Ability: Mental Clone (Level 10 Max Level)
- Create up to ten mental clones during meditation
- Increases mana regeneration rate by 45% per active clone
Ability: Physical Clone (Level 5 Max Level)
- Create up to five physical clones
- Divides current mana pool when active
The fifth clone of Nyx stood before the mirror in the workshop, adjusting the collar of his freshly donned commoner clothes. His violet eyes traced the familiar features of his face—no, Nyx's face. It was a peculiar sensation, possessing memories and feelings that weren't quite his own, yet were undeniably part of him.
"I feel like Nyx, and have his memories," he mused aloud, examining his hands with a mix of fascination and bewilderment. "It's such an odd sensation. Like waking up from a dream only to find you hadn't been dreaming there were in fact five other versions of you going about their lives."
The clone's mind wandered to the incredible journey that had led to this moment. Just a year ago, Nyx had been a mediocre mage with low mana reserves, never taking his training seriously. Now, miraculous feats seemed commonplace, his power growing at a rate that defied belief. Even the legends of the realm's greatest mages paled in comparison to Nyx's meteoric rise.
"Working together toward a common goal," the clone muttered, recalling a phrase that resonated with their shared purpose. "Faster alone, but further together." He paused, chuckling softly. "Well, I suppose 'Nyx Prime' must have heard it, but I seem to remember it."
His gaze drifted to the workshop table, where diagrams for rare A-rank armor lay spread out. Nyx Prime had departed days ago to gather the materials needed for this ambitious project an attempt to craft the finest pieces of armor they had ever tried.
Outside, night had begun to fall. The clone knew the others were engaged in their nightly routines of training or meditation. With a sigh, he approached the closet, opening a hidden compartment at the back. From within, he retrieved a mask of disguise, an essential tool for maintaining their secrecy.
As he held the mask, the clone couldn't help but marvel at how accustomed they had become to the impossible. What once would have seemed like fantasy was now their daily reality. The boundaries of magic and human potential were being rewritten with each passing day.
"Strange," he whispered, "how the extraordinary becomes ordinary when it's all you know."
Seeking fresh air and a change of scenery from the farm, he had applied the mask of disguise and drunk a potion before leaving. The mirror had reflected back an average commoner with brown hair and black eyes a far cry from Nyx's distinctive appearance.
As he stepped out into the cool autumn air, the breeze played with his now-brown hair. The city seemed to have taken a turn for the worse since his last visit. Boarded-up businesses lined the streets, and people huddled in alleyways, their faces etched with worry.
The tavern's warm light spilled onto the dark street, a beacon of normalcy in these troubled times. "One dwarven mead," he said, dropping some coins on the countertop. The barkeep obliged, planting a wooden pint before him with a dull thunk.
The clone of Nyx, now disguised as "Arthur," sat at the tavern counter, pondering his unique existence. Perhaps it was because he was the last clone created that he struggled to fully accept this arrangement. The others seemed to have made peace with their situation some time ago, but he still needed to adjust.
As the bubbles tickled his lips, "Arthur" noticed the tavern's emptiness. Only a few patrons occupied the space, their hushed murmurs barely breaking the gloomy silence. At one end, an old man in a green cloak bit down on his pipe, lost in thought.
After finishing another pint, he heard the tavern keeper's gruff voice. "You drinking or leaving?" Took him by surprise, but he realized the question was directed at the old man, who began to rise, adjusting his cloak.
On a whim, "Arthur" called out, "Hey, old timer, share one pint with me before you hit the road." He set down more coins, and to his surprise, the old man made his way over.
"Thank you kindly," the old timer said, settling onto the neighboring stool. "I be known as William."
"My name is... Arthur," the clone replied, hesitating only slightly over his chosen alias.
The barkeep, looking somewhat annoyed, placed two frothy pints before them. As they drank, William's story unfolded. He had been a traveling merchant, but his last few shipments had been robbed. Insurance had covered the first loss, but after the second robbery, no one would insure his goods anymore.
"I suspect my long-time competitors behind the whole thing," William confided, his voice a mix of bitterness and resignation. "But I've got no proof, and with all these new decrees, nobody's taking chances on supply chain operations anymore."
As the night wore on, William's tales switched between his greatest triumphs and most stinging defeats. His eyes lit up as he recounted his best trades, his weathered face animated with the joy of remembering his success. But each triumphant tale was always followed by one of his worst deals, the old man still visibly bitter about losses from decades past.
"Arthur" found himself drawn into these stories, glimpsing a life so different from the magical world he knew. Here was a man who had navigated the mundane challenges of commerce and competition, his victories and defeats measured not in magical power, but in coin and reputation.
In the dimly lit tavern, listening to the old merchant's tales, Nyx's clone felt a connection to the ordinary world, despite all his magical power and knowledge, he realized he knew very little about. As they shared a few more pints, the warmth of the alcohol and companionship seemed to push back the gloom that had settled over the city.
"I need some fresh air," William said, pulling out his pipe. He stood, swaying slightly from the effects of the mead. Then, to Arthur's surprise, the old man began removing his green cloak.
"Here," William said, holding out the worn garment. "You said you had a ways to travel back to your farm. It might not be my best trade, but it'll keep you warm."
Arthur felt a smile spread across his face, touched by the unexpected gesture. "Well, let's at least make it a fair trade," he replied, slipping his small gold pouch into William's hand.
Both men shared a laugh, the sound brightening the tavern's somber atmosphere. William grasped Arthur's hand with both of his, his weathered fingers warm and calloused. "May the goddess of trade favor you," he said, his voice thick with sincerity.
"Safe travels, old timer," Arthur responded, watching as the merchant made his way to the door, pipe smoke trailing behind him like a misty banner.
After William's departure, Arthur settled back onto his stool, fingering the soft fabric of the green cloak. He had a few more coins left, enough for one last pint before heading home. As he sipped the frothy mead, he reflected on the evening's unexpected turn.
The weight of the cloak on his shoulders reminded him of the simple kindness that could exist between strangers. It was a far cry from the complex magical theories and power dynamics he was accustomed to, yet it felt profoundly significant.
Arthur stepped out of the tavern, the world tilting slightly as the cool night air hit his face. The effects of the dwarven mead left him feeling pleasantly tipsy, a warm buzz coursing through his veins. For a moment, he considered finding an inn for the night, his feet reluctant to begin the long journey back to the farm.
Instinctively, he reached for his pocket, only to remember with a rueful smile that he had given away his last bit of petty cash to William. The generosity of the moment now left him with no choice but to return home.
"Well, that's that," he mumbled to himself, a slight chuckle escaping his lips. The irony wasn't lost on him a powerful mage's clone, left without enough coin for a night's lodging.
Pulling up the green cloak William had given him, Arthur wrapped it tightly around his shoulders. The worn fabric carried the faint scent of pipe smoke and distant roads, a tangible reminder of the evening's unexpected friendship.
As he set off down the darkened street, his steps slightly unsteady, Arthur found himself grateful for the cloak's warmth. The chill autumn air nipped at his exposed skin, but under the protective layer of the garment, he felt snug and oddly comforted.
With each step, Arthur felt the weight of his unique existence. He was a clone, yes, but tonight he had forged experiences entirely his own. The conversation with William, the taste of dwarven mead, the gift of the cloak these were memories that he had made for himself, setting him apart from Nyx and the other clones.
The quiet of the pre-dawn was suddenly shattered by the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps. Arthur's slightly dulled senses struggled to process the abrupt change in atmosphere. Before he could fully turn to face the source of the disturbance, a harsh voice cut through the air.
"Here's another one!"
In an instant, Arthur felt the cold press of steel against his back. His body tensed, the pleasant buzz from the mead evaporating in a rush of adrenaline. Instinctively, he raised his hands in the air, his mind racing to assess the situation.
The sound of hooves and creaking wheels joined the commotion as a black carriage pulled up beside them. Arthur's heart pounded in his chest, the reality of the situation sinking in. He was trapped, caught off guard in a moment of vulnerability.
"Don't move," a gruff voice commanded, pressing the sword harder against his back. Arthur could feel the sharp point threatening to pierce the fabric of William's cloak.
Rough hands grabbed his arms, and Arthur found himself being forcefully guided towards the ominous carriage. His mind whirled with questions and possibilities. Who were these men? What did they want? And most pressingly, how could he get out of this situation without revealing his true nature?
As he was shoved unceremoniously into the dark interior of the carriage, Arthur's last glimpse of the outside world was the fading stars in the lightening sky. The door slammed shut with a finality that sent a chill down his spine.
Inside the carriage, the air was thick with tension and the musty smell of leather. Arthur's eyes struggled to adjust to the sudden darkness, his other senses heightened in compensation. He could feel the presence of others in the confined space, hear their controlled breathing.
As the carriage lurched into motion, Arthur fought to maintain his composure. Here he sat, captive and uncertain. The irony of his situation was not lost on him mere hours ago, his biggest concern had been making it home after a night of drinking.
Now, as the carriage rattled down unknown roads, Arthur realized he was embarking on an entirely unexpected journey.