Magnificent Babylon—glorious and vast—stands proudly beside the banks of Arahtu, its waters flowing from the mighty Euphrates!
Alas, the city's grandeur does not embrace all who dwell within. Not even close. In a modest home—neither wealthy nor poor, but with the luxury of a small inner courtyard—a conversation was unfolding. And for the hosts, it promised nothing good.
"So, Enkil—you thought you could wriggle out again without consequence? Tell me, worm, what was going through your head when you borrowed from me? From a mage!" The man, with a wand strapped to his belt, stared at Enkil with disdain. Enkil flushed, then paled. A swindler who'd flown too close to the sun—and chose the worst possible person to deceive. Apprentice or not, he was not to be underestimated.
"Master, I… I beg you, a little more time…"
"Another extension? So you can try your tricks again? Pfff... I should've never believed a single rotting word that spilled from your vile mouth! Lending was a fool's errand… And that—" He flicked his hand, and a boy was dragged from behind the corner, suspended mid-air.
"Wretched brat! Thought you'd eavesdrop?"
"Silence." The mage's gaze turned icy as he looked to Enkil. "Who is that?"
"The slave woman coddled the filth..." Had they been outside, the man would've spat.
"Your son? From a slave?" He waved a hand dismissively. "Don't bother answering, it's rhetorical…" The mage briefly considered whether this fool even grasped the meaning of the word. "Hmm… intriguing. Tell you what, Enkil—sell me your son."
"What?! Master, mercy! My son, he… Oh." The man suddenly calmed. Abruptly. "You mean that runt?" Even the mage was taken aback—let alone the boy. For a moment, contempt flickered in his eyes. The boy had long since been lowered to the floor, silently listening. "You'd wipe my debt clean for… that?"
"Not all of it… You'll still owe me twelve silver shekels… no, fourteen. Then we're done."
"Right away!" Enkil bolted deeper into the house. The boy—no older than five—stood silent, unmoving. A minute later, his father returned, beaming, with a cord strung with silver rings. Not fourteen—fifteen.
"There's one extra," the mage said, reaching to remove it.
"For a clean count, Master Wizard!" Enkil grinned deferentially. The mage stared for a moment, then gave a dry snort. (Author's note: I'm aware they used base-12 counting in this region, but I went with our standard for clarity. Yes—I know, poor Sumerians.)
"Fine. You—" His cool eyes met the boy's. "Come with me."
***
The mage's clothes weren't exactly fine—but they were leagues better than the rags I wore in my "father's" house. Even the flatbread I snatched off the market street tasted richer than what passed for a regular meal back then. Food had been thrown at me like to a dog—usually onto the dirt floor. Today, at least, I had a chance to catch it. And back there? I'd get a quarter of a flatbread at best, plus a bit of water. Pfft…
"Master?" I asked cautiously. A slave's fate in Sumer isn't always bleak. Many free men even offer themselves into bondage by choice... But not me. Then again, I wasn't in a position to choose anymore. Fine, I'd endure.
"What is it?" the mage glanced at me with a frown.
"How should I address you?"
"Gazi. For you—it's Master Gazi."
"Are you Kassite?"
A moment later, a sharp slap shook my face.
"You're too bold," the man said coolly, and walked on. Soon I was handed a heavy basket full of herbs and provisions. Not impossibly heavy—but for a skinny five-year-old, it was no easy load.
Scorching sun, heavy cargo, hours of running errands… What's more exhausting than that? Three hours of it? Four?
Eventually, we arrived at a beautiful, wealthy home. I collapsed in the grass beneath a tree after hearing, "You're free. For now."
The palm shade and rare idleness washed over me like bliss. The sun, slowly dipping from its zenith, had never felt so comforting.
"Hey! Get up!"
Someone kicked me.
"Screw off…" I mumbled and yawned. Some people I can speak to like that—other slaves, like this guy in a cheap linen shirt and short pants. No free Sumerian would dress that way. Still, I didn't dare provoke him outright—he was bigger, stronger… and I was just another slave.
Well, apparently valuable enough that "my father" paid off a thirty-shekel debt with me.
While I traded barbs with the slave—who, clearly knowing I belonged to a guest of the house, couldn't strike or injure me—the "master" returned. With company.
"Kazmir?! You mangy cur!"
The older man—graying, though not quite elderly—hissed with fury. Fine, I'll just call him the old man.
"What are you doing here, slacker?! Did I not give you orders?"
"I… Master, I was—"
A wet crack of staff against scalp cut him short.
I wasn't lying down, but I'd kept a slight distance so I wouldn't catch a stray blow.
"That's it! Get out! And clear the whole pit, or I'll toss you in myself and wait till you choke in filth!"
So the old man had been assigned to clean the cesspit—and tried to rope me in. Good thing his skull got the staff first. Well played, old man! If I could, I'd have added a few more for good measure.
"You," Gazi looked at me coldly. "Come here."
I obeyed.
"Here, Master. What do you think?"
"Hmm…"
The older mage sniffed me—literally. Circled me. I didn't flinch. He must've been a master, not an apprentice.
"Good find," he murmured. "Very good… With time. Hah! If he works hard, even Eligor might take him in. He'll work hard, won't he?" He raised an eyebrow.
"He will," Gazi answered with a smirk. "Still—strange that a slave's son has talent."
"It's not for mortals to fathom the gods' ways," the old mage snorted.
"Better to stay off their roads and scramble to catch the spit and sweat they leave behind."
I chuckled internally at the weird metaphor.
As for that talent? Yeah, I know what they're talking about.
What kind of talent would two mages test like this?
And as for its origin… that, too, I know:
Name: Tiglat
Level: 6
Strength: 4
Agility: 6
Stamina: 7
Intelligence: 12
Prana: 85/85
Mana: 70/70
Available Stat Points: 0
There was a lot more, but most of it was greyed out and semi-transparent. Only the essentials stayed stable—and functional.
"What's your name, pup?" the elder mage scoffed.
"Tiglat, Master."
"Tiglat?!"
Another slap. I hit the ground.
"Your slave mother had the gall to name her filth after the mighty river Tigris?"
He raised his hand again, but Gazi stopped him.
"Master, he is mine after all…"
I was about to stand, but then Gazi's boot hit my chest and dropped me again.
"I'll handle it myself," he snorted.
"From now on, your name is Pif. Got that?"
I nodded from all fours, still catching my breath.
Name: Tiglat (Pif)
Let's be real—this wasn't even extreme cruelty. Local norms, customs... I'd grown used to this back in my "home."
But used to doesn't mean resigned.
My teeth ground against the sand—violently.
Luckily, the mages didn't notice. Or I'd have paid for it.
"On your feet."
I rose.
"So, Pif," Gazi tasted the name, "you know why I didn't collect the gold your conman 'father' owed—and took you instead?"
"I dare say, Master—it's my gift for magic," I said calmly.
"Hm… He's tough," the old mage gave me an approving glance.
"Doesn't whine."
And then the staff cracked my head again.
I stood, though it rang like a bell in my skull.
Something sticky trickled down my cheek.
"Hah… Well then… Remember, pup—how you act now is exactly how you must act always."
He whispered something, made a strange gesture—and I felt a rush of coolness, and crystal clarity of thought.
The bleeding stopped. The pain vanished.
Bliss.
"You're right," Gazi continued as if nothing happened.
"But tell me—how did you discover your talent?"
I silently raised my hands, palms almost touching.
The old mage looked ready to hit me again—until he realized I was answering his question.
A flicker of lightning danced between my fingers. Then another. A whole bundle of sparks. Again.
"That's enough. You know nothing else?" he asked with interest.
"No, Master," I whispered.
"Fine. Come with me. Actually—wait."
He raised a hand, and in an instant, a sphere of water appeared and slammed into my head, knocking it back slightly.
I understood the cue—rubbed away the leftover blood from my scalp.
"Now let's go."
I remember, long ago in another life, reading the Archmage series. The main character's personality amused me—Kreol, cruel and often vicious.
Now I get it.
In this Sumerian cesspool, you don't grow up gentle.
And the master who taught Kreol? Real scum, apparently.
No wonder his own student raced to kill him the moment his apprenticeship ended...
As for what happened next—they sat me in the corner of Gazi's carriage.
We rode far. South of the Euphrates. Near Ur. To the city of Eridu.
The trip took about three days.
During that time, Gazi confirmed what I'd already guessed:
"I'll train you, Pif. Off the books. You're a slave and you'll remain one—but if you study hard, maybe someday you'll buy your freedom.
And if you don't…"
He gave a nasty smirk.
"If you don't, it'll be cheaper to feed you to a demon than keep stuffing your greedy mouth."
"Understood, Master Gazi."
I was busy then, trying to unhitch the stubborn onager pulling our cart. Not easy work—especially for a five-year-old.
The damn thing gave a lazy jerk and flung me to the ground, drawing a chuckle from my new teacher.
"Hah… Done? Come here.
You probably can't read, can you?"
"I can, Master."
Gazi ignored it at first. Then stared like he'd seen a goat juggle.
"You can? Read this!"
He opened a book to a random page.
O Purest Lady Ishtar,
She who grants purity to soul and flesh,
She whose gaze sears away illness,
She whose breath drives out disease…
Experience gained: +4
New spell unlocked: Cleansing of Goddess Inanna
Requirements: Word Magic Lv. 5, Intelligence 12, Mana 100 (may vary depending on ailment)
"Well now… Tell me—how did a slave's unwanted son learn to read?"
He squinted.
"Self-taught," I replied simply.
"You're not lying…"
He studied me for half a minute, then said with satisfaction:
"That'll make you easier to train."
New Quest: Mystery of Two Masters
Uncover why your new teacher truly needs you.
Claim your freedom.
Reward: Your life, +4 levels, 5 gold shekels.
Considering the reward was quite literally my life, the system was feeling generous. Very generous.
"All right," Gazi made a decision. "First, Pif, you'll learn concentration." My new "teacher" paused thoughtfully. "Actually… this could be amusing."
A small bowl filled with water, drawn straight from his hand.
"Kneel. Hands on your knees. Yes, just like that. Keep your back straight, head level. Eyes closed!"
He carefully set the bowl on my head.
It was heavier than it looked. The base, though flat, pressed painfully into my scalp, uneven and rough. The sand in my hair dug into my skin under the weight of water and clay.
"Now then," he said, "you're forbidden to use your hands. Do whatever else you want.
Oh, and by the way—I've heated the water to near boiling. I'll be warming it again periodically."
It dawned on me that if the bowl spilled, I'd end up scalded by a whole liter of fire-hot liquid.
I nearly flinched at the thought—but managed to stay still.
Minutes passed. My back itched. Sweat ran in rivulets down my skin. Then a fly landed.
I instinctively jerked my shoulder, trying to shoo it away. The bowl wobbled.
I tilted my head to steady it—making everything worse.
Panicked, unwilling to be boiled alive, I grabbed the bowl with both hands—
"ARGH—AAAAGH!"
The first scream came from the blinding pain—lightning, probably.
The second, from the burning water pouring over my body.
No logic or self-restraint could've helped me in that moment.
If I'd had the strength to move, I would've leapt at Gazi and tried to kill him.
Thankfully, the pain was so overwhelming I couldn't even twitch.
"Get up!"
A kick.
"Get up, you lazy worm!"
I didn't.
"Ahh…"
A soft whisper, and the pain began to fade.
Coolness swept through me.
Then—another kick to the gut.
Wiping tears from my eyes (which came, obviously, from sand—definitely the sand), I stood.
"Again," Gazi snarled.
His teaching methods were brutal. But effective.
By the next evening, I could hold that cursed bowl for half an hour without flinching.
Granted, we were constantly on the move. He could only "train" me during breaks or before sleep.
And when the bowl started to slip, I no longer reached to catch it.
Yes—it hurt. Like hell.
But not as much as lightning. And the scalding water came after that anyway.
On the bright side, Gazi's claim about reheating wasn't entirely true. The water cooled slowly with time—so the longer I endured, the less painful the "bath" became.
By midday on the third day, we finally arrived in Eridu.
Gazi's residence loomed large—spacious, wealthy. A grand home by any measure, with a dozen or two slaves, a respectable courtyard, and even some trees.
"Master," a dark-skinned man—aged, but not yet old—ran up.
A Kushite? Looked like one. Kushites are dark-skinned… Aren't they?
Wait—Gazi's half-Kushite, right? No! He's Kassite. Kushites are from the south, Kassites from the north. Never mind.
"Take care of the onagers, prep the bathhouse, feed this boy... He's my new slave. And my new apprentice."
The Kassite glanced at me oddly.
"Oh, and from now on—I'm 'Master.' Understood?"
"I'll see it done exactly, Master."
I had been wondering—new apprentice? That meant there was an old one.
What happened to him?
This tormentor became a master in Babylon.
Before that, he was just an apprentice. Maybe a skilled one, but still...
Who would entrust their child to an apprentice?
Then again, not everyone can afford real masters, let alone magisters or archmages.
Or maybe—Gazi's former student was someone like me.
That must be why the quest is called The Mystery of Two Masters.
Still doesn't make sense.
Maybe he plans to feed me to a demon.
But really, what difference does it make?
I'm just a slave. He could buy several more for the price of one trained apprentice.
Even if he trains me, I doubt the cost outweighs what he could get from someone else.
Is a single soul worth less than dozens?
Would a demon prefer them over one weak mage?
I don't know…
Lunch was simple: bread, water, a bit of milk.
Frankly—not bad, given my status.
Although—I'm not just a slave. I'm the Master's pupil now. So maybe it's fair.
"Master said you must read this by evening. And memorize it. You'll be fed again in five hours. Now go," another slave said plainly, handing me a thick book.
The pages felt tougher than any paper I'd known.
"If you damage it, Master will feed you to a demon."
Ah, cuneiform.
How I loathe you.
But no one here speaks anything else.
Well... Maybe the Egyptians. A few other kingdoms, perhaps...
No schools in sight. Just rumors to cling to.
***
The Sumerian Guild of Mages—formally known as the Guild of Sixty Knowledges—was a vast and revered institution. Sixty distinct schools of magic. From combat casting and demonology to love enchantments and magical floristry. Most apprentices barely scraped by with two or three schools. Some focused on a single path—and those rare types, while one-trick ponies, could sometimes rival full-fledged masters in that discipline.
So Master Gazi wasn't going to teach me everything. Oh, he could train me in many things—but only within the boundaries of what he himself knew. Archmages and maybe magisters are said to understand the fundamentals of all sixty branches… but Gazi had only just earned his master's title.
Well, "just" in Sumerian terms meant a year and a half ago. That's exactly how long I've lived under his roof. Exactly how long I've trained with him.
Calling Gazi strict—harsh, even cruel—would be an understatement. He was calm, calculating, courteous when it suited him... and then, with a soft smile, he'd throw me a task like balancing a bowl of boiling water or slug me straight in the gut. And his mentor? No better. My hatred for both men had solidified into something heavy and permanent—a quiet furnace that never cooled.
As a slave, I either studied or labored. Thankfully, studying took precedence. Gazi clung to his strange belief that "practice replaces theory." Not true, if you ask me—but I was only ever taught just enough theory to power my spells. It was the academic equivalent of memorizing a multiplication table without understanding what multiplication is.
But two things balanced out that ignorance.
First—raw results. A clueless practitioner is arguably more valuable than a smug theorist. No one else in Sumer had achieved the level of practical output I had. In a year and a half, I learned basic telekinesis, water magic, and materialization. Sure, it was rudimentary—like stacking toothpicks or conjuring bowls of water—but some apprentices couldn't manage even that in three years.
Second—self-study. Sometimes, when Gazi couldn't be bothered to explain a concept for more than fifteen minutes, he'd toss me a book. Occasionally, even one of his personal grimoires—on strict orders not to speak a single incantation or attempt anything inside. Some pages were locked off, sealed magically.
What Gazi didn't know? The system.
One clean casting—or even silent, focused reading—was often enough to burn the spell into memory. My system had a virtual spellbook, and over eighteen months, it grew fat—dense enough to rival the tomes of any journeyman mage.
Still, I hadn't studied what I truly wanted. If it were up to me, I'd have chosen telepathy, battle magic, or healing... Maybe even artificing instead. But I had no say. Gazi chose. And lately, I've started to feel like he wasn't training a student—just molding a tool. Something magically capable, physically durable, and narrowly focused. A precision instrument.
I wonder what kind of job calls for a "tool" like me.
My level had climbed four points. I'd picked up a few skills. But most importantly: Gazi didn't know about my electrokinesis. I wasn't throwing bolts, of course—but sometimes I'd hide my hands and sustain a thin line of static between my fingers. I could hold it briefly. My mana reserves were weak. Gazi never let me accumulate. Only in the mornings, fresh from sleep and bathed in the blessing of Sumer's gentle night air…
"Want anything, Pif?"
"A honeyed flatbread and a few dates would be lovely," I replied, eyeing the stall.
"Give it to him," Gazi barked at the vendor, flipping over a few copper shekels.
The seller handed over the goods, blinking at a slave being allowed such a treat.
Yeah… This was my carrot. As long as I "performed," like they'd said once.
We were back in Babylon. Again. Gazi had come to visit his teacher. Took the chance to browse the market too—he needed more herbs, apparently. While we walked, he explained a new set of exercises.
"When your mana runs dry, you'll cast without it."
"Using prana, Master?" I asked, pretending to be surprised. Ha… wouldn't put it past him.
"Yes—but only under supervision. On your own? No mana at all."
"I don't understand."
"You'll try moving objects with thought. Just as you normally would—except without channeling power. Or conjuring water. Or shaping it. It's about sensing ether and astral flow. Awakening magical sight. Hmm… I'll ask my teacher for that book. He had one," Gazi grunted, already tired of explaining.
Meanwhile, the crowd grew restless. A royal courier's chariot pushed through—people stepped aside.
Strange. I didn't recall much of Babylon, but couriers usually took other roads, didn't they?
"Also," Gazi added, "my teacher will train you in meditation and harvesting ambient mana. I'm sick of how fast you burn out."
I flinched slightly, imagining what "meditation training" might look like.
***
The old man roared—almost genuinely upset by my failures, or at least by the delay in results.
"You mangy whelp—offspring of a dog and a jackal! No! Not like that!"
To be fair, I wasn't exactly thrilled either, especially when that bronze staff cracked against me.
"Again! Focus! Sink your mind into the water. You are the bowl! You are the liquid! Feel every ridge of the clay beneath you. The midday sun burns through you. You don't flow—you rest. You're calm, warm, content. What could be more peaceful than lukewarm water…"
Honestly, I would've melted into that speech myself if it weren't for the life-altering thud of the staff. He kept talking and talking while I mentally puddled out under the sun...
"Return!"
The words came sharp and sudden in my ear—followed by a clean strike to the forehead. Blood ran.
"Pff, pathetic," the new teacher snorted, pouring the bowl of water over my head. It was warm.
Then he remembered he couldn't conjure a fresh one—no mana in summoned liquid.
Annoyed, he hurled the bowl at me and sent me off to the well.
Mana Absorption: 1
Meditation: 4
Moments like that were exactly why I kept spare stat points from level-ups. I knew where to put them.
Meditation didn't just increase the level—it actually helped.
Mana Absorption: 3
"Ugh… If only I could send you to Magister Halai, you flea-bitten mule dung. I'm too soft for you…"
The old man groaned theatrically.
"This time you sort of pulled it off. Do it again."
I practiced mana gathering until sundown. It was clumsy at best. I could absorb maybe five points a minute.
Pathetic.
Still, Gazi and his beloved mentor had turned my existence into nonstop training:
Wake at dawn. Eat. Train magical skills. Attempt to open magical sight. Hours upon hours of mana gathering. More training. More gathering.
I lasted one week.
Then I passed out cold.
Oddly, Gazi agreed to lighten my load.
Not at my request—but his teacher's.
Which shocked me. I'd figured the old man was the bigger sadist.
Now I got kitchen duty as a break.
Fetching, slicing, grinding.
Not easy work—but a welcome shift from spell-grinding and mana-sweating.
Mentally, it was a relief.
And that, at least, was enough to keep me going.
***
Six months in Babylon, and of all the twisted gifts it could offer—it gave me opportunity.
When Gazi barked at me to fetch wine, I ran. What else could I do?
But more important than errands—I managed to get my hands on his teacher's magical grimoire. Only briefly, a couple of times, but enough. My own system-bound spellbook now rivaled that of a full apprentice. Most of the material overlapped, but there were key differences.
Gazi was an elementalist and a potion-maker. It was the latter that kept him afloat—earning just enough to dodge ilkum, the mage tax. If you're a mage, you serve the empire, pay up, or get out. Gazi brewed in lieu of service. Sometimes he even sold his potions and bought time off the tax completely. Clever setup.
His teacher? Also a potion-maker—but more than that, a blood mage and a demonologist. Not one of the greats—those would be Halai Ji Besh and Archmage Alkealol of Ur. Still, this man worked with demons. And he wasn't above using Word Magic either.
After we returned from Babylon, Gazi roped me into potion work. First preparing ingredients, then leading collection trips with slaves. Sometimes we were gone a week. He didn't worry about me running. His teacher dealt in blood magic. They had my blood, my hair, my skin. And demons could track me. I knew they knew. They knew I knew. Enough said.
Besides—where would I even go? Slave hunters would catch me in days. My weak magical talent would only make me stand out. And even that's easily snuffed out. Cold iron rings in a collar or bracelet—doesn't take much to neutralize someone like me.
Still, I hadn't resigned myself to slavery. No. I craved freedom—desperately. The system let me grow faster than normal. And I kept some of that growth hidden. Gazi thought I was just beginning to perceive auras, uncertain and clumsy. But I'd been seeing them clearly for over a month. I could tell lies from truth in regular people. And he didn't know I'd begun experimenting with aerokinesis. It followed similar principles. Training with it was easy—no obvious sounds, desert winds masked everything. As long as Gazi was busy brewing, I was free to practice.
I'd gotten good with ingredients, too. More than half were gathered under my supervision now. Gazi even threw in long lectures on properties, mixtures, compatibilities. Normally I'd get a collection task, a training directive, a cart, a few slaves, and food for several days. Off we'd go. The group was technically led by another slave, but he didn't try to boss me. I was given more leeway—and that didn't earn me any friends.
But no one dared cross the apprentice of a scary sorcerer master. Not directly. Occasionally we caught a small animal, bird, or fish—and then, joy of joys, the slaves tasted meat.
Truth be told, if not for the collar, I might've liked that life. But slavery? It crushed me like a mountain. I hated it. I wanted out.
"Hey, Kura," I called to the head of our latest "expedition," trekking toward a forest a few days from Gazi's home. "Did the master have other apprentices? Before me?"
"A—ah, no, never," he snorted. I wouldn't have known, but his aura flashed a lie as clear as day.
"I see. And what happened to them?"
Kura choked.
"Pif, I said he had none!"
"Right, I get it. So what became of the previous apprentice? Or apprentices? More than one? Just one? No—more than one. Where are they, Kura?"
"He had no apprentices! And shut up!"
"Well. If he didn't—then he didn't," I said, shrugging.
…
"Pif, I hear you've been asking about my former apprentices?"
"I have, Master," I said, nodding.
"There were two. Both dead. They trained in demonology. Made mistakes…"
He paused.
"That time… things got very bloody in this house. Slaves are forbidden to speak of it.
You are forbidden to dig.
If I hear you're snooping around again—I'll cut off a few fingers. Clear?"
"Crystal, Master Gazi."
Everything made sense. Logically. But the pattern was troubling.
Still—I'm not learning demonology.
Only that lingering quest—the Mystery of Two Masters—keeps gnawing at me.
***
This marked the eighth year of my training.
Much had happened in that time. Much had failed too. Progress came slowly—painfully. My mana pool had climbed to 730, up from 210 five years ago. But for context? Even a basic healing spell I'd mastered now drained over a hundred. My prana, on the other hand, had surged to 410. Double what it probably should be. No mystery there: Gazi regularly forced me to cast using prana when mana ran dry.
I'd downplayed my progress. Secretly, I wasn't even satisfied with it. Yet Gazi grew warmer, more approving—as did his teacher, whom we visited several more times.
My formal status was still "slave," but within the household I held a higher position than most. Meat graced my plate often enough. I'd trade it all for freedom—and the shackles of imperial ilkum, if it came to that. I'd thought about escape. Often. But demons would track me down easily. Better to stay unassuming. Better to cultivate the right impression.
What Gazi didn't know? I'd copied every book I ever touched in both his house and his teacher's. Completely. My grasp of magical theory was far better than he realized.
Sometimes I'd get to put it to practice.
The city lugal visited often. Sometimes the enn as well. In Ur, they had Archmage Kreol of Ur in residence—helpful, often for free. Eridu wasn't so lucky. Gazi was our stand-in. Officially, in exchange for tax.
I'd sat in trials to spot lies in aura. Escorted city officials. Even helped during a ghoul attack. Well, Gazi and the guards did the killing—I stood back, chanting "Cleansing of the Goddess Inanna," my very first spell. It seared the ghouls and cured the infected wounds left by their teeth.
I'd also gotten decent at potion crafting. Gazi grew lazy about supplying his friend's shop, and handed the work off to me. He only brewed the advanced recipes himself—those for rich clients. I handled salves, tonics, trivial brews.
That shop employed other city mages too—ones working off their tax obligations. Funny, considering the empire paid them a decent wage. Five gold a month for a mage-consultant. That's two and a half times more than a skilled craftsman. Just three less than the lugal. Only the top officials made more. Yet they still complained. Their potion skills? Abysmal. And who did they turn to for recipes and demos? Right again—Gazi. He'd carved out a tidy role for himself.
Through quiet digging, I learned there weren't just two former apprentices. There had been three. And something else: Gazi himself was his teacher's fourth. The other three died. So did the fifth, who came after him.
That knowledge cost me my left pinky toe. I didn't pry further.
About Kreol Ursky—the archmage—I'd heard his son, also named Kreol, was set to apprentice under demonology master Halai Ji Besh. The boy was seven. Hadn't started training yet.
I learned this when Gazi decided to pay Halai a visit.
Halai lived in a massive three-story home filled with slaves. He had one apprentice: Hazrib, son of a wealthy merchant who managed to send his grandson to study under a full magister. Although, back then, Halai might still have been a master—I couldn't be sure.
Hazrib ate some mush while Halai ranted about his "mindless, air-polluting mule-piss excuse of a student..."
You think Gazi was brutal? Pfft. I'd never seen Halai in action before.
His apprentice was twenty-five. And still got beat like a thief.
I didn't even get one bite of barley stew before Halai spotted me:
"Aha! So this is him? Hey, you! Pazuzu's miscarriage! Get over here!"
A stone hit my head—don't ask me where it came from.
"You should've been faster, dog!"
Then came the staff. To my skull. To my gut. I doubled over.
"Oh, at least you can bow! Lower, lower!"
Another strike. My head rang. Blood trickled down.
"Enough, Magister. Pif, heal yourself."
I whispered the spell. Not the first time I'd cast it in pain.
"Hmm... Not bad," Halai sneered. "Hey you—lift that table!"
I focused. No way he meant physically. The wood levitated slowly.
Mana drained like a waterfall. I began lowering it, but—
"I didn't say stop!"
"Mana," I murmured.
"When you're dying, then you can stop," Gazi replied.
Mana spent. Prana kicked in. Dizziness set in. I dropped the table, barely standing.
"Excellent! Master Yen trained you well," Halai grinned.
"How old are you, mule spawn?"
"Thirteen."
"Thirteen... Hah."
"Pif, go outside. Restore your mana," ordered Gazi.
I nodded. No protest.
Night had fallen. Cool desert air swept the streets.
Sumerian nights. I cherished them more than anything.
But I was too exhausted to enjoy them.
Typical.
I sat cross-legged in the sand, meditating. It would take an hour to replenish my mana.
All that just to float a stupid table.
I was interrupted.
Halai.
"Your arm, boy!"
A crooked knife slashed my wrist. Blood spilled into a cup he held.
He tossed my arm aside and walked off.
I whispered another healing spell. Dizzy. Dry-mouthed. I resumed meditation.
Late at night, I snuck into the kitchen, stole a flatbread. Drank well water—slightly salty, but tolerable.
"I hate this," I hissed.
A surge of water shot upward.
Then it fell.
Only a gust of wind spoke my anger.
Mana halved.
Meditating while walking—faltering, stumbling—I returned to the house.
No one showed me where to sleep.
I curled up in the sand.
The sky was beautiful, at least.
Gazi argued with Halai constantly.
I was given tasks.
The cursed demonologist refused to leave me alone in his library, but gave me a few books at Gazi's request, with a warning:
"Tear a page—I'll burn you alive. Every one—burn, resurrect, burn again."
I didn't care. They told me to read specific chapters.
I copied everything.
They took the books back soon after.
One night, while meditating beneath a window, I overheard:
"…Don't flatter me. Alkealol's slightly better than me in demonology."
"Well, maybe just a hair.
Speaking of, what's the story with his grandson? Kreol, right?"
"Ahh… Nothing much. Stupid boy did something dumb. Grandfather booted him from the house.
I heard too late. Sent slavers after him.
Little bastard escaped. Slave-blooded filth.
Alkealol's calmed down now. Pity. He'd have made a fine hostage."
"Wait, Magister—Alkealol just tossed his grandson out with no guard?"
"Pfft. Don't make me laugh!
The slavers were ripped apart. Twisted. Devoured.
I'd bet Alkealol sent a few demons to keep an eye on Pazuzu's runt.
Such a missed opportunity…"
Back at Halai's estate, they started feeding me separately.
My master made me drink potions constantly…
The diet continued after we returned home.
I couldn't identify them—but my system helpfully spelled it out:
Overflexed Magic Core
Your mana channel has become overly elastic. Mana capacity grows faster, but side effects may include instability and illness.
Accelerated Prana Flow
Your prana circulates faster. You'll never feel fatigue, always full of energy.
However, your physical body will slowly deteriorate from strain.
Mental Weakness
Your astral and mental bodies have lost some of their natural shielding...
I still didn't know exactly why they needed me, but I had my suspicions. Demons.
From the start, my assumptions had been wrong. A mage apprentice is worth more than hundreds of ordinary souls—to demons. I'd been right about the gods, though. And I was approaching that threshold.
Everything else? It was just preparation—getting me "ripe" for consumption.
Some spells, like the Cleansing of Inanna, helped mitigate the damage. But I had no choice about drinking the potions.
I'd even trained myself to vomit, just to reject some of that filth. Rarely worked.
Antidotes and neutralizers helped—I'd learned how to brew them and even how to steal the ingredients. Just a little at a time. Enough to make most of the poisons ineffective.
Lately I felt like a goose being fattened for foie gras—force-fed into illness.
Disgusting.
But I couldn't keep going with the flow. What did I know?
Three involved parties: two masters and, likely, one magister.
All clearly participating.
And that was just the minimum.
They wanted to summon a demon and feed me to it.
My current power level matched that of a weak apprentice—not in knowledge, but in raw ability. My virtual magic book held much, but there was still so much left to master.
Their plan? Train me until I was ripe, stuff me full of potions and enhancers, then hand me over to a demon.
One overheard conversation confirmed it was all secret. Illegal. Dangerous.
No one was supposed to know.
So what could I do? Very little.
Hydromancy was my strongest skill.
Followed by potion-making and telekinesis.
Mana: 800
Prana: 440
A few coins. A spatial pocket from the system—my inventory. Could fit roughly one body's worth of volume.
Legally, I was property. A slave. Though I didn't look the part.
If I stayed in Sumer, they'd find me.
The tracking demons would have me in hours.
Run further? To Kush?
North to Pontus?
Yeah, sure. Escape on foot across an entire empire while hellhounds sniff me out? Genius…
No. Not happening.
So long as Gazi lived, I had no chance.
As long as Gazi lived…
Unless I fixed that.
—
"Master! Master!"
"Pup, if you woke me for nonsense…"
"Amphitalak—it turned black!"
"Why didn't you say so earlier?!"
Throwing on his tunic, the man rushed to his alchemy lab.
It was deep night. Moonlit.
His pupil followed close behind, visibly flustered.
So flustered, in fact, that he stumbled and scraped Gazi with his hand.
"You donkey-born idiot!"
Gazi smacked him across the face.
"Forgive me, Master! I—I'm just worried!"
"Pazuzu's spawn…" Gazi muttered.
He wasn't angry about the scrape itself—but about the magic protection it disrupted.
One of three defense spells he carried.
Each one could reflect any attack—once.
Useful, but indiscriminate. It couldn't tell the difference between a thorn and a sword.
"Tch… Let's go."
Just as he crossed the lab's threshold, he heard a quiet snap and felt a tingle at the base of his neck.
Lightning.
The second defense fell.
The lightning wasn't what harmed him—but the stumble, his momentum, and a rope pulled taut above the doorway…
He crashed to the floor.
He managed to launch a wind blade behind him, instinctively responding to something sharp on the ground.
His last shield broke.
Then the knife slammed into his back.
Then a clay vial shattered across his skull—acid.
The blade kept stabbing.
A hand clamped on his neck, sparking with lightning again and again, paralyzing his muscles.
The blade snapped, but a shard from the hilt jabbed into the base of his skull.
The lightning and bludgeoning didn't stop—not until the mana ran dry.
"My name is Tiglat, bastard…"
Breath heaving.
Killing Gazi had cost me dearly.
I had backup plans—but this had been pure luck.
He'd been too obsessed with his potion.
I poured two more vials of acid over his head—just in case.
Downed half a healing potion.
Poured the rest over the wind blade wound.
The lab and its surroundings were sealed with silence spells—to avoid disrupting Gazi's work.
But I still had to drag his corpse inside, behind the door.
There were guards—two slaves. They couldn't see it.
—
Experience gained: +12
New Level: 19
—
You don't gain XP for a kill—but for orchestrating the kill? That's different.
Two stat points went into mana.
Total: 830.
Then I looted the lab.
I knew what was valuable.
Inventory first: ingredients, potions, salves.
From the kitchen: two flatbreads, dried meat, flask of water.
Rest of the food—stuffed in a worn-out bag.
From Gazi's personal room—I took all the money I could find.
Stored in a chest under the bed.
The lock responded to a ring on his finger.
And guess who had that ring now?
Thirty-plus gold shekels, a stash of silver and copper—a fortune.
Into the inventory.
Hung some copper and a silver coin on a string for the bag.
Belt carry would rattle too much.
Into the bag: a good knife, clothes, food.
Only one dirty task left…
—
"Kulma, Kulma… ha… ha…" I panted.
"Master gave orders…"
The guard froze—paralyzed.
I rammed the knife into his face mid-sentence.
The second one struggled against my telekinetic grip. Failed.
He got his share of bronze too.
Poisons spread throughout the house—and the courtyard.
I covered my face with a cloth pre-soaked in neutralizing agents.
Oil had already been spilled: in hallways, rooms, doorways, even patches of dried grass.
Most of the slaves were dead.
Some—I didn't want to kill.
Some—I pitied.
I felt sick, scared, part of me wanted to run…
But if I did, the hunt would begin immediately.
Better to make it a mess—make them hesitate.
The chalk outline on the kitchen floor was crude.
A pentagon, star within.
Blood, invocation…
—
"Magus… why have you summoned me?"
The demon sneered at the circle beneath its feet—tried to cross it.
Smacked against an invisible wall.
The contempt faded slowly.
"Well?"
"No 'well.' I need to get out of here. Fast.
We're in a city.
You sense the corpses.
Take what you can—that's your payment."
"Escape? Ha!
What exactly did you have in mind?"
The demon watched with amusement.
"One of the dead. Big guy.
You reanimate him.
Make him carry me. Fast, responsive. Turns when I say.
Should be easy for you, no?"
"Hmm… deal."
"No, no. Swear it.
I'm not strong, but I can sense your lies.
And I see you haven't sworn.
Swear now or crawl back to your stinking realm!"
I hurled a vial into the circle.
White smoke billowed.
"I swear! Fine!"
—
Experience gained: +11
—
Enough to confirm the contract.
A quick smear—one line erased.
"Where's the corpse?"
I led the demon to one of the guards.
It split off part of itself—a disgusting, worm-like parasite.
Dropped it onto the dead man's face.
The thing burrowed through the eye socket.
I nearly vomited.
Minutes later—the corpse stood.
"He'll obey. He's fast.
He'll 'die' in about two days," the demon giggled.
"Good. You have ten minutes.
After that—I light the house."
"We didn't agree on that!"
"So what?
Relax.
Only two bodies in the main house.
The rest are in the annex—I didn't spill oil there.
It'll burn slow.
You'll have time."
The creature growled and ran off to harvest.
I sighed.
"Follow me," I ordered the corpse.
Ten minutes later—I placed my hand on the oil-soaked floor.
Sent a spark.
Fire erupted.
Flames spread.
I climbed onto the necro-carrier's back and gave the signal.
We flew over the city wall—my mana held out.
Then we ran.
Eyes closed, meditating, I brushed off a new system message.
Quest Complete: The Mystery of Two Masters