Nic began to work frantically, unsure of the time, unwilling to waste what little spiritual strength was left in his body. He drew lines of light with the Theoretical Quill, thanking the gods for the artifact’s help as he plotted his plan of attack…

The rune’s singular nature meant everything would have to be drawn in a single go. Once his quill touched the paper, if his hand faltered, or his will broke, even once…

That would be the end.

This late into the trial there wouldn’t be time for second chances. Put simply, his energy wouldn’t recover in time to try again…

It took him three tries to complete a theoretical version - without any energy behind his pen-strokes - of the rune. Three tries…

He would’ve killed for a fourth, but the trickling sound of sand had put a pressure on his mind, grating away at his nerves as he felt time escaping him.

He began to draw. Ink spread under his quill, making slashing straight lines like the advance of a sword, and long curving lines like a river in motion. He tried to calm himself by humming, but his mouth was dry. He almost laughed…

Why did this excite him, so much more than any but the fiercest battle.

Maybe his fate really had been to stay at home, a scribe with inky fingers and thick spectacles balanced on his nose…

Maybe he was wrong and didn’t have a warrior’s soul.

Maybe this was his purpose.

Grinning to himself, Nic found it came easier and easier. His quill danced across the page. His will flowed through the ink. He had found his balance, at long last, the easy rhythm that sustained him in battle and saved him now.

His hand was like a mountain. His mind was like the sky.

The rune flowed through him and took shape. But as it did, Nic felt something was…

Off.

Something was wrong, a sickness in the way the threads of ink carried his energy. Like a missing beat in a dance. As he approached the final pen-stroke, the sense of wrongness increased, and he could feel his energy began to thrash and churn within the design…

Had he made a mistake? Nic couldn’t stop to look now…

But…

No. He trusted his own ability.

The design itself was wrong. It was missing something. A key component, a central beam that held up the rest of the pattern.

As his hand moved to complete what should have been the final motion, he saw the empty place.

In a single downwards cut he sliced ink across the iris, splitting it in two.

Crude Sigil of the Fractured Wadjet

(81% Complete)

Unleashes a soul-destroying curse, trapping the enemy in a cycle of illusions. Can be turned inwards as a soul-strengthening technique.

YOU… The stone voice rumbled.

HAVE PASSED WITH MERIT.

The familiar ripple passed over the altar, erasing his design. Left in its place was a scroll made of treated papyrus strips, bound together with sky blue strings. Unrolling it, Nic’s greedy eyes settled upon the contents.

A runescribing technique.

Something as precious to him as his own right hand. Moreso, considering he could lose his right hand and have it back by the next morning.

Tucking it under his arm, he bowed to the statues and departed.

---

Nic stepped back into the hall, feeling increasingly pleased with himself. But as he approached the door to leave, a voice spoke.

EXIT NOW AND SURRENDER THE TRIAL.

Nic paused.

And considered.

The trial must be the other two doors. And Nic had no particular proficiency in alchemy or corpse-crafting. But then again, there was no clear penalty for failing. Why not try? At the very least, his achievements in runecrafting might get him partway through…

He turned back.

“Sofia?”

“Yes, Nicolas?”

“I was thinking…” He smiled faintly. “Can you relay messages between Nylea and me?”

“Of course I can, although, I’m not sure why… Oh!”

Nic had to laugh at that. Brain the size of an ocean, but Sofia was the last person to think of cheating on a test.

---

Half an hour later, and Nic deeply regretted cheating on this test. His hands were coated in greasy, slimy reagents, and his work surface was littered with crudely chopped herbs and the burnt remains of catalyst powders. It turned out that being able to wield a blade in combat didn’t equate to being able to finely prepare ingredients with a knife…

It turned out alchemy was hard.

“Now, take the green herb and split in lengthways!” Nylea instructed frantically through Sofia. “Extract the pith!”

“Which-” Nic groaned in horror. “Which green herb!?”

“THE ONE WITH SPINES!” Sofia shouted.

Grabbing hold of it - nevermind the thorns pricking his palm - Nic chopped lengthways, clumsily splitting the waxy green hull to extract the soft, yolky white aloe within, slipping it free with the flat of the blade into a bowl.

There was a distinct silence.

The sound of sand ceasing to fall.

The stone observers spoke.

BARELY ADEQUATE.

A grinding bowl of lapis stone appeared on the altar as the mess Nic had created was swept away. He stuffed it into his bag, happy to have won anything at all.

---

Nic was even less prepared for the corpse-crafting study, but at least this one, he was resigned to lose. Stuffing his arms into a cadaver didn’t seem worth it…

With the difficulty of the past two trials, Nic knew he had no chance.

So he just sat back and let time expire, resting his head back in his hands and taking the time to unwind. It was practically a vacation.

Albeit, one made eerie by the addition of a corpse.

This time, there was no reward.

---

Nic stepped back into the hall to find two strange guardians waiting for him. Two men with the heads of owls... They were both partly translucent, clearly illusions conjured by the trial, but they held two very real prizes in hand.

YOUR ALCHEMY IS LACKING.

YOUR CORPSE CRAFTING IS NOT WORTH SPEAKING OF.

YOUR MENTORS IN BOTH DESERVE THE WHIP.

HOWEVER

IN THE ART OF HIEROGLYPHICS, YOU HAVE EXCELLED.

WE GRANT YOU THE TITLE OF PHYSICIAN.

The first of the two stepped forward, offering him a golden chain. It was heavy and ornate, nothing more. A symbol of office.

THESE USHABTI WILL SERVE YOU, IN THE HOUSE AND ON THE BATTLEFIELD.

YOU NEED ONLY OPEN THE BAG AND CALL TO THEM.

That sounded more promising. Nic eagerly accepted a satchel of white cotton fabric patterned with lapis blue and gilded threads, opening it to stare down into the contents. It was a mystic bag that contained a pocket-realm, alright, but instead of a nebulous space meant to store objects…

It contained a dark stone tomb, in which a half-dozen rough clay golems stood by. Each of them carried some tool in hand. A shovel, a hammer, a mattock…

They were probably on F-Class, but Nic was immensely glad to have them. There were plenty of tasks you could accomplish with twelve hands that you couldn't accomplish with just two.

GO FORTH

AND BRING WISDOM TO THE WORLD.

With that final command, they faded.

Nic walked towards the far door of the hall with a sunny disposition, counting up his gains and looking forward to infusing the sigils into his equipment…

Bit a he approached, his danger sense began to prickle, like needles digging into the back of his neck.

Nic slowed.

His danger sense built into a low, mosquito-hum whine.

And then a deafening roar.

A ballista bolt punched through the ceiling, tearing the double doors off their hinges and blasting the stony walls into rubble. Nic teleported aside as it stabbed into the earth, and daylight poured in through the breach.

He stared out at the broadsides of a sandship. It was as black as a scorpion’s carapace, with a single segmented sail that reminded him of a deepwater fish’s fin. It had turned, bringing three massive ballistas to bear on the temple.

At the prow, her spear raised, stood the elven Ascended.

“Come out and surrender! We have no need to fight!”

“Could have fooled me.” Nic spat, dislodging himself from the rubble.