Kalagar S. Sully, his immortal-but-Level-0 body thrumming with the restless energy of the god-fish, snapped his broken spoon in two.
He was done.
His new, easy-going, five-month-cultivated attitude had found its absolute limit. That limit, it turned out, was an arrogant, demanding, celestial embassy of Dragon-Gods threatening to declare war on him before he'd even had his second cup of tea.
His new, perfect, divine-baritone voice was not loud. It was cold. It was the voice of a tenured professor who had just been interrupted by a loud, drunk fraternity.
"Elara," he said.
"Y-Yes, Master?" Elara was still on her knees, her [Akashic-Mandate] flickering in panic.
"You will tell Disciple Boro to open the front doors. Then, you will invite our guests in."
He turned and walked, not with his usual, hurried stalk, but with a slow, deliberate, annoyed stride down the spiral staircase of the pagoda.
"We shouldn't keep them waiting," he said, his voice echoing in the now-silent main hall.
His disciples snapped to attention. The air, which had been serene, was now so tense it felt like it might crackle. Boro, his face a grim mask, nodded to his golem, 'Cogsworth'. The massive, rune-scribed pagoda doors, which no mortal army could have scratched, swung open with a heavy, groaning thud.
In the clearing, framed by the perfect, sunlit morning, stood three beings.
They were not, Kalagar noted, literally dragons. They were, however, impressive.
They were in humanoid form, but their divine nature was obvious. The being in the center, clearly the leader, was nearly seven feet tall, his body encased in interlocking, golden scales that seemed to function as both skin and armor. His eyes were vertical slits of molten gold, and he radiated a palpable, shimmering heat. His two guards, one silver and one crimson, stood half a step behind him, their expressions locked in a permanent, arrogant sneer.
They did not kneel. They did not bow. They did not look afraid. They were Dragons, and in their minds, they were the First-Born, the pinnacle of all creation. They looked at the glowing pagoda, at the sentient Samsara Grove, and at the five disciples with open, dismissive contempt.
The disciples, for their part, were a coiled spring. Valerius's hand was on his hilt. Boro had (against all previous instructions) materialized his massive, rune-scribed war-hammer. Lila and Sylvie stood side-by-side, their combined silver-and-green aura flaring, causing the grass around their feet to sharpen into what looked suspiciously like spears.
The golden Dragon-Lord, Valerion, spoke. His voice was not a 'voice'. It was a deep, chest-vibrating boom, as if a mountain were clearing its throat.
"So. This is the 'Silent Peak'. The hovel of the 'Sage'. You have been summoned."
Kalagar S. Sully, who was now standing on his own front porch in a simple, clean tunic, his hands clasped behind his back, just looked at him.
He looked at the Dragon-God.
He looked at his five, bristling, god-level disciples.
He looked back at the Dragon-God.
He was, he realized, not afraid. He was not panicked.
He was, for the first time truly annoyed.
"Summoned," Kalagar repeated, his voice clear and academic, cutting through the Dragon's booming resonance. "That is an interesting choice of word. I believe you are the ones who just breached my wards. I believe you are standing, uninvited, on my lawn. And I know you are interrupting my morning."
He tilted his head, his 'easy-going' nature now a thin, brittle veneer over five months of pent-up, absurd, existential frustration.
"State your purpose," Kalagar said. "Clearly. And quickly. I am busy."
The cold, bored response was like a physical slap to the Dragon-Lord. They had come here expecting a cowering mortal, a terrified, rogue demigod, or a rival-power in a fortress. They had not expected a bored-looking school-teacher.
"Insolent mortal!" Valerion snarled. "You play-act at divinity, hiding behind your pets. You have stolen a Matriarch of the Phoenix-Moon! That is an act of war! You have imprisoned her, you are building an army, and the Dragon-God-Emperor demands you release the Phoenix and bow in supplication! Your life is forfeit!"
He had, in effect, just condemned Kalagar and his entire mountain to death.
Lila gasped. Boro took a step forward, his hammer glowing.
"Master!" Elara hissed, her voice tight with panic. "He is ignorant! He doesn't understand!"
"He dares" Valerius whispered, his knuckles white.
"Quiet," Kalagar said.
His disciples froze.
Kalagar looked at Valerion. He did not look angry. He did not look scared. He looked profoundly disappointed.
"Let me be absolutely clear," Kalagar said, his voice dropping into the exact 'Annoyed Professor' tone that his disciples knew, loved, and feared. "Because I loathe repeating myself.
One: I did not 'steal' anyone. She crashed. Right over there." He pointed at the crater, which was now filled with Sylvie's silver-trees. "She was dying. We helped her."
He gestured, not even turning his head, towards the main hall.
"Sparky? Are you a prisoner?"
From inside, on the fireplace mantel, the 'flaming-chicken' ('Sparky') looked up from where it was nestled against Sylvie's [Ash-Phoenix].
It chirped. A happy, melodic, bonfire-and-cat sound.
It ruffled its perfect, golden-orange flames.
It ignored the Dragon-Gods.
And it went right back to sleep.
Kalagar turned back to the embassy. "As you can see, she is deeply traumatized. Utterly broken by her 'imprisonment'."
The sarcasm was so dry, so absolute, that the Dragons, who had no concept of 'sarcasm', completely misinterpreted it as a terrifying threat.
"You you mock us?!" Valerion roared, his scales seeming to brighten with heat. "You have enslaved a Divine-Matriarch and reduced her to a house-pet?! This this is a desecration!"
"Two," Kalagar said, his voice cutting through the Dragon's rage like a (normal, iron) knife. "I am not 'building an army'. These are my students. They are learning philosophy. And whittling. Your 'intelligence', it seems, is severely lacking. Elara."
"Yes, Master?!"
"Make a note. Index: 'The Dragon-Gods'. Sub-heading: 'Fact-checking poor.' Conclusion: 'Dim-witted'."
"Yes, Master!" Elara squeaked, actually pulling out a piece of parchment and a charcoal pencil.
"You WILL" Valerion began, his hand moving to the hilt of his own sword, a massive, flame-wreathed greatsword that had just appeared on his back.
"Three," Kalagar said. His voice was now ice.
"I. Am. Busy. You are rude. You are loud. And you are wrong. You did not ask to speak. You did not inquire as to the situation. You breached my property, made demands, and shouted. Therefore you are bad guests."
He paused, letting the silence of the clearing settle. His disciples were, he noted, vibrating. They knew what was coming.
"And I" Kalagar S. Sully said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper
"do not suffer
"bad guests."
The Dragon-Lord sneered. He laughed.
"You think your mortals can stop us, little Sage? We are the First-Born! We are Dragons! We are Gods! Your lives end now!"
He and his two guards unleashed their aura.
It was not a 'feeling'. It was a *physical thing.
A crushing, physical wave of *heat, terror, and raw, arrogant, divine-power a Level 8 killing-intent washed over the clearing. The air shimmered. The 'singing-mushrooms' fainted.
Kalagar S. Sully did not even blink.
His new, immortal, Perfected Level 0 body was *completely, and utterly immune.
The 'divine-terror-aura' hit him and dissolved.
Like steam on cold glass.
Valerion's sneer faltered.
The mortal didn't flinch?
Kalagar just sighed.
"Disciples," he said, his voice calm, almost bored. "You have been very patient. You have been very quiet. But our 'guests' are insisting on knowing our 'intentions'. It seems rude not to show them."
He did not turn.
He just spoke.
"Valerius."
"Yes, Master." Valerius's voice was serene. He stepped forward.
"You are my 'landscape-editor'," Kalagar said. "These 'guests' are messing up the lawn. Their aura is wilting Lila's mushrooms. And frankly they are blocking the view."
He looked at Valerius.
"Please remove the 'not-mountain'."
Valerius smiled.
A *thin, cold, void-steel smile.
The Dragon-Ambassador scoffed. "A mortal swordsman dares"
Valerius did not draw his sword.
He lifted his hand.
He looked at the three Dragon-Gods.
He looked at the air around them.
He looked at the space they occupied.
He spoke.
"The Master has judged you
"'imprecise'."
And he un-zipped.
It was not a sound.
It was a feeling.
The *sound *of *a seam *being undone.
Zz-zz-zz-zz-zz-zz-zzZ-IIIIIPPP!
It was not a small cut.
It was a [Conceptual-Surgical-Extraction].
He did not attack them.
He attacked the SPACE *they occupied.
A *perfect, three-Dragon-God-shaped hole opened in reality.
The three Dragon-Gods froze.
Their flames were sucked into the void.
Their auras were eaten.
They *looked down.
They *were no longer standing *on Gaia.
They *were floating *in *a *silent *black nothingness.
Valerion gasped his *voice *sucked *into *the vacuum.
"'M-Mortal'"
Valerius closed *his hand.
ZZZ-IIIP.
The hole sealed.
The *three Dragon-Gods
were gone.
The clearing was silent.
The lawn was pristine.
Not a *blade *of *grass *is singed.
The singing-mushrooms perked *back up.
Kalagar S. Sully just stood there.
He looked at the (now-empty) spot.
"'Gone'?" he asked, his voice calm.
Valerius bowed, his face serene.
"Master. They are not 'gone'. They are elsewhere. In the 'not-here'. The 'in-between'. As you taught. They are un-harmed. But they are trapped. Between the seams of reality."
Kalagar processed this.
"'Trapped'."
"Yes, Master," Valerius said, his voice still serene. "They will remain 'trapped' until *they *learn *some manners."
Kalagar processed this further.
His disciple did not kill the Dragon-Gods.
He put them
*in *conceptual time-out.
Kalagar looked at Valerius.
He looked at his other (awe-struck, still-glowing) disciples.
He looked at his *quiet, peaceful pagoda.
His *new, easy-going nature
returned.
He sighed.
"Well," Kalagar said, his voice finally calm. "That is *very subtractive of you, Valerius. A *very *good 'not-bird'lesson."
He turned.
He walked back *up *the stairs.
"Elara," he called over his shoulder, his voice bored again. "Please index that the Dragon-Moon-Embassy is *temporarily un-staffed.
"And someone
"please
"bring me
"*a *hot *cup *of tea."
He *went *back *to whittling.
The Age of Man had *just conceptually-imprisoned *the Age of Dragons.
And Kalagar S. Sully
was annoyed
that *his *tea *was cold.