A fine staff handle deserved a worthy staff head.
Eric could barely contain his excitement as he attached the enchanted focus gem to the polished Mallorn staff handle. The crystalline core shimmered faintly, amplifying his mana flow while reducing elemental consumption by ten percent. It was one of the most magically attuned materials known to wizards.
There was, of course, an even better option: the fabled Void Crystal. That one could reduce mana drain by twenty percent, though crafting it required knowledge of the Outer Realms—and that was a little beyond what most sane scholars ever attempted to learn.
The Outer Realms. A term whispered in ancient tomes, describing the world beyond all worlds.
Middle-earth, for all its wonder, was not sealed off from the greater cosmos. Far to the west, beyond the seas and the fading light of Valinor, ancient legends spoke of the Gate of Night. Through it lay the Void—a realm detached from time and existence itself. It was said to be the place where Morgoth had been cast out.
At least, according to the old songs.
The problem was, those same songs often confused "the Void" with "the heavens above." And while the Valar were powerful, Eric doubted they had the ability to toss anyone outside the entire universe.
Which meant Morgoth might not be rotting in the timeless abyss at all.
He could still be drifting somewhere in the cold, endless dark between the stars—quiet, hateful, and perhaps still plotting.
There was even a prophecy that one day, when the world weakened and the light dimmed, Morgoth would return to spark the final war of Arda.
And when that day came, he would not only face the Valar and the Maiar.
He would also have to deal with Eric.
But that was a problem for another time.
For now, Eric admired the staff in his hands. The Mylon wood was exceptional, its natural magic density allowing it to store up to 150 units of elemental energy—twice the capacity of his old staff.
It even came with a special trait: while within the borders of Lothlórien, the staff would automatically regenerate mana, provided its wielder was on good terms with the Lady's realm.
"Now that's what I call elven customer service," Eric murmured with a grin.
With improved endurance and faster recharge, all he needed next was a powerful Spell Core.
A staff core, after all, determined the spell bound to it. Each crystal stored a particular incantation, allowing the wielder to channel the staff's energy to cast that spell directly.
Radagast, the Brown Wizard, had such a core in his staff. His was mainly for healing and purification, though it occasionally let him blast enemies when irritated. Unfortunately, after years of exposure to the malevolent forces of Mirkwood, the poor thing had become as temperamental as a wet cat. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it just hissed and sparked for half a day.
"Next time I see him," Eric muttered, "I really should offer to fix that thing. Maybe install a proper surge protector."
The magical guidebook—Arcanum of the Magi—listed ten types of staff cores, each with unique properties.
The basics were: Fire, Frost, and Shock.
The Fire Core turned the staff into a portable flamethrower. Not quite Balrog-tier fire, more like "campfire that forgot its boundaries," but handy for lighting torches or cooking stew in the wild.
The Frost Core, however, was a letdown. Its ice bolts had the punch of a hobbit's snowball.
The Shock Core could summon lightning, but the bolts were embarrassingly thin—like a faulty machine wire sputtering sparks. You could probably fry a goblin with enough patience, but compared to Gandalf's lightning strikes, it was downright pitiful.
Then there was the infamous Primeval Core, supposedly brimming with raw, chaotic power. The manual even came with a warning note:
"Sometimes, it just hates you."
The Primeval Core was notoriously disobedient. Its projectiles would veer off course, hitting anything except the intended target. And if there were any of your own belongings nearby—like a chest, crafting table, or furnace—it would gleefully shoot those instead.
Useless. And worse, malicious.
Eric didn't even hesitate. "That one's going straight into the 'never again' box."
Among the more aggressive cores, his favorite was the Nine Hells Core.
When activated, it could summon fiery bats straight from the infernal planes. These "Hellflame Bats" pursued enemies relentlessly, occasionally bursting into small explosions like festive fireworks.
They weren't strong individually—barely five hit points each, with an attack strength of one—but they could swarm.
And swarms were glorious.
"One bat's a nuisance. A hundred's a tactical masterpiece," Eric said proudly.
They made for perfect harassment tools and aerial distractions, especially when one wanted to annoy an orc battalion without getting too close.
He crafted every core listed in the manual, even the useless ones.
"You never know," he said, fitting a Frost Core into a testing rod. "Could come in handy when chilling ale."
There were also functional, non-combat cores, such as the Portable Tunnel.
It could open a passage directly through stone or walls.
Sounds convenient, right?
Except it was also a safety hazard on par with juggling live creepers. Misfire once, and you could open a hole straight into a lava pool—or worse, someone's dining room in Minas Tirith.
Eric slapped a glowing red rune label on it: "Use only if you have a death wish."
After crafting every conventional core, two remained: The Curse of the Stonekin, which couldn't be obtained at all, and The Guardian Core, which was notoriously difficult to create.
The Guardian Core could cast a near-rule-level protection barrier on any object or location. Nothing short of divine intervention could break it. Only the creator could undo it—using the same staff that placed it.
Which led to one little problem.
If you ever happened to trap yourself inside your own barrier and lost your staff, congratulations. You'd just invented eternal imprisonment.
Eric shivered and promptly wrote "Forbidden. Do Not Use Indoors." next to it.
Still, he couldn't resist trying to make one. After all, a true wizard never skipped the shiny, dangerous options.
The recipe called for a Nether Star, a crystal born from the destruction of the Wither—a creature even stronger than the Ender Dragon.
"Sounds like fun," Eric said cheerfully. "I'll just go kill one."
A few days later, deep within a Nether fortress, he assembled the ritual. Three Wither Skeleton skulls were placed atop soul sand in the shape of a T.
Thump.
As the final skull clicked into place, a deep, echoing gong rolled across the fiery caverns of the Nether. The air shuddered. The temperature dropped. Something ancient stirred.
From the heart of chaos, the abomination awoke.
Three skeletal heads twisted toward him, eyes burning white with hatred. Its bones glowed faintly with deathlight, trailing black dust that reeked of decay.
The Wither was born.
According to The Legends of the Nether: Volume III, it existed for one purpose only—to destroy everything it could see. Man, beast, or its own summoner.
It howled, spewing skull-shaped projectiles that exploded on impact, leaving craters large enough to bury a wagon. Every creature it killed sprouted a single black rose, eerily beautiful and lethally poisonous. Anything that touched those roses would begin to rot where it stood.
Eric dodged a blast, swung his glowing sword, and brought it crashing down.
Bone cracked. Heads split. Light flared.
With one final roar, the creature fell from the air, smashing through a wall of Nether brick before dissolving into motes of dark flame.
The ground trembled. Then, silence.
"Wither, age unknown, perished in five minutes flat," Eric panted, wiping his forehead. "Good fight."
He munched on a golden apple, drank a bucket of milk to clear the lingering poison, and surveyed the mess.
"Note to self," he muttered, "always summon this thing underground. Less chance of it redecorating the Nether."
Amid the scorched ground, something gleamed faintly.
A small, radiant crystal hovered above the ashes, pure and white, glowing like a fragment of a fallen star.
The Nether Star.
Eric picked it up carefully, smiling.
"Now," he said softly, "let's make some real magic."