The Ultimate Reward

“KIZZIR! I SUMMON YOU! DUEL ME YOU COWARD!”

It was the third day Balan stood in the cold mountain top outside the mage’s tower and shouted his challenge. He knew he was heard, as his voice boomed over the surrounding mountain tops and valleys. 

“YOU SHALL TERRORIZE THE VALLEYS NO LONGER! FIGHT ME!” 

Nothing. 

For the third day, and third night, in a row his words were met with nothing but silence and a closed gate. He had tried a formal duel request. He had tried threats. Insults. Yet the tower remained silent and closed.

Could the people of An-Ehke be wrong? Was this architecture truly empty? 

They had hired him, Balan Crespin, winner of no less than four mage tournaments all over the three northern kingdoms, renown duelist, and honorary king’s guard, to come save them from an evil mage that lived in this tower. Apparently the tower, and presumably the mage, had been here since as far back as anyone knew, and, despite rarely being seen outside of his tower, generally co-existed with the surrounding towns well enough. Not much of a conversationalist, but the old mage would generally go his own way, only very rarely interacting with the town’s people at all, mostly to peruse stores or marketplaces.

And then a month ago, without any provocation, he had cursed them and the surrounding towns. Their crops weakened or destroyed. People falling sick. No one even thought to blame the old mage at first, but An-Ehke’s mayor had sent for people to come investigate their ailment, and the specialists had confirmed their problems were magical in nature, and tracked it back to the mage’s tower. But why? Not one person Ballan talked to could think of a reason. The very few that had interacted with old Kizzir at all thought of him as nothing but pleasant, if slightly quirky and eccentric.

People were sent as envoys to parley with the mage, and were met with this same cold reception. With equal amounts of desperation for their situation and concern that the elderly mage had passed away in his tower the envoys tried to break in the gate, only to be met with retaliatory spells that instantly maimed or killed most of them.

Desperate, and lacking anyone of sufficient strength to fight the mage, the surrounding towns had pooled their resources to pay Balan’s enormous fees and brought him here.

“VERY WELL THEN! YOU LEAVE ME NO CHOICE!”

He shouted mostly to himself, knowing no answer would come. He was hoping to do this with some civility, but… Alas, some people are savages.

He packed up for the night and prepared to assault the fortification the next day: he doubted the mage would be caught sleeping and unaware, and if they were as strong as people said, he could use the rest. 

The next morning Balan, after his morning routine, which included a light but nourishing breakfast and a quick meditation and warm up, headed to the tower gates to find them still sealed by a powerful spell. 

He poked at the barrier with a simple bolt of lightning, and barely had time to put up a defensive shield as the gates lit up with a magical glyph that seared and scorched the area with its own electric strikes.

Hm… Well, someone was definitely using the castle recently at least… A spell like this is hard to maintain autonomously for long. 

Balan took cover behind a large rock and shot an ice spike at the gate… which immediately responded by turning a large area around itself into a glacial phalanx, with inordinately long stalagmites like frozen spears jutting out of the ground at angles ready to skewer any bystanders. 

He peaked out from behind his cover and shot a small ball of fire at the gate, which responded back with a sea of flames, instantly melting all the ice, and leaving Balan sweating from the heat.

An important reminder, I suppose. One must always be careful when fighting a skilled mage, as your most powerful weapon can swiftly be turned against you. This was probably what got the envoys. 

Balan grabbed some small rocks for one last test. 

He threw the first rock gently at the gate, barely enough to hit the door.

Nothing.

He threw another. Hard enough to make a noise, but barely harder than a normal knock.

Nothing. 

Finally he threw a rock with a strong overhead toss, with enough force to seriously injure a grown man. 

The moment the rock connected with the gate it was met with an enormous shockwave that turned it into a terrifying projectile, too fast for Balan himself to see as it flew off into the distance with concussive strength.

Right… Those poor people probably tried to smash the gate down when they were ignored… 

Balan approached the gate carefully and gently prodded into the aether, reaching into the flow of mana to attempt analyzing the spell. 

Hm… Interesting. The whole thing is basically automated. Complex, and extraordinarily powerful, but… Surprisingly sloppy? As if hastily put together. How curious. What kind of mage creates something this difficult and complex but also this shoddy? 

Balan carefully unraveled the spell, ready to resummon his shield should it trigger any unforeseen traps, but nothing happened. 

With the spell undone, the mage walked into the small courtyard with his senses on high alert, fully expecting a trap or ambush.

Nothing.

Balan walked through the grounds noting the large amounts of shining blue flowers.

Mana Eaters. A lot of them. Large amounts of mana get thrown around here often. I should be careful. This Kizzir person is no joke.

The mage was surprised to find the tower door’s simply unlocked as he made his way into the tower. Slowly and carefully he climbed, room after empty room, prodding for traps with every step, certain that the mage would have heard the commotion outside, perhaps even felt his spell be undone. 

I hate to skulk around like a thief, but if he’s refusing to fight me openly… well, I’d hate to walk into a trap. Besides, I’m walking into their turf, their advantage, and I did give them fair warning…

Still, he hated sneaking around like an assassin. He was a mage! A skilled duelist, not a cowardly backstabber! 

Well… necessary, I suppose.

“AH-HA! KIZZIR YOU FIEND PRepaaah-....uuh…” he trailed off as he blew open the door to the top observatory, only to find it as empty as every room before it. 

“...But…? Wouldn’t you want to…? Uhm… well then…” Balan’s confusion had him talking to the empty room, as if trying to organize his thoughts out loud.

“You would think that being under attack you’d go to the top of the tower? Or set up an ambush along the way? Get a good look at whatever is attacking you, plus the advantage of the high ground?” He looked around confused, as if the room itself was likely to provide some kind of explanation. 

“Yes. Well… Basement then? A risky tactic to hole yourself up underground when you don’t know what’s coming at you, but it does have some advantages in fortification? Yes. Yes, that’s probably… That’s probably it.” 

Still befuddled and confused, Balan gave the room one last confused glance over before starting his deflated descent into the underground levels. 

As he headed back to the basement he found himself noticing some details in the tower that he had previously ignored in lieu of focusing on the more practical aspects of his journey, such as detecting potential traps. Every room he passed was heavily focused on the mostly utilitarian and functional, with very little in the way of ornaments or embellishment. It was also a mess. Books and notes were strewn around everywhere, with very little apparent logic to their placement, expensive and complicated-looking instruments, some of which with functions Balan couldn’t even begin to guess, lay half-buried under notes and open books. Even clothes, which thankfully looked mostly clean save for some dust, seemed to reside wherever their owner had found an available spot. Any available spot. 

Balan found himself having another wave of second thoughts as he spotted a tome that based on its gold leaf trimmings and elaborate cover he could guess was worth a small fortune, laying abandoned in a corner with a sock and a knife for bookmarks. 

By the Immortal Seven… Who lives like this!? The man may be completely mad… 

As he reached the basement, Balan refocused. 

This mage is powerful… But also probably unstable and unpredictable. As much as I hate it, for the good of the surrounding valleys and my own health, I may have to resort to… Less honorable tactics.

After slowly descending a few more levels he suddenly found him. Peeking through a lock he could see the (clearly evil and potentially deranged!) mage Kizzir standing in front of some concoction taking notes, his back towards the door, mumbling something to himself. And it was him, precisely as described by the town’s people: An unimpressive stature and erratic energy. Long, ashen white, hair and beard that looked clean, but clearly hadn’t seen a scissor, let alone a comb, for a child’s lifetime at least. And grey robes… Wait, how did they guess the color he would be wearing? Does he only have grey clothes? Or the one? Oh dark and empty… 

Balan found himself unexpectedly nervous. He had been born and bred as a mage. He had been dueling grown men since he was little more than a youth. Even as an adult, dueling with his life on the line, against all manner of unfavourable odds, he did not get nervous. He’d been fighting for too long. His opponents, no matter how big or strong, weren’t scary or frightening as much as puzzles to be figured out. A fight was, in his eyes, among the closest forms of intimacy two people could share, and how he got to truly know people. It was the moment two people bet their lives, everything else aside, and dedicated their every breath to truly understanding the other person. Who are you? Are you naturally aggressive? Or defensive? Do you feint and  hope to provoke a reaction, or commit wholeheartedly to every move? Are you studying me too? How do you react if I seem threatening? Or weak? Are you afraid? Or willing to push your own life to its very edge?

No, for Balan dueling was not scary. Often tragic, perhaps, but beautiful, and exciting. Definitely not scary. 

And yet, for the first time in his life, Balan felt like a fish staring at a shark. Kizzir’s immense power was obvious. He could feel the prodigious amount of mana the other mage was casually using even through the walls and door. It was as if he was carrying a torch and walking straight into the sun.

He seems unaware of my presence, and I don’t see a focus anywhere… Shameful as it may be, it may be wisest to just end this with a swift strike before he gets his chance to fight. Pride be damned. There’s too much on the line.

The champion duelist shamefully turned assassin reached into his pocket for his focus: a medallion that had been given to him by his greatest teacher: his own mother. He held it tight in his hands and gathered as much mana as he could - he doubted the other mage could have sensed it, he seemed distracted and as much as Balan hated to admit it, his own flow of mana was barely more than a cup of water next to Kizzir’s own immense flood.

Well then… Goodbye Kizzir. And I’m sorry. In different circumstances you might have been a great duel. Maybe a teacher, even, as much as I hate to admit it. But I have to protect the people of the valleys.

He steeled himself for a moment before bursting through the door and, within a single breath, throw all of his mana into summoning an immense pillar of fire to incinerate his opponent where they were standing.

And nothing happened. 

Uh…?

Kizzir himself hadn’t moved, still sitting hunched over whatever he was doing, back towards Balan, but his arm was now stretched out behind himself, palm facing the interloper. 

…When did he move?

Something is wrong.

Did he counter my spell that quickly? Without even facing me? 

Why is he moving so slowly all of a sudden?

Why is… everything… so slow all of a sudden?

And is he… Is he further away than before?

Something is wrong.

I should attack again.

I… Why can’t I move?

Something is wrong.

Is… Is that my arm?

That…? Oh… 

I’m not touching the floor am I?

That is… a lot of… blood. 

His vision started to fade.

Dark… Ahah… Wasn’t… Even close… 

He felt himself slide to the floor, blood dripping from a mouth he could barely feel, let alone control.

Is he…? 

“...Crud… gain?...ey?...ng on…”

Uh? 

…

…

Balan woke up on the floor, coughing chunks of blood and pieces violently.

“Hang on, hang on! I’m trying to fix you! Hold still!” 

Uh? What?

He was being healed. He could feel the awkward, uncomfortable and slightly gross feeling of his insides rearranging and reconnecting themselves. Bits and pieces being regrown. Meat and organs re-knitting themselves together.

“Frankly that’s a little bit on you at least! What kind of blasted fool goes around scaring people like that!”

Kizzir was… healing him? 

What in the world is happening?

“Alright… I think that’s ok? Try saying something.”

The old mage looked at him expectantly.

“Wh-arhg” was all Balan could manage before dry hurling.

“Oh, wait, right!” Kizzir touched him gently around his neck and Balan immediately felt a surge of mana rearrange the insides of his throat. “Forgot that bit there! Apologies I haven’t done that in a while! Now? Sorry about that, you startled me.”

“Ahhh. Uh. Aahhh! Th-...Thank you? But… Why?” more than anything Balan was confused. It’s not that he wanted to die, but… Death was the natural conclusion of such a duel. Especially one he started with such a shameful ambush. And he was pretty sure he was as good as dead there.

Kizzir seemed confused, and looked around as if looking for lost clues.

“Uhm… Did… Did you want to stay dead? I mean you didn’t really die. Almost, but I got you right before. Anyways… That seemed uncomfortable.”

“What? No no! Just… I attacked you like that…”

“Oh that! Well, I try not to take such things personally. Besides, no harm done right?”

Balan looked behind himself at the solid rock wall, freshly caved in with his previously broken body and painted in an alarming amount of his own blood by a single hand wave from Kizzir. Then back at the old man himself who, after essentially ignoring the full brunt of Balan’s own power, effortlessly reconstructed his insides from what had to have been ground up bones and liquified meat, and now simply stood there smiling completely unphased as if he had done nothing more taxing than read a book.

I don’t think I could hurt you if I dropped the tower on you… Balan thought.

“Yes… Yes, well… All’s well that ends well I suppose…” Baland said.

“Good. Great. I think?” the old mage seemed to lose himself in thought for a moment. “Yes. Yes certainly. Anyways, what can I do for you?”

Balan was certainly not old by mage standards, having experienced a little over 30 winters in his life, but he had started his prestigious career as a mage early on, having spent almost 10 years traveling the world to learn and build both his skills and fame as one of the greatest duelists in recent history. He had seen a lot. Met a lot of people. Part of being a great duelist involved understanding people of all kinds. They rarely surprised him much.

Yet Kizzir was utterly baffling.

Sometimes, in life, people find themselves swept away in overwhelmingly confusing events. Periods of time where everything you know seems to be wrong, and reality seems to work under alternate rules. Balan was having a whole lifetime of such events squeezed into a single day. 

Feeling himself swept away by a veritable tidal wave of bewilderment Balan Crispin decided to just ride it out and see where it went.

“Uh… Well, I was here because you seem to have cursed the nearby villages…?” 

“What? ME? Cursing the-...Wait… ” Kizzir stopped suddenly. “...Curse… how, exactly?”

Balan decided to just keep taking it all in stride.

“Dying crops, sick people, especially children. Started roughly a month ago?”

The old man raised a hand halting Balan and suddenly seemed lost in thought, his lips working wordlessly and his eyes working their way through the unseen.

“OH BLASTED FOOL!”

Kizzir’s sudden angry shout would have discombobulated Balan on any other day. Today, it was almost quaint, barely startling. 

“Oh my apologies to the towns! It seems I have turned into a cursed fool!” The old man ran off across the room, digging in a variety of drawers before returning with a few vials. He handed them off to Balan and then stared apologetically as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. 

Balan stared back and shrugged his shoulders while smiling hoping to convey his utter lack of understanding correctly.

“Oh. Oh right.” Kizzir’s train of thought appeared erratic at best. “The mountain we’re sitting on. The water that supplies the surrounding valleys runs through this mountain. I was doing some magi-alchemical experiments not too long ago. You see, I was attempting to disassemble and recombine different molecular infrastructures through what I’ve dubbed the Eclisyum inter…act…ion.” he blinked and stared at Balan who was trying to understand whether Kizzir had switched to a different language mid-speech, and the younger mage had the feeling of being perceived as an infant. 

“Right. I was doing experiments. Was afraid I might have tainted the water, but needed to wait a couple of days to check. I then seem to have forgotten it entirely.” Kizzir said with exaggerated gestures and very clear enunciation, scanning Balan’s face to make sure he was understood, as one might when explaining something complex to a small child.

Balan would have been insulted if it wasn’t so demoralizingly obvious that, to Kizzir, most normal men were little more than children.

“Yes. Understood. An accident, I will let them know. And these?” he raised the vials he had just been given.

“Yes, those! Empty the contents of those, into the well outside, on your way out. That well feeds into the underground river. It’s a solution of m-... Actually don’t worry about it! It’ll fix it! Tell the town to use minimal water for the next day or two, don’t water the crops either, and then get their fill of drink on the third day. They’ll be fine.” 

“Well, that’s great. Great. But… I’m sorry, but… If you didn’t mean to curse the village, why did you ignore their envoys?”

“Someone came here? Besides you?” 

“Yes. Not too long ago. They nearly died to your spell at the gate.”

“To THAT patch job?” Kizzir seemed utterly perplexed. “I just put that there to discourage wild animals!”

“Right…”

“Wait, is that what all the noise was earlier?”

“...Sorry? I… couldn’t really… Get around it…” Balan mumbled apologetically. Suddenly he felt like a child who had broken a window.

“Oh. One moment.” 

Kizzir closed his eyes and reached out a hand in the gate’s direction. After a few moments Kizzir dropped his hand and opened his eyes.

“There. Fixed. It should recognize you now. You seem fine, so you can come and go as you please.”

Suddenly Kizzir made perfect sense to Balan. 

The gate spell was sloppy because… It was just a minor thing for Kizzir. As complex and powerful as it was, that spell had just been something he threw together in a spare moment with barely an afterthought. 

The old man had nearly killed him when startled because that absurd level of power was essentially the absolute floor of his strength. And he just put him back together again like nothing because it was nothing to him.

He was so powerful that he just functioned on a completely different scale than even the most powerful mages Balan knew. Any sense of normality just evaporated in his presence. 

“I’m… I’m sorry, but… Who… Who, exactly, are you… sir?” Balan couldn’t help it, the question slipped out before he could stop himself.

Surprisingly, Kizzir seemed to solemnly ponder this for a moment.

“Who am I? WHO, am, I? Can I answer the WHO without a WHAT? And if not, then WHAT am I? I… I am a manifestation of the universe attempting to understand itself. I am a piece of space time continuum that, given boundaries, now insists upon itself. I am a man, and a mage. I am a lover of cheese. I am the bath I took yesterday. I am the man that once courted a beautiful Aurian lady, with a bosom you wouldn’t believe, until our paths, once entwined, were now separated and what was two, and had become one, became two again. I am an indentation on the fabric of our world’s history. I am threads and strands of actions and reactions weaving endlessly across time. I am an almost infinite amount of things and yet so much less than I am not. And yet, I am what I am, because I cannot be that which I am not, but in my being what I am I find also definition, even delineation, from what I am not. So, in a way, you could argue that I am also what I ain’t. I…” Kizzir suddenly realized Balan was once again completely lost. 

“Right. You’re going to have to narrow your question I think. Also that’s rude!” Kizzir continued, suddenly indignant. “You came into my house! Startled me, bled all over my perfectly nice wall, and now are making me lose myself in philosophical quandaries! Who am I? Who are you!? I don’t know anything about you!”

In that moment Balan realized that, absurdity of the situation aside, Kizzir was, in a way, right: he hadn’t even introduced himself.

Well, just because his world had been turned upside down and everything he seemed to know about the boundaries of human power, not to mention magic theory, was apparently entirely wrong, that was no reason to be rude. 

“My apologies! I shame myself! I am Balan Crispin. Mage. Adventurer. Duelist extraordinaire. Kjal Erkan’s honorary personal guard. And, until today, undefeated duelist for the last 10 years. At your service!” he bowed low.

“Ah, lost a duel today have you? That’s rough. I think. Explains the bad mood! Don’t worry, you’ll get them next time! And pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

…The worst part is, I’m sure he’s not trying to be funny. He’s being earnest. He didn’t even recognize that as a duel. The tri-kingdom champion glanced back at the effortlessly smashed wall. …And why would he, I suppose…

“Yes. And well met… Er… Mage Kizzir? Do you have any titles or honorifics of some kind?” Balan felt wrong calling someone that incredibly powerful a common mage. Like referring to a king as a common man - technically correct, but wildly incomplete.

Kizzir considered this for a surprisingly long time before answering tentatively. 

“I… Don’t remember…? You can just use my name. That’s what it’s for. I don’t tend to deal with normal society much anymore, you see. It’s been… It’s been a really long time since I last did anything that might involve a title. Not since The Tournaments.” 

“Tournaments?” this sparked Balan’s curiosity. He knew tournaments! At least a chance of some common ground. “What kind of tournaments? I have entered quite a few tournaments myself, and have never heard of you! Where? Was it south of Enuma? I’ve never been that far south myself.”

Kizzir seemed slightly overwhelmed and a little confused by the younger man’s sudden excitement.

“What? No. The Tournaments. The Tournament of Mages!”

“Yes, but, which? Was it The Royal Series down in Enuma? Or perhaps the-... What was it called? It was to celebrate some anniversary or whatnot… Oh yes, the The Great Ghalil Mage Series? I couldn’t make it to that one. Bit of a pompous name, more so than usual for these things, but heard it was impressive!”

Balan looked at Kizzir expectantly. Kizzir stared back perplexed.

“I have never heard of those. But there’s only one Tournament of Mages.”

“Oh. Where is it?” 

Kizzir laughed and spread his arms. 

“Everywhere.”

The old man suddenly started walking out of the room and back up the tower, waving at Balan to follow. They spoke as they went.

“Uh. Then who hosts them?” 

“No one knows.”

“And who can enter?”

“Anyone who can carry the mark.”

As they arrived at the tower’s library Kizzir waved at Balan to find a seat. Balan did so, after carefully moving a pair of pants, a plate, and 2 manuscripts onto the nearby floor. The old man looked around for a moment before finding a small notebook and handing it open to Balan, who immediately started reading the passage.

Balan read silently for a while, as Kizzir distracted himself by writing in a nearby open book until he was done.

“This is incredible!” shouted Balan, trying to process the enormity of what he had read.

“What??” Kizzir shouted back surprised, apparently having utterly forgotten the younger man, fully absorbed in his writing, before looking around and finding Balan again. “Oh right. You! Yes, The Tournaments! Incredible stuff!”

“And you’ve entered this tournament?” 

“Entered? Most certainly. I’ve won. The notes you’re reading are mine after all!”

Balan had been so absorbed in the journal he’d almost forgotten the day so far. He stared back at the book and took a second to prepare himself for another dive into the surreal attempt to interact with what closely approximated a living god.

“Of course you did. I’m just confused by some of these places and events… I don’t remember hearing about any of them.”

Kizzir let out a small and innocent laugh, as if Balan had just told a particularly funny joke. 

“Oh, that’s probably because it’s been a while. A lot of those places changed names you see.”

Balan’s eyes widened at the realization. He thought nothing could surprise him anymore after today, but this theory was quickly falling to pieces under the constant assault of the incredible. He quickly browsed through the notebook again, searching for names and historical points of reference.

Think bigger Balan. Not years, but decades… Or centuries… 

“Kizzir, my friend…” his mouth was suddenly dry. He was sweating. This couldn’t possibly be true. “...When-… When you talk about your duel in ‘the massive southern city of gold’, and how that tore through the city, do you-…” Deep breaths Balan. Calm down. “... Are you, perhaps, talking about what… we, today, often refer to as The Fall of Uktukan…?” 

“Uktukan? Mhhh, I think that’s what they called it, yes. Terrible ordeal. I told the other mage, I forgot his name, an unreasonable fellow to be fair, that we should move the fight out of the city. They just said something about ‘being god king of all they surveil’ or whatnot and insisted we fight in the arena.” Kizzir shrugged. 

Balan’s head was spinning. This was too much to take in all in the same day. 

“That-… That was Ghirudashi, The Shaman King of Uktukan… Your duel is what caused The Fall of Uktukan… One of the biggest empires in the history of the southern continent. Nobody knew why it suddenly collapsed… Well, I guess I do now!”

“Ghiruu… Yes, something like that I think? Terrible tyrant. I tried to limit the damage at first, but they were quite strong. In the end I had to settle with buying the townsfolk some time to escape.”

“... Kizzir… How-… How old are you…?”

Kizzir seemed startled.

“Well! I don’t actually remember! Funny that. How long ago was that whole thing with Ghiru-whatever, then?”

“... M-... More than 900 years ago.”

“Mhhh… That means…” the old man mumbled something as he seemed to do some calculations in his head. “...Nope. Still don’t know. More than that I suppose.”

Balan felt light headed, noticed that at some point he had stood up from his chair, and slowly sat down again. Mages could heal superficial damage to themselves somewhat easily. Good mages could do more. The best of the best could extend their human lives by a few decades.

Sila the Eternal was in history books for having managed to extend her life to nearly 200 years, and by the end was spending most of her mana in a constant state of self-healing just to survive.

Kizzir had been alive for more than nine centuries, and if any of it slowed him down at all Balan could not tell.

Balan decided to take a step back again.

“So… these tournaments… All you do is give yourself the mark, and then duel people until you win, die, or surrender?” 

“Well yes, that’s the gist of it. It’s not complicated, just difficult. You’ll have to wait until enough people join. Could be days, could be years… And then you’ll be fighting some of the greatest mages alive - and let me warn you, not all of those are famous. Some of the strongest people I faced were people I’d never heard of in my day. Some rumours suggest that some even come from other worlds, although I could never confirm it. Even just acquiring the mark isn’t easy.” Kizzir stared down at the young mage for a moment while considering. “You might be able to do it though.”

Might…? I “MIGHT” be able to give myself the ENTRY seal…?

Balan knew he could be a little conceited when it came to his skill, but he liked to believe he had earned at least most of that. Until today he was, by all accounts, the greatest living duelist, and his name was already written in many newer history books for his prowess in magical arts. 

Today he felt like a complete rookie, trying out for his first tournament. And if he tried hard enough he MIGHT even be able to join!  

“Yes, well, perhaps I’ll try and enter it…” remarked the increasingly humbled younger man.

Kizzir stood still. His face quickly running through a mix of emotions, ranging from pure joy to fear and regret, before settling on dark and severe. 

“If you wish to enter: Beware! The prize may be more dangerous than your foes!”

“And what exactly is the prize for winning…?” inquired an abruptly concerned Balan. Kizzir’s sudden fierceness throwing him off balance.

The old man turned solemn as he grabbed himself a seat and stared straight into Balan’s eyes.

“Everything. The best and worst thing you could ever give a mage. An endless source of knowledge and power. A drug like no other for people like us: Upon winning you are granted passage to The Infinite Library.

No, it’s not actually infinite, mind you… I think… We, those of us that spoke that is, just called it that, because it might as well be. Endless rows upon rows of books, treatises, tutorials, periodicals… 

And not just physical items either: Magical repositories of all kinds too. Some that will immediately load small but hard to convey concepts straight into your mind! Others that will allow you to transport your consciousness into specific scenarios you can see and interact with. Practice endlessly. And many more… 

And the subjects? Equally endless. Medicine, offensive and defensive magic, alchemy, advanced magic theory, history, nature… hundreds, that I have confirmed personally, of volumes on the make and manipulation of mana alone!”

He paused, his eyes fiercely locked with the younger mage, his jovial and carefree expression all but gone. For the first time since they had met, Kizzir looked worn out.

“That… Doesn’t seem that awful?” speculated Balan perplexed. “I mean isn’t learning, figuring out how things work and how to bend them to our will, what we live for?”

Kizzir leaned forward, elbows resting on his legs, fingers entwined, his eyes never once looking away. Sitting like that he looked majestic. Dark, dignified and imposing, like an old king.

“Do you understand what I’ve told you? You have a one time ticket into this immense vault of knowledge. So much of it that a lifetime wouldn’t even begin to scratch the surface! So much information that even just finding what you want without getting lost is a task! And you tell a mage, one good enough to win this kind of tournament… to just… Walk away? Whenever they want! Just walk away from all of it!”

“Couldn’t you just… enter again?”  asked Balan. “Surely all that you can learn from such an embarrassment of riches would make you stronger? Easier to win a second time around?”

Kizzir suddenly broke into laughter. A humorless howl that slowly slid into a hysterical cry.

“YOU CAN’T!” he pulled up a sleeve, tears rolling down his cheeks, showing one clean sigil among a dozen other malformed ones. “You are not told until you enter! The library? It’s a one time deal. Once you leave, you cannot return! Trust me. I tried.”

They sat together in silence for a few moments, the old mage staring empty and hopeless at the floor, painting the atmosphere dark and somber.

“...How many ever leave?” asked Balan.

Kizzir nervously shook his head, as if he would rather not remember. 

“Not many. The lucky ones just die after a while, their natural years expended, and their bodies left to rot until someone buries them or some… thing, some part of the library itself, comes and removes their corpses. The smart ones work on extending their life first… Only to spend lifetimes pouring through those endless volumes. Prisoners of their own thirst for knowledge.” 

“Is that what you did?”

Kizzir nodded with the endless and empty stare of reminiscence.

“A little bit at a time. You don’t… really have a perception of time in there. No sunlight. No skies. No clocks. Nothing you can use to tell one day from the other save for what your own body tells you. And even that eventually changes if you survive long enough. Must have been decades. Maybe a century or so? Who knows. I saw at least two others join and four more perish in that time. And that was just the start.”

Kizzir played idly with a couple of books near him, flipping pages absent mindedly while his eyes brushed over surfaces they were clearly ignoring.

“Then… then it really got a hold of me. The obsession. The hunger. Like a disease. I wonder still if there’s some sort of spell in that place that facilitates such a reaction, but either way, I was well and truly lost. I had all the time in the world, right? Surely, I could get through everything! Right?” 

Kizzir smiled with no mirth.

“900 years you say…? I think time moves different in the library. Slower. I think I was there much longer… Wasn’t even close.”

“What broke that stupor then? How did you free yourself, as it were?” inquired Balan.

“Rhododisyum.” replied the elder.

“Mana Eaters? Like the ones outside?”

“Yes. Ever since I was a little boy I’ve loved them, you see. I’m no good with plants, but Rhodos… They bloom around places of magic. I’ve loved magic for as long as I’ve loved anything. Seeing Mana Eaters... Dragon Tongues... Ghost Fires… Whatever you want to call them. Not only are they quite a sight at night, in full bloom, but they also got my imagination going. When I see a big patch? What happened here, that you bloom so happily?”

Kizzir smiled, borderline jovial again, and leaned in gleefully closer to the younger mage, like a child sharing a secret.

“You know… Even now, in my travels when I find myself near a particularly big patch? I just let out a bunch of mana. Or cast some pointless spell. Just for them.” he giggled like a child. “Ridiculous right? But I figure they’re a little bit like me. We both feed on magic, in our own way. Only they can’t really move. So if I’m passing by? I give them a little dinner and a show. Makes me happy to delude myself into thinking they bloom a little extra because they’re grateful. Anyways…”

Kizzir sat back and straightened slightly, in body and mood, before continuing.

“My point was. I saw their picture in a book. Herbology or something. Don’t remember what it was about. But the moment I saw it I realized I really wanted to see one again before I died. It was as if something broke inside my mind. What was I doing? How long had I been there? What was the point of all that power if I was never going to use it, stuck inside that place in some fever dream of a mental feeding frenzy? So I left. Immediately, lest the sickness came back again. I called up the portal and just ran. Out of the portal and back into this world. I don’t know for how long, but I know I didn’t stop until I saw that blue glow. Loved them all my life, but never more than that day.”

They sat in silence once more, Balan contemplating and Kizzir reminiscing, until eventually the younger men broke the silence.

“Was it worth it, you think?”

Kizzir sat contemplating for a moment.

“Hm… Well, It almost cost me life and sanity. And it definitely took a piece of the latter at the very least. Everyone I knew is long dead and turned to dust. Even some of the countries I once knew are now just pieces of history. I walk this world as a shadow of a bygone era, imbued with a knowledge and experience so far removed from any you people have ever experienced that I might as well be from a different world. I cannot relate to anyone. I belong nowhere. No land’s man.”

“I’ll take that as a n-”

“Of course it was worth it!” interrupted the elder mage vigorously and triumphantly. “What a nonsense question young man! I can’t even begin to teach you all the things I’ve learned! I can bend so much of the world to my will that sometimes I wonder what the difference between me and a god really is!” 

Balan was so shocked at the sudden turn he simply forgot to keep holding the book he had been carrying.

“...But… What about the bit about the people and the lands…?”

Kizzir shrugged.

“Oh people come and go! I didn’t kill them. They’d be dead either ways. Besides, some of them were terrible people! Good riddance! And lands change name all the time. Do you think the trees or the dirt care what their flag is? I’ve outlived entire nations! Now that’s something!”

“Oh…”

“Yeah.”

“So… You weren’t telling me not to enter the tournaments?” probed Balan as he tries to make his way through the hellish puzzle that was Kizzir’s logic.

“Me? No! I was only giving you a warning. Bring a magical clock or something. I don’t know! I can’t solve everything for you.”

It was Balan’s turn to sit in silent contemplation. He sat considering the possibilities. The risks. He had almost no living family, and very few close friends, but the idea of potentially abandoning everything he knew potentially forever, or for far longer than they would exist at any rate, was oddly frightening.

Kizzir’s power was truly staggering, the depth of his knowledge downright dizzying, but after meeting the old mage he was no longer as confident in his dueling skills as he once had been. And even if he could win, would he fall prey to the library itself? Doomed to die exiled in its hallways. Or worse, to wander endlessly in some zombified state accumulating a wealth of knowledge he would never spend, trapped in an intoxicated undeath.

He was broken out of his cogitation by his engrained duelist’s sense of being watched. Kizzir was staring at him and smiling.

“You’ve already decided, haven’t you boy?” Kizzir smiled confidently, and Balan realized he was right.

“Yes.”

“When?"

“One last trip to my home town. My mother still lives, last I heard, even if she barely recognized me last time I went home. I’ll say my goodbyes, and won’t return until it’s done. Walk far from the town so they won’t be caught up in it, and then…” he pointed at the book he had dropped, the one Kizzir had lent him. 

“Yes. Remember, it could be right away, or it could be years.”

Balan nodded.

“I’ll be ready.”

“Yes, I think you might be. Good luck Balan Crespin. May we meet again. As equals next time!”

*

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