Chapter 50
Archmagus Zalandar
Six months earlier…
Archmagus Zalandar stared through narrowed eyes at the documents littering his desk. More paperwork from Galactic Entertainment Corporation.
Rotas, incident reports, audit summaries, performance reviews…
How had it come to this? The most powerful man in the galaxy, reduced to little more than an office administrator.
When GEC had first approached him, many years before, and pitched the idea for Galaxy Showdown, it had felt like an incredible opportunity. What they’d asked of him was a challenge that excited him like nothing had in millennia.
A stat system. Time-looped pocket dimensions. Powerful magical items.
And beyond even that – a spell that could alter a living thing’s physiology, allowing it to push beyond the natural limits of its species.
Zalandar had thrown himself into the work, assembling a team of the galaxy’s finest magical minds to assist him. The work they did in the years that followed was revolutionary, pushing the bounds of the arcane beyond what was believed possible.
He had not done it purely for the love of magic, of course. GEC had offered him a twenty percent stake in the company for his contributions. At first, that had seemed fairly inconsequential. After all, who knew if the project would be a success? If it failed, he’d have been left with twenty percent of nothing.
Now that it was the most viewed show in the entire galaxy? Well, it was fair to say that he was an incredibly wealthy man. Perhaps that was why he continued to stay involved? A sense of duty to something that he had helped shape and mould.
He sighed and waved a hand lazily. The documents disappeared, filed away into a dimensional storage space. Out of sight, out of mind. He waved the hand again, a little more enthusiastically this time, and a bottle appeared. It looked like ordinary glass, but it was actually a specially sourced material reinforced by structural enchantments. Such a thing was necessary as the liquid it contained was incredibly… potent.
It was fluorescent green and bubbled violently, causing the bottle to tremble. It was the blood of a rare creature called a virelisk, found on the remote planet of Veltanon in Sector 186c. The liquid had many uses, most notably as an incredibly lethal poison. A single drop spilled into a vast lake would render the water uninhabitable for generations.
Zalandar removed the stopper and took a deep swig, wincing a little as the burning liquid travelled down his throat. Then he let out a deep sigh as he felt the numbing, blissful effect wash over his body.
One man’s poison was another man’s escape.
A small voice at the back of his mind expressed its concern that he was now drinking an incredibly potent poison on an almost daily basis to numb his boredom and dissatisfaction. It was quickly silenced by the fog descending over his thoughts.
Normally, at that point, he’d slump back in his chair and let his mind wander to a place where paperwork and responsibilities no longer weighed him down, but today was a special day – one that he still looked forward to each year.
Trialist Initiation Day.
There were three ways for a person to enter the Trials for Galaxy Showdown. The first, and by far the most common, was to buy a spot. It was generally royalty, nobility and powerful mercantile organisations bidding for them. Due to the limited availability, these slots were auctioned off, often reaching eye-watering sums.
Despite the risks involved, it was a price they were happy to pay. The potential benefits of qualifying for Galaxy Showdown were enormous. The removal of the limiter, the stat system, and the incredibly powerful items on offer presented staggering opportunities for growth – growth that would take centuries to achieve through conventional means. If someone were to reach the upper echelons of the competition, it was entirely reasonable to expect them to return home as a powerhouse in their Sector.
The second way to earn a place in the Trial was to prove oneself worthy. GEC was always on the lookout for those who might capture the audience’s imagination – individuals building a reputation or gaining renown for some particularly impressive feat.
Audiences always loved a good backstory, and Trialists in this group were far more likely to offer one than a run-of-the-mill noble. Zalandar had to admit that, on occasion, he found them interesting too – underdogs from humble beginnings who had managed to make a name for themselves despite lacking the wealth and connections that so many others took for granted.
It was the third group, however, that always made him look forward to Trialist Initiation Day.
The Salvaged.
Those individuals with no awareness of Galaxy Showdown, ripped from their Infant planets in the moments before their death. Their reactions always fascinated him. They woke up in an alien place, greeted by a floating robot and told a fantastical tale of a galaxy-wide gameshow with magic and monsters.
In most cases, one of two things would happen.
Their minds would break, unable to come to terms with the new reality in which they found themselves. Or their lack of experience would lead to an uneventful, underwhelming performance. They’d either finish near the bottom of the leaderboard or become the unfortunate victim of someone looking to qualify through kill score.
On rare occasions, one of the Salvaged would defy the odds and reach great heights. Zalandar had never quite figured out what it was that underpinned their success. Those who came from primitive, war-torn planets would often be well-equipped to deal with the more brutal aspects of the competition, but they generally lacked the cunning and social manoeuvring that was required to find real success. Those from more advanced, cultured societies suffered for the opposite reasons. They could not shake loose the shackles of morality when violence was called for.
It was the planets that fell somewhere between the two that would sometimes produce exceptional contestants – planets whose inhabitants were no strangers to war or violence, yet still understood the nuances of power and influence, of strategy and diplomacy.
On Trialist Initiation Day, Zalandar would identify those who originated from such a planet and observe their initial reaction and decision making during the first few days. Over the years, he had grown increasingly effective at predicting a Trialist’s success in the competition based on that small window of time.
He took another deep swig from the bottle and then rose unsteadily to his feet. For a brief moment, he considered the wisdom of performing complex magic while heavily inebriated.
The thought elicited a dismissive scoff. He was the great and powerful Archmagus Zalandar. What could possibly go wrong?
Leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes, his breathing slowed until it settled into a steady and measured rhythm.
He cast an astral projection spell, his consciousness pulling free of his physical body. His astral form hovered for a moment, adjusting to the disorienting sensation of being untethered from flesh.
And then he teleported…
*
There were two hundred and forty-seven Salvaged Zalandar considered worthy of attention. The initiations were staggered over the course of a day, meaning he had to keep moving if he wanted to get a sense of their initial reactions to their new reality.
He moved from location to location, a spectral observer unnoticed by those he watched. As to be expected, most were unremarkable, but there were several he noted as worthy of further consideration. Once he had finished his initial cycle, he would return to assess their decision making during the first few days.
“Was that supposed to be a question? You know, I have had the misfortune of dealing with many of your kind over the years, but you are the most idiotic by far. I am half tempted to contact the Overseer and let him know we have a defective candidate.”
Zalandar’s spectral eyes widened.
An Initiation Guide being rude to a Trialist? Clearly, the robot was malfunctioning. He briefly considered reporting the issue, but quickly dismissed the thought. The Guides fell under the purview of the technological department. Knowing his luck, Zalandar would raise a complaint and GEC’s solution would be to task him with finding an arcane fix for the Initiation Process.
“Now that wasn’t so hard, was it? I might be ‘the most idiotic by far’, but at least I listened when my mom told me that being polite costs nothing.”
Zalandar felt his lips twitch. Now this was an interesting Trialist. Faced with the reality of waking in an alien world and being greeted by a talking robot, most of the Salvaged were dazed and barely able to form a coherent thought.
This one?
He was trading insults with it.
Zalandar continued to observe the back and forth, finding himself liking the Trialist more and more with each exchange. How the man would perform in the competition was still entirely uncertain, but it was impossible to deny that he was entertaining.
“I think that just about covers everything. You will find all you need to get started in this cabin. There is a year’s supply of food in the cupboards over there, and there are some basic survival tools on the table.”
It most certainly did not cover everything. Zalandar almost intervened at that moment. It was not his place, but the injustice of it infuriated him. Being one of the Salvaged was challenging enough without receiving such an abysmal introduction to the competition.
Unlike Trialists who arrived already familiar with Galaxy Showdown, the Salvaged were supposed to receive a more in-depth initiation, with the guides accompanying them for a little longer if necessary.
No.
For now, he would keep an eye on the Trialist over the first few days and only step in if he felt it necessary. Zalandar had to admit he was very curious to see how the man would approach the situation with such an utter lack of knowledge.
*
Zalandar returned to find the man…
Cutting wood.
Again.
As the Trialist swung the axe, his smile never faded. It was a smile that held equal part quiet contentment and something disturbingly enthusiastic.
Every one of the other Salvaged Zalandar had chosen to observe had already set out into the wider world to explore and seek opportunities. A few had even encountered their first monster. In most cases, it had not ended well.
He summoned his admin interface, accessible even in his astral form.
Peter Brookes?
What a peculiar individual.
His eyes widened when he saw the man had already gained two points in strength. Peter must have been cutting wood without pause for the entire four hours Zalandar had spent checking in on the other Trialists.
Zalandar was still not sure what to make of him. The exchange with the robot had been thoroughly enjoyable, and it was undeniable that, in the short term, choosing to grind strength through such mundane means as chopping wood could be beneficial.
However, if he kept it up for too long, he would quickly fall behind in the other stats. There would also be a limit to how long cutting trees remained effective. Eventually, his strength would grow to the point where the trees offered no resistance.
*
Over the first week of the Trial, Zalandar quickly settled into a new routine. He’d complete his duties, return to his office with strict instructions not to be disturbed, take several deep swigs of virelisk blood, and then cast an astral projection spell to observe the Trialists he deemed worthy of attention.
He found himself spending more and more time observing Peter Brookes. At first, Zalandar believed the man to be a fool. An entertaining one, certainly, but a fool nonetheless. Every day, from sunrise to sunset, Peter hacked away at tree after tree, that satisfied smile never leaving his face.
The only time he showed any sign of displeasure was when he ate his daily Nutri-All bar. Zalandar could understand that. Although incredibly effective from a nutritional standpoint, the green sludge bars were far from appealing.
However, as the week progressed, he found himself increasingly drawn to the man.
For a long time, Zalandar had found little satisfaction in anything. His pursuit of it had driven him to ever greater heights of power, pushing the boundaries of magic itself. He had cultivated great wealth, power, and renown. Yet, the pride and fulfilment it brought was always shallow and fleeting.
Peter Brookes, on the other hand, seemed to find genuine pleasure in the simplest of tasks.
Zalandar couldn’t help but feel a flicker of jealousy. The man was taking his first steps on a grand adventure, free from the weight of responsibility. Two years of challenge and discovery, new and exciting, awaited him. What he needed was a little guidance.
Wait…
Why couldn’t Zalandar be the one to give it?
He felt his excitement grow as he considered the possibilities. Would he go there as Archmagus Zalandar? No. There’d be no fun in that. He would be too powerful, too recognisable. If he wanted the experience to offer any real enjoyment or challenge, he’d need to impose some restrictions.
There was one possibility, but it was somewhat… unethical.
He could possess the body of one of the Trialists.
Yes, that could work… he would retain his knowledge and understanding, but be bound by the limitations of his host’s body.
Zalandar did not have stats. Instead, his power had been accrued through conventional means – namely millenia of training, study and conditioning. If he were to put his power into the context of the intelligence stat in Galaxy Showdown, it would be in the thousands.
To inhabit a body with an intelligence of one and start from the bottom? That sounded rather fun, actually.
The ethical concerns were worryingly easy to brush aside. He would inhabit the body for two years – one for the Trial and one for Galaxy Showdown – and then allow its former owner to resume control, retaining all the power and items earned during that time. And with Zalandar captaining the ship? There was a very real possibility that the man would win the entire competition. Monarchs would bankrupt their kingdoms for such an opportunity.
Oh, yes. This could work very well indeed.
Decision made, Zalandar returned to his body.
Preparations awaited…
*
First, as much as Zalandar despised the noose of responsibility GEC had placed around his neck, he was not one to shirk his duties.
He contacted his second-in-command, Aurezium, and informed him that he would be in charge for some time. Zalandar was not honest about the reasons, of course – he claimed he was leaving the galaxy in search of new inspiration and ideas, and couldn’t guarantee when he’d return.
Next, preparations needed to be made to preserve his body. For this, he converted his ritual room into a stasis chamber. It would hold his body in perfect suspension, immune to the effects of time or decay.
As Peter seemed to be so fixated on chopping down trees, Zalandar figured he would arrive bearing a gift. He travelled to the Trial Zone and cast a hardening enchantment over a small area of forest near Peter’s cabin. The trees affected would become significantly more durable, allowing Peter to reach thirty strength before the training method became ineffective.
Finally, the spell of possession…
Zalandar strode back and forth across his chamber, occasionally pausing to study the large rune formation of pulsing blue arcane energy hovering in the air. With a casual wave of his hand, the composition shifted slightly, altering the effects and flow of power.
He drank deeply from his bottle of virelisk poison and set it down unsteadily on his desk. His vision swam, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to focus on the construction of the spell.
As he shook his head and tried to focus his thoughts, he briefly considered delaying the project and returning to it when he could think more clearly.
Instead, he took another deep swig.
There was no possibility of turning back now. He had not felt this excited since he’d first started working on the projects for GEC.
Examining the spell formation once more, he grinned. It was ready. His astral form would be teleported to Peter Brookes’ location, and from there travel towards its intended target. He’d found a Trialist who was less than a day’s walk away. They were a Skazziun - a humanoid, reptilian species with a natural affinity for magic. They would be the perfect host for what Zalandar intended.
He picked up the bottle and downed the last of its contents.
It was time.
He half walked, half stumbled to his ritual chamber. In the centre of the room – surrounded by a circle of complex runes carved into the stone of the floor – was a simple bed. He lay down, closed his eyes and took several deep breaths, trying to steady the turbulence of his drunken mind. Then he cast his astral projection spell and left his physical form behind.
For a few moments, he gazed upon his body. His eyes were closed, his face fixed in the slack, peaceful expression of deep sleep. It was a strange thought that it could potentially be two years before he was once again… him.
He returned to his office, studying the spell’s formation once more. It was becoming increasingly difficult to focus. His thoughts felt hazy, like he was trying to hold onto smoke.
Summoning his staff from his dimensional storage space, he held it out before him. The rational part of him – now relegated to a tiny corner of his mind – raised the alarm. His vision was so blurry it looked like he was holding three staffs: one solid, the others two vague outlines.
He activated the spell.
A surge of elation filled him as he appeared in the forest beside the cabin he now recognised so well. His astral form began to drift, not through his control, but guided by the locational magic woven into the spell.
He picked up speed as he moved towards his target.
Despite the haziness of his thoughts, he quickly realised something was wrong. The life force of the vessel he was locked onto felt… wrong.
It was not a Skazziun.
Zalandar’s spectral eyes widened when the spell’s target came into view.
It was a squirrel.
As the distance between them closed, Zalandar attempted desperately to abort the spell, but he couldn’t sever the connection. His thoughts were too scattered. He didn’t have the focus to pick apart the threads that would send his astral form hurtling back to the safety of his office.
He let out a resigned sigh, two thoughts circling his mind. What would happen if his consciousness was transplanted into a squirrel? Could the creature’s limited intellectual capacity cope with such an overwhelming surge of awareness?
Or would both of their minds be lost in the process?
Archmagus Zalandar, the greatest magical mind in the galaxy, dying as a result of attempting to possess a squirrel…
He wasn’t sure whether to laugh or weep.
Maybe he should have listened to the small voice suggesting it might not be the wisest idea to perform complex spells while so outrageously drunk.
Fuck.