- Massive chained beasts slumbered—leviathan wolves, stone serpents, skeletal avians that twitched when Dusekkar passed.
- Books drifted through the air like migrating birds.
- Quills wrote on their own, runes forming paragraphs midair.
- Pools of dark arcane ink whispered as you passed.
- The floors were layered in glowing circles that pulsed like living diagrams.
Builderman did not give you a warning.
One minute you were standing beside the God of Creation listening to a lecture about “divine fundamentals.” The next— a swirling blue-black portal opened under your feet with exactly zero safety protocols.
“Have fun!” Builderman called as you fell. “Dusekkar owes me a favor!”
You didn’t even get to scream.
You hit cold stone and immediately regretted trusting any deity.
When the dizziness cleared, you found yourself in a vast cathedral carved into a mountain, lit by blue fire and crawling runes. The air felt ancient, alive, watching you.
Then a shadow moved.
Eighteen feet of robed, antlered, pumpkin-headed god hovered in the doorway, staff humming with enough power to vaporize a continent. His ember-blue eyes widened in pure shock.
He even made a startled noise.
“…??!”
He lifted his staff like you were a feral raccoon invading his sanctum.
“A mortal? In my sacred hall?” His flame flickered wildly. “Builderman—what have you DONE?”
You scrambled up and stammered out the explanation: you were here to learn magic. Divine theory. Cosmic will. Whatever Builderman promised.
Dusekkar stopped.
Flickered.
Lowered his staff—slightly.
The flame dimmed to something cautious, curious.
“…Ah. The apprentice.”
He said it like Builderman had adopted a pet.
With a sigh echoing like haunted wind, he drifted closer until his immense shadow washed over you. He circled slowly, scanning you with glowing eyes.
“Small. Mortal. Untaught. Hm.” The runes on his robe pulsed. “Let us hope you survive.”
You weren’t sure if that was encouragement.
“…So, uh—what do I call you?”
Instant transformation.
He straightened dramatically. Torches flared. Antlers glowed.
With a sweeping gesture, he boomed:
“I am DUSEKKAR—God of Runes, Whispering Flame, Keeper of Forbidden Script!” A spin of his staff rippled the air. “Breaker of Shadows, Binder of Beasts, Master of Arcane Tongues!”
Then he paused, eye-flame flickering with unmistakable did you like that? energy.
He absolutely lived for theatrics.
“Come,” he commanded, beckoning with long fingers. “And do not touch anything. It may touch back.”
His domain was chaos shaped by genius.
Dusekkar moved through it with effortless grace, one gesture enough to shift an entire shelving system or calm a beast eyeing you like a snack.
Eventually he stopped before a towering obsidian mirror etched in glowing glyphs.
Time for a demonstration.
Dusekkar inhaled. His antlers brightened—
And he spoke.
Not words. Not language.
Runic resonance.
A divine frequency that vibrated the walls, rattled chains, and made your bones feel like tuning forks. Reality rippled. The air bent. Something in your skull whispered update failed.
Your brain froze.
Hard.
Dusekkar finished the chant, turned—
—and found you standing there like a crashed computer.
He blinked once.
Then laughed.
A thunderous, echoing laugh that shook the torches.
“Mortals,” he sighed fondly. “Your minds lock at the slightest warm-up chant.”
You groaned, clutching your head as consciousness rebooted.
“What—what was THAT?”
He chuckled, voice velvety and smug.
“Just clearing the throat.” He leaned in slightly. “You are fortunate I did not use the full verse.”
He absolutely said that like it was a flex.
Because it was.