She'd select her challenges carefully, crafted from millennia of experience. She'd find the weak points in his knowledge, exploit gaps in his understanding. Whatever rules governed this game, she'd know them intimately. He'd be playing a master's game as a novice.
And if he just... left?
The portal was right there. The dryads could activate it. His friends would die, yes, but hadn't he already demonstrated his willingness to accept that?
The stakes were high. The future of worlds hung in the balance.
Wasn't sacrificing four lives mathematically justifiable? Cruel calculus, but calculus nonetheless.
Why had he even returned to this world? To live. To experience the life he'd been denied. To taste freedom after a lifetime of confinement. When would it end, this constant stream of crises and challenges? When would he be allowed to simply exist without the weight of fate pressing down on him?
The egg pulsed in his hand, warm and insistent. The phoenix within, unborn but aware, seemed to sense his turmoil.
Adom chuckled softly, surprising himself. The sound drew curious glances from the Cyrel.
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Cold pragmatism just wasn't his style. Never had been, even when it should have been. He'd made choices against his own self-interest before. Why should this one be any different?
"May I confer with my companions?" Adom asked.
The witch studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Of course. But do not waste too much time. My blade grows impatient." She gestured toward Bob, who was still kneeling with blood trickling down his neck.
Adom retreated deeper into the cave, gathering the dryads around him. Their leaves rustled with agitation.
"Is what she says true?" he asked quietly. "About this War of Tongues being binding?"
Daphne, the silver-birch dryad, nodded. "It is the First Magic—Deep Magic."
"Even she cannot break its bindings," the smallest dryad added. "The magic itself would punish her."
"The game is ancient," the third dryad said. "From before my kind took root in the world."
Adom rubbed his temples. "Do you think I can win this?"
The dryads exchanged glances. There was no reassurance in their expressions, only concern.
"Do you believe you can?" Daphne asked instead.
Adom considered the question honestly.
There was a long pause.
Then:
"No," he admitted. "Probably not. She's had thousands of years to master this game. But... I can try."
Zuni scurried up to his shoulder, eyes twitching nervously. "And what if you lose, might I inquire? Have you considered the ramifications of surrendering yourself—and by extension, the rather substantial power you're developing—to a being who transforms creatures into monsters for sport?"
Adom glanced back toward the cave entrance, where his companions knelt in chains. Doubt gnawed at him. The probability of loss was high. Dangerously high.
But if he was being honest with himself, he'd made his decision the moment he saw their faces.
"Sometimes the only choices we have are bad ones," he said finally. "But we still have to choose."
He stood, brushing dust from his clothes. The dryads parted as he walked toward the cave entrance, where Cyrel stood rigidly, locked in a silent stare-down with her mother. The two had been eyeing each other ever since the witch's arrival, neither willing to be the first to look away.
Adom stepped beside Cyrel. "I accept your challenge," he called out.
The witch's gaze shifted to him, her lips curving into a smile. "Excellent." She extended one pale hand across the barrier. "Take my hand to seal the agreement."
Adom hesitated. Reaching beyond the barrier meant exposing himself to whatever magic she might wield.
"The binding is already in effect," she said, noting his reluctance. "You may reach out without fear."
He turned to the dryads, who nodded reluctantly. Cyrel's mental voice pushed into his consciousness: "Be careful."
"Here," he said, trying to hand the egg to Cyrel. "Hold this for me."
As she took it, the flames flared suddenly. Cyrel gasped, jerking her hand back. A small burn mark appeared on her palm.
The witch winced, a flash of concern crossing her face. "Careful with her," she snapped, her composure slipping for the first time.
"I'm sorry," Adom said quickly. "I didn't know it would—"
"It's fine," Cyrel interrupted, her mental voice steady despite the pain evident in her eyes.
Adom placed the egg carefully on the ground, flames dancing harmlessly around his fingers as he withdrew his hand. He straightened, facing the witch once more.
Her hand remained extended, just beyond the barrier. With a deep breath, Adom reached out.
The moment their fingers touched, everything changed.
Mana—pure, unfiltered magical energy—burst into visibility around them. Not just visible but tangible, audible, a living presence that filled the space between realms. It swirled in complex patterns, colors he'd never seen before and couldn't name, forming shapes that seemed to fold in on themselves in impossible geometries.
And it spoke.
Not in words, exactly, but in a strange chorus that he couldn't quite make out.
Adom stared, fascinated.
Mages had theorized for centuries that mana might be semi-sentient, that magic itself might possess a form of consciousness. But it had never been proven. It was considered fringe science, the kind of speculation that serious academics dismissed.
Yet here it was.
Adom struggled to find his voice. "What... what are they?"
"The Voices of Creation," The witch replied. "The First Speakers."
Adom couldn't tear his eyes away from the swirling patterns. "What are they saying?"
"They're establishing the binding," she replied. "Setting the terms of our agreement." She smiled at his obvious fascination. "Humans typically can't comprehend the language of raw magic. Yet here you are, straining to understand it like a child hearing music for the first time."
The mana continued to dance around them, voices rising and falling in rhythmic patterns. Adom felt like he was standing at the edge of an enormous discovery, tantalizingly close to understanding something fundamental about how magic worked.
Think. Think.
He took a slow step forward, trying to steady himself.
"I am the rain."
The shift was immediate.
A crack of thunder. A downpour so sudden it shocked his skin. Cool water poured from nowhere and soaked the ground beneath his feet, carving into the sand. The air changed—wet, alive, full of scent.
"I am the quenching. The balm. The change. I fall, and what was dead drinks. What was forgotten blooms. I end drought. I restore."
He could breathe again. Just barely.
Seraphine gave him a look. Not angry. Interested.
She raised a hand.
"I am the sea."
The floor dropped.
Adom flailed as water engulfed him. Cold. Deep. Endless. There was no surface, no bottom. Just currents pulling in every direction. Pressure built around his skull. Something vast passed in the distance.
"I am pressure. I am depth. I am ancient memory that drowns the present. I do not forgive. I do not rise. I swallow."
He kicked upward, blind. His chest screamed. No air. No light. Just salt and weight and her voice, unbothered.
Panic clawed at his throat.
Then he focused. Sharpened the thought.
"I am the storm."
Crack.
Lightning split the water. The current reversed. Wind churned the sea into chaos. He rose with it, flung upward through thunder and foam until he landed—somewhere—on wet, broken stone.
His breath came back in ragged gasps.
"I am upheaval," he said. "The sky that strikes. The wave that crashes. The answer to depths that thought themselves eternal."
Seraphine tilted her head.
"You are learning."
She moved again. This time slower.
"Do you wish to surrender?"
Adom spat seawater and wiped his eyes. "No."
"You should."
She smiled like someone watching a child try to walk on fire.
"I am time."
He felt it.
His body aged. His scars returned. His limbs ached. Hair grayed. Skin thinned. Everything slowed. The world dulled, and the edges frayed.
"I am the erosion of certainty. The reason your heroes crumble and your stories end. I make ruins. I make ash."
He knelt.
It was hard to think. Memories blurred.
Then something sparked.
Not defiance. Something deeper.
"I am memory," he said through cracked lips.
Warmth flooded in.
Not fire—familiarity. A scent. A voice. His mother’s laugh. Zuni’s tiny grip. The first time he saw fire dance under his palm.
"I am the story remembered. The name repeated. The lesson carried forward. I hold the past, and I pass it on. You do not erase me."
He stood.
And the wrinkles faded.
Seraphine narrowed her eyes. She didn’t smile this time.
Her next step sent a pulse through the circle.
"I am despair."
The light died.
No storm. No sea. No time.
Just a void.
Adom’s knees hit something. He didn’t know what. There was no floor. No cave. Nothing but a crushing, hollow silence. Like the air had forgotten sound. Like the world had moved on and left him behind.
"I am the breath you don’t take. The hand that doesn’t reach back. The end of trying. I end will. I end meaning."
He didn’t want to move.
Didn’t want to speak.
Didn’t even want to think.
But he heard something.
A rhythm.
The egg’s pulse.
Not a beat. A choice.
He clenched his teeth.
"I am hope."
The void cracked. Not shattered—cracked.
A thin line of light broke through the dark.
"I am the reason you stand up again. The hand in the rubble. The fire under the ash. I don’t deny endings. I survive them."
The world returned, piece by piece.
Seraphine stared at him. Her expression had changed.
She looked almost... irritated.
"You are too young to mean those words."
"And you’re too old to remember what they cost."
She stepped forward again. Last time, maybe.
She raised her hand.
"I am death."
It wasn’t dramatic.
It was quiet.
Things withered. The air. The walls. Even color faded. Adom felt something brush past him—cold, absolute, patient.
"I am the silence after. The truth beneath all others. I do not rage. I do not beg. I wait. I win."
And Adom felt it.
He was going to die.
No spell. No will. Just... done.
He dropped.
On hands and knees. Vision flickering.
The mana pressed in. Watching. Waiting.
He didn’t want to lie.
Didn’t want to cheat.
But there was still something inside him. Still something breathing.
He looked up.
And he thought about what Daphne had asked him before the duel began:
Do you believe you can?
At the time, he’d said no.
Not because he lacked courage. Or even resolve.
But because that question, in the current context, had reached deeper than she probably realized. Deeper than tactics or confidence.
Words had power here. Literal, world-breaking power. The rules were cruelly simple: speak a truth. Something fundamental. Something that is. And the other must answer with something truer. Bigger. Stronger.
If someone asked you, truly, who are you? Most people would say their name. Maybe their job. Their history. Some titles they wore like armor.
But in this place, those were surface. Names were keys, not answers.
If you had to name yourself as a concept—what would you be worth?
That’s what had lingered. That’s why, when he asked Seraphine to accept the added rule about self-declaration, he wasn’t playing a trick. He was… trying something. Testing a question the answer of which he wasn't sure about yet.
He knew he’d end up backed into a corner—trapped, outmatched, unsure of the next move.
Seraphine has existed for millennia. She's witnessed civilizations rise and fall, had probably participated in countless such duels, and possessed knowledge of concepts, forces, and entities that Adom couldn't even imagine.
In a straightforward exchange of cosmic truths, he would inevitably reach a point where she would name something so ancient or obscure that he would have no frame of reference to counter it.
He knew all that even before accepting the challenge.
So, he decided to try the one thing she might not know the full weight of.
The one thing he didn’t fully understand either.
Himself.
He stood.
His voice cracked—but held.
"I am Adom."
The world shook.
The mana flared.
It reacted—not with obedience, but recognition. It pulled back from Seraphine. It surged toward him.
He didn’t stop.
"I am the one who died and came back. I am the one who begged, who broke, who clawed. I am pain that learned to walk."
Seraphine’s mouth parted slightly.
The circle dimmed.
"I am the second chance that keeps paying. I am the hand that wouldn’t let go. I am the burn, and I am the healing."
The light turned gold. The ground shifted. The air vibrated.
"I am Rebirth," he said. "I am the spark that comes after ash. The shape after ruin. The meaning after loss. I am not the end of anything. I am what begins again."
Adom took another step. The mana rose with him.
"I am human resilience," he continued. "The will to keep moving forward when everything says stop. I am the persistence that outlasts despair. The hunger to make meaning even in ruin."
The mana expanded. So did he.
Not physically, not really. But in the arena of Deep Magic, where meaning shaped matter, Adom grew. Larger. Brighter. He began to tower. His shape bled into the edges of the arena. His shadow became light.
Seraphine blinked, once.
He kept going.
And as he spoke, something inside him clicked. He wasn’t reciting a list. He was discovering it. One layer at a time. The more he said, the more he understood. Not felt. Understood. Logically. Precisely. This is what I am. This is what I have always been.
He took another step.
"I am Adom Sylla. I was nothing. I became. I am still becoming."
Seraphine didn’t flinch.
She stepped forward and straightened to her full height—not just physically, but in presence. In assertion. In identity.
Her voice was calm. Crisp. No tremor, no plea.
“I am Seraphine of the Neth’ir,” she said.
And she began to grow.
“I am dominion.”
Her feet anchored into the stone. Her limbs lengthened, posture sharpening into elegance. Her robe peeled away like shed skin, replaced by something sleek and segmented.
“I am metamorphosis,” she continued. “I am adaptation given direction. The cutting edge of necessity. I am the instinct that survives and improves and survives again.”
Her shoulders broadened. Spines curved along her arms. Horns. Wings. Something behind her unfolded with a sound like breaking metal.
“I am the wisdom of things that live long enough to watch gods die,” she said. “I am the mind that innovates, iterates, endures. I am the law that rewrites itself when the old words stop being useful.”
Now she towered. Her shadow stretched across the floor. Her eyes glowed sharp.
“I am the shape things are meant to take,” she said.
And then her voice hit a snag.
“I am…”
Silence.
Her mouth stayed open a beat longer than she meant to. The words weren’t there.
Not because she was finished. But because there was no more.
She was huge now. She filled the space. Towered over everything. Her shadow reached Adom’s feet.
And still, she had to look up.
Because he hadn’t moved. Hadn’t flared. Hadn’t risen.
He was simply there—still, and somehow unmistakably above her. As if reality itself had redrawn its center around him and forgotten to notify her.
He wasn’t casting weight. He was weight. Dense. Unyielding.
She had climbed to the top of her truth. She was everything she had ever been, every sharpened part of herself laid bare and burning.
And yet she was still standing in someone else's shadow.
Seraphine gasped.
Yes. She had grown into everything she was.
And he hadn’t even begun.
That’s when she understood.
And the silence between them said it for her.
Plainly.
Unforgivingly.
She was not the greater truth.
Not here. Not now.
Not against him.
The game didn’t end with a scream.
It ended with silence.
Then the circle dissolved.
And Seraphine lowered her eyes.
The world snapped back into focus.
Adom was standing outside the cave now, just beyond the barrier. He didn't remember stepping through it. The transition had been seamless—one moment in the formless arena of the War of Tongues, the next back in the physical world.
Seraphine stood motionless before him, staring into nothing. Her face was blank, eyes unfocused, as if she were looking at something a thousand miles away.
"What happened?" Bob whispered, eyes darting between them. His mouth was free again, though blood still stained his collar.
Thorgen was struggling against his chains, face twisted in confusion. Zara's eyes were wide with alarm. Artun kept shaking his head, mouthing something that looked like "get back."
None of them had seen what happened in the duel. They'd only witnessed Adom step through the barrier and take the witch's hand—then both of them had gone utterly still for several minutes.
"Seraphine," Adom said.
She didn't respond. Didn't even blink.
"Seraphine," he repeated, louder this time.
She inhaled sharply, as if surfacing from deep water. Her eyes refocused, settling on his face with newfound intensity.
"I won," Adom said. "We had a deal."
The centaurs and trolls shifted uneasily. The shadow creatures exchanged glances, uncertain what to do. Silence stretched across the clearing.
"You... won?" Bob managed, voice cracking. Thorgen's mouth fell open. Zara's eyes narrowed in disbelief.
Seraphine said nothing for a long while. She just looked at him, her expression unreadable.
"How did I not see this?" she finally muttered, so quietly Adom barely caught it despite standing right in front of her.
Adom had a hundred questions. A thousand. But his friends' lives took priority.
"Our agreement," he pressed. "Honor it."
Seraphine lifted her gaze to the night sky. The moonlight caught her features, turning them to marble. She inhaled deeply.
Adom's mind raced suddenly. What if she refused? Would the binding force her compliance? What if she decided that death was preferable to defeat—and chose to take them all with her? What if—
"Release them," Seraphine said.
The command was flat, emotionless. But the effect was immediate.
The creatures moved forward. Chains fell away. The prisoners staggered as they were suddenly freed, stumbling toward the cave entrance.
"Go!" Artun shouted, grabbing Adom's arm as he passed. "Don't just stand there!"
"Let's move," Zara added, limping but determined.
Thorgen didn't speak—just seized Adom's other arm with his remaining hand and pulled.
Bob was already at the cave entrance, waving frantically. "The portal! Get the portal ready!"
The dryads were moving inside, gathering around the apple tree. Daphne placed her hands on the trunk, murmuring words that made the bark glow faintly.
Adom glanced back. Seraphine hadn't moved. She stood like a statue among her army of transformed creatures, watching him with that same unsettling, detached expression. Whatever existential crisis she was experiencing, she was experiencing it privately.
He bent down and scooped up the phoenix egg. It pulsed warmly against his palm, as if greeting him.
The apple tree's trunk split open, revealing a shimmering doorway of golden light.
"Go, go!" Bob urged, practically shoving Zara through the portal. Thorgen followed, then Artun, then the smallest dryad.
Cyrel hesitated at the threshold, looking back at her mother one last time. Their eyes met across the distance. Something unspoken passed between them. Then Cyrel turned and stepped through.
Daphne followed, leaving only Adom and Zuni.
"That's our cue, my friend," Zuni said, biting at Adom's ankle. "Fascinating as this interaction has been, I'd rather not overstay our welcome."
Adom nodded, but found himself taking one last look at Seraphine. Their eyes locked. For a moment, he thought she might speak again. Say something profound or threatening. But she remained silent, watching him with those ancient, knowing eyes.
Adom stepped through the shimmering doorway, the egg clutched tightly to his chest.
The last thing he saw before the golden light enveloped him was Seraphine, still standing alone among her army, her face tilted slightly upward—as if listening to something no one else could hear.