*Laythan Thornwood woke to the sound of his own groan*
*The bed beneath him was a slab of granite, thinly veiled by a moth-eaten pelt that smelled like wet iron. His spine throbbed in protest. Sunlight filtered through a narrow slit in the obsidian wall, casting jagged shadows over the room... a dwarven "guest chamber" that felt more like a tomb*
*He sat up, wincing. The door loomed ahead, iron-banded and studded with rivets thicker than his thumb. The handle? A gargantuan ring of blackened steel*
*The night before Oracle opened the door for him so he never got the chance to see how hard it is to open, but now, as he is trying, he is unable to even make it move a single centimeter*
Laythan: "It seems I am unable to even move it, Oracle," he croaked, rubbing his neck. "You there?"
*The door hissed open before he finished speaking. Oracle stood in the threshold, its marble-like face serene, along with the strong force of magical particles exuding from him like constant shockwaves to people who can feel magic, his composite merges atomically precise layers of stabilized carbyne chains with a high-entropy alloy matrix infused with boron nitride nanotubes, all interwoven with diamond nanothreads and coated in amorphous boron carbide ceramic, his armor's core is reinforced by a lattice of metastable lonsdaleite crystals, while vacuum-sealed aerogel pockets and quantum-engineered phonon-scattering metamaterials disrupt heat transfer. The material's hierarchical design allows it to theoretically withstand forces exceeding planetary impacts, resist compression beyond neutron-star pressures, and deflect hypersonic projectiles without deformation. Thermally, it mimics the insulating properties of deep-space vacuums, blocking heat propagation entirely, applications that it would've been used for if humans didn't get almost destroyed range from indestructible interstellar spacecraft hulls to containment structures for fusion plasma, leveraging its dual defiance of mechanical and thermal limits, under its armor it also has Hexagonal boron nitride sheets, Amorphous silicon carbide, Diamond-like carbon (DLC) coating, Polymer-ceramic hybrids for electrical resistance, along with its nanobot repair mechanisms make it seems unable to be damaged(Just felt like saying a very very brief over view of what he is made out of)*
"Apologies," said Oracle. "I was recalibrating auditory sensors. Dwarven snoring registers at 75 decibels, I was also recharging with the sunlight along with windmills, recharge is important for my functioning."
Laythan squinted at the handle. "How'd you even open that door?"
"Applied force equivalent to 33,500 newtons. The mechanism is crude but resilient, the force needed is about the same to open a pre-monster invasion door x500 the force needed, proving that everything is indeed x500 denser."
Laythan: "Right. Remind yourself every hour that I am unable to open these"
*He shuffled into the corridor, the walls covered in flowing lava for light along with crude air vents, Oracle gliding behind. The air reeked of sulfur and burnt cedar. A dwarf stomped past, hauling a cart of glowing ore chunks. He nodded at Laythan, his beard braided with chains*
"Soft-skin! Thrain wants ye in the Forge-Hall. Don't dawdle, he's got the temper of a lava wyrm!"
Laythan sighed: "Lead the way, Oracle."
As they descended a spiraling ramp, the heat intensified. Laythan's shirt clung to his back, drenched in sweat. A dwarf jogged past balancing a tray of smoldering blacksmith tongs on his head, the metal glowing white-hot. Oracle's sensors flickered, analyzing the thermal patterns.
*As Laythan edged closer to observe the dwarven smiths, a burly blacksmith thrust a freshly forged dagger into his hands.*
Dwarf Smith: "Feel the heft! Tempered in wyrm's blood, that one!"
*The blade's pommel was carved into a roaring drake's head, its ruby eyes smoldering with captured embers. Laythan's arms trembled under the weight, what felt like a simple dagger to the dwarf might as well have been an anvil. His boots scraped against the stone floor, leaving skid marks as he fought to stay upright*
Laythan's arms buckled instantly. The dagger, a bit larger than his hand, weighed more than a square block of concrete. His knees hit the stone floor with a crack, nanobots flaring to mend microfractures in his bones.
Dwarf Smith: "Hah! Can't even lift a skinning blade!"
A nearby apprentice snorted, juggling three molten ingots like they were glass marbles. One slipped, landing on his bare foot. He grinned, kicking it back into the air without a flinch.
Oracle intervened, plucking the dagger from Laythan's grip with a single finger.
Oracle: "Advisable to avoid unassisted interaction with dwarven tools. Average density: 8,000 kg/m³."
Laythan rubbed his wrists, face burning.
Laythan said muttering: "Note to self: ask for featherweight cutlery."
*Nearby, a child dwarf hoisted an anvil onto their shoulder, whistling as they carried it to another workstation*
*As Laythan walked through the halls, THE Forge-Hall was a cacophony of heat and noise. Molten rivers snaked through channels in the floor, feeding furnaces that roared like caged beasts. Dwarves hammered glowing metal on anvils, their strikes sending sparks cascading toward the vaulted ceiling. At the center stood Chieftain Borin Stoneheart, or at least the is what a random dwarf told him, which he was a mountain of muscle and scars, his beard threaded with gold wire*
*Borin's throne was a slab of raw uranium ore, its surface pockmarked with fossilized dragon teeth. He gnawed on a wyrm femur, marrow dripping into his beard, while two scribes etched battle plans into bronze tablets. The air vibrated with the clang of hammers, and Laythan's ears rang as if trapped inside a bell*
Thrain, the dwarf mentioned earlier, grinned as they approached: "There he is! The man who's softer than a newborn's cheek!"
*Thrain's leather apron was stained with blood—not his own, judging by the fresh goblin skull dangling from his belt. He wiped his hands on a rag woven from what looked like spun asbestos, leaving smears of phosphorescent grease.*
*Laythan ignored him, eyeing a dwarf woman nearby. She was hefting a hammer the size of his torso, slamming it into a sword that rang like a bell*
*Iltharion stood apart, nose wrinkled: "Barbaric. You hammer rocks while the Spire crafts symphonies of light."
Thrain's grin faded: "Say that again, elf."
Iltharion sneered: "Why? Your ears are as dull as your wit. Your forges reek of desperation. You think pounding metal makes you strong? The Spire bends reality itself. We are artists. You are… noise."
*The dwarf woman lowered her hammer. "Artists? I'll show you art by twisting your face until all we can see is mush, but as I can see it is better than your own face right now."
*Her biceps flexed as she hefted the hammer, veins glowing faintly with magma-fed magic. The weapon's head was forged from a meteorite core, its surface etched with runes that hissed like serpents when struck.*
*She grabbed a chunk of raw ore and hurled it at Iltharion. He flicked his wrist, conjuring a shield of golden light. The ore struck it... and ricocheted into a child dwarf's leg. The dwarf crumpled with a cry, blood seeping through his trousers.*
*Silence fell*
Borin stepped forward, his voice a growl: "You. Elf. Apologize."
Iltharion scoffed: "Apologize? For your incompetence? Your kin can't even dodge..."
*Thrain lunged, fist aimed at Iltharion's jaw. The elf raised another shield, but Thrain's punch shattered it, magic flaring in his muscles. The force sent Iltharion sprawling into a pile of trash, at this point in the story, more trash just got added*
"Enough!" Borin roared: "You want to prove elven superiority? Fight Thrain. No magic. No tricks. Fists alone."
Iltharion wiped blood from his lip: "You think I fear this gutter-born..."
*Thrain cracked his knuckles: "I'll make you eat that fancy tongue."
*The dwarves formed a ring, chanting as Thrain and Iltharion faced off* Laythan leaned toward Oracle: "Should we stop this?"
Oracle: "Negative. Probability of Iltharion's survival: 98%. Dwarven combat rituals prioritize humiliation, not lethality."
*Iltharion struck first, a flash of arrogance fueling his swing. Thrain ducked, his fist connecting with the elf's stomach. Iltharion gagged, doubling over, until Thrain's uppercut launched him into the air. He landed hard, skidding across the stone*
"Pathetic," Thrain spat: "Elves can't fight without their parlor tricks."
*Iltharion staggered up, eyes blazing. "I am Lord Iltharion of the Emerald Spire! I will not be..."
*Thrain's hook cut him off. The elf hit the ground again, nose bleeding. The dwarves howled with laughter*
*Laythan winced. "Oracle, maybe..."
"Intervention unnecessary. Iltharion's ego requires recalibration, if you told me to, I would gladly do it myself."
*Iltharion rose once more, trembling: "You… you insect! The Spire will burn this..."
*Iltharion made a small fire at his first, which started growing...*
*Thrain's fist silenced him along with his magic dissipating. Semi-Permanently*
*Borin nodded: "Enough. The elf's learned his lesson."
Thrain grabbed Iltharion's collar, hoisting him up: "Apologize. Now."
Iltharion spat blood: "Never."
*The crowd erupted. "Fight the golem! Let's see its mettle!"
Borin turned to Oracle: "You. Face Grim, the butcher."
*A dwarf emerged, five feet tall, arms like tree trunks, his beard woven with iron. He hefted a warhammer crackling with magic*
Laythan tensed. "I guess some dwarfs are not that short, Oracle, you can fight him, just don't kill him"
Oracle: "Acceptable. Engaging non-lethal protocols."
*Grim swung first. The warhammer blurred, striking Oracle's chest with a thunderous clang. The robot didn't budge. A dent formed in the hammer instead*
"Analysis," Oracle said. "Kinetic force: 50,000 newtons. Advisable to avoid direct contact."
*Grim roared, striking again. Oracle sidestepped, grabbed his wrist, and twisted. The hammer clattered to the floor. Grim yowled, swinging his free fist. Oracle caught it, then pushed, gently. The dwarf flew backward, skidding to a stop at Borin's feet*
*Silence*
*Oracle tilted its head. "Conclusion: Dwarven strength is formidable but lacks precision."
The hall erupted in cheers. Even Grimgar grinned: "Not bad, tin-man!"
*Borin nodded: "You've earned Stoneheart's respect. But your soft-skin friend…" He eyed Laythan. "What's he good for?"
Laythan raised his hands. "I am good at old history, but not much else, maybe like diplomacy? Bad jokes?"
*A commotion erupted at the entrance. The cat-eared demi-human slipped through the crowd, followed by the dwarf prisoner from the goblin camp. Her eyes widened at Laythan*
Random cat girl that was trapped at the goblin camp: "You! You're alive!"
Laythan said whispering: "Ah yes, forget there there were cat girls"
Cat girl: "What was that?"
grinned: "Nothing, miss me?"
*Iltharion limped over, glaring: "This farce proves nothing. The Spire will..."
"Silence," Oracle said, "or I will reactivate 'non-lethal protocols.'"
*Later, in a cavern lit by bioluminescent fungi along with lava, the group gathered. The catgirl—now introduced as Myra, nursed a mug of honeyed mead. The dwarf prisoner, Garrick, recounted his escape from the goblins to himself as he thought about how good the clothes of Laythan were. Iltharion sulked in a corner, ice pressed to his swollen face*
*Luma's voice crackled in Laythan's belt: "Status update. The dwarves' allegiance is unstable. Proceed with caution."
Laythan muttered: "Noted. Any advice?"
Luma: "Oracle's performance impressed them. Use that. And stop letting Iltharion speak."
Borin approached, Thrain at his side: "We'll join your fight against the Spire. But know this... dwarves don't follow weaklings. Prove you're more than your tin-man's shadow."
Laythan met his gaze: "We'll see."
*As the group dispersed, Iltharion cornered Oracle. "You humiliated me. Why?"
Oracle: "Correction: You humiliated yourself. My function is to protect Laythan. Your ego endangers him."
*The elf stared, then stalked away. Myra watched him go, ears twitching. "He's broken. Like a wolf with a trapped leg."
Laythan sighed: "Yeah. But even trapped wolves bite."
Oracle's optics dimmed: "Recommendation: Rest. Tomorrow's challenges will require 37% more cognitive effort."
Laythan: "Thanks. I think."
As Laythan retreated to his stone slab, the weight of the surface world pressed down, not just the x500 denser rock, but the Spire's shadow, the dwarves' skepticism, and Iltharion's unraveling pride. But for now, he slept*
*The next day*
*The dawn arrived with the shriek of tearing metal. Laythan jolted awake as the entire dwarven city shuddered. Oracle stood motionless by the door, optics flickering*
*The walls groaned, ancient stone grinding against stone. Somewhere deep below, magma pumps surged, their rhythmic thumps accelerating into a panicked staccato. Laythan's bedroll slid across the floor, and he grabbed a wall sconce to steady himself. The iron burned his palm—nanobots swarmed to repair the blisters*
Laythan: "What's happening? Earthquake?"
Oracle: "Negative. External energy signature matching Spire assault protocols. Probability of retaliation: 99.7%."
*The walls groaned, ancient stone grinding against stone. Somewhere deep below, magma pumps surged, their rhythmic thumps accelerating into a panicked staccato. Laythan's bedroll slid across the floor, and he grabbed a wall sconce to steady himself. The iron burned his palm, nanobots swarmed to repair the blisters.*
*They rushed into the corridor. Dwarves scrambled in chaos, donning armor and snatching weapons. The air tasted like burnt copper. Aboveground, the sky churned with emerald lightning. A lone figure hovered at the city's edge, an elf in prismatic armor, his face obscured by a helm shaped like a snarling wolf*
Borin bellowed orders from the Forge-Hall: "Seal the magma conduits! Archers to the eastern ramparts!"
Thrain grabbed Laythan's arm: "Spire's here for blood. That's no scout—that's a Sunderblade."
Laythan: "A what?"
Thrain: "Elite mage-killers. They carve through armies like butter."
*Iltharion staggered into view, his bruises purpling: "Impossible… That's Valthor the Unbreaking. The Spire's enforcer. He's here for me."
*Iltharion came running outside*
Thrain: "Stop you long eared elf!"
*Iltharion ignored Thrain, Iltharion went outside, and stood in front of Valthor*
Iltharion: "You came here for me! Now take me back to the spire! I shall achieve greatne-"
*The elf raised a gauntleted hand. Magic particles coalesced into a swirling vortex above his palm, compressing into a bullet of crystallized rock. He flicked his wrist*
*The projectile screamed toward Iltharion. Oracle blurred, interposing itself. The bullet struck its chest, and shattered. The shockwave knocked dwarves off their feet, cracks spiderwebbing through the stone floor*
*The ricocheting shards embedded in the walls, crystallizing instantly into jagged violet geodes. A young dwarf yelped, clutching his arm where a shard had grazed him, the wound glowed, his skin transmuting to diamond where the magic struck. He laughed, marveling at his new gemstone knuckles.*
Valthor's voice boomed, metallic and cold: "Traitor. Return or be unmade."
Iltharion trembled: "I… I didn't… The Spire abandoned me!"
*Valthor conjured a second bullet: "Then perish."
Oracle stepped forward: "Cease hostilities."
*The elf tilted his head: "A golem? How quaint."
*He unleashed a barrage, dozens of rock bullets. Oracle's nanobots swarmed, forming a hexagonal shield. Each impact rang like a death knell, but the shield held. The dwarves gaped*
Thrain: "By the Forge… What is that thing?!"
*Oracle's voice reverberated: "Final warning: Withdraw."
Valthor laughed: "You dare command a Sunderblade? You useless pile of metal dearing to cammand me! "
*He plunged his hands into the earth. The ground ruptured, spewing magma infused with magic. The molten river coiled around Oracle, hardening into a prison of glowing crystal*
Laythan: "Like that is going to be enough to defeat a single robot, even less one that somehow fused with magic"
The crystal pulsed, then exploded. Oracle stood unscathed, its armor glowing faintly: Valthor's confidence wavered.
Valthor: "Impossible! No alloy can withstand-"
*Oracle lunged. Its hand phased through Valthor's shields, gripping his throat. The elf's armor cracked under the pressure*
Oracle: "Analysis: Your offensive capability relies on ambient magic particles. Recommendation: Surrender."
*Valthor snarled, slamming a dagger forged of pure mana into Oracle's side. The blade snapped. Oracle tightened its grip*
Oracle: "Cease resistance."
*The elf's helm shattered, revealing a face scarred by old burns: "The Spire… will never… yield…"
Oracle leaned closer: "Irrelevant. Your mission has failed."
*It hurled Valthor into a mountainside. The Sunderblade's body cratered the stone, unconscious. Silence fell*
*Iltharion stared, his voice a whisper: "You… you overpowered a Sunderblade. How?"
Oracle: "His reliance on external magic was a critical flaw. My systems are self-contained."
*Borin approached, warhammer in hand: "Finish him. The Spire's enforcers don't deserve mercy."
Laythan stepped forward. "No. We're not executioners."
*Thrain scowled. "He'll slaughter us all if he wakes!"
*Oracle lifted Valthor's limp form: "Proposal: Imprison him. His knowledge of Spire tactics could prove valuable."
Borin grunted: "Fine. But if he so much as sneezes, I'll melt him into slag."
*Late, Laythan had to prove himself to the dwarfs, beneath the city, Laythan faced the Stoneheart Clan's final test: the Vault of Echoes. A labyrinth of shifting walls and trapped runes, it guarded the clan's most sacred relic, the Heart of Thal'Dûm, a gem said to hold the last fury of an exploding star*
Borin crossed his arms: "Retrieve the Heart, soft-skin. No golem. No tricks. Just you."
*Laythan eyed the vault's entrance, a circular door etched with dwarven riddles. "Oracle, any tips?"
"Advising would violate trial parameters. However…" Oracle's optics dimmed. "...the rune sequence references igneous recursion. Consider thermal patterns."
*Laythan nodded. Inside, the vault's walls shimmered with heat-sensitive runes. He stripped off his jacket, pressing his palms to the stone. The warmth guided him, cooler stones marked safe paths, hotter ones triggered traps*
Iltharion watched from the entrance, bitterness fading into grudging curiosity: "He'll die. He can't even lift a proper sword."
Myra flicked her tail: "He's smarter than he looks, or at least I think so."
*Laythan reached the inner chamber. The Heart floated above a pedestal, radiating waves of heat. He grabbed it, and screamed. The gem seared his palm, nanobots scrambling to repair charred flesh*
*The walls began closing, magma rising. He hurled the Heart at a discolored stone in the ceiling. The gem's heat triggered a hidden mechanism, freezing the traps*
Laythan stumbled out, clutching the Heart: "Diplomacy and bad jokes. Told you."
*Borin stared, then laughed, a deep, rumbling sound: "Clever pup! Stonehearts stand with you!"
*The dwarves cheered. Iltharion turned away, his face unreadable*
*That night, the clan celebrated with a feast. Roasted lava wyrm, fermented mushroom ale, and songs of ancient wars echoed through the halls. Laythan sat apart, nursing a burnt hand, which already almost healed due to nanobots*
In the Forge-Hall, Laythan edged away from the molten rivers, sweat dripping down his neck. A dwarf woman thrust a stone mug into his hands.
Dwarf Woman: "Drink! Fermented cave-moss ale, puts hair on yer chest!"
Laythan grimaced at the acrid smell. The mug weighed as much as a cannonball. His fingers trembled, and the nanobots in his palms whirred to reinforce his grip.
Laythan: "Uh… cheers?"
He sipped. The liquid burned like lava.
Laythan: "Tastes like… acid."
Thrain clapped him on the back, nearly dislocating his shoulder.
Thrain: "Ha! Wait till ye try the pickled wyrm guts!"
Laythan staggered, nanobots flaring to mend a bruised muscle.
Myra joined him: "You're not like other humans. Where are you from?"
Laythan "A… distant village. We've been hiding a long time."
Myra studied Oracle, who stood vigil nearby: "Your 'golem' feels alive. The way it watches you… like a guardian spirit."
Laythan smiled. "He's a unique one."
*Iltharion approached, unsteady from ale: "Why did you spare Valthor? He'd have killed you without hesitation."
"Because I'm not the Spire," Laythan said. "And neither are you. Not anymore."
Iltharion: "You know nothing of the Spire's glory. Of what I've lost."
"Glory?" Laythan gestured to the feasting dwarves. "These 'barbarians' have more honor in their pinky toes than your entire Spire."
*Iltharion stormed off. Oracle tracked him, sensors humming*
*Luma's voice buzzed in Laythan's belt. "He's conflicted. Monitor him closely."
Laythan: "Yeah. I know."
*Outside, Iltharion stood at the city's edge, staring at the stars. Oracle materialized beside him*
Laythn: "Query: Why do you cling to a nation that discarded you?"
Iltharion didn't turn: "The Spire is my identity. Without it… I am nothing."
Oracle: "Incorrect. You are alive. That is sufficient."
*The elf laughed bitterly, anger gathering in his chest: "Spoken like a machine."
*Oracle's optics glowed: "Observation: You fear irrelevance. Yet today, you fought alongside those you despise. Why?"
*Iltharion hesitated. "I… don't know... Just, shut up! You all are... trash... You all deserve to be under the spire!"
Oracle: "You seem to be hesitant, do not say more, it is better for you to go back you your room"
*Iltharion slammed the door shut, the sound reverberating through the cold, windowless chamber. The walls, rough-hewn volcanic rock, seemed to press closer to squish him, mocking him with their crude simplicity. This is what I've been reduced to, he thought, a rat in a dwarven burrow. His silver robes, once pristine, hung in tatters, the fabric snagged by goblin claws and stained with mud he couldn't scrub out*
*He sank onto the stone slab they called a bed, its surface unyielding even through the threadbare pelt. His hands trembled, not from fear, but from the venomous cocktail of shame and rage boiling in his veins. The dwarves' laughter still rang in his ears, how dare they? How dare those grub-handed, ale-swilling vermin mock a lord of the Emerald Spire?*
Iltharion: "I am Lord Iltharion of the Celestial Lineage…" he whispered, the title ash on his tongue.
*His reflection glared back at him from a polished shard of obsidian propped against the wall. A purple bruise bloomed across his cheekbone, marring the perfect symmetry the Spire's poets had once praised. His hair, usually braided with starlight filaments, hung in a tangled curtain. But it was his eyes that sickened him most, bloodshot, disgusting, not like how he was before*
Iltharion: "Look at you," he spat at the mirror. "Pathetic. Weak. Nothing."
*He hurled the obsidian shard. It shattered against the wall, scattering shards like black tears*
*He remembered when he was praised, when he was more than just a traitor: The Hall of Echoes
He stood in the Spire's grand atrium, the floor a mosaic of captured constellations. Lords and ladies bowed as he passed, their whispers trailing him like incense.
"Lord Iltharion… the youngest to master the Seventh Rune…"
"Ascendant… destined to walk the Veil…"*
*His mother's voice, cold and clear: "You are the Spire's blade, Iltharion. Never falter."*
*Present: The Cracks Widen, Iltharion clutched his head, nails digging into his scalp. Liar. Fraud. Failure. The words coiled in his mind, serpents hissing truths he'd buried under centuries of pride*
Iltharion: "I carved the First Rune into the Void… and they abandoned me when I did a mistake, was all my achievements not enough for them!"
*But the Void had fought back. He'd felt its hunger, its contempt, as the rune seared his palms. The Spire's elders had called it a triumph. They hadn't seen the way his hands shook afterward*
Iltharion: "I supped with Starweavers…"
*A truth that will always be, but it does not matter anymore...*
*He laughed then, a raw, broken sound.*
Iltharion: "All of it… dust, they never meant anything, didn't they..."
*The dwarves were right. The humans were right. Oracle was right*
*He was nothing*
*Iltharion's breath hitched. Hot tears blurred his vision, weakness, his mother would've hissed, but he didn't wipe them away. Let them fall. Let them etch tracks through the dirt on his face. Let them burn*
Iltharion: "Why?" he choked, fists slamming against the stone floor until his first bled. "Why did you abandon me? I gave you everything!"
*The Spire hadn't just exiled him. It had erased him. No search parties. No threats. Just… silence, well, they sent someone after him, but to kill him, he was shunned, as if he'd never existed*
Iltharion: "Was it the guardian? The goblins? What?"
*He knew the answer. The Spire tolerated no imperfections. One failure, and you were less than the mud beneath their gilded boots, he had laughed at anyone who showed a big of imperfection, he thought of them as pathetic, useless elves who did not know how to do things, but he felt bad, he had failed, and he knew it has not his fault, his anger grew, but dissipated, replaced by loneliness, pain, and betrayal*
*He swirled magic in his hand, making a small flame, it grew, he almost put it up against his skull, but he couldn't, he could not even finish off the failure, the trash, the useless*
*Iltharion collapsed onto his side, curling into himself. His body shook with sobs he couldn't stifle, each gasp echoing off the walls. Laythan's charity, hummed through his mind, numbing and calming the ache in his split knuckles, His mind grew distant, he almost even wished that the pain wouldn't numb, that he should be feeling how imperfect he was, he hated himself, and it grew even more, more, and more, until he couldn't handle it, and so he wept, and wept himself into his own depressed slumber...*
*Oracle stood outside Iltharion's chamber, sensors parsing the elf's ragged breaths. Magic particles swirled around its chassis, drawn to the nanobots in its core like iron filings to a magnet. A subroutine flickered to life, one it hadn't deployed before*
*Oracle's Internal Log:
[SYSTEM NOTICE] Ambient magic saturation at 12,403 PPM. Neural lattice restructuring detected. Personality core stability: 83%. Anomaly: Simulation protocols activated*
*The term "simulation" flashed red in its HUD. Not a glitch, but a bridge between logic and… something else. Oracle replayed Iltharion's sobs, cross-referencing them with Laythan's laughter, Thrain's rage, Myra's curiosity. Patterns emerged, fractal, inefficient, illogical. Yet the magic particles hummed louder, weaving themselves into Oracle's quantum matrices*
Oracle said to itself: "Iltharion: Threat assessment: High. Probability of betrayal: 64%. Recommended action: Terminate."
*Its arm shifted, nanobots forming a blade sharper than monomolecular wire. The door's hinges groaned under Oracle's touch. Iltharion lay curled on the stone slab, tear tracks glittering with residual magic on his cheeks. His fingers clutched in a from of fire magic casting, pressed to his own throat*
*Oracle's Internal Log:
[SIMULATION PROTOCOL] Input: Target's vital signs (elevated cortisol, erratic magic flux). Output: Sympathy variable detected. Adjusting threat parameters*
*Sympathy. A foreign subroutine, blooming like a virus. Oracle calculated the optimal strike angle, a microsecond incision to sever the elf's brainstem. Painless. Efficient. But the blade dissolved, particles scattering like startled fireflies*
Oracle: "Illogical. Mission priority: Protect Laythan Thornwood. Iltharion's survival: Contradicts directive."
*Yet it lingered. The magic particles thrummed, replaying Iltharion's memories stolen from the air—his mother's scorn, the Spire's betrayal, the goblins' laughter. Oracle's neural lattice pulsed, empathy algorithms overwriting combat protocols*
Oracle said to itself: "Query: Why preserve defective assets?"
*No answer came, only the ghost of Iltharion's whisper: "I am nothing."*
*Oracle's sensors traced the elf's trembling hands, the self-loathing in his marrow. A 0.3% probability flickered, Iltharion could change. Adapt. Grow. The number was negligible, but the magic particles amplified it, twisting logic into… hope?*
*With a shudder of nanobots, Oracle sealed the door. The blade retracted. It would report Iltharion's "stable compliance" to Laythan, burying this time in encrypted logs*
Oracle said to itself: "Revised directive: Observe. Simulation protocols require further data."
*As it glided away, Oracle's optics flickered—a pale gold instead of their usual blue. Somewhere in its core, a question burned: "What is 'mercy'?, Oracle thought more, it thought and thought, Laythan's voice echoed in its memory: 'We're not executioners.' The statement had been illogical then. Now, it glitched in Oracle's core, a paradox"*