It was an irony that did not escape Merlin Emrys: a man who had survived the horrors of the Purgatory Galaxy and bargained with the Allfather of Asgard was currently being undone by a library.
He had transmigrated into a universe of gods and monsters, yet his first step toward true power was a descent into the academic abyss. The Ancient One's methods were not merely "teaching"—they were a systematic siege of the mind.
The walls of his meditation chamber were no longer bare stone. To "aid his immersion," the Ancient One had manifested flickering, spectral banners in the High Gothic of his home universe and the ancient scripts of Terra.
"The Emperor's light is fueled by the fuel of the mind.""A small mind is easily filled with faith; a great mind must be filled with the Arcane."
Even more maddening was the chronometric spell the Sorcerer Supreme had placed in his field of vision. A translucent, ticking countdown trailed his gaze, relentless and cold:
89 Days. 21 Hours. 58 Minutes. 12 Seconds until the Trial of the Eye.
"Is this pedagogical theatre truly necessary, Sorcerer Supreme?" Emrys snapped, slamming a heavy, leather-bound grimoire onto the table. The veins at his temple throbbed with the rhythm of the countdown.
"I found your own culture's focus on 'rigorous examination' quite fascinating," the Ancient One replied, fanning herself with a paper fan as she drifted past him. "I thought the familiarity would... focus you."
Emrys gritted his teeth.
Familiarity? This was a psychological assault. Every three days, he was subjected to trials that tested not just his memory, but his sanity. If he failed to grasp a concept, the Ancient One would "tutor" him further—pulling his soul from his body while he slept to drill the principles of astral projection and eldritch geometry into his spirit. To Emrys, these three months felt like three decades of mental flaying.
But the results were undeniable.
When the countdown finally hit zero and the wards of Kamar-Taj released him, Emrys stepped out into the Himalayan sun feeling as though he had been reforged in a furnace. He was no longer just a blunt instrument of psionic power; he was a scholar of the unseen. He possessed the theoretical foundation of a master, even if his hands were still learning the somatic finesse.
"My gratitude, Teacher," Emrys said, bowing low. The bitterness of the training had faded, replaced by the heavy weight of the knowledge he now carried—knowledge that would allow him to channel the Warp with a precision that would make a Thousand Sons Sorcerer weep.
"The knowledge is a tool," the Ancient One said, her smile gentle but distant. "How you wield it in your dark corner of the cosmos is your burden to carry."
"You still have two requests," Emrys reminded her.
"In time," she replied. "The ripples of your actions have yet to reach their peak. I will collect my due when the stars are right. Go. The Allfather grows weary of the cold."
Emrys bowed one final time and found himself instantly displaced. The stone courtyards of Kamar-Taj vanished, replaced by the jagged, snow-blind peaks of the high Himalayas. Odin stood waiting, his golden armor dulled by the swirling frost.
"How was your... sabbatical?" Odin asked, his voice gravelly with fatigue.
"Unforgettable. In the worst possible way," Emrys replied.
Odin reached into the folds of his cloak and produced a blood-red blade, its shape as elegant and lethal as a willow leaf, alongside a pair of gauntlets forged from a dark, light-absorbing metal.
"Your weapon is whole again," Odin said. "The daemon within has been bound by Uru and quenched in the blood of stars. But it remains a foul thing. Wear these when you draw it; they will anchor your soul against its thirst."
Emrys took the blade, and his vision flickered with the identification of his system:
[Item Identified: The Atropos Blade (Artifact)] A weapon of paradox. Originally forged in the Brass Citadels of the Warp from eighty-eight daemon souls for a favored Prince. Reforged by the Allfather using Uru and Asgardian Runes to suppress its malice.
[Item Identified: Jarnbjorn (Gauntlets/Artifact)] Once intended for the God of Thunder, these Uru gauntlets have been etched with soul-binding magic by the Sorcerer Supreme. They provide absolute resistance against the spiritual corruption of the weapon they hold.
"Atropos," Emrys whispered, his brow furrowing. "The name was not on the blade before."
"The Dwarves say the name appeared of its own accord during the cooling," Odin explained. "A dark omen. A name that claims its own destiny."
Emrys felt a chill that had nothing to do with the mountain air. Atropos. The Fate who cuts the thread. The name the Great Daemon Kairos had hissed at him in the Warp. It was a brand, a designation of his role in a play he hadn't finished reading.
He donned the Jarnbjorn gauntlets. They were light, almost ethereal, fitting like a second skin. When he gripped the Atropos Blade, the familiar, screaming bloodlust of the daemon souls was reduced to a distant, manageable hum. The madness was gone, replaced by a cold, razor-sharp lethality.
He looked at the Allfather, the old king who looked more like a ghost than a god in the Himalayan mist.
"I won't forget the debt, Odin," Emrys said solemnly. "As long as I draw breath, Asgard will have a guardian. Your people will have a home."
"I know," Odin said, looking at him with a weary, final sense of peace. "This is where our paths diverge. I have seen the end, Merlin Emrys. See that you find a beginning."