Prophet Pulin's gaze blazed with sudden intensity. "Correct! Pope Mystic's true divine power is profound! Even while resisting the Blood Skeleton Sun, he received fragments of the Celial Guidance. Were it not for him and the Church's esteemed priests, the Calamity would have struck five years ago. But time grows short. At the dawn of the Sacred Millennium's end, the disaster will be unstoppable." A profound weariness deepened the lines on his face. "I paid the price of thirty winters from my own lifeblood for this vision. Its words: *The union of compassion and malice, the convergence of radiance and shadow, guided by the Phoenix's blood, piercing through barriers unnumbered, sealed by the Dragon's blood, love made eternal.* These lines contain the sigil Dunce by the Pope Mystic. It cannot be wrong. You two… are the Foretold. The Deliverers guided by the heavens."
Mystic Mystic Moon felt Day's calloused hand tighten around hers, slick with cold sweat. *Deliverers?* The term was alien, overwhelming. "What… what are Deliverers?" Day stammered out, voicing the confusion they both felt.
Prophet Pulin wrestled his barely contained excitement. "Deliverers are those chosen by celestial decree to avert the impending cataclysm threatening this world. The Blood-Red Sun in the sky is the omen. Pope Mystic and his priests, wielding their pure, potent Divine Essence, defied Fate itself, forcing the disaster's arrival back. Yet, its coming is inevitable." His voice softened, imbued with reverence. "But the heavens have not forsaken us. They favored us still. In their grace, they summoned you. Deliverers who will stem the tide at the precipice of despair. The heavens will guide your hands to save mankind."
Mystic Mystic Moon frowned, her analytical mind cutting through the grandeur. "Prophet Pulin, what proof do you possess that points to us? What tangible reason?"
A faint smile touched Pulin's lips. "Proof I have in abundance. Allow me to elucidate." He gestured with his gnarled staff. "First, tell me your names."
"He is Day Ge," Mystic Mystic Moon answered swiftly. "I am Mystic Mystic Moon. Now, Prophet Pulin, explain."
Pulin nodded. "Very well. *The union of compassion and malice* describes Day Ge. Day possesses a core of inherent kindness, yet bound to him is an artifact saturated in… profound corruption."
Mystic Mystic Moon stiffened, her eyes snapping towards Day. Day's free hand instinctively flew to the cold obsidian amulet resting against his chest beneath his tunic. "N-no!" he protested, his voice strained. "I've never… never done anything evil!"
Pulin's smile remained calm. "Peace. The malice I speak of is not your own, but that which you carry. Compassion is your intrinsic nature. Do you wonder how I am so certain? It wasn't merely your desperate defense of Mystic Mystic Moon earlier." He raised a hand, and from the folds of his robe, he withdrew a smooth sphere of polished quartz. Murmuring incantations that resonated faintly in the confined space, the quartz began to glow. An image shimmered within – blurred at first, then sharpening. It showed their small group approaching the imposing entrance of Tilu's Temple. One by one, their companions entered without incident. When Mystic Mystic Moon stepped across the threshold, her image flared crimson, a spectral phoenix coalescing around her form. Then came Day. As he approached the massive stone archway, a shimmering, unsettling gray aura bloomed around him. The quartz sphere darkened abruptly, the vision snuffed out. Pulin tucked it away. "This was the moment you entered the sacred grounds. And my intricate ward-matrix, designed to probe and shield, was shattered. That ward could withstand forces magnitudes greater than your own current power… yet the artifact you carry, steeped in utter corruption, annihilated it effortlessly." Pulin's gaze pinned Day. "Your actions *within* the temple, however – your choices, your very presence – revealed a spirit of profound compassion. That confirmed my belief. You are indeed the 'compassion bound to malice.' As for *the convergence of radiance and shadow,* that reflects the stark dichotomy between Mystic Mystic Moon's nature and yours. The artifact infuses you with shadows, while you, Mystic Mystic Moon, scion of the Sacred See, embody radiant Light." He paused, acknowledging a revelation. "I admit, I hadn't foreseen the Deliverers being a pair until I sensed the sacred Phoenix's Blood upon Mystic Mystic Moon. *Guided by the Phoenix's blood* – could there be a clearer marker for her? *Sealed by the Dragon's blood,* I will address shortly. And *love made eternal*… its meaning remains veiled, a truth you must discover yourselves on your path."
Day and Mystic Mystic Moon stared at each other, the weight of the Seer's words crashing over them. The grand tapestry of destiny suddenly felt far too personal, too constricting. Mystic Mystic Moon spoke, her voice edged with pragmatism. "Prophet Pulin, you summoned us here specifically to confirm this… Deliverer status? I have no aspiration for such a mantle. Powers far mightier than ours have seemingly failed. What I don't comprehend is why *you*, a Seer of the Duncehearts, sacrificed three decades of your life for a prophecy concerning the wider world. If a Calamity comes, it may not even threaten your tribe on their mountain."
Pulin's smile vanished, replaced by a weary melancholy. "True. My ambitions are not so lofty. My heart holds only the survival of the Dunceheart Tribe. When I first sought the Sight, it was for our tribe's future alone. But every omen screamed the same verdict: For the Dunceheart to persist, to hold our place upon this land, we *must* survive the coming Millennium's End. And the Deliverers… they are not just the world's salvation. They are the Duncehearts' only hope." He gestured around the cave's ancient walls. "I brought you here to unveil the millennia-guarded secret of our people. It is my offering, a tool to perhaps forge you into the true Deliverers and speed the end of this dread. My people have endured suffering enough. I cannot let us fade into dust and memory."
Day's brow furrowed. "Prophet Pulin, I'm not sure I grasp it. You want us… to help the Dunceheart Tribe? To do something specific?"
"In essence, yes," Pulin conceded. "But it is not a plea without recompense. First, hear our story. Then you shall know what aid we seek. Know this: The Duncehearts, whether within the Free Territories of the Federation or across the wider world, are among the oldest lineages of humanity. We walked these lands when they were still young, our history stretching back tens of millennia. The great empires and the Federation itself are but infants, sprung from the seed of the First Deliverer – the Pope Mystic Divine Feather – who sealed the Demon God a mere millennium ago." Pulin moved towards the cavern walls, his staff tapping softly on the stone. He stopped before a faded mural. "Behold."
Day and Mystic Mystic Moon followed his gesture. Illuminated by the soft glow of the cave's phosphorescent mosses, the ancient painting depicted figures clad in furs and hides, brandishing primitive spears and axes. They surged forward, led by a colossal figure with untamed russet hair, his face alight with fierce exultation, a crude spear thrust skyward as if rallying a war cry. "This," Pulin's voice resonated with reverence, "is the most intact remnant of our distant past. These untamed hunters… they are our progenitors. This mighty chieftain is Tilu, First Presidenttain of the Duncehearts. This image was etched ages beyond reliable count, likely not less than twenty thousand winters past. Even then, our ancestors cherished the wild, living as one with the untamed earth."
Pulin stepped along the wall, stopping before a second mural. "This dates roughly a thousand winters after the first."
The second painting showed a valley settlement. Dunce dwellings honeycombed the cliff face, figures dressed in rough-spun garments entering and exiting the cave mouths. Pulin explained, "A thousand winters brought nascent civilization. Though still dwelling within the rock, the Duncehearts had begun to till the soil and tame the land." Without elaborating, he moved to the third mural. Armored legions filled the image – thousands of Dunceheart warriors clad in scaled hides, wielding massive double-bladed battle axes, arrayed in disciplined ranks, radiating menace. Pulin's voice swelled with ancestral pride. "This was the Duncehearts near five thousand winters gone. The heart of a warrior nation beats strong. Do they not remind you of something?" He paused dramatically. "Indeed. They are the progenitors, the very archetype, of the Guardian Warriors standing vigil within Tilu's Temple. Now, the fourth mural."
The fourth depiction centered on a single figure. A man, muscles knotted like mountain roots, bare-chested save for simple trousers. He stood defiantly upon a rocky prominence, a massive battle-axe raised high in both hands towards an unseen sky. A corona of blazing gold energy pulsed from him. Pulin's eyes shone with profound admiration. "This… this is Tilu, not just Presidenttain, but War God! The greatest hero our bloodline has ever known. Under Tilu's unyielding banner, the Dunceheart domains multiplied tenfold. In three decades, three-quarters of the known world bowed beneath our ancestral totem. The vast continents themselves could have borne the name 'Dunceheart Lands.' Our clans spread out, mingling with the indigenous tribes they found, sowing the seeds that would become the diverse peoples of today – pale skins, dark skins, the red-maned like the Blood Skeleton-Hair Folk. All spring, in part, from Dunceheart blood! Only the ancient Southern Satin Folk share our depth of history. They sought no vast domains, holding only fertile lands along the great southern rivers in peace. Their wisdom, acknowledged then as now, spared them our trials. Truly, they proved more clever; their descendants still claim lands rivaling a vast empire." His gaze lingered on the War God Tilu, pride and loss intermingling in his weathered face.
Day and Mystic Mystic Moon were captivated, transported to the epochal dawn by the Seer's tale. They listened silently as he moved before the fifth mural – the largest, consuming a fifth of the cavern wall. It depicted a thriving settlement strikingly similar to the Dunceheart village outside: stone longhouses, contented faces, people engaged in crafts and harvest, a tableau of golden prosperity. Pulin sighed, the sound echoing the fall of empires. "This zenith lasted three thousand winters. Dunceheart influence reigned unchallenged across vast tracts of the world. This image reflects countless settlements that once dotted the land."
He moved on to the sixth mural. Here, a primitive city sprawled: low walls, modest structures, but undeniably an *urban* center. Another sigh. "The world was vast. Even our wide domains couldn't be tightly held. Distance fragmented us. Our own bloodline split – giving rise to the Fair Folk in the far north, the Deep Folk in the burning southlands, the Blood Skeleton-Hair Folk. Seduced by local customs, forgotten the pact with the wild earth, they broke from the Dunceheart core, forming their own petty realms. They felled ancient groves, piled stone into these… these settlements." Bitterness tinged his voice. "The Council of Elder Leafs, thinking them kin of kin, chose forgiveness. After all, the true Dunceheart still dominated half the world."
He paused before the seventh mural, his expression darkening. Smoke choked the scene, factions locked in brutal combat. "Forgiveness bought no loyalty. The fledgling realms advanced rapidly, outpacing us in artifice and malice. Their lust for dominion grew unchecked. They united, turning blades upon the heartland! The wars that followed… they scarred every people. Dunceheart resolve remained iron, bolstered by sheer numbers. Zhuy came… but at a cost paid in rivers of ancestral blood. That was roughly twelve centuries past. From those ash-strewn fields rose the foundations of the Auren Empire and the Kingdom of Sunderfall. Factions like the Girllian Chain Folk also clawed their way from the rubble. Our borders held… but the war had decimated our numbers, stretched our spirit thin. The heartlands endured… but the fire of the warrior nation dimmed." Tears traced worn paths down Pulin's cheeks. His body trembled faintly as he forced himself towards the eighth mural.
A collective gasp escaped Day and Mystic Mystic Moon. These figures… twisted mockeries of humanity! Mottled green hides, fingers ending in jagged bone spikes. Eyes glowed with predatory cunning, radiating palpable malice. At their center stood a titan, thrice the height of its lesser kin. Bat-like wings, thick with green quills edged like razors, sprouted from its back. A single obsidian horn jutted from its brow. Claws gleamed wickedly. "Is that... the Ancient Demon God?" Mystic Mystic Moon breathed, dread turning her voice thin.
Pulin nodded grimly. "The very same. The entity venerated by the Scourge themselves. Less than a century after the Great Fragmentation, these horrors emerged. Umbra. Mindlessly violent, born of chaos and destruction. Now called the Verdant Scourge, or simply the Scourge by most. That monstrosity... the Demon God. Its power... a nightmare beyond your darkest imaginings. The Scourge multiplied like locusts upon plague winds. No realm – Dunceheart nor the Southern Satin Folk's protected valleys – knew their origin. Their arrival heralded the true End Times!" His knuckles whitened on the staff. "Their numbers were small at first, but their bodies... unnaturally strong. Where resistance arose, whole peoples were devoured. Fifty winters. Only five decades. Their legions swelled beyond millions. It was our fatal hubris! Had we crushed them when they numbered scant thousands, the tragedy could have been averted! When they marched... a tide of over a million warriors swept across the lands... Within five cataclysmic winters, they held *half* the scarred continents." His voice dropped to a ragged whisper filled with millennia of grief. "And the first victims, the bulwark shattered upon their fury? Us. The Dunceheart. Though formidable, unprepared, outmatched by the Scourge's savage might... the defenses crumbled. Five winters. Five winters!" His grief erupted anew. "Dunceheart numbers… reduced to a mere fifth of what they were."
A long silence stretched, filled only by the Seer's shuddering breaths. When he regained control, he shuffled towards the ninth mural. It depicted a single figure this time: a tall, noble-featured man in flowing robes, wielding a staff crowned with a luminous crystal. A soft, white radiance haloed him. Behind him surged a united host: warriors bearing distinct emblems – the Fair Folk's banners, Satin Folk's gleaming armor, Blood Skeleton-Hair axes, Chain Folk braids. Most astonishingly, soaring in the storm-lit sky above them, circled titanic shapes – dragons of bronze, copper, silver, and deepest obsidian! Arrayed against this coalition were the vast hordes of the Scourge, led by their monstrous god. Pulin's voice held awe. "As the Dunceheart faced annihilation… salvation arose. The First Deliverer united the sundered peoples! Guided by the Ancient Wyrms, the final battle was joined. The Scourge hosts were shattered... their menace crushed... Yet the price was staggering." His words fell heavy as stones. "Of all humanity, barely a fifth survived. Of the Duncehearts… less than one in twenty remained breathing. The First Deliverer unleashed the wrath of creation. Though some Scourge remnants fled, their blighted race was crippled, their numbers forever dwindling. They remain hunted pariahs even now, lurking beneath sight, reduced to mere pests." He nodded towards Day, perhaps recalling his earlier confession of encountering such beings.
Pulin's face etched in sorrow, he reached the final mural. Here, arcane energy flared and surged. A ring of grey-bearded sorcerers, robes ablaze with potent glyphs, stood locked in a ritual around the immense, wounded form of the Demon God, trapped within a colossal glowing hexagram etched into the mountain peak. At the forefront stood the Deliverer Pope Mystic Divine Feather. The Demon God bled green ichor from a thousand wounds. Pulin's voice was a death knell. "At the end… cornered upon a nameless peak… the greatest mages and mightiest warriors united. Under Divine Feather's guidance, using the last dregs of their power… the Demon God was cast down! Its broken body and malevolent spirit were imprisoned… bound within that very mountain range." He met their horrified stares. "What you call… the Barren Spine Mountains… is its tomb."
A chilling dread settled over Day and Mystic Mystic Moon. Their intended destination… was indeed the prison of an Old God.
Pulin seemed to sag, the weight of ages crushing down. He leaned heavily on his staff. "In that apocalypse… the Duncehearts suffered the deepest cut. Yet… when the ashes settled… when peace was decreed… we were forgotten. Our ancestral lands? 'Your numbers are too few,' they decreed, 'to rule what was yours.' Under Divine Feather's weary oversight, the map was redrawn." His voice turned acrid. "The Auren Empire. Sunderfall. The Southern Satins' Dominion. The United Free Territories. Pope Mystic. What remained of my people… became just another tribe within the Federation. The glory of millennia… dust upon the wind." His knuckles were bone white on the staff. "Had the Dunceheart not held the line, bleeding endlessly, the First Deliverer could never have forged his alliance! Our sacrifice bought their victory! And how did they honor it?!" His gaze, though clouded with tears, blazed with ancient outrage. "I do not hold Divine Feather at fault. Without him, the world would be ash. He *tried* to secure justice for us. But the others… their greed won. When he pressed the issue of our lands… they dissembled. Prevaricated. Refused. Divine Feather retreated to the Holy Mountain, his spirit broken. The next moonrise marked the Holy Church's first chronicle year… Year One."
"I'm sorry," Day said, the enormity of their suffering striking him deeply. "Only five out of every hundred… that's unimaginable. Prophet Pulin… please, don't grieve."
Pulin shook his head, a weary resignation replacing the fury. "A thousand winters gone. Grief is a pointless ache now. Before Divine Feather retreated into seclusion, he uttered his final prophecy: *At the Millennium's End, the dark tide will rise anew. If unstopped, it will drown the world.* And now... the thousand years near their close. Only you… hold the key to lock the cage."
Mystic Mystic Moon sighed, pragmatism warring with awe. "This is… a lot. I still struggle to believe it. Us? Deliverers? We can barely hold our own in a tavern brawl, let alone save continents! You'd be better served petitioning the Holy Church."
Pulin fixed his intense gaze upon her. "No. The Dunceheart's salvation lies solely with *you*. Even the Pope Mystic cannot defy the celestial decree. Your powers now are fledgling… true. But time will reveal all I have said. My request isn't grand." He gestured helplessly. "I merely plead… when the shadows lengthen… when the world bleeds anew… save the Dunceheart seed. Ensure my people endure. That… is all I ask."
Before Mystic Mystic Moon could impose her careful boundaries, Day Ge, his heart swollen with empathy and the grand narrative spun around him, stepped forward impulsively. "Prophet Pulin," he declared, his voice thick with earnest conviction, "If this darkness truly comes, I *will* help the Dunceheart Tribe endure." Mystic Mystic Moon's fingers tightened like a vise around his wrist, but the words were out, flung into the cavern like stones.
A ghost of profound relief touched Pulin's face. "Child… thank you. The Dunceheart's future… rests in your hands now." He turned his watery gaze to Mystic Mystic Moon. "Mystic Mystic Moon, child of the See… I understand your burdens. But would an elder, his own life waning like banked embers, spin such tales merely to deceive? I ask only for the survival of my kin. Grant me that comfort." His plea was raw.
Mystic Mystic Moon shot Day a withering look but turned back to the Seer. "Fine. If your vision proves true, Prophet Pulin, I *will* use my power to shield the Duncehearts." She emphasized carefully, "...Within the scope of my actual abilities. Let's be perfectly clear: As we are now, saving your tribe would be like expecting a candle to halt a blizzard. Saving *ourselves* is the more pressing challenge." Her keen eyes held a hint of strategic assessment.
Pulin almost chuckled. "Sharp as a new spear, young hawk. Words now are cheap compared to what you'll witness. But you gave your promise. Remember it. Help will never be asked without offering something in return." He raised his staff and tapped a complex rhythm on a seemingly blank section of the final mural. Dunce scraped on stone as a narrow fissure opened, revealing a cramped alcove beyond. Pulin vanished within. Mystic Mystic Moon hissed at Day, "You utter simpleton! First meeting, burdened by some vague prophecy, you make an oath like that? Even if it's true! Especially *here*, in their stronghold! Ugh! Forget it. Your skull's too thick." She hauled the bewildered Day after the Seer.
The space wasn't so much a chamber as a hollow scratched from the rock. Barely ten paces square, rough-hewn walls glistened with condensation. At its center stood a simple plinth of dark granite. Prophet Pulin waited beside it.
"Mystic Mystic Moon. Come." He commanded softly.
Mystic Mystic Moon exchanged a wary glance with Day, then approached.
Pulin sighed, a sound filled with layers of undiscovered time. "My name… is Pulin. It is my true name. But long ago… I walked the broader world under another." He paused, the air thicken. "I was known as… **Timber**. **Master Timber**."
*Timber*! The name detonated in Mystic Mystic Moon's mind. Her balance faltered. "By the See!" she gasped, shock stripping her composure. "The *Archmage* Timber?" Among the Pantheon of the world's mightiest, beyond the Holy Church's own arsenal, stood the legends: **Lorren Firebrand**, Master of the Flames, Magus Primus of Auren. **Windbone the Grey**, Sunderfall's Windweaver. And the third… the enigma… **Timber the Planeswalker**, Archmage of Spatial Rending, whose manipulations of reality had stunned academies and shaken thrones. His name was whispered even among the Holy Church's Blood Skeleton Monk Priests. Timber had vanished decades ago… during the Blood-Red Sun phenomena.
A faint smile touched Pulin's lips. "Surprised? Yet it is truth. It was *my* spatial wards that nullified your magic in this place. Since the Blood-Red Sun seared the sky, I have been waiting. Waiting for *you*." He looked at her keenly. "The power I offer you… is my grimoire. My studies into spatial magic, honed by generations of Dunceheart Seers, hold unique virtues. They do not clash with your Holy Light; they can fortify it, create avenues unseen. You have talent, girl. More than you exercise. Neglect it, and Day here will outpace you before the next solstice." His hand sketched an impossibly complex gesture in the air. Reality split, unveiling a seething, star-flecked void. His hand dipped in and retrieved a thick, bound tome, its cover darkened leather inscribed with impossible, shifting glyphs. He presented it to Mystic Mystic Moon. "Knowledge. The one treasure even the Holy Church cannot grant freely."