Blackstaff Tower, top floor.
The current holder of the Blackstaff, Vajra Safahr, stood before the massive floor-to-ceiling window. She was clad in a pitch-black magical leather robe and high leather boots, clutching in her hand the legendary artifact known as the "Blackstaff"—the symbol of protection over Liberl Port. Her gaze was grave, fixed on the mountains to the northwest.
She was the most legendary Blackstaff in history—not because she was a woman, nor because she had become a legendary spellcaster before reaching thirty and was exalted above all others, but because she was a tiefling.
A being whose veins ran with devil's blood—spawn of an evil race.
Though generations of mixed blood had left her outward appearance little different from an ordinary human—her light brown skin was hardly uncommon, her white hair simply a trait of the Sain in her bloodline, and even her crimson pupils could be disguised as a rare eye condition—there were two features she could never hide: the elegant honey-colored horns atop her head and the slender tail trailing behind her, forever marking her as a devil-cursed outcast.
Even in Liberl Port, that melting pot of races, Vajra was always looked down upon because of her heritage.
But born amidst garbage and squalor, she had never despaired. Instead, she had quickly proved her remarkable talent and indomitable will, rising up against the odds. While still young, she advanced to become a legendary mage, won the trust of the previous Open Lord, and was appointed as the youngest Blackstaff ever.
Many said that the prior Open Lord—removed for corruption and forced into exile—had chosen her for her youth and malleability.
But those mages who had once vied for the title of Blackstaff knew the truth. In the end, regardless of politics, the final—and most crucial—step, "acceptance by the Blackstaff itself," was a matter for the artifact alone. No one could interfere.
If the heirs failed to gain the staff's recognition, it would rather lie dormant and masterless than settle for an unworthy owner.
Thus, Vajra possessed exactly the strength and caliber befitting such a weapon.
Yet as a young woman in high office, Vajra had her own concerns. Ever since the former Open Lord's exile, and after Laeral Silverhand was installed as lord of the city by the unified petition of many powerful interests, Vajra had felt increasingly awkward in the post her predecessor had given her.
Rumors and doubts continued to swirl. While these whispers could not shake her authority, Vajra suspected that Laeral Silverhand was waiting for a single misstep—and that, the moment she failed, her position would be stripped away and another would be chosen as Blackstaff.
She had to be perfect.
Now, she knew that the Great Old One—Shudde M'ell, a flaw in the very order of things—had awakened. Its menace threatened not only the mountains and Liberl Port, but the very safety of the material world.
As the Blackstaff's bearer, she must resolve this crisis flawlessly, and prove to the world that she deserved every honor and every ounce of respect she had earned.
In the far distance, beneath clear skies, the mountain range began to quiver. Vajra's grip on the Blackstaff tightened. She understood: for a tremor visible from so far away, stretching across the leagues that separated her from the peaks, this disturbance could only mean one thing.
The terrifying Great Old One, Shudde M'ell, had appeared.
So be it. She would end its reign—here and now.
Drawing a deep breath, she swiftly incanted, layering upon herself the ninth-level spell "Foresight," granting her a fleeting glimpse into the future.
Next, she shielded herself with the archmage's exclusive ninth-level spell, "Invulnerability"—rendering herself, for a short time, immune to all harm.
Once those preparations were complete, she immediately cast the seventh-level spell "Teleport." A surge of light—and she was instantly transported a hundred miles away, soaring over the place in the mountains where the tremors were at their peak.
She summoned no allies—against a Great Old One, only she could stand.
There she hovered, high above, letting the winds whip her magical leather robe. Compared to the towering mountains below, she seemed a tiny speck—yet the power she could unleash rivaled that of a cataclysm.
She did not attack at once, but instead chose to add fuel to the fire. Stretching wide her arms as if to embrace the world, a flood of arcane energy surged from her body, and her lips unleashed a rapid-fire series of arcane words: "Earthquake—tremblement de terre—Erdbeben involviert sind!"
Eighth-level spell: Earthquake!
Boom—
A deeper, more terrifying tremor ripped through the land. In a heartbeat, the earth split wide; the thunderclap of shattering stone echoed far and wide—so loud that even distant Liberl Port could hear it clearly.
A cataclysmic surge of power ripped and tore at the ground, sending fissures winding across several kilometers of fractured mountainside. The broken crust revealed, for the first time, the cause of all this devastation.
It was a colossal, night-black Chthonian, magnified a hundredfold. Its body spanned nearly a kilometer in length, its head crowned with monstrous tentacles. Near the base of these tentacles, its skin peeled back, exposing eight huge disc-like eyes.
Its appearance was utterly grotesque—any creature lacking immense mental resilience would lose their mind at a single glance, their soul torn apart, dooming them to irredeemable madness.
That monstrous body writhed and rolled, transmitting seismic energy enough to level mountains. If it unleashed its full force, the entire material world might tremble.
Yet Vajra stood, cold and resolute, mind utterly unshaken. Instead, she was calmly forging her battle plan.
Despite the vast disparity in size—the tiny mage suspended in the air above, the behemoth squirming below—she did not falter. Raising her staff, she chanted again, loosing another eighth-level spell: "Tsunami!"
Tsunami!
A tidal mass of water appeared, conjured instantly from the nearby sea—Liberl Port's own coast providing ample source. In the sky above the mountains, millions of tons of icy seawater condensed into a massive column, plunging down to crash upon the earth!
Crash—!
In an instant, Shudde M'ell was submerged in cold salt water. Agony wracked its form, and its soul gave a silent shriek.
Even as a Great Old One, progenitor of the Chthonians, the incurable flaw at the heart of the material world, its hatred of water was a fatal weakness it could never escape.
But Vajra was not finished. After all, no true tsunami ends with a single wave.
Still cold and unwavering, the Blackstaff above continued to channel the spell. Again and again, millions of tons of water rained down, burying Shudde M'ell beneath roiling surf.
The water struck the Great Old One's body, whose temperature soared to thousands of degrees; instantly, the ice turned to steam, swirling upward as dense fog.
And when the vapor returned to the upper air, it swiftly reformed as thunderheads. Where once the mountains had basked in sunlight, now the skies blackened with storm.
Layer upon layer of clouds ground against each other, thunder rolling across the sky. Finally, as Vajra unleashed her sixth wave of the tsunami, ceaseless rain began to fall. The mountain range was deluged by torrents of water.
The rain lashed Shudde M'ell, sizzling to vapor—dense mist billowed upward, cloaking the battlefield. None could see what transpired beneath.
Yet still the aftershocks continued. The mountains splintered, the earth gaped, and with the unrelenting rain, a colossal mudslide thundered out to engulf the valleys.
Thunder, pouring rain, earthquake, and flood—together they brought the mountain range to the very edge of the world's end.
This was the aftermath of a battle between a legendary mage, artifact in hand, and a Great Old One. If not for her decision to choose a desolate, uninhabited field of war, thousands might have perished in the devastation.
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