Chapter 6 – The Shadow of the Master
The workshop was still littered with the traces of last night's experiments. The breastplates glimmered faintly with runic traces, the rope lay coiled like a resting serpent, and Glic sat slumped over the table with heavy eyes.
The System's warning echoed in his mind:
> [Warning: Host Spiritual Energy critically low. Excessive display of anomalies may attract unwanted attention.]
Glic rubbed his temples. He knew the truth of it even without the warning. This world was ruled by Wizards, beings who pursued knowledge and power with merciless hunger. If word spread that a mere 0-ring apprentice could craft magical items without the backing of a Tower… he would not survive.
The White Wizards would demand answers. The Grey would probe and bargain. The Black would simply kidnap me in the night.
And even worse, nobles and royals would descend like vultures. The Goldbear name would be devoured in the crossfire.
"No," he muttered aloud, voice low but firm. "Glic Goldbear must remain a minor noble and dabbler. Harmless. Ambitious, perhaps, but unimpressive."
He leaned back, staring at the ceiling beams. "Which means… someone else must take the credit."
Slowly, a smile curved across his lips.
An alter ego. A mask to hide behind. A phantom master no one can touch.
He stood, pacing the length of the workshop as the idea took form.
"Yes… a wandering master artificer and alchemist. A figure shrouded in mystery. One who lends his skill to the Goldbear family in return for… coin, rare herbs, or some vague debt of honor."
The more he spoke it aloud, the clearer the shape became. He grabbed a quill and parchment, sketching as he muttered:
Name: ??? (to be chosen later, foreign-sounding, exotic)
Appearance: Tall, cloaked, always veiled by illusion. Never seen without mask or hood.
Personality: Distant, eccentric, disdainful of politics. Only cares for crafting.
Origin: Claims to have wandered the southern deserts / the outer seas. No verifiable past.
Connection to Goldbear family: "Friend of my late father," Glic whispered. "Yes… a convenient excuse. A man who owed him a favor."
He paused, staring down at the parchment. The character almost seemed alive already.
This mask will shield me. Through it, I can flood the markets with items. If the Towers inquire, I will bow and say: 'It is not my work, but that of my family's patron.'
A laugh escaped him—sharp, tired, but triumphant.
---
That evening, he summoned Steward Halwen to the study. The old man arrived quickly, bowing as always.
"You sent for me, my lord?"
"Yes." Glic gestured to the documents laid out on the table—sketches of armor, rope, and glowing notes. "I have… news. Our family has secured the aid of a master artificer and alchemist."
Halwen's eyes widened. "A… master? Forgive me, my lord, but that is no small claim. Artificers of even minor renown are courted by kings and Towers alike. How could—"
"Because," Glic cut in smoothly, "he is an old acquaintance of my late father. A man of reclusive habits who has little patience for politics. He seeks only resources and privacy. In exchange, he has agreed to channel his works through us. For now, he will remain… unseen. But his creations will bear the Goldbear crest."
Halwen's mouth opened, then shut. His brow furrowed, suspicion warring with loyalty. "And this master… his name?"
Glic's eyes flickered. "He goes by… Aurelius."
The word slipped off his tongue with weight, drawn from half-forgotten Latin roots in his old world. Golden. Eternal. A name fit for a phantom.
Halwen bowed slowly. "If this is true, my lord, then our fortunes will rise swiftly. But if it is false…" His gaze hardened. "You risk the wrath of the Tower."
Glic stepped forward, laying a hand on the steward's shoulder. His smile was calm, assured, even charming. "Halwen. Trust me. Soon you will see the proof with your own eyes."
---
That night, under candlelight, Glic sat before a bronze mirror. He whispered a weaving of illusion, shaping his features. His jaw grew sharper, his hair long and white, his eyes concealed by a faint shimmer. A hood of darkness wrapped around his shoulders.
In the reflection, Glic Goldbear was gone. In his place stood Master Aurelius, cloaked in shadow and mystery.
He studied the figure, voice low and resonant as he rehearsed:
"I am Aurelius. The Goldbear family is under my protection. My creations flow through their hands. Do not pry further."
The mirror-image bowed slightly, cloak shifting with an unnatural ripple.
Glic's grin widened. "Yes. That will do."
The mask was ready. The phantom master had been born.
---
The following week, word spread like wildfire through Rivermark:
House Goldbear had secured the patronage of a master artificer—an eccentric genius known only as Aurelius. Magical items began to appear under the Goldbear crest: self-cleaning armor, flame-resistant coats, tracking ropes that seemed alive.
Merchants buzzed with gossip. Rivals cursed their luck. Nobles sniffed opportunity. And in the distant halls of the Tower, whispers began to stir.
But none knew the truth. None saw that behind the mask of Aurelius was only a single man: a 0-ring apprentice with a stolen alien system.
And as Glic stood at the window of his estate, watching the merchants bow lower than before, his heart burned with a mixture of triumph and cold resolve.
Let them believe in Aurelius. Let them bow to the mask. By the time they learn the truth—if they ever do—it will be too late.