What is the Phantasm Gate?

It is a magic promulgated by the imaginative mind, opening a fissure to the dimension of imagination— it connects to a place called the Mirror World. Even a caster doesn’t know exactly what kind of place the other side is, except it will certainly be a reflection of the subconscious of its caster.

Sanaryn hovers above the sky, flames bursting from her legs supporting her mid-flight. Below her, sceneries too foreign for her to comprehend unfold - high-rise buildings of glass, urban areas with incredible density. She has not seen anything like this before.

Sanaryn, voicing her confusion aloud, "Where am I?"

In response to her query, a peal of laughter echoes through the air. She glances over to see a woman standing on a rooftop, her white hair flowing and her red eyes piercing. Signs of albinism mark her distinct appearance. The woman wears a peculiar attire, a business suit of sorts, completely unfamiliar to Sanaryn.

The woman introduces herself, "Greetings, Sanaryn. I am Sylvestra Bloodling, one of the four generals of the Dark Army."

Sanaryn, perplexed, furrows her brow, "Dark Army? I don't recall any Dark Army, and who are you?"

Sylvestra smirks, "Oh, you'll come to know soon enough. The realms have changed, and so have you."

Sanaryn's eyes narrow, "Changed? What do you mean?"

Sylvestra descends gracefully from the rooftop, landing near Sanaryn. "You're in a different realm now, and things aren't what they used to be. The Dark Army controls this world, and you, my dear, are part of it." The figure of the silver-haired woman floating in the air indicates that she too must have supernatural powers to some degree.

Sanaryn, still grappling with the revelation, stammers, "I don't understand. I have no memory of this."

Sylvestra chuckles, "Memories can be a tricky thing, especially when manipulated. Embrace your new reality, Sanaryn, for you have a role to play in the grand scheme of things. Yes, yes! A role, is it?"

Sanaryn, conflicted and wary, looks around at the unfamiliar surroundings. The skies seem darker, the air heavier. She mutters to herself, "What have I gotten myself into?"

Sanaryn recounts her recent memory, her voice steady but perplexed, "I remember plunging into an army of dark angels, attacking someone named Randel, and then... here. Where is here?"

Sylvestra, with an air of amusement, replies, "Welcome to the illusion dimension, Sanaryn. Some call it the Mirror World. This place is just one corner of it."

Sanaryn demands answers, "Mirror World? What is this place, and why am I here?"

Sylvestra, with a sly smile, elaborates, "You are inside the corner of the mind of the one and only Randel Eir Dromastus, our master and great Excellency."

Sanaryn's eyes narrow, and she demands, "Randel? The person I was just fighting against? What kind of trickery is this?"

Sylvestra, undeterred, continues with a reverence that unnerves Sanaryn, "Indeed, our master. The Mirror World reflects the depths of his consciousness... or to be more specific, his mind has carved a domain of his own in the Mirror World for a long time already!”

Sanaryn, growing uneasy, questions, "Consciousness? Why would I be inside his mind?"

Sylvestra, with an unsettling amount of worship, throws praise after praise, "Oh, the honor! To exist within the thoughts of our great master is a privilege. We are but mere fragments of his grand existence."

Sanaryn, increasingly uncomfortable, snaps, "Enough! I don't want to hear this prattle. Randel was my enemy moments ago, and now I'm supposed to revere him?"

Sylvestra, with a serene smile, responds, "In the Mirror World, things are not always what they seem. Your role here is intricately woven into the tapestry of his thoughts, whether you understand it or not. Embrace your fate, Sanaryn, for resistance is futile in the realm of the great Excellency."

Sanaryn, frustrated and unsettled, mutters to herself, "This is madness. I need to find a way out of here."

Sanaryn's eyes widen as the realization hits her like a thunderbolt. She's fallen into Randel's trap, and the illusionary battlefield around her crumbles into a chaotic display of flickering images. Flames dance on the edges of her vision, and panic tightens her chest.

Screaming at the top of her lungs, Sanaryn erupts in a blaze, demanding the illusions to be destroyed. “No! This can't be happening!” she cries in desperation, channeling her fiery power. The air sizzles with heat as her flames consume everything in their path — buildings crumble, civilians vanish in the inferno, and even Sylvestra, the illusionary ally, succumbs to the relentless fire. But the satisfaction of victory is short-lived.

In the blink of an eye, the world resets, and Sanaryn finds herself back where it all began. Sylvestra stands before her, the smugness evident in her expression, unscathed by the destructive flames.

“How... How is this possible?” Sanaryn exclaims in frustration.

“Did you really think it would be that easy, dear Sanaryn?” Sylvestra smirks, the trap tightening its grip. The illusion persists. The battleground may change, but the outcome remains the same. Sanaryn is trapped in a loop of deception, and Sylvestra, with her smug face, is the puppeteer’s spokesperson pulling the strings.

The air in the ethereal realm quivers with tension as Sylvestra, her eyes gleaming with ancient knowledge, faces Sanaryn, who radiates an aura of unrestrained fury.

Calmly, Sylvestra begins, "Sanaryn, you must understand. Trying to destroy the dimension itself is futile. You won't escape this trap."

Sanaryn scowls, her voice a hiss of anger.

Defiantly, she declares, "I won't be confined! I'll tear this place apart, even if it means unraveling the very fabric of existence!"

Undeterred, Sylvestra gazes at Sanaryn with an almost maternal concern.

Patiently, she continues, "Your temper won't aid you, dear. Summoning an orb of fire won't change the inevitable."

With a swift gesture, Sanaryn conjures a fiery orb and hurls it at Sylvestra, who remains unflinching. The orb collides with her, causing an explosion of flames that engulfs the surroundings. Yet, as the flames subside, Sylvestra stands relatively unscathed.

Reforming her ethereal visage, she declares, her voice echoing from the building, "You cannot harm me, Sanaryn. I am as much a part of this dimension as you are now."

Sanaryn grits her teeth, frustration is evident in her eyes.

Impatiently, she demands, "What do you suggest, then? How can I escape this trap?"

Sylvestra responds, "Knowledge is your key. Those trapped in another dimension must understand it to navigate its intricacies. Elemental casters, like yourself, are particularly vulnerable. Exile here strips them of their power rather one-sidedly."

Sanaryn, still seething, listens reluctantly as Sylvestra imparts her wisdom.

Sylvestra continues, "Without the familiarity of their native dimension, most elemental casters find themselves helpless. They become mere shadows of their former selves, unable to wield their powers."

Sanaryn's fiery gaze meets Sylvestra's calm eyes, realization dawning.

Grudgingly, Sanaryn concedes, "So, I need to learn the ways of this dimension to break free."

Sylvestra nods, a glimmer of empathy softening her expression.

Encouragingly, she concludes, "Yes, Sanaryn. Knowledge is your weapon against this confinement. Only then can you hope to escape the intricate web that binds you. But you know, there is an easier way out!"

Sanaryn hovers in the air, flames flickering with intensity as she faces the enigmatic figure before her. Her demand cuts through the charged atmosphere. "Sylvestra, just what are you?"

Sylvestra, an ethereal being that defies categorization, responds calmly, "I am a Temporary Life, drawn by the Phantasm Gate spell to act as an intermediary for you." Sanaryn squints, trying to make sense of this existence that seems neither human, alive, nor dead.

Confusion clouds Sanaryn's expression as she seeks clarification. "Temporary Life? What does that mean?"

Sylvestra, maintaining her composure, explains further, "I have been made a proxy for my master to give you a deal." Sanaryn's impatience grows, her flames reflecting the building frustration.

Sanaryn's anger flares as she demands, "I don't understand. What deal?"

Sylvestra elaborates, her tone unwavering, "Your adversary, Randel, offers a bargain. He wishes to settle this conflict without unnecessary bloodshed." Sanaryn's flames reflect not only anger but also curiosity.

Intrigued, she questions, "A bargain? What kind of deal?"

Sylvestra continues to elucidate, "Spare him from direct confrontation, and he promises not to interfere with your affairs again. A truce, if you will." Sanaryn, torn between the desire for a straightforward battle, and the allure of resolution without further conflict, narrows her eyes. In essence, she simply wants to kill Randel for being husband to the Sorcerer World’s Public Enemy no. 1.

Demanding Randel's presence, she asserts, "I don’t like this. Where is Randel? Show yourself!" The air crackles with energy as she awaits the Phantomancer's appearance, tension escalating with each passing moment.

Sanaryn’s frustration is etched across her face. She calls out impatiently for Randel, her voice echoing through the stone walls. "Randel! Show yourself!" She shouts, his impatience evident in the way his voice reverberates through the room.

Sylvestra, a figure cloaked in the illusory power of the Mirror World, watches from the corner, her disappointment palpable. She shakes her head slowly, her gaze fixed on Sanaryn. "You should understand, Sanaryn," she begins, her voice a low murmur. "Randel exists outside of this reality, waiting for you to make the decisions that will allow him to join the ranks of the Three Sages."

Sanaryn frowns, annoyed by the cryptic nature of Sylvestra's words. "What decisions?" she demands, his impatience turning to irritation.

Sylvestra steps forward, her form flickering like a phantom in the darkness. "Randel seeks your approval, Sanaryn. The path to becoming a member of the Three Sages requires your word, your acknowledgment of his worthiness."

Sanaryn narrows her eyes. "Why can't Randel come and speak for himself? Why this proxy?" she questions, suspicion coloring his tone.

Sylvestra sighs, her voice tinged with a hint of regret. "I am but a manifestation, a mere echo summoned to convince you. Randel is resorting to a strong-arm tactic, a rough method of persuasion to ensure you grant him approval."

Sanaryn's frustration deepens. "And what if I don't approve?" she challenges, crossing her arms over her chest.

Sylvestra's eyes gleam with seriousness. "If you deny your approval, Sanaryn, you risk being forever trapped in the Mirror World. The decisions you make now will determine not only Randel's fate but also your own."

The Mirror World shimmers with an otherworldly glow as Sanaryn, frustration etched on her face, attempts to defy its laws. She lifts herself into the air, determined to escape this confounding place. But each time she ascends, hope is crushed as gravity forces her back to the starting point.

Sanaryn clenches her fists, her temper rising like an inferno. "This can't be happening!" she snarls, hurling fireballs in every direction. The flames dance, but the Mirror World remains unscathed. She grits her teeth, summoning the depths of her power. "Primal Inferno!" she shouts, releasing a torrent of raw, unbridled energy. The world trembles, but in an instant, it resets as if mocking her efforts.

Exhausted and defeated, Sanaryn turns to face Sylvestra, who observes the spectacle with an amused smile. "What kind of twisted place is this?" Sanaryn demands, her eyes ablaze.

Sylvestra steps forward, her demeanor calm. "This is the Mirror World, a realm governed by its own rules. You can't simply force your way out."

Sanaryn meets Sylvestra's gaze, frustration giving way to desperation. "Then tell me how to get out of here," she demands, her voice laced with urgency.

Sylvestra's smile widens, revealing a hint of mischief. "There is a way," she says, drawing out the words. "But it comes at a cost. You must yield what my master requires."

Sanaryn's eyes narrow, suspicion and defiance written across her face. "And what is it that your master wants?"

Sylvestra gestures toward a looming building nearby. "Come inside, and we can discuss the terms. Negotiation is the next phase, after all."

Sanaryn hesitates, her pride warring with her desperation. Finally, she relents, her shoulders slumping. "Fine," she concedes through gritted teeth. "Let's get this over with."

With a satisfied smile, Sylvestra leads the way into the enigmatic structure, leaving the Mirror World's twisted landscape behind.

In Sylvestra's office, a palpable tension hangs in the air as the two women, Sylvestra and Sanaryn, settle into their respective seats. Sylvestra, her movements graceful and deliberate, slide a document and a ballpoint pen across the polished surface of her desk toward Sanaryn.

Sylvestra leans back, studying Sanaryn with a discerning gaze. "Take a look at that, Sanaryn. It's imperative."

Accepting the paper, Sanaryn's eyes immediately catch the magical essence woven into the contract. Her curiosity is piqued, and a subtle unease tightens her insides as she begins to read.

Whispering to herself, Sanaryn muses, "Magic woven into a contract?" As she continues reading, the realization of an unexpected demand hits her like a sudden gust of wind. Her gaze narrows, and her fingers grip the edge of the parchment.

"Send a Pyromancer to the Dromastus Territory? Keep it a secret? This wasn't part of the initial agreement," Sanaryn mutters, her voice revealing a mix of surprise and concern.

Sylvestra watches as Sanaryn processes the information, her features betraying a blend of contemplation and worry. Sanaryn's eyes move down the document, and her stomach tightens at the next revelation.

"Obedience and acknowledgment to Randel Eir Dromastus and the Law of Three Sages? This is far beyond what I signed up for," Sanaryn grimaces, grappling with the unexpected obligations laid out before her. “Of course, I will be obedient to the Law of Three Sages, but this line is particularly misleading! As one of the Sages myself, I will abide by my duties, but I won’t give Randel my obedience!”

“Tsk,” Sylvestra tuts as she faked a smile. “Fine, all is well. You just need to acknowledge my master so that he becomes eligible as a Sage!”

Leaning forward, Sylvestra's eyes carry a focused intensity. "Sanaryn, you find yourself at a crossroads. Make a decision. The Dromastus family's safety hangs in the balance."

Sanaryn takes a deep breath, torn between duty and the unforeseen commitments embedded in the enchanted contract. “You know what? I really don’t like you, Temporary Life or not.”

Sanaryn can't help but glance around Sylvestra's lavishly decorated office, her eyes settling on the horseless carriages just beyond the window. She takes in the meticulous artworks and items that surround her, each seemingly chosen with the utmost care. A particular painting catches her attention – a proud depiction of Randel Eir Dromastus hanging on the wall.

Sanaryn, unable to contain her disdain, utters in a low voice, "How narcissistic Randel is, to have his own portrait hanging here like some divine presence."

Sylvestra, who had been calmly sipping her tea, suddenly tenses. Her gaze sharpens, and an undercurrent of anger surfaces. "Do not defame the name of Randel Eir Dromastus," she warns, her voice carrying a dangerous edge.

Sanaryn, perhaps foolishly, presses on. "Is this world nothing more than a shrine to your so-called God? A place where individuality is sacrificed for the glorification of one man?"

Sylvestra's eyes narrow, and her composure slips away like sand through clenched fists. "You speak in ignorance, fool. Randel is the beacon of order and prosperity in our world. Do not question his divinity."

Sanaryn, realizing the gravity of her words, backs away slightly. Fear flickers in her eyes, and she stammers, "I-I didn't mean to question... I just—"

But Sylvestra interrupts, her fury boiling over. "Silence! You will not tarnish the sanctity of Randel's name in my presence. He is our savior, our guiding light. Apologize, or face the consequences."

Sanaryn, now genuinely scared for her life, stammers out an apology, realizing too late the perilous ground she's ventured onto. The air in the room is charged with tension, and Sanaryn can only hope that her words haven't sealed a fate worse than she could have ever imagined. That is how much momentum Sylvestra has in terms of her passion for her subject of worship.

Sanaryn's fingers tremble as she clutches the ballpoint pen, the parchment before her bearing the weight of an irrevocable decision. Gritting her teeth, she takes a deep breath, resigning herself to the inescapable fate that Sylvestra has orchestrated. The ink flows from the ballpoint pen as she signs her name onto the magical binding contract, each stroke binding her essence to its arcane clauses.

Sylvestra watches with glee, her eyes gleaming with a mix of satisfaction and triumph. "Ah, my dear Sanaryn," she whispers, her voice dripping with triumph. "You've made the wisest choice of your existence."

The moment the ballpoint pen leaves the parchment, the contract shimmers with an ethereal glow. It pulses as if syncing itself with the very heartbeat of Sanaryn. Unseen threads of magic weave through the air, connecting the contract to her and, unbeknownst to her, to Randel as well. Sylvestra's joy is palpable as she witnesses the culmination of her job well done.

Sanaryn, despite her inability to perceive the magical threads, feels an undeniable shift in the air. A sense of weight settles upon her shoulders, an invisible burden she cannot escape. Doubt creeps into her mind, but she pushes it away, for she knows that any attempt to defy the contract would bring unimaginable suffering.

Sylvestra's joy erupts in tears of triumph. "Oh, how I've yearned for this moment!" she exclaims, wiping away tears of joy with the back of her hand. "The master's requirements fulfilled, the threads of fate woven in our favor."

Sanaryn glances at Sylvestra, a mixture of resentment and fear in her eyes. The contract may be signed, but the repercussions of this unholy pact weigh heavily on her soul. No. To be more precise, it is the humiliation of being played one sidedly is what weighs heaviest on Sanaryn’s shoulder.

The words of defiance that dance on the tip of her tongue remain unspoken, silenced by the magical bonds she now wears like shackles.

Sylvestra sighs, her spectral form flickering with frustration. "It's so unfair," she laments, her voice echoing through the ethereal space. "I cannot even interact with our master. I am bound to the Mirror World, forever unseen."

Sanaryn, watching the scene unfold, furrows her brows in confusion. "Interact with your master? What do you mean?" she asks, her curiosity evident.

Sylvestra turns her ghostly gaze toward Sanaryn. "I mean, I cannot touch him, speak to him, or feel his presence. I am a mere shadow, a ghostly whisper in the abyss of his existence. It's torment."

"But Chayyliel," Sylvestra continues, bitterness tainting her tone, "Chayyliel, one of the Four Generals, has received True Life. She can speak to him, touch him, be near him in the physical realm. It's not fair."

Sanaryn, sensing the envy in Sylvestra's words, tilts her head. "True Life? What is that?"

"It is the blessing of corporeal existence," Sylvestra explains with a hint of resentment. "Chayyliel can walk among the living, experience sensations, and enjoy the warmth of life. While I remain confined to the shadows, unable to fully serve our master."

Sanaryn, still perplexed, leans forward. "Who are the Four Generals, and why does Chayyliel have this privilege?"

"They are the chosen ones, the elite among the Dark Army," Sylvestra replies, her voice tinged with bitterness. "And yet, among them, it should have been me who received True Life. I am more devoted and more loyal. It is unjust."

As Sylvestra speaks, Sanaryn's discomfort grows. The ethereal being's grievances seem to cast a chilling aura in the room. "What exactly is this Dark Army you speak of?" Sanaryn finally asks, her expression turning from confusion to disdain.

A spark of passion ignites in Sylvestra's eyes. "We are His Excellency's women, his personal harem. We serve him faithfully, dedicated to fulfilling his every desire. It is an honor, a privilege to be chosen by him."

Sanaryn recoils at the revelation. Disgust twists her features, and she mutters, "A harem? That's what you aspire to be?"

But Sylvestra, undeterred, continues her fervent explanation. "It is an honorable position, a testament to our loyalty and devotion. To serve His Excellency is the highest calling, a sublime existence."

Sanaryn, now thoroughly repulsed, can't help but label Randel as a degenerate. The ideals of the Dark Army clash sharply with her sense of morality, and she wonders how such a twisted allegiance could be considered an honor.

Sylvestra's eyes gleam with mischief as she spins another elaborate tale of her master's heroic deeds. Unable to endure the embarrassing fantasies any longer, Sanaryn interrupts sharply.

"Enough, Sylvestra! I cannot endure these absurd tales any further. Release me from this place!"

Taken aback by the sudden outburst, Sylvestra takes a deep breath to compose herself. She raises an eyebrow, smirking slightly. "My, my, someone's touchy today. But if you insist..."

Sylvestra claps her hands together, and an invisible force seizes Sanaryn. In an instant, she's transported to the familiar landscape of the Valley of Repeat, where the Trial of Power once took place. Sanaryn glances around, realizing the gravity of the situation.

"You have your wish. Now, let me be," Sanaryn says through gritted teeth.

Sylvestra, still amused, raises her hand and gives a single clap. Sanaryn feels an irresistible force tugging at her, and before she can protest, she's standing before Randel Eir Dromastus. The sight of him reignites the flames of anger within her, but she restrains herself, mindful of the binding contract.

Randel, seemingly indifferent, nods in acknowledgment. Sanaryn takes a deep breath, suppressing the resentment bubbling beneath the surface. The Valley of Repeat echoes with the weight of unspoken tensions as the reluctant allies prepare to fulfill their contractual obligations.

Randel glances sharply at Sanaryn, his eyes conveying both disappointment and frustration. "You should have agreed to my proposal," he remarks, a tinge of irritation in his voice. “If you are going to agree anyway, you should have done it faster.

Sanaryn's face contorts with anger, and she shoots back at Randel, her words biting and filled with resentment. "Agreed? Your proposal was nothing but coercion, and it was utterly unfair!"

Randel shakes his head adamantly, denying any wrongdoing. "Coercion? I never coerced you. It's a part of my fighting strategy, and you know it. You had a choice, Sanaryn."

Sanaryn grits her teeth, her frustration is evident in her clenched fists. "Your so-called strategy is just a fancy term for manipulation. You can't deny you used it against me."

Bartholomew, the oldest and wisest of the Three Sages, intervenes with a calm demeanor. "Sanaryn, calm down. There's nothing you can do about it now. You lost, fair and square."

Sanaryn glares at Bartholomew, resentment still burning in her eyes. “Hmph… Fine… It is not like I can deny his abilities…” She mutters under her breath, acknowledging the truth in his words but unwilling to accept defeat graciously.

Sanaryn eyes Bartholomew warily, suspicion evident in her narrowed gaze. Bartholomew, the stern adjudicator of the Trial of Power, pauses before delivering his solemn verdict.

"I have thoroughly assessed Randel Eir Dromastus's accomplishments," Bartholomew declares, his tone measured. "His strength is unquestionable, and I hereby acknowledge his qualifications to join the esteemed ranks of the Three Sages."

Reluctantly, Sanaryn is compelled to echo Bartholomew's judgment. She sighs, her voice betraying a hint of discontent, "By the terms of the contract, I too recognize Randel's strength and qualification."

Yet, beneath the facade of compliance, Sanaryn can't shake off the feeling of being cheated. The contractual bindings may dictate her words, but they do little to quell the simmering resentment within.

With a sarcastic undertone, she remarks, "How truly disgusting, the methods employed by our illustrious Randel. Quite the spectacle, wouldn't you say?"

Bartholomew, ever composed, maintains his stoic demeanor. "The trial is a demonstration of power, and Randel has proven himself within its confines. Whether one finds it admirable or not, the decision is binding."

As the Trial of Power concludes, Sanaryn shoots Randel a disdainful glance, her discontent lingering in the air, an unresolved tension in the wake of the verdict.

Randel, impervious to the sarcastic remarks tossed his way by Sanaryn, maintains a stoic demeanor. He nods respectfully to Bartholomew, the seemingly frail old man who holds the authority in the Trial of Power.

"I'll leave the rest to you," Randel declares to Bartholomew before swiftly vanishing into the air, leaving the place without a trace.

Sanaryn, quick to voice her discontent, directs her complaints at Bartholomew, expressing frustration at the perceived unfairness of the newly inducted Sage.

"This is utterly unfair!" she exclaims. "That newly inducted Sage is nothing but a fraud."

Her discontent doesn't end there, as she goes on to criticize Randel's perceived arrogance.

"Did you see how arrogant he was?" she laments. "It's insufferable!"

Bartholomew, maintaining his calm and wise demeanor, responds in an attempt to soothe Sanaryn's frustration.

"Calm down, Sanaryn," he advises. "Randel Eir Dromastus has proven his power fair and square in the trial. There's no use complaining now."

Despite Bartholomew's attempt to pacify her, Sanaryn remains visibly displeased, the air thick with tension as she grapples with an outcome that goes against her vehement disagreement.

The echoes of defeat reverberate through the Valley of Repeat as Sanaryn sulks, her brows furrowed in frustration. She mutters under her breath, her voice dripping with resentment.

"This is ridiculous," she grumbles. "Who comes up with this nonsense? Trapping people in another dimension? It's completely unfair!"

Bartholomew, the elder statesman of the Sorcerer World and leader of the Three Sages, lets out a weary sigh. He glances at Sanaryn, understanding the bitterness in her tone, yet he carries a weighty secret he decides to share.

"Sanaryn, there's something you should know," he says softly. "The history of our kind, the Sages, goes back centuries. Things haven't changed much in the last two hundred years."

Sanaryn raises an eyebrow, intrigued despite her irritation. She leans in, urging Bartholomew to continue.

"What do you mean, old man?" she asks.

Bartholomew begins to unravel the long-held secrets, perhaps a distant past, and his eyes are reflecting the weight of ages.

"Back in the ancient times, when power levels were more easily defined, we had a system. It may seem outdated now, but it served as a measure of a Sorcerer's strength. This measurement however only works for powerful Sorcerers."

Sanaryn's annoyance shifts to genuine interest as she listens to Bartholomew's revelation.

"A system?" she inquires. "What kind?"

Bartholomew nods. "They were divided into four levels—Champion, Legendary, Demi-God, and God. It provided a rough judgment of a Sorcerer's abilities."

Sanaryn's expression changes from curiosity to a frown as the weight of this revelation sinks in. She hadn't considered the depth of the history behind their current practices.

"Champion, Legendary, Demi-God, and God?" she repeats, disgruntled. "That sounds... archaic."

Bartholomew nods again. "Indeed, it is. The theory has been debunked in today's world, but back then, it held some truth. It was a way to distinguish the truly powerful."

Sanaryn contemplates the implications of this newfound knowledge, her dissatisfaction lingering. The unfairness of her recent defeat takes on a new perspective, and she can't help but feel a mixture of frustration and curiosity about the ancient ways of measuring strength.

Bartholomew's gaze holds the weight of ancient wisdom as he delves into the intricate hierarchy of powerful Sorcerers in the bygone era. Sanaryn, her frustration momentarily eclipsed by the gravity of his words, listens intently.

"Back in the ancient times," Bartholomew begins, "powerful Sorcerers were divided into distinct ranks. The first, the baseline for induction into the Three Sages, is the Champion Sorcerer."

Sanaryn's eyes narrow in curiosity as she processes this new information.

"A Champion Sorcerer," Bartholomew continues, "is one who can champion an entire race, kingdom, school of thought, or faction. They possess the ability to take on hundreds of other Sorcerers, acting as a singular force."

Sanaryn's mind flashes to their now-deceased colleague, Pierre Viola, and the battles he had fought.

"Pierre Viola," Bartholomew adds, almost as if reading her thoughts, "was at the level of a Champion."

Sanaryn absorbs the revelation, her respect for Pierre's abilities deepening despite the personality of the now-dead Sorcerer.

"Beyond the Champion," Bartholomew continues, "is the rank of Legendary. This is where your prowess lies, Sanaryn."

Sanaryn's eyes widen in surprise, a mix of disbelief and pride coloring her expression.

"A Legendary Sorcerer," Bartholomew explains, "can alter geographical landscapes with their magic. They have the capacity to create original spells, delve into multiple schools of thought, and essentially wield magic at a level that transcends the norm."

Sanaryn processes this new revelation about her own capabilities, a sense of realization dawning upon her.

"Legendary," Bartholomew emphasizes, "is a testament to your extraordinary abilities. You have the power to shape the world around you with your magic and contribute to the evolution of our craft."

Sanaryn, though still grappling with the recent defeat, begins to see her own strength in a new light. The weight of the ancient ranks, once considered archaic, now imbues her present with a deeper understanding of her own potential.

Bartholomew's voice carries a weight of ancient knowledge as he unravels the tiers of power among Sorcerers. Sanaryn, her mind abuzz with newfound insights, leans in to absorb more.

"After Legendary," Bartholomew continues, "comes the realm of Demi-Gods."

Sanaryn's eyes widen with intrigue, sensing the magnitude of this level.

"A Demi-God," Bartholomew explains, "is someone who delves into the study and interaction of dimensions. They navigate the complexities of the first, second, third, and even the fourth dimensions… I in particular study micro universes and the inner world."

Sanaryn's gaze flickers with a mix of awe and realization at the depth of understanding required for such mastery.

"And yes," Bartholomew admits, a note of humility in his tone, "I am at the level of a Demi-God. My work has been centered around exploring microuniverses and understanding the intricacies of the inner realms. As you know, I follow the Self School of Thought."

Sanaryn absorbs this revelation, a newfound respect blooming for Bartholomew's depth of knowledge and experience. Then, his next words catch her off guard.

"Randel," Bartholomew adds, "is also a Demi God."

Sanaryn's expression shifts from surprise to a cold acceptance, acknowledging the truth even as doubt lingers at the edges.

"Randel," she murmurs, her voice tinged with newfound understanding, "that explains why he's so strong."

The pieces start to fall into place for Sanaryn. The realization of the tiers of power and where she and her peers stand in the grand hierarchy brings a sobering clarity. While grappling with the weight of this knowledge, she understands why Randel's strength has always seemed formidable, now rooted in the depth of his own mastery.

As the weight of ancient knowledge settles upon Sanaryn, Bartholomew senses her acceptance of the revelations. With a steadier composure, he steers the conversation toward the reason for Randel's recent request.

"Now that we've laid bare the past and the levels of power," Bartholomew begins, "let's discuss the matter at hand—the Sage's Favor."

Sanaryn, her curiosity piqued, leans in slightly, ready to grasp the intricacies of this arcane tradition.

"A Sage's Favor," Bartholomew explains, "is a privilege granted to each newly inducted Sage. It's a request, a task of importance that the new Sage may ask from their peers."

Sanaryn, intrigued, can't help but inquire, "What is it?"

Bartholomew's expression grows serious as he reveals Randel's specific request. "Randel has asked that you and I assist him in a magical ritual of utmost importance. A ritual that must be carried out at all costs."

Sanaryn's eyes narrow in focus, absorbing the gravity of the situation. "What kind of ritual?"

Bartholomew hesitates before revealing the details. "We need to aid Randel in setting up wards and formations for the ritual. And, well," he adds with a hint of reluctance, "there's another aspect to it. We need to hunt dragons."

Sanaryn's brows furrow at the unexpected twist. "Dragons? Why?"

Bartholomew sighs, explaining, "Dragons are powerful beings, and their essence is often used as a life sacrifice in ancient rituals. Randel believes it's necessary for the success of the ritual he's undertaking."

Sanaryn grimaces at the idea, the weight of the request sinking in. "Hunting dragons as sacrifices? That seems... extreme."

Bartholomew nods, understanding her unease. "It is no simple task, Sanaryn. But Randel wouldn't have asked if he didn't believe it was crucial. We must carefully consider the implications and decide how we can assist him while minimizing the impact on the dragon population."

Sanaryn, though still processing the magnitude of the request, nods in reluctant acknowledgment.