Why Did You Summon Me?

Fort Praxidike was no ordinary fortress. It was built by Haydyn’s sorcerers using advanced earth-styled magic: the blocks were made from mud, after which they were placed on top of each other and reinforced with strengthening magic. Hence, the fort was not as sturdy as other forts built with bricks, and it could easily collapse at any time.

This was the reason why the Church and the sorcerers went to great lengths to erect layers over layers of protective barriers around Fort Praxidike, to protect it from magical bombardments. It had another special layer of fortification spells to address its lack of stability; without this, a single large-scale spell would send the fort tumbling like a set of dominoes.

No physical attacks could topple a magically-built fort. Restoration magic was on hand to repair any damage the building suffered, making it quite different from other forts. Fort Praxidike was impervious to attacks from siege weapons. Even before an enemy battering ram or siege weapon got within firing range, it was only natural that the Church would quickly destroy them.

Set around Fort Praxidike were rings of wide-area detection spells, tuned to pick up even the slightest pulse of energy.

The abundance of protective measures levied on the fort made it seem like an impenetrable fortress, which could withstand even deadly sneak attacks. If the Archmage relied on mana alone to attack this fort, he would have trouble damaging it significantly.

Unfortunately for the Church, the Voidwalkers had more than conventional means. The shells fired off from the howitzers belonging to the nerdy Voidwalkers were physical projectiles, which easily penetrated the layers of barriers set to deflect magical attacks. Thus, the detection spells cast on the fort did not trigger. After battering Fort Praxidike with shells, Tinkerbell’s wings vibrated at a frequency that resonated with the bombs, detonating them.

The fort, whose foundation was shaky, could not withstand the impact and collapsed. This was how well the Voidwalkers combined Earth’s technology and ideas with Isythre’s magic.

The Engineer Walker proudly named the howitzer ‘Magical Blaster of the New Gen”.

The Blacksmith Walker was not too pleased with the outcome, saying, “I really don’t like how our shells turned out. I wish we could fully replicate the ones on Earth, you know, and destroy our enemies with epic explosions; blast them to smithereens — stuff like that. It’s just that no matter how hard I try, I’m unable to replicate Earth’s badass bombs…”

“Dude, I hate to break it to you, but the Laws of our universe are just fundamentally different from Earth’s. Remember the Alchemist Walker tearing his Chemistry textbook in a fit of Hulk rage? He went ballistic after failing way too many times at equating Earth’s chemical properties and behaviors to ours,” the Engineer Walker refuted, amused. “This is why we should wise up and see Earth’s knowledge as it is: inspirations and ideas instead of objects for imitations. Face it, most of our results had to be achieved through magic!”

After a pause, he continued, saying, “Oh! Fun fact — and I bet you won’t believe me — this frequency that we used to resonate with our bombs, is something I got from a rumor originating from the female dorm…”

While the Engineer Walker spoke about something no one cared for, the Archmage returned to Arfin City’s Mayor Residence, which the Voidwalkers used as mission control. He listened in to the geeks’ conversation silently before finally remarking, “Wouldn’t it be nice to throw in more pizzazz to your demonstration, boys? Our soldiers out there couldn’t believe that it was us who demolished the Church’s sandcastle!”

“Please. Weapons are made to be effective first and foremost, man. Besides, who are you to talk when your magic was as modest as a girl next door?” the Blacksmith Walker asked.

“No worries, Your Majesty. We have plenty of tech demos more to show them. Plus, our howitzers don’t just fire one kind of shells, too,” the Engineer Walker said, amused. “I bet the Church wouldn’t dare to build another fort anymore after this, ha! That leaves our future conflicts to clashes on an open field — a new playground for other toys!”

Meanwhile, as the Church recoiled from two debilitating attacks in one single morning, they pinned the blame on VP Haydyn for reasons of subpar management and inferior strategy-planning.

Being accused of inanity had done a number to the aspiring president’s mood — killing the high he got from being widely supported — and he stormed into VP Grant’s quarter in the military camp set in Shamshire.

“What the hell were those?!” He demanded., his voice guttural as though his throat was inflamed by rage. Despite his conversance in magic, Haydyn had no idea what happened. Frustrated, he marched to the one man who openly cozied up to the Voidwalkers for answers.

“How about… Powers that defy known axioms and limitations?” Grant gibed, showing no intention to hide his mirth from the recent news. While it chagrined the Chruch and their allies, it was delightful proof to Grant that everything in the Archmage’s papers, no matter how outlandish they sounded, was actually real.

“Nothing in this goddamned world operates outside the Laws, you gullible schmuck! They must have used some sort of lowbrow, underhanded sleight to f*** with us!” Haydyn snarled. “And you! I bet my a** you know exactly what they are. Here’s an ultimatum, snake: you either open that trap of yours, or that head it’s attached to will be rolling down from the guillotine!”

“‘Nothing operates outside the Laws’? My dearest confrere, haven’t you understood it by now? These stifling limitations apply only to mortals,” Grant drawled, slowly and calmly rising from his seat before patting down the wrinkles on his robe. “When will backwater churls like you finally realize how pathetic it is to be a mortal, to be a human? We are doomed to be slaves to all kinds of limitations!”

“What the hell are you yammering about now?” Haydyn cried as the nagging feeling of unease drove him to notice the battle robe Grant wore, as the man raised his staff high.

There was a crazed look in his eyes, after which Grant shouted, “I renounce my humanity!”

Torrents of mana erupted from every inch of his body, breaking through the limits of Holy level and rushing up the rank of a Demigod, thrashing and roaring around Grant into a storm. Far away from ground zero, the Archmage’s head turned in the direction of Shamshire. He could sense unbridled mana violently bursting out of a single source with a hint of a death wish.

“You’ve gotta be pulling my leg… Are you that serious, Grant?” He murmured.

The VP had once confessed to the Archmage that he was frustrated by the dilemma between becoming politically powerful and possessing elite knowledge that could reshape the world. He admitted to his deep-seated reluctance to abandon the presidency, as it was an ambition he had devoted much of his life to; yet, at the same time, he found himself yearning to carve his name as one of the revolutionaries of Isythre through the knowledge the Voidwalkers had shown him.

In the final letter, which he informed the Archmage of the completion of their secret portal, Grant had kept his choice blank. It was as though he was waiting for one small thing to tip him to one side over the other.

Perhaps this was why he joined the Church’s army with the excuse of supervising them over transporter portal matters, despite it being a counterintuitive, self-dooming decision. If the Church loses a few battles enough during the war, someone who was known to align with the Voidwalkers so much he purposely frustrated many of the Church’s requests would most definitely be used as a scapegoat to be executed publicly. Even if the Church won the war, Grant’s political career would still be over; he would never be seen as more than a snake who had tried to suck up to both sides, and the fate of his future would now be up to the mercy of the Church’s hardliners.

Grant had other concerns that made him arrive at his decision. He was sure that the Voidwalkers would never share all of their world-changing, elite knowledge to an outsider like him. Even if they somehow divulged more out of either generosity or camaraderie, his life as a mortal man with political ambitions would still stop him from a life devoted to grasping their secrets; he would forever lag behind the Voidwalkers.

Hence, the man who was known to be calculating made a decision that appeared to run counter to his reputation, but it was by no means irrational. After hearing about the Voidwalkers’ feat in the war — how they managed to defy common sense and expectations with their Law-breaking knowledge, gravely wounding the Church in the process — his mind was made.

He let out all of the powers he had suppressed for the purpose of thwarting other presidential contenders, and he was determined to take a few ones down, starting from Haydyn himself!

Haydyn, a sorcerer aspiring to be the president of one of the most influential and powerful organizations in the continent, died that day: on the spot, right on his face, at the hands of a pathetic person, who had fallen out of favor and was kicked to the curb.

After leveling Hadyn with one brutal, Demigod-level strike, Grant crashed out of the window and soared into the sky before releasing deluges of his powers without reservation, drowning Shamshire below his feet with infernal flames. Grant continued his mad crusade above the town until he saw the captain of the Templars, Saint Zachary, hurling towards him with the Wings of Light on his back, in which he immediately turned on his heels and charged toward the opposite direction.

Grant would take out the one man whom no sane man in the entire continent would dare to cross blades with. He was going to throw out his most lethal, most destructive attack on that man before damning his soul to the Void!

“You frothing mad hound!” The Chief Judge growled through his teeth at the sight of Grant’s crazed kamikaze charge at him. Quietly, a scroll containing the spell that that made the world cowered slipped into his hand.

“Be judged and die for your sins! May your soul be damned, burnt, skewered and mangled and never find peace!” The Chief Judge bellowed and unleashed Soul Banishment.

Blinding chains of light marred the sky. They bound around Grant in imperceptible speed, forcefully rousing the man from his power-mad trance through excruciating pain flaring up his every vein. His soul was being ripped apart, and all of its gashes heaved out of his lungs into a bloodcurdling scream.

“Howl! Howl like the rabid cur that you really are! Suffer for your sins and despair!” The Chief Judge roared, putting in all of his wraths the sight of Shamshire in flames had incited in him. Even if the Church was wealthy enough to rebound from the Voidwalkers’ two ambushes, Grant’s violent rampage proved to be damaging even to them.

A death-seeking Demigod on a suicidal rampage dealt graver harm to the Church than anyone could have expected; in fact, it was almost as if Fort Praxidike had been destroyed for the second time. The only silver lining was that the Church’s own men were mostly safe. Since Grant knew better than to bombard magical spells on the crusaders’ camp where most of the clergymen and apostles, who could instantly nullify his spells, were. The mercenaries hired by the nobles and the armories had become food for the flames.

If it was not for Saint Zachary’s timely response, Grant would have continued to expand the list of his victims to include several more upper-echelon members of the Church before going for the Chief Judge’s life.

As his soul was being shredded into pieces, Grant’s screams became quieter and quieter until it was inaudible. He could tell that his soul and mind were fading, that they were leaving this mortal world.

Suddenly, a moribund Grant curled his lips into an eerily content — to the point of being sinister — smile. Catching it from his spot below, the Chief Judge felt a shot of chills running through his spine.

‘I’ve proven myself enough… to join your ranks… right?’ He thought for the last time before the ability to think was lost to him.

At that same moment, the warehouse where spatial materials were stored in the Sorcerers’ Association exploded, taking all of the precious materials in it with a bang.

“I can’t believe he actually gave up on his dream to become the president, considering how he spent his life just to get this close. It’s even more unexpected that he would choose to join us this way,” the Archmage said, as Grant’s magical pulse slowly came to a stop.

“Should we accept him?” The Engineer Walker asked quietly.

“He was once a man whose thirst for power, fame, and name knows no bound, but in the end, he finally remembered what it means to be a sorcerer: to chase after knowledge, to understand the unknown,” the Archmage murmured. “He reminded me of a phrase from Earth: ‘Even an untimely death is scarcely a regret if one manages to gain an epiphany before they die’.”

“He’s not really dead though, is he?” The Engineer Walker pointed out.

“Regrettably, whether he could live after death depends on Hope — if he manages to find Grant’s soul in the vast, harsh Void,” the Archmage gave an unsettling answer. “Unfortunately, the Hope of the Void is currently asleep…”