Benedict Ashcroft was working on a new design.
The scent of warm metal, solder, and mana-fused resin clung to the air. Hunched over a rotating spellcore array, Benedict inhaled slowly.
"Since I awakened my previous life's memories before dimensional travel," he muttered, "I've accumulated almost 300 new designs. What a pity—I can't show them yet."
He leaned back, flexing his fingers, stained with ink and dust. "Forget it," he sighed. "There will be a day."
He pushed away the rotating frame of schematics and stood. Time to take inventory—and plan what came next.
Among stacks of enchanted tools, blueprints, and half-assembled devices, Benedict noted the following:
6 experimental spellcores, three unstable2 miniaturized mana-catalysts1 prototype mana-printer (cracked casing)Arcforge schematics (encrypted and fragmented)37 minor enchantment scrolls, Earth-based1 gram of refined mithril dust, sealed in a stasis vialHalf a bar of thorium, faintly humming with residual manaA pouch of drakonite shavings, volatile if exposed to high heat3 vials of liquified quicksilver essence—usable as a magical conductorOne fingernail-sized shard of starmetal, still glowing from atmospheric entry
More importantly, his credits were low. Too low.
To fund his next project, he needed something sellable—but not suspicious. His most promising pitch? Cellphones—devices for the masses using stable magitek protocols.
Something practical. Something marketable. Something that wouldn't expose his legacy.
He muttered, "Spell-linked communication network using mundane interfaces… give it a month and everyone will call it revolutionary."
He grinned, just slightly. Then grabbed his coat and headed for the meeting.
The domain of Calder Vance rose like a cold cathedral of logic and order—vaulted ceilings of bronze veins and glowing lines of power inscribed through stone. Twelve disciples gathered. Most stood silent.
They were a collection of minds, species, and loyalties:
Jorren Vale (High Elf), ritualistic and scholarly.Lys Kelthorn (Tiefling), sharp-tongued and ambitious.Arden (Dwarf), gruff and loyal.Eline (Human), fast, focused, and modern.Vassian Arcten (Eladrin), elegant and calculating.Yurei Mistral (Shadar-Kai), quiet and death-bound.Marell Vundra (Firbolg), gentle giant of nature magitech.Nax Flint (Gnome), a chaos engine in lab coat form.Sorani Vale (High Elf), conservative and melodic.Calvus Strone (Human, noble-born), image-first operator.Terek Roan (Silver Dragonborn), chaos-seeker.Benedict Ashcroft (Half-Elf), the anomaly with Earth-born memories.
Waiting above were two assistants—Lira (Halfling) and Ohn (Aasimar)—and the Deputy, Steelmemory, a Warforged who'd once served the Grandmaster himself.
As Benedict arrived, Jorren Vale, the Eldest Disciple, approached.
"You're late."
"Fashionably," Benedict replied, brushing a fleck of soot from his coat. "I was building something useful."
"That's not for you to decide." Jorren's tone held the weight of tradition, of structure. "Everything we make serves the teachings. Not yourself."
"Didn't know innovation required a permission slip."
Eyes turned. The Deputy-aligned disciples—Lys Kelthorn among them—watched closely. She smiled faintly, a look too precise to be friendly.
"I hear you're designing something… commercial," she said.
"Is that a crime?" Benedict asked.
"No," she replied. "But unusual. Especially for someone with... unregistered designs."
Jorren's frown deepened. "You're testing boundaries."
Benedict stepped forward. "And you're afraid of what happens if I cross one."
A silence fell.
Far above, Calder Vance observed from the mezzanine. He did not speak. But he did not leave either.
And somewhere beyond that tower, undercurrents surged.
A memory breach. A stolen blueprint. A name whispered across encrypted channels.
The world was changing. And Calder, it seemed, was ready to change with it.
Jorren's POV
Jorren Vale remained still, though his thoughts stirred behind his steady expression. Benedict again. Always the disruptor. Always unpredictable. Yet always brilliant.
There had been a time, Jorren remembered, when Benedict had shown promise within the structure—methodical, curious, sharp. But then came the questions. The detours. The personal projects.
And then, the real flaw: he was Half-Elf.
To Jorren, raised among the clarity of High Elven tradition, Half-Elves were a compromise made flesh. Caught between discipline and chaos. No matter how talented Benedict was, Jorren could not help but see the twitch of impatience in his fingers, the moments where emotion trumped structure.
Jorren believed in structure because structure had saved him. Calder's teachings were more than method—they were law, scaffolding upon which chaos could be shaped into meaning.
And now this boy—no, this man, with old memories stitched into new ambition—challenged that law. Not openly. But through momentum. Through subtle defiance.
When he said, "Didn't know innovation required a permission slip," Jorren saw the cracks forming—not in Benedict, but in the Order.
He glanced upward. Calder still had not spoken. That, more than anything, unsettled him.
Lys Kelthorn's POV
Lys Kelthorn stood beside the other Deputy-aligned disciples, arms crossed lightly, eyes sharp. Her tail flicked once, betraying a flicker of irritation she didn't let reach her face.
She had no illusions about Benedict Ashcroft. To her Tiefling sensibilities—attuned to the weight of legacy and prejudice—Benedict's defiance wasn't just personal. It was political. Half-bloods who got too loud were often punished. She would know. Brilliant, yes. But brilliance untempered by structure was just another form of chaos. And chaos was the last thing their generation needed.
She had watched Benedict's rise carefully—each unauthorized design, each skirt around regulation, each clever retort. He thought Calder's silence was tolerance.
It wasn't.
Calder is watching, she thought. He always watches. But he rarely acts twice.
And when Calder did act… it was never arbitrary.
Lys's smile when she spoke to Benedict wasn't malicious. It was calculated, like the measured way Tieflings learned to disarm suspicion in a room full of humans and elves. It was a signal. To him. To Jorren. To everyone.
The Deputies were patient. Structured. Orderly.
But they were not passive.
Let him spark. Let him burn a little brighter.
If he gets too bright, we'll put him out.