The energy in the obsidian chamber hums. The recruits are still buzzing from the duel, their minds replaying flashes of light and the impossible speed of the fight.
Damien, though, gives them no time to linger in awe.
“That was a demonstration,” he says, his voice cutting through their excited chatter, pulling them back to the cold, hard reality of their situation. “Now, you take the first step toward getting the tools you need to survive that kind of fight.”
“We’re going to the armory.”
He leads them from the training chamber through different corridors. They are plain and stark, made of gray stone.
They go down a long, winding staircase that seems to lead deep into the heart of the floating city. The air gets cooler, and the smell of ozone and hot metal fills their noses.
They reach a massive, round vault door made of a dark but shiny metal. Damien places his hand on the door.
With a low, hydraulic hiss, the huge vault swings open, showing the chamber inside.
The armory isn’t a room with weapons neatly on shelves. It’s a treasure hoard, a dragon’s lair filled with the power gathered over thousands of years.
The round chamber is huge. Its walls are lined with hundreds of glass-fronted cases, each holding a single, special item.
Carter sees magnificent swords covered in jewels, old books bound in leather that seem to hum with held-in energy, and fancy staves made of silver that pulse with a faint, inner light.
It’s a library of power, a museum of magic warfare.
“A grimoire,” Damien begins, his voice echoing in the vast, quiet space, “is the most important tool a mage will ever have. It’s a focus for your will, an extension of your soul.”
“Like I said, there are three main types.”
He points to a case holding a beautifully made katana.
“The first, and most common for agents in the field, is the Weapon Grimoire. It’s an instrument of combat, written with spells that make it more destructive or give the fighter new skills.”
“They are direct, powerful, and in a fight, brutally effective.”
He then points to a case holding a simple book bound in leather.
“The second is the Book Grimoire. Don’t mistake it as just a collection of magic instructions and theory like your Lexanomicon. A true grimoire of this type is a powerful magic item itself, able to channel long intricate complex spells. Magic that a normal weapon is could never hold due to limited space to engrave the spell.”
“Scholars, healers, and strategists like them best.”
Finally, he points to a series of drawings on the wall. They show complex, twisting patterns drawn on human skin.
“The third type is the Tattoo Grimoire. This is the most personal of the three, as the spells are written directly onto the mage’s body.”
“It allows for the fastest spell casting, because the grimoire is part of you. But it also comes at the highest price.”
“Every spell cast puts direct strain on your body, and a strong enough spell can literally tear you apart from the inside.”
He turns to face them, his expression serious. “Making a grimoire is an art. A master craftsman can take years, sometimes decades, to finish one.”
“The materials must be able to handle the constant, damaging flow of magic energy.”
Damien runs his hand over the shiny metal of the vault door. ast
“This is Vastian Steel, a metal made from ore found only in the oldest parts of the world with dense magic. Normal metals would break under the strain of a complex spell.”
“Vastian Steel lasts.” He then points to the handle of a dagger in a nearby case.
It’s made of a dark, almost black wood with faint, silver lines running through it. “That is petrified Star Wood, taken from trees in primordial regions that have soaked up magic.”
“The ink we use for books and tattoo grimoires is made from the charcoal of star wood. These materials, along with parts from powerful magic creatures—unicorn horns for cleaning, dragon scales for protection, griffon claws for sharpness—are the basics of a real grimoire.”
He pauses, looking at the recruits. “It’s thought that the soul, the very will, of the mage who made a grimoire lives inside it.”
“A mage who is truly in tune with their grimoire might even hear its voice in their mind, the whispers of the old craftsman who put their life and magic into making it.”
“But that’s a connection that can take a lifetime to build for some.”
He steps back, gesturing to the hundreds of grimoires on the walls.
“Unfortunately a grimoire isn’t chosen by the mage. The grimoire chooses its fighter.”
“How?” Nico asks, his voice a quiet whisper of awe.
“You stand in the middle of the room,” Damien explains. “You focus your intent.”
“You reach out with your will, and you say one word.”
“SUMMON.”
“If there is a grimoire in this room that matches the frequency of your soul, it will answer your call.”
He looks at them, a final, serious warning in his eyes. “You only get one. A grimoire bonds with its first wielder for life.”
“Choose carefully. Or rather… hope it chooses wisely for you.”
The recruits stand in the middle of the armory, a small, nervous group in the huge, quiet room.
The importance of the moment is clear, a mix of awe, excitement, and a deep, bone-chilling terror.
This is the moment they truly become mages, the moment they are forever tied to the war they chose to join.
“Paige, you go first,” Damien commands.
Paige steps forward. Her small body looks almost lost in the immense, round room.
She takes a deep breath, her eyes closing behind her red glasses. She holds out her hands, her fingers shaking slightly.
“SUMMON!”
Her voice a soft, unsure whisper.
For a long moment, nothing happens. Then, from a high shelf on the far side of the room, a single case begins to glow.
A soft, gentle, blue light comes from inside, pulsing like a slow, steady heartbeat. The glass front of the case disappears into a shower of harmless, sparkling dust.
A simple book bound in leather, its cover the color of the sky at twilight, floats out of the case. It drifts slowly, gracefully, across the huge room and settles gently into Paige’s outstretched hands.
“Lellibel,” Damien says, writing on his datapad. “An old scholar’s book. It’s said to whisper forgotten knowledge to those patient enough to listen.”
Paige opens the cover. A look of pure, true wonder spreads across her face as the pages glow with a soft, welcoming light.
One by one, the others take their turn. Yulian steps forward, his massive frame showing nervous energy.
“SUMMON!”
He bellows, his voice a booming echo in the quiet room.
A heavy, iron-wrought case on the far wall bursts open. A brutal, one-handed medieval mace, its head a ball of wicked-looking flanges, flies through the air and slams into his waiting hand with a solid, satisfying thud.
“Tiberius,” Damien notes. Made for a Roman soldier. A weapon of pure, uncompromising force.”
A wide, almost wild grin splits Yulian’s face.
“SUMMON!”
Nico says like a quiet, hopeful prayer
A long, thin weapon with a shiny, leaf-shaped blade and a dark, polished wood shaft. A Chinese glaive floats gently toward him. Its red tassel sways in the still air.
“Lianghai. A guardian’s weapon, made to protect the gates of a hidden monastery.”
“SUMMON!
Keyona’s call is answered by a massive, wickedly curved scythe. Its blade is the color of midnight, its handle wrapped in worn, black leather.
It’s a weapon that is both beautiful and scary. “Akan. A ceremonial weapon from an old West African tribe.”
“They believed it could cut the soul from the body.”
“SUMMON!”
Amy, with a quiet, almost bored-sounding “Summon,” is chosen by a delicate, silver-bound book that seems to shimmer with a faint, cold light.
“Lucy. A grimoire from Korea, known for its powerful and precise gravity spells.”
Damien turns his gaze to Akira, who still leans against the wall, looking bored.
“Mr. Kendo. You already have a grimoire.”
Carter looks at the katana on Akira’s hip. He realizes now that the talented student is never without it.
It’s not just a weapon he carries; it’s part of him.
“A gift from your father, I guess?” Damien asks. “Akio Kendo is famous himself.”
“It was my sixteenth birthday gift,” Akira replies, his tone short.
“And its name?”
Akira places a hand on the hilt, a quick flash of something almost like pride in his red eyes.
“Akimaru.”
Damien nods, respect on his face. “A fine weapon. Now…”
He turns his attention to the last recruit. “Carter. It’s your turn.”
He steps into the middle of the room, the eyes of the others on him.
He takes a deep breath, trying to quiet the frantic, hammering beat of his own heart.
He closes his eyes and focuses his will, reaching out into the quiet, waiting room.
“SUMMON!”
The silence that follows is different. It’s charged, electric, as if the entire room is holding its breath.
Then, it happens.
Not one, but two cases on opposite sides of the armory begin to glow.
One is a low, plain case near the floor. It glows with a heavy, brutal, bronze light.
The other is a high, fancy case near the ceiling. It glows with a sharp, piercing, silver light.
The recruits gasp. Even Damien’s calm, emotionless face cracks for a second.
His eyes widen in pure, total shock.
From the lower case, a heavy, wicked looking knuckle duster, made from what looks like solid Vastian Steel, shoots through the air like a cannonball.
It slams onto Carter’s left hand, locking around his knuckles with a solid, clear CLANG.
It’s a weapon of pure, unadulterated brute force.
From the upper case, a sleek, leather hand gauntlet, with a thin deadly looking chain dagger attached to it, flies down.
It wraps around his right hand and forearm, its parts clicking into place with a sound like a well-oiled machine.
It’s a weapon of speed, precision, and deadly grace.
Carter stands there, his arms heavy with the two different, powerful grimoires. His mind is spinning.
“Atlas and Archer,” Ruby whispers, her voice a mix of awe and deep pity.
“The Mage Killers.”
The other recruits are quiet. Their earlier excitement is gone, replaced by a new, more serious feeling.
They look at him not with jealousy, but with a kind of fearful respect.
Damien is the first to speak, his voice a low, serious murmur.
“I was afraid this would happen.” He walks toward Carter, his eyes fixed on the two grimoires.
“We don’t have much information on them, Carter. Archer was made during the time of the Mongol Empire, around the year 1200.”
“When Atlas was made is unknown, but it comes from England. The mages who made them were said to be brilliant, but… insane.”
“They put all their rage, their grief, and their power into making them.”
He looks up, meeting Carter’s eyes. “That grimoire is one of the most powerful in this whole armory.”
“But it’s known to be very hard to master. The spells written on it are almost all level five or six on the Dissonance scale.”
“Many mages, good mages, have died trying to use it in battle.”
“Tough luck, man,” Akira says from the side, a mean, mocking smile on his face.
“Luckily,” Damien continues, ignoring Akira, “you’re a Resonant. That will help you handle the power.”
“But it won’t make you safe from its dangers. You must be careful, Carter. That grimoire… has been said to have a mind of its own.”
“And it’s not a kind one.”
Carter looks down at the two weapons tied to his hands. He can feel their power, a low, humming vibration that seems to connect with the very center of his bones.
He hears a faint, almost silent whisper in the back of his mind, a group of old, angry voices.
It’s not a gift. It’s a burden. And it’s his.
“That’s enough for today,” Damien says, his voice pulling Carter from his thoughts. “You have been chosen.”
“Your path is now set. Keep your grimoires with you. Get used to their weight, how they feel.”
“They are part of you now.”
The recruits look down at their new weapons and books. A new seriousness settles over them.
Yulian lifts his mace, a look of grim satisfaction on his face. Paige holds her book to her chest like a sacred text.
Carter flexes his hands, the cold, hard weight of Atlas and Archer a constant, threatening presence.
“Follow me,” Damien commands. “Your class lessons are over for the day. It’s time for you to meet your combat teacher.”
He leads them out of the armory and up a long, winding staircase. As they go up, the quiet, clean air is replaced by distant sounds of shouting, metal clashing, and the loud crackle of magic.
The sounds get louder, more intense, until they come out onto a huge, outdoor training area.
The space is a massive, rectangular field paved with smooth, gray stones, surrounded by high stone walls.
The endless, impossible blue of the Sky Dimension is the ceiling. The area is busy with controlled, violent action.
In one part, a team of mages in black combat clothes moves through a complex obstacle course. Their movements are a blur of speed and quickness.
In another, two warriors are in a fierce fight, their swords clashing in a shower of sparks.
And in the center, a group of recruits is being drilled hard by a single, huge figure.
“AGAIN!” the figure bellows, his voice like thunder that echoes across the whole training ground. “Your shield was a tiny bit too slow!”
“In a real fight, you’d be a pile of ash! Do it again!”
Standing in the center of the courtyard, his arms crossed over his massive chest, is Gendric Valhallor.
In the open air, under the bright, clear light of the sky, he looks even bigger, more imposing than he did on the terrace.
His long white hair whips around his scarred face in the gentle breeze. His bright blue eyes, now without their earlier warmth, are filled with a fierce, strong fire.
He’s like an old relic, a warrior from an old time of iron and blood.
“Recruits,” Damien announces, his voice formal. “This is Gendric Valhallor, Branch Assistant to General Wulan Yi.”
“He is, probably, the strongest human mage at the Library.” He pauses, a hint of something almost like humility in his eyes.
“He is usually on long missions, but he’s come back to headquarters just to watch over your training. For the next few months, your days will be split.”
“Your mornings will be with me, studying magic theory. Your afternoons,” he says with a nod toward the old warrior, “will be with him, studying its practical, and often harsh, use.”
With that, Damien gives a short nod and turns to leave. His job as their guide is done for the day.
He leaves them standing in front of the famous Berserker.
“FINALLY!” Akira says, his voice a sharp, eager bark of pure excitement. His hand is already on the hilt of his katana.
“This is what I’ve been waiting for.”
Gendric throws his head back and lets out a booming laugh.
“AH, HA, HA, HAAA!!”
It sounds like it shakes the very stones beneath their feet.
“I like this one’s spirit!” he says, his grin wide and fierce. He walks toward them, his heavy footsteps thudding on the stone.
“Welcome, pups! Damien has filled your heads with all that boring theory. Now, I’ll teach you how to use it to survive.”
He stops in front of them, his eyes looking over each of them. His eyes pause for a moment on the new grimoires they hold.
He nods with approval at Yulian’s mace and Keyona’s scythe. He gives Paige’s and Amy’s books a thoughtful, curious look.
Then, his eyes land on Carter, and the two weapons on his hands.
Gendric’s booming laugh echoes across the courtyard again.
“Well, well! This kid is full of surprises!” he says, his eyes sparkling with a mix of amusement and real respect.
He walks over to Carter and claps him on the shoulder. The force of it almost makes him stumble.
“The Mage Killers! It’s been a long time since I’ve seen those nasty little things.”
“They only choose wielders they think are strong enough to handle them. Or crazy enough to try.”
He grins, a fierce, almost dangerous look in his bright blue eyes.
“This is going to be fun.”