,” Zephni revealed. “You understand what this implies, yes?” She asked.

“I have heard rumors, Your Holiness. In returning to the surface world by an archon’s grace, I would be stripped of all my cards, levels, feats, statistics and artifacts,” Oren replied without skipping a beat.

“All but your soul card, which will be reset to level one. You will be given extensive information on the target along with knowledge that will let you access the Bastion’s resources on every floor, but you will have to make the climb back to me on your own if you are to remain undetected. I am aware that is no challenge to you, but you will need to obtain cooperation from the fool and shield him from the Necromancer Archon’s probing as you ascend. Given all that is at stake, I would not place any blame on you if you wish to withdraw.”

“I will convince The Fool to join our cause and bring him to you, Your Holiness. If they can be reasoned with, then they will understand that the very balance of the world hinges on their decision.”

“Do not be so certain of that,” Zephni replied with a shake of her head. “I will place a contingency on the surface world, a means for you to teleport back to my side. If The Fool turns out to be antagonistic to your asks or refuses to comply, use it and teleport to my side before he falls into the Necromancer Archon’s hands.”

“Your Holiness, would that not be a grave violation of the rules?” Oren asked, his tone laden with confusion.

“I will pay the price,” Zephni calmly replied. “The Archons will certainly discover our actions if the means of teleportation are used, but if there is any out of the six that is capable of obtaining the Book of Maya in those circumstances, it is I.”

“I understand, Your Holiness. Come what may, I will bring The Fool to you. Whatever the price.”

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A lone man stood outside the entrance of the Aerinaculumn. An ordinary cloth tunic and pants shielding his body from the elements. He wore no shoes and even to the discerning eye, there seemed to be no trace of any artifact or deck cards on his person.

His distinctive golden-blonde hair streaked with crimson stood in contrast to his otherwise mundane clothing, an odd observation given the fact that the man stood with his back facing the greatest challenge Artezia had to offer.

Even odder was the way the man chose to spend the next fifteen or minutes, choosing to stretch his body, moving from arm circles to lunges in a leisurely yet methodological manner.

Only for him to abruptly stop, as his gaze sharply angled to his right just in time to notice the glint of metal arrowtip concealed in the thick foliage of the Sacred Forest.

A muffled twang of a bowstring sounded out in the distance as the arrow was let loose with an unnatural momentum.

As the arrow blurred forward, the man found himself confronted by his own weakness. When he had been at the zenith of his power, as the wielder of an Epic (Mezzanine) Soul Card that had been Limit-Broken to Legendary, defending against such a mediocre attempt on his life could have been done with an offensive means instead of a defensive one.

To the weapon master, even the flat of a blade would suffice as a shield.

However, now he was reduced to a piddling Level 1, left with the Epic (Mezzanine) Weapon Master card only to, ironically enough, possess no weapon to defend himself with.

The arrow itself was sped up by either an artifact or card ability, so dodging would just get him injured, albeit not fatally so if he timed it right.

Unfortunately for his attackers, Oren was in no mood to play games.

Now I have to kill them all, Oren thought. A pity.

The true zenith of a card, whether it be a deck card or a soul card, did not lie in hitting the level cap or for that matter, even limit breaking it.

Glyphs had been given to the surface world and the lower floors as a hint to what lay beyond, a revelation that there was more to a card than the act of being used, of being employed as a tool without understanding the greater truths contained within the countless fragments of a shattered divinity.

Even then, Card Manifestation was a phenomenon that was as rare as it was sought after. On the thirty-seventh floor, there was no dearth of those capable of using Card Manifestation with limit broken Commons and Uncommons and even limit broken Rares were easily mastered with Mezzanines offering some difficulty.

However, when it came to Epic Ranked Cards and higher, there were many that had years of practice when it came to their Soul or Deck cards, yet found themselves unable to reach the elusive phenomenon of Card Manifestation.

They could call upon and use their cards both in and out of combat as if it was second nature to them and in all likelihood, their understanding of the Epic card had reached a very high degree.

Unfortunately for them, the difference between ninety-nine percent and hundred percent, as slim as it was, could turn out to be the difference between attaining and never attaining the state of card manifestation.

That was what complete understanding of one’s given card meant, after all.

Oren’s own Soul Card had been crafted by splitting and recombining a hundred Epic Cards, which would have been a phenomenal waste of resources if he didn’t know that the fee the Divine System charged in card fragments was pocketed by the system instead of actually being used up in the process.

It wasn’t the perfect Epic (Mezzanine) card by any means, but it was perfect for him.

[Weapon Master Card Manifestation— Twelve-Headed Rakshasa of Slaughter]

A blood-red aura erupted outwards from where Oren was standing. Two curving tusks were jutting out of his mouth and a long horn protruded out of his head, formed out of the same blood-red aura that was ensconcing him. A moment later, a row of heads stretched out in his either direction, five on the left and six on the right. Besides his own, every head was enshrouded by a malevolent face mask that depicted an angry snarl that was further accentuated by the curving tusks and a jutting horn.

Five pairs of arms had joined his own, eerily jutting out from his abdomen. In every hand, there was a different semi-translucent blood-red weapon held.

Where his skin had once been, glistening red scales covered a majority of his body, leaving only his visage untouched, letting him see clearly.

As the arrow was about to make contact, the spectral blood-red hand that was holding a semi-translucent kiteshield moved to intercept.

A loud clang rang out as the arrow bounced off the kiteshield, prompting the eleven heads to each pick a different direction to monitor for further threats while leaving the main head to it’s own devices.

Oren now had a three hundred and sixty degree view of his surroundings, a fact that he didn’t hesitate to use to his advantage.

Another hand moved, one that was holding onto a javelin. The hand pulled back before lobbing the javelin forward with a burst of momentum and Oren watched as it arced across the distance.

A few moments later an anguished cry echoed out from the treetops, followed by a soft thump.

“Don’t panic. It's clearly an illusionist!” A command from the enemy’s direction was barked out, prompting three of the remaining four enemies to step out of cover and charge in Oren’s direction.

A spiked block of stone was lobbed in Owen’s direction, which was crushed by a heavy impact one of the hands that wielded a warhammer, while the shield-wielding hand shielded him from the debris.

“Definitely an illusion!” One of his attackers called out, simply refusing to believe that Owen had crushed stone with a spectral hand.

That was when Owen had charged.

Seeing him close the distance in what felt like a moment’s time, the attackers instinctively moved to defend themselves with their weapon artifacts, regardless of whether it was an illusion or not.

Owen’s left hand engaged a scimitar wielding man in a dance of blades with his own rapier, their exchange lasting three parries before his rapier snaked past his guard and penetrated deep into his throat.

His dagger wielding right hand deftly knocked away vicious spear thrusts from impaling him by thin margins twice before Owen flicked the dagger forward, catching him right in the heart.

His kite shield wielding spectral arm defended himself from a greatsword’s onslaught, before a different, axe-wielding spectral arm exploited an over-extension by the wielder to bring his life to a swift end.

All three of the attackers were dead, when the crossbow wielding spectral arm fired into the distance.

A gurgle and a thump followed, as the man who had issued the rash command only to immediately flee for his own life afterwards, crumpled to the ground.

Moments ticked away in silence before Owen spoke again.

“What a pity,” He said, lamenting both the needless loss of lives and his own fall from power.

To think that a legendary weapon was once housed in each of those twelve slots while he now had to rely on empty silhouettes just to survive a fight.

“What a pity, indeed.”