Two days later…
In the hills west of Arsenic, atop a rented sandstrider pulled from a second-rate caravan, a tall elf in overly-polished, rune-inscribed armor grinned to himself.
"Haha… this is a steal," Da'Arg muttered, adjusting the artificial mana circuits woven into his undersuit. "When I defeat this imposter, I'll ride the wave of glory all the way to capital funding. Finally, my project—my masterpiece—will be realized!"
He tossed a small copper coin into the air, caught it, and kissed it for luck.
This wasn't the first time he'd assumed the name "Kalem." Over the past two months, Da'Arg had squeezed minor settlements for money, claiming compensation for imaginary affronts to "the Slayer of the Abyss." He always wore altered armor—oversized pauldrons, a voice-distorting helm, and runes he couldn't actually activate properly.
But this time, the game was different.
This "other Kalem" wasn't just a rumor. He was in Arsenic. And Da'Arg was here to defeat him, reclaim the legend, and prove himself the one and only.
Arsenic City – North-West Gate
The city buzzed with its usual alchemical haze and clang of hammers.
"I am your salvation… or your destruction. Pick one." Da'Arg struck a pose at the gate, one hand raised, the other planted on his hip like a playhouse knight.
The gatekeeper didn't blink.
"State your business," the guard droned, already tired.
"I am Kalem!" Da'Arg declared, loud enough for the line behind him to hear.
Several people in the queue whispered.
"I come to challenge the impostor who soils my name. A false warrior within your city, who sips tea like a weakling and sullies the title of Abyss-Killer! I will restore my name, and—perhaps—stay a night or two in the luxurious lodging this place owes me."
The guard's eye twitched. "...You're not even the first person today to make that claim."
Da'Arg, unfazed, activated a burst of mana from his embedded circuits—illusion spells rippling through his armor. Darkness coiled around him, and the temperature dropped by a few degrees. His cape flared without wind.
Gasps followed. The mana felt real. To commonfolk, it was enough.
"Let him in," the guard finally muttered, waving him through.
As Da'Arg marched into the city, a smirk on his lips, the guard was already sprinting toward his superior.
Inside the Bottled Ember Tavern
Kalem sat in the shadowed corner of the Bottled Ember, as he had for two days now. The spiced tea on his table had long gone cold, but he didn't mind. His focus was elsewhere—mainly, his thoughts.
He'd spent most of the last day converting some scrap ores into a small plate mold. Just something to keep his hands busy. No enchantment, no runic absurdity. Just forging for the sake of rhythm.
A few curious alchemists had approached, offered small trades, asked harmless questions.
Nothing had disturbed him—until now.
The door slammed open, and armored boots clanged dramatically against the tavern floor.
"There you are, coward!" barked a voice laced with pomp and poorly faked menace. "Hiding like a worm in the dark, are you?!"
Kalem didn't even glance up.
The room fell into uncomfortable silence. Patrons shifted away from the intruder, drinks forgotten.
"I knew it," Da'Arg crowed, now standing center-stage. "Impersonating Kalem, the Abyss-Killer, while sipping tea like a peasant! I'll give you one chance—one!—to remove that stolen armor and crawl out of this city before I tear your legacy apart."
Kalem sipped his tea. Still cold.
A long pause stretched across the tavern like a wire pulled too tight.
Then, quietly, Kalem stood.
No aura flared. No flash of magic. No dramatic pose.
He simply stood.
And the air around him changed. Not in temperature or light, but in weight. Everyone felt it.
Da'Arg's confidence faltered.
"I said, you dare intimidate me?!" he snapped, activating his illusion circuits again. Dark energy spiraled around him in chaotic bursts. His cape fluttered madly, even indoors.
"I am Kalem! I command abyssal destruction! I shattered a hundred spirits with a word!"
Kalem raised a single hand—and calmly tapped the chest plate of Da'Arg's armor.
There was a short, metallic click, followed by a hiss of escaping mana.
The circuits inside Da'Arg's suit—poorly wired fakes mimicking abyssal currents—overloaded and collapsed inward. A pulse of backlash exploded across his frame.
In an instant, the armor shattered inwards, the illusions snapped, and Da'Arg stood blinking in ordinary travel gear, a panicked look on his face.
No cape. No aura. Just sweat and a cheap undershirt.
"You used shallow-pressure channels," Kalem said plainly. "They cracked under reversed flow. Poor craftsmanship."
The room burst into laughter. Even the bartender wheezed.
Da'Arg stood there, stunned, frozen in place like a statue of embarrassment.
Kalem looked down at him for a moment, then muttered, "Just buy me something sweet, and I'll forget this happened."
A heavy silence followed. Then:
"Sweets?" Da'Arg squeaked.
"I've had a long week."
The door to the tavern swung open again—this time with a different kind of force.
The gatekeeper stormed in with a half-dozen city guards in tow.
"There he is!" the gatekeeper pointed. "The fraud who claimed he was Kalem and flashed illegal enchantments at the gate!"
Everyone turned.
Kalem sipped his tea.
Da'Arg, already humiliated, now looked like he might melt into the floor.
"Wait, wait! I can explain—!"
"You sure can," the captain of the guard said flatly. "In a holding cell."
Kalem watched as Da'Arg was dragged off, loudly protesting about academic rights and misunderstood genius.
The tavern returned to its rhythm. Laughter, drink, stories.
Kalem sat back down, let his tea be cold again, and leaned against the wall.
A young server approached, placing a small plate of candied rosefruit slices next to him.
"From the gatekeeper," she said with a small grin. "He said you earned it."
Kalem looked at the plate for a moment, then smiled beneath his helm.
"Not bad," he murmured. "Not bad at all."