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. . . A witch's strand of hair. The tear of a baby sphinx. And the tooth of an ender dragon. The missing ingredients for my ground-breaking concoction. And to think that I have these laying somewhere.
I stare at the potion's vial in my one hand, and scanning the notes in my other.
Below the notes is a list of ingredients that bring forth a composition for my very own creation: Oblivion, I call it. Once finished, it should result as a potion that enhances one's intelligence to an inconceivable level – it'd surpass that of our Grand Mage, nearing to that of their Goddess herself. Alas, it is an erstwhile potion, for the cooldown period after using it is equivalent to one's lifetime.
I look back at my table with tubes of mixtures and tonics that lay there, varying in colour. They all confine my second-rate failures: the limb-recovery, the strengthening, and even the love potion. The frustrating boundaries that merely stemmed off from the governing rules of magic stopped my endeavours, until this mental potion came to mind.
The workshop's door forcefully swings open, and to my surprise, a masked man runs in and closes it immediately. I quickly cover my table with a cloth; the vial and notes fly into my pocket in panic.
"W-Who are you?! Are you those so-called devoted worshippers?" I ask in protest.
He raises one of his index fingers, commanding my silence. We both anticipate noise, but only the charging of soldiers pass by outside the door. The man releases a sigh of relief, removing his rather odd mask. It is that of a tiger, made from a material I have never come across before. Hmm . . . what a decent-looking man.
"Why do you hide? Are you a criminal?"
"W-Well . . . N-No wait, give me a minute to compose myself—"
"We know you're in there, trespasser! Come out now!" a priest's voice shouts out from the outside, cutting this peculiar man short of his speech.
The man rushes across the room, heading straight for my weaponry set – those imbued with incantations. He skims through the collection, touching them at that. "What are you doing?! Who are you?!" I dispute.
"Listen to me, Graham." His piercing emerald eyes look my way, grave and severe. "The devoted worshippers you mentioned. They are after the both of us. You, for creating forbidden potions and weapons. And me, for roaming these lands without permission. I'm not particularly from here, you see." He chuckles.
He speaks the truth, for these worshippers have been chasing me down for the longest time. I wonder how they have been able to track me down just after a few days of fleeing the previous realm. Could it be that they have been assisted by top-class mages?
"What do you suggest we do then??" I suddenly ask.
"Just hide for now. My name's Alexander Bardot. I come from—" his speech is then suddenly interrupted by a loud thud on the door that instantly creates a hole.
I hastily scurry off behind my large desk, hiding from the danger. Combat has never been my strong suit, and it will never be. Alexander, on the contrary, picks up a weapon at random, confidently facing the danger that lies behind the door.
He holds one of my greatest forged weapons: Strom. It is a sword that releases surges of what the people from the West call 'electric energy', with each discharge being just as powerful as the previous. All he should do is avoid the sword's blade, then he'll be just fine.
The door bursts open, seemingly from a single thrust from an individual's fist. The man's humongous silhouette breaks through the small door frame, and behind him walks a smaller priest, who wears a crest that symbolises his devotion to the Goddess of Time, the one who powers our world with not only time, but magic too.
"The premonition from our Goddess, our saviour, had bestowed upon me the mission to rid our land of your meddling. Thrasher, dispose of these blasphemous bastards." He slightly pats the mammoth's back, invigorating a devious smile on his crooked face.
Alexander raises his sword, mimicking the foe who charges before him. A jab viciously glides through the air, the fist blindly diving into the sword that Alexander blocks with. The impact force shakes the room, the jar-dropping sight for both me and the priest ensues – for no one has been able to take on Thrasher, the worshippers' executioner. Not only does my sword's magic barely damage him that surprises me, but it is the cocky smile on Alexander's face. Just where does this man come from?
Another jab follows, and a lightning-quick block counters. "Graham, this might sound odd, but . . . we need to go right now!" I panic, quickly sliding all my tonics into a bag that had been laying on the floor below.
At the corner of my desk, lays a vial that contains a dangerous acid that burns anything that it comes into contact with as soon as it exits the magically secured bottle. I grab onto it, looking at the wall behind me in thought. My hand suddenly acts on its own accord, opening the vial and pouring the acid onto the wall, instantly eating its way through the stone wall.
"T-Thrasher! How are you nearing your defeat?!" the priest shouts, unnerved and frightened. He catches my attention, so I look back.
The black-haired man jumps into the air, his air-time baffling me. He slashes his sword against the man's neck; the cut, clear, seamless and powerful. He lands onto his feet, and the man's bodiless head follows – the thud it makes resonates throughout the room. He raises his sword once more, but to the priest. A surge of fear dances right across the little man's face, and so, he flees and screams for help.
A heavy gulp, a small sweat and widened eyes. I have never come across a person so strong – not ever since my father's era.
"H-Here . . . an escape route." I say. He looks my way, then taps the side of his neck for some reason. "Good work, Graham. May I have this sword?" he smiles.
"G-Go ahead. Take anything you'd like. But hurry, he must have ran off to his higher-ups for back up." Without a single doubt, he carries another sword with him, a dagger and a shield as well. A true warrior he is, it seems.
"What a world. I feel like I'm in those games—" a loud thud transpires from outside that startles him. "Y-You're right, we must leave."
He runs past me in the blink of an eye, leading the way. He must have an escape carriage that leaves the kingdom awaiting him somewhere. I wonder if he will be using the Centaur carriages . . . perhaps even the Sphinx tier carriages.
"Now that I think about it . . . how do you know my name?" I follow his lead.
"Hmm . . ." he looks back at me, smiling. "We have quite a lot to talk about, Great Graham."
