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...
The passage of time crept slowly in Extreme Night City, where the perpetual darkness cast an almost tangible weight over its inhabitants.
Three long years had elapsed since Leylin departed from the academy, leaving behind the structured halls of learning, escaping from the academy wars for a life shrouded in mystery and power.
Now, at the age of seventeen, he had transformed into a young man whose very presence was an enigma—a figure both alluring and fearsome to those who whispered his name in the shadowed streets.
Viscount Jackson, the cunning ruler of this Extreme Night City domain, was no fool. Ever since the infamous incident in the Withering Woods, he had masterminded a brilliant deception. Feigning grave injury, he allowed rumors of his weakness to spread like wildfire beyond the city walls. His enemies, emboldened by the news, conspired in secret, gathering their forces for a decisive strike. But Jackson was ready. In a single, lightning-swift maneuver, he ambushed them all, severing their heads with ruthless precision.
The blood of his foes flowed freely, staining the moat crimson and sending a chilling message to all who might challenge him. Since that day, an eerie silence had settled over Extreme Night City, its citizens too wary to disturb the fragile peace.
The Viscount had made repeated attempts to draw Leylin into his inner circle, extending invitations laced with promises of alliance and favor.
Yet Leylin, wholly indifferent to Jackson's overtures, declined each one without hesitation. His focus remained elsewhere—consumed by the pursuits that defined his existence: tireless research, daring experiments, the study of intricate spells, the crafting of arcane runes, and the delicate art of alchemy.
Deep within the confines of his underground laboratory, Leylin stood hunched over a cluttered workbench, his nimble fingers tracing the surface of a slender wooden stick. The object resembled a wand, its form reminiscent of tools from a distant past life he could scarcely recall. (Image)
With meticulous care, he inscribed runes along its length, each symbol etched with purpose and precision. The air around him hummed faintly with latent energy, the wood drinking in the magic as though it were alive.
Leylin was a striking figure at seventeen. His skin bore a slight pallor, a testament to the countless hours spent in the dim glow of his laboratory rather than under the sun's fleeting rays. Yet this paleness only enhanced his extraordinary charm and handsomeness, lending him an almost ethereal quality.
His bright brown eyes, sharp and luminous, concealed a profound wisdom and an unshakable stillness, hinting at the depths of his intellect. Long, flowing brown hair cascaded past his shoulders, framing his face in soft waves. He wore a plain black robe adorned with subtle green designs, the simplicity of his attire belying the power he wielded. (Image)
In a past life, one he recalled vividly, Leylin—once known as Voldemort—had wielded wands for decades, commanding magic with unparalleled mastery. Now, in this strange new world, he sought to resurrect that legacy.
Though the spells and magical systems here diverged sharply from those he once knew, Leylin adapted. He modified the spell models he'd mastered at the academy, tailoring them to suit his ambitious vision.
Early attempts to stabilize rune inscriptions had faltered, his spiritual force depleting too quickly to sustain the process. But with his recent breakthrough to Level 3 acolyte, his capabilities had surged exponentially. Problems that once stymied him now unraveled with ease.
Leylin deduced that the interplay between heightened spiritual force and the inscription of mind runes subtly influenced a magus's intelligence and personality, sharpening his mind in ways he hadn't anticipated.
His studies had led him to the Lowian Teachings, an esoteric body of knowledge he dissected with relentless determination. After months of scrutiny, he cracked its core secrets, unlocking insights that fueled his latest creation.
*Bang*
A sudden movement broke his concentration. A sleek snake slithered into the room, its scales glinting in the flickering candlelight, its eyes gleaming with an uncanny intelligence.
Leylin smiled faintly and beckoned it closer. "Abigail," he called softly. The serpent coiled toward him, its tongue flickering as it neared his ear. (Image)
In the sibilant tones of Parseltongue, Abigail relayed its report: three of Leylin's experimental human specimens had perished, their frail bodies succumbing to his latest trials. Viscount Jackson, ever persistent, was attempting to bribe his way into the manor, seeking intelligence on Leylin's activities. Thus far, no one dared betray him. Abigail also hissed snippets of recent happenings beyond the manor's walls—mundane gossip and subtle shifts in the city's undercurrents.
Leylin kept Abigail as a companion, a creature he'd raised from a hatchling he purchased a few months ago. Though not formidable in strength, the snake excelled at surveillance, patrolling the manor's grounds and returning at intervals with tidbits of information.
Its presence was a comfort in the solitude of his subterranean domain, where he divided his time between the laboratory and a sparsely furnished rest room.
"Abigail," Leylin murmured, a spark of anticipation in his voice, "today we're going to witness something truly remarkable."
His gaze shifted to a table nearby, where a strange wand lay in quiet repose. It was a masterpiece, strikingly akin to the wands of the wizarding world he dimly remembered. (Image)
Crafted from rare Grimwine wood—a material so costly that Leylin had drained a significant portion of his fortune to acquire it—the wand bore an elegant simplicity. Its surface was adorned with delicate red and blue runes, interspersed with expensive jewels that caught the light and shimmered with a faint, otherworldly glow.
A satisfied expression softened Leylin's features as he regarded his creation. This was no mere trinket—it was a genuine magical artifact, synthesized according to the principles outlined in the Lowian Academy Teachings' section on artifact creation.
He had named it the Greed Wand, a low-grade magical treasure of rare dual nature: both offensive and defensive. Such versatility elevated its worth far beyond that of typical attack-oriented artifacts. Even an official Magus might covet it.
Two spells had been painstakingly inscribed into its core, their energies balanced within the wand's structure. Leylin had recognized the potential of such a tool from the moment he studied the materials and processes required. Though he'd failed repeatedly in earlier experiments, his resolve never wavered.
The wand addressed a critical weakness: while acolyte spells boasted devastating destructive power, their defensive capabilities remained woefully inadequate. Only official Magi, with their innate defensive spells and protective force fields, could claim true resilience. Acolytes, by contrast, were vulnerable to sudden ambushes—a lesson Leylin had learned watching his peers perish in the Withering Woods.
To craft the Greed Wand, Leylin had exhausted his reserves—smashing and grinding countless magic crystals into dust, blending them with rare ingredients he'd hoarded over the years. Months of trial and error followed, each failure refining his approach until he perfected the rune-crafting technique.
Now, the moment of completion has arrived. Leylin stepped toward the workbench, his movements deliberate and reverent. The wand rested atop a circle of chalk-drawn runes, its surface pulsing faintly with latent power.
He gathered a handful of ingredients from the shelves: powdered moonstone, shimmering phoenix ash, a vial of distilled nightshade essence, and a shard of obsidian imbued with shadow magic.
With a steady hand, he cast the ingredients into a shallow brazier at the table's edge. A plume of violet smoke billowed upward, filling the air with a sharp, metallic tang.
Leylin raised his hands, his voice low and resonant as he began the ritual incantation: "By the flames of dusk and the whispers of night, bind the runes, ignite the light." The brazier flared, its flames licking hungrily at the offerings.
He traced his fingers along the wand, channeling his spiritual force into the runes. They glowed brighter—red and blue hues intertwining—until a soft hum emanated from the wood.
Next, he drew a dagger from his robe and pricked his thumb, letting a single drop of blood fall onto the wand's tip. The droplet sizzled as it made contact, sinking into the Grimwine wood and sealing the bond between creator and creation.
The jewels pulsed once, twice, then steadied into a constant, radiant gleam. Leylin exhaled, a triumphant grin spreading across his face. The Greed Wand was complete.
He held the artifact aloft, feeling its power thrumming beneath his fingertips. With this wand, Leylin had bridged the magic of his past and present, forging a tool that would elevate him above his peers. In the shadowed depths of Magus World, his legend would only grow. (Image)
As Leylin was relishing the beauty of his creation, his chest pocket suddenly vibrated as a crow-like 'caw' sounded. Immediately Leylin's expression changed.
"News from the academy …."