Chapter 81: The Cruel Ordeal

“Mimir is still alive?” Joan asked Old White in disbelief.

“In a manner of speaking, my child.”

“Even if he didn’t perish in the Twilight War, it’s been over forty thousand years. How could one person live for so long?” Joan shook his head, growing ever more incredulous.

“Young man, for a demigod, death is not an insurmountable obstacle.”

Suddenly, the voice of an old man rang out from ahead, startling Joan. He looked up in the direction of the voice, and by the light of Yggdrasil’s spirit, Joan saw an ancient head suspended in midair. Deep, clear eyes peered from a tangle of wild hair and beard, regarding him with great curiosity.

Joan stopped in his tracks, cold sweat breaking out on his brow. At first sight of the talking head, he instinctively suspected it was some undying creature, perhaps a legendary “half-lich.” Yet he sensed no evil necromantic aura, and the “Tear of the Divine” imparted a timely telepathic message, telling him that the old man’s head before him was a demigod with mythic power of the tenth degree.

“You are... Lord Mimir?” Joan asked, his voice trembling.

“I am Mimir, keeper of the Well of Wisdom.” The white-haired head smiled gently at Joan. “Child, I can sense mythic power within you. If I’m not mistaken, you are a newly ascended ‘Mythic Archmage’?”

Joan felt a chill at having his secret so easily discerned, but quickly reminded himself that Mimir, known as the Old Sage, had surely seen much in his time. It was hardly surprising that he could see through Joan’s mythic class with advanced insight. Joan took some comfort in the thought that Mimir seemed unaware of his possession of the “Tear of the Divine,” allowing him that final shred of privacy.

“Look at this child, Old White! Isn’t he remarkable? Have you ever seen a Mythic Archmage so young?” Mimir exclaimed in admiration.

“Indeed, as you say, Lord Mimir, this child is but thirteen. A thirteen-year-old Mythic Archmage—I have lived long, yet never heard of such a thing,” Old White’s spirit sighed in wonder.

Hearing the elders’ praise, Joan’s cheeks burned with embarrassment. He knew well he had not earned the legacy of the Mythic Archmage through diligence or talent; it was purely by luck that he stumbled upon the “Tear of the Divine.” Otherwise, he would still be no more than an insignificant apprentice.

Mimir saw straight through Joan’s thoughts and said with a smile, “Child, you may think yourself merely lucky, unworthy of true merit. Yet luck is also a part of strength. If another were in your place, even with such fortune and the legacy of the ‘Mythic Archmage’ before them, they might lack the courage and ability to slay that vicious, cunning soul-thief and complete the mythic trial.”

Joan nodded, his face flushed, feeling a tangle of conflicting emotions and doubting whether he truly deserved such praise.

“Child, come to me and look at this spring.”

Following the wise elder’s summons, Joan approached and discovered that behind Mimir lay the massive, gnarled roots of Yggdrasil. Countless tendrils hung down like the branches of a willow, and beneath the roots was a clear spring, whose calm surface mirrored his face.

“Lord Mimir, is this the fabled Well of Wisdom, hidden beneath the roots of the World Tree?” Joan asked, shivering with excitement. “Is it true that drinking from this spring can grant one greater intelligence?”

Mimir nodded, but his smile faded, replaced by profound gravity.

“Child, ancient prophecy tells me that you are the one I have awaited all these years—the one worthy to drink from the Well of Wisdom and perhaps change the course of this age. Yet prophecies are always ambiguous, and my judgment may be wrong.” Mimir sighed, then said to Joan, “The water of the Well of Wisdom can greatly enhance one’s intellect—a priceless gift for a mage. But such power is not without cost. In truth, the price is steep indeed.”

“Lord Mimir, are you truly going to have Joan face that trial?” Yggdrasil’s spirit quivered, its voice trembling with anxiety. “The ordeal is far too cruel. You cannot ask a thirteen-year-old child to endure such pain, especially not for nine days and nights!”

“Say no more, Yggdrasil!” Mimir cut off the ancient tree’s plea, his eyes burning with fervor. “I have waited too long—so long I doubt the meaning of my vigil. No matter what, Joan best fits the prophecy. We must give him a chance to take hold of his own fate. Yes, he is young, lacking in experience and seasoning, but that is no fatal flaw. If he truly is the mythic archmage foretold by prophecy... Believe me, Yggdrasil, he must possess the courage and resolve to withstand the ordeal, proving himself worthy to drink from the Well of Wisdom.”

Mimir turned to Joan, whose face was full of confusion, and solemnly asked, “Child, do you dare accept the trial of destiny?”

Up to now, Joan still knew nothing of what the trial entailed, but he understood well that to obtain the water of wisdom, he must pass this test. He also knew his current intellect, while decent, was far from that of a true prodigy. Yet with but a sip of the Well’s water, the gulf between himself and the greatest minds could be bridged. The leap from excellent to extraordinary was within reach—could he really let this heaven-sent chance slip away?

Of course Joan could not.

“Lord Mimir, I am willing to accept your trial!”

...

On the southern bank of the Ifen River, “Serpent-Hand” Shaman rode a gray horse up the hillside, overlooking the fierce battle raging along the riverbank. On one side were the “Withered Ones” under his command; on the other, the Asa tribe’s hunt cavalry from the Algonquin Valley.

Before the fighting began, Shaman believed his “Withered Legion” held the advantage. Yet once battle was joined, he realized that the dim-witted Withered Ones were no match for the skilled, coordinated Asa cavalry. To make matters worse, their foes outnumbered them more than two to one. In less than an hour, the Withered Legion had lost over half its number, retreating all the way to the river, with no path left for escape.

The open ground along the river, sparsely vegetated, allowed the Asa hunters to rain arrows—tipped with searing fire-gel—upon the clustered Withered Ones. When the arrows struck their dry, wooden bodies, they burst into roaring flames. At the same time, the Asa druids transformed into hawks and soared aloft, their outstretched wings nearly blotting out the sun as they watched the battlefield below, relaying the Withered Ones’ every move to their comrades on the ground.