The evening sun cast long, orange shadows into the loft. The café was closed, the building quiet save for the feverish, hushed argument taking place on the second floor. Zero and One were at the peak of their "thesis," their two-week-long obsessive dive into the Abyssal tomes. The floor and walls were covered in notes, diagrams, and cross-references.
"It's a tool, Zero, not the source!" One argued, his voice a frustrated whisper as he used a single, glowing Abyssal string to spin a spoon on the table. "It's a high-level language used to interpret existing magical systems!"
"You're wrong! It's the only source!" Zero shot back, his own Weaving string lashing out to snatch the spoon from One's control and spin it in the opposite direction. "The Elementalism you're citing, the runic magic—it's all just a diluted, regional dialect of this one, pure, fundamental language!"
"Dialect?! It's a compiler!" One insisted, snatching the spoon back. "The Concord's system is based on intent and chants. It's a high-level code. Abyssal Weaving is just the assembly language that interacts with the 'hardware' of the universe! It's derived!"
"You're blinded by your own hypothesis! The runic system proves it—"
"Okay! OKAY! ENOUGH!" Legolas's voice cut through the argument like a sharp, elven blade. He slammed his hand down on the table, breaking both of their concentration. The spoon, released from their magical tug-of-war, clattered loudly to the floor. "You both need to calm down."
Zero and One, breathing heavily, glared at each other, the energy of their argument still crackling in the air.
"Alright," Legolas said, rubbing his temples. "From the top. Without any shouting. Explain your findings... to me. If you talk to each other again, you'll be at each other's throats. Zero. You first. Talk."
Zero took a deep, steadying breath, his focus shifting from his clone to his elven brother. "My findings are clear," he began, his voice taking on a measured, professorial tone. "I've cross-referenced the Weaving with the magical systems we know. Look at the Sunstone Observatory's fire magic or the Edda Watchtower's ice magic. They call it 'Elementalism,' but the core principles, the way they shape and command the raw elements, are a direct match to the basic Weaving strings. And the runic system is even more obvious. Every rune is a physical anchor for a specific Abyssal command. They're just drawing the strings without seeing them. It's the stem. Everything else is just a simplified, culturally-biased imitation of this one, true, source magic."
Legolas nodded slowly, taking it in. "Okay. Makes sense. Now you, One. Tell me."
"He's ignoring the most complex system," One said, his voice sharp and analytical. "He's ignoring the magic of the Concord. Their system isn't based on raw elements. It's based on intent. It's a complex system of 'strings of chants'—it's almost like a code. You define a purpose, you speak the command, and the magic fills the syntax. My research shows that Abyssal Weaving is the mechanism that allows this 'code' to be executed. It's not the source of the magic; it's the compiler. It's a derived, universal tool that takes all these different magical 'languages'—runic, elemental, somatic—and translates them into reality. It's a branch, a culmination of everything that already exists."
Legolas was silent for a long moment, looking from Zero to One. He then let out a long, suffering sigh.
"This is stupid," he said.
"What?!?" Zero and One said in unison.
"How can you both be this dense?" Legolas asked, standing up. "You're both so convinced you're right that you're both wrong. You're cherry-picking the data. You're practically ignoring the parts of the other's theory that don't support your own!"
He pointed a finger at Zero. "You, with your 'stem' theory, are completely ignoring One's point about the Concord's 'code and intent' system because it's too abstract for your 'runes and elements' model!"
He then spun and pointed at One. "And you, with your 'branch' theory, are completely ignoring Zero's point about the raw, primal power of Elementalism because it's too chaotic for your neat, orderly 'compiler' theory!"
Zero and One stared at him. Then... they stared at each other. The realization hit them at the exact same moment. They weren't arguing two different theories. They were arguing two halves of the same, unified whole.
Without a single word, in perfect, terrifying synchronization, Zero and One both took their small blood-letting knives and sliced their palms open. They dropped to their knees on the wooden floor and, with their own blood as ink, they began to write.
"Hey, what are you... what the fuck," Legolas said, his exasperation turning to alarm.
Zero, on the left, drew the primal, flowing lines of his theory—elemental chains, linked by powerful, ancient runes. One, on the right, drew his—a complex, mathematical latticework of code, filled with strings of chants and formulae of pure intent. They weren't drawing two separate diagrams; they were drawing a single, impossibly complex unified equation, the blood from their hands meeting in the middle.
Their intent was clear, their focus absolute. As they finished the final, connecting lines, they looked at each other and, with their last remaining drop of blood, their hands met, palm to palm, in the center of the diagram.
BOOM.
A silent, magical pulse, visible only as a ripple in the air, erupted from the diagram. It washed over the loft, knocking over books, blowing out the candles, and sending Legolas stumbling back, a wave of pure, concentrated magical energy unlike anything he had ever felt.
Soma burst up the stairs, a heavy frying pan in his hand. "WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED?!" he shouted, his eyes wide, expecting to see a smoking crater.
The scene was... not what he expected. Legolas was on the floor, picking himself up from near the wall, but he seemed unharmed. Zero and One, however, were standing perfectly still in the middle of the room, an aura of ecstatic, manic energy vibrating around them.
Soma rushed past them and hurried to Legolas. "Are you okay? Did they hit you?"
"I'm alright," Legolas said, brushing himself off, his own eyes wide with a mixture of annoyance and pure awe.
He was fine, but Zero and One were in a state of euphoric breakthrough.
"How?" One whispered, his voice filled with a disbelieving wonder. "How can it be the stem of all magic, yet also the branch of its own stem?"
"But it works!" Zero said, a wild, triumphant laugh bubbling out of him.
"How can it be both?" One said, a smirk of pure, analytical disbelief on his face.
"It can't!" Zero laughed, grabbing his clone by the shoulders. "But it is! Its very nature is a paradox! This shouldn't have been possible, yet it works! Abyssal!"
In a sudden, shared burst of pure, unadulterated joy, Zero and One rushed over to Legolas and Soma, grabbing them in a tight, four-way hug, and then began to dance around the loft, cheering like madmen, their two-week-long obsessive spiral finally vindicated in a single, impossible breakthrough.
…
Meanwhile, far to the north, on the icy border between the lands of the Watchtower of Edda and the untamed wilderness, a subjugation party from the Athenean Concord was making camp. War mages, wrapped in heavy, enchanted furs, moved between tents, the air crackling with contained power.
In one deep, shadowy corner of the camp, six mages were gathered around a low-burning, smokeless flame.
"Who is our leader this time?" a voice, no louder than a whisper, asked. It was Laurent Noir, a war mage from The Spire of Alabaster. Unlike his peers, his illusions were potent and dark, clinging to the shadows. One would think he was an assassin before realizing he was a mage, and by then, a dagger of pure shadow would be at their throat.
A 7-foot-tall behemoth of a man, so muscular his robes seemed strained, spoke next. His name was Adrian Conquest, from The Spire of Providence. His proficiency with Abjuration magic was etched into his very physique. His voice, however, was a soft, gentle whisper that was utterly vile in its nature. "Time has let us down with the commander's chosen leader," he said. "Perhaps it is time for us to... tweak... the commander's brain, so he can think more rationally."
"Fucking give me a break, would ya?" a rough voice grumbled. Bartold Von Ziegler, a mage from The Obsidian Foundation, an artificer, was hunched over a complex, whirring trap. "Can we just let the wild handle our next 'leader'? Save me the bother of setting up a new command tent."
"Or," a fourth voice, giddy with excitement, chimed in. Conte Caliara, from The Marble Lyceum, an alchemist with a borderline obsessive-compulsive love for wild, monstrous things, held up a small, bubbling vial. "I could just have them... bathe... in one of my new potions. No single trail of suspicion will lead the commander back to us."
"AHAHAHAHAHA!" a new voice boomed, making the others wince. Nicolas de Goire, a mage from The Sunstone Observatory with a vivid, starburst-shaped burn mark on his left cheek, slammed his fist on the ground. "TAKE A BATH OF DEATH! THAT IS THE MOST DASTARDLY THING I'VE EVER HEARD!"
"Shut the fuck up, firecracker," a final, icy-calm voice said. Hans Bjorge, from The Watchtower of Edda, didn't even look up from sharpening a long shard of ice.
Nicolas's booming laughter stopped instantly. He stood up, the air around him shimmering with heat. He stalked over to the ice mage. "GOT SOMETHING TO SAY, ICECYCLE? SPEAK UP."
A shout from the side of the camp halted the escalating duel. "WHERE IS YOUR RESPECT!"
The six mages turned, their animosity momentarily paused. The Camp Commander stood there, flanked by his personal entourage and one pale, nervous-looking mage they didn't recognize. The six mages stared at him in dead silence for a beat, then, as if he hadn't spoken, went right back to their bickering.
"Just because we're in the snow," Nicolas sneered at Hans, "you think you've already won, you little twink?"
"With your lack of finesse," Hans replied, his voice a flat, icy drawl, "I'd be surprised if you don't trip on an icicle and impale yourself."
"Can you both shut up?" Bartold grumbled, not looking up from his trap. "Your constant hot-and-cold whining is screwing with my gear's atmospheric calibration."
"Oh, let them fight!" Conte said, his eyes wide with a manic glee. "I want to see if fire-magic blood boils differently than ice-magic blood! I brought vials!"
"Silence," Laurent whispered. "You're drawing attention."
"ENOUGH!" the Commander roared, his face purple with rage. "I am here to introduce your new platoon leader. His name is—"
"No need to say his name," Adrian interrupted, his soft, vile voice cutting the Commander off. "We will know if he survives by the end of the week."
The group erupted in a mix of cruel snorts and dark chuckles. The Commander sighed, a look of utter resignation on his face. These six were a command-level nightmare. They were the bizarre rejects from their own Spires, too talented to be discharged but too abrasive, insubordinate, or just plain weird to fit into a normal squad. But somehow, they had formed this dysfunctional, toxic group so they could be left alone. He'd tried appointing one of them as leader, but their different backgrounds and volatile personalities made that impossible.
He turned to the new, pale-faced platoon leader, clapped him on the shoulder, and said the only thing he could. "Good luck." He then turned and left, his entourage moving quickly to follow.
In truth, the new leader wasn't a leader at all. He had just offended a high-ranking mage in the Concord. This posting wasn't a promotion; it was a punishment. The Commander just hoped it wouldn't be a severe one this time.
…
Back in the café loft, Soma, who had been knocked off his feet by the pulse, groaned. "Okay, okay," he said, pushing himself up. "Now what do we do with that," he gestaured to the glowing, bloody sigil on the floor, "and what the hell is it for?"
Zero and One, still buzzing from their euphoric breakthrough, looked at the Abyssal Rune.
Zero walked over to it, his fingers tracing the still-wet lines. "It's a first step," he said, a note of awe in his voice. "I made my half with the intent of 'Preserve.' So, in theory, anything placed inside this rune's field... nothing can spoil. It's time magic."
"And I," One added, "infused my half with the intention of 'Expand.' With this, the preservation field isn't static. It can be expanded, or contracted, as we desire."
Soma processed this for a moment, his practical chef's mind overriding his shock. "So... you went through all that... to make an area-of-effect fridge?"
Zero shrugged. "Ehhh, you could say that."
"Or," One said, a triumphant smirk on his face, "you could say it's a breakthrough. We just combined the fundamental nature of Chronomancy Preservation with customizable Area of Effect magic. The applications are limitless!"
"But for now, FRIDGE!" Zero stood up, his eyes blazing with manic energy. "Let's celebrate!"
"With what?" Soma asked, dusting himself off. "More blood magic? A nice cup of tea?"
"GACHA, BABBYYY!" Zero and One shouted in perfect, hyped-up unison. "Whooo, let's go!"
They both rushed past Soma and Legolas and clattered down the stairs to the café floor, making a beeline for the cash register.
Legolas, who had been silently watching, just shrugged. "They're excited, at least."
Soma sighed, looking at the magical, bloody sigil now permanently etched into the loft floor. "Let's just hope this kind of thing doesn't become a regular occurrence."
The manic energy from their breakthrough was thrumming in the air, a high-frequency buzz of pure, giddy excitement. Zero and One, having finally cracked the paradox of their own thesis, were vibrating with a shared, triumphant energy. It was this hype that led them, inevitably, back to the cash register.
"Okay," Zero said, pulling out the new, custom-made leather binder that Legolas had crafted. He handed it to One, who took it with an almost reverent care.
Soma and Legolas, sensing what was coming, gave up on cleaning the loft and came downstairs, taking their usual spots at the bar.
"So, what do we have in the 'unused' pile again?" Soma asked, leaning his chin on his palm.
One, taking his new role as 'archivist' very seriously, opened the binder to the last page. He traced his finger down the two cards slotted there. "We have V, the revolutionary," he reported, "and... Jar Jar Binks."
"Hah! I still can't believe he's in there," Soma laughed.
Zero, meanwhile, was rubbing his hands together in front of the register. He tapped the screen, and the holographic display glowed to life, illuminating his excited face. The point total read 6499.
"Haaah," Zero let out a long, satisfied sigh. "Thank god for Sal. Our profits are way up."
"Profits that I earned," Soma grumbled, his voice suddenly sour. "Running this café all by myself most of the time, I might add. A 'thank you' would be nice, you know. We can do it all together, in three... two... one..."
Zero, One, and Legolas all stared at him in dead, unblinking silence.
"Hmph," Soma huffed, turning away on his stool, his arms crossed.
The other three burst out laughing.
"Alright, alright," Zero said, composing himself. "It's time. Get in position."
As they had done before, the clones all assumed a stance of mock-serious prayer. Zero closed his eyes, his hands steepled in front of him.
"Dear Cecil," he began, his voice echoing with false piety. "God of Celestial Paperwork, Divine Intern of Domain 6-A. As usual, it is ya boy, your handsome demon, Zero Ashworth. We come to you today not just as humble servants, but as successful humble servants. We are making breakthroughs! We are fighting the good fight! And you... you have been mostly good to us."
He tilted his head. "I want to praise you, Cecil. Truly. You gave us Legolas. A top-tier, S-class pull. We are eternally grateful for your benevolence. You looked upon us and you blessed us."
His tone darkened. "But you also," he said, his voice dropping to a low, threatening growl, "gave us Jar Jar Binks. We have not forgotten this, Cecil. We have not forgiven. So I am here to make a new deal. We have 6499 points. We are cashing them all in. And if you curse us with another 'Gungan,' if you soil our sacred Gacha pull with that kind of trash, I swear to you, Cecil... I will find a way to file a formal complaint to your superior. I will use triplicate forms. I will find a loophole in the celestial bureaucracy and I will end your internship. But... if you bless us... if you give us the tools we need to survive... I will build a small, tasteful shrine to you in the bathroom. Your choice."
"Ameen," the other three said in unison.
"Okay," Zero said, his eyes snapping open, all business. He tapped the [11x Draw] button six times in rapid succession.
The cash register whirred, groaned, and with a series of satisfying ch-ch-ch-ching sounds, spat out a burst of six gleaming foil packs. Zero gathered them up, his hands trembling slightly with excitement, and fanned them out on the counter.
Their excitement died instantly. The cover art was, if possible, even more pathetic than the last batch.
The first pack showed Cecil, his eyes wide with panic, trying to use a celestial abacus, but all the beads were hopelessly tangled in his hair.
The second pack depicted Cecil being aggressively dive-bombed by a flock of cosmic mail-birds, each one carrying a parchment stamped "OVERDUE."
The third showed Cecil on his hands and knees, tears streaming down his face as he tried to scrub a graffiti tag—which just read "Gods Rule, Interns Drool"—off a divine monument.
The fourth, and perhaps most tragic, showed Cecil getting a "Universe's Okay-est Intern" mug from a faceless divine being, and forcing a smile.
The fifth depicted him trying to staple two universes together, but the celestial stapler was clearly, frustratingly jammed.
And the sixth, a true classic, showed Cecil slipping on a celestial banana peel in what looked like a divine cafeteria, his tray of ambrosia flying everywhere.
Soma, Legolas, and One just stared at the pathetic artwork.
"Well," Soma said, breaking the heavy silence. "We're fucked."
**A/N**
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**A/N**