Fantasy Guild of Heroes: Origins [TALES OF LEGEND]

[Birdsie]

This thread's purpose is to provide a space for short, self-contained stories, interludes, character side-stories, and meant for establishing events unrelated to the main thread. If you want to make an "Overwatch Animated Short" for your character, do so here.

 

[Birdsie]

Turenval's "Ascension"

Adrucil, the first son of the king, was born unique, even among his siblings. From an early age, Adrucil showed an immense talent for magic, casually unraveling the greatest bounded fields and nonchalantly discovering depths of secrets. The abyss of magic, to him, was more like a bathtub. If he rolled up his sleeves, he could easily reach deep within.

Because he seemed fixated on gaining magical power to impress his parents and become a strong ruler in the future, one of his elven friends gave him the nickname 'Turenval,' meaning 'he who desires power.'

Turenval was studious, determined, and like any virgin nerd locked up in his mother's basement (literally,) he was awkward and sweaty, only bathing once every three, sometimes four days. His research took priority over personal hygiene.

Besides, he could cover up the smell with a floral scent through illusion spells easily.

One day, surrounded by tens of open, floating books, maintained in the air with telekinesis, he scrolled through the pages of a manual on necromancy, with the intention of finding out if undead could be applied in agriculture. Another snippet of an idea in his mind was finding a way to become immortal, like the liches of legend.

Suddenly, a knock came on the door.

"Come in," Adrucil said absently.

The prince's personal butler, valet, and chaperone; Sebastian Alfred Reginald Belvedere Wadsworth, made his way into the workshop.

"Young master, His Majesty has a message for you."

"Is that so? Okay." All of the books closed simultaneously, like a man turning off all of the tabs in his internet browser. They gathered in an orderly stack on the ground. Adrucil turned around on his heel, cleared his mind, and cast Astral Projection.

It was as simple as stepping forward while staying in the same place. A ghostly phantom appeared, then another one, then another, and another. Around ten of them in total, because Adrucil lacked the control to terminate the spell; it just kept auto-casting until his soul finally understood he wanted it to stop.

Sighing, he then carefully sent one of the projections away. It floated down through the floor.

Adrucil returned to reading and later discovered from his Astral Self's visit to his father that he wanted for him to go and meet some foreign dignitary sent by those Urgashian barbarians to the east. The simpleminded buffoons can't even read!

Oh, well, stretching his legs wouldn't do any bad.

He teleported but went wildly off-mark. Curse his overpoweredness! Though he had incredible stores of magical energy and could use them to cast spells easily, his soul was sensitive to commands and found it difficult to 'turn off' once told to realize a spell.

In other words, as far as magicians went, he was a sledgehammer rather than a scalpel. Capable of great destruction, but not of precision.

He kept cursing this fact, stomping his foot on the ground. This caused tremors in the earth and vibrations in the air, causing the nearby grass and trees to flail around wildly. Dark waves of hate spread from him and went across the land in an expanding bubble.

Finally, Adrucil calmed down and closed his eyes.

Then, he snapped them open and looked back, realizing there was a village there and he just killed everyone on accident.

He channeled mana through his soul at a steady, controlled pace.

"... Shit. Okay, okay, keep calm. I can fix this. I'll just cast Wish and reverse time by---gah!" Turenval grasped his chest, feeling his heartbeat accelerate like a horse running away from a sudden volcano growing out of the ground.

His soul, his very spirit and the core of his magic, he felt it crack as it was forcefully jammed down a spiritual tube and forced into a tiny object he had on his person.

Turenval pulled something out of his pocket. He looked at his soul, which was forced into a ceremonial, ornamental teaspoon adorned with three sapphires at its length. He used this spoon, mostly, to pour sugar into tea and salt onto snails, among other things.

The fact it had just become his phylactery, and that he felt his power diminish by ~66%, even if immortality was a nice perk, was quite troubling.

In addition, his hair went white and started falling out, and he could feel that his skin and then flesh would follow suit until only a skeleton remained.

Realizing he had just fucked up, killed a bunch of people irreversibly, and turned himself into a lich by performing an exact replica of the ritual on complete accident, he knew there was only one option left for his career.

"Fuck it. Time to be a dark lord and conquer some kingdoms."

A Trickster's Legacy

Thousands of years ago, there was no Albion, no Urgash, no Gael. Rather, a massive Empire known as Jaga'tan ruled over the planet of Terra. It was a prosperous empire, that knew no war for it had conquered all civilization and unified it. Many of their practices would be seen as barbaric nowadays.

One such practice was slavery.

There was a pair of slaves who happened to come into ownership of one master. An elven maiden and a hardworking human, both were considered excellent breeding stock. Their master had them spend a night to produce offspring.

Thusly born Mephisto, as expected, was a high-quality slave. His master decided the boy would be sent to an arena to fight and would receive a twentieth of all gold he earned for himself.

His parents didn't show him love or concern. They were slaves, simply doing the work of slaves by breeding with each other for their master, so they had no interest in the child other than giving it basic care and education. Despite the lack of a healthy environment, Mephisto grew up somewhat precocious.

At the early age of eleven, Mephisto was sent to the arena to entertain the masses. He trained under the arena champions and in his third year of practice, he began having battles with other slaves his age.

That said, he wasn't exceptional and won barely half of his fights. Like all other slave owners, his opponents, too, were the products of careful eugenics and in many cases, magical surgery. If anything, Mephisto was actually below average because of a lack of determination and diligence to learn battle techniques. Unexpectedly mundane and weak.

One could argue it was luck, or maybe fate, that he was purchased by a new master around that time.

His new master, Testarossa Pelgriz Pheles, was a retired master warrior, a hero of legend who once went around the land and slew magical beasts and braved challenges.

Rumors said he once challenged the God of War to a contest of who could slay a hundred drakes faster, and won by scaring the drakes the God was supposed to kill, making them fly off and run away from him, and thus giving Testarossa the time to finish off his own part of the challenge while the God of War ran to fetch his own beasts.

The old man was sterile and desired a child of his own that he could be a father to, and being a half-breed like Mephisto, he found some degree of connection with the boy.

Testarossa was old, weary of his ancient exploits, and though of legendary fame, he was unspoiled by his retirement. He was a distant father figure, harsh, argumentative, extremely strict, but rarely kind and passionate, though this harshness taught Mephisto how to work harder. Even though retired, Testarossa kept training every day.

When asked why he didn't let himself rest even in retirement, he simply grunted, "After death, I believe I will go to a great tavern in the sky, where men fight all day long for the joy of battle and drink ale until their bellies burn from within. How do you expect me to be welcomed there if I'm not in top form, even as an old man?"

And so, they lived in Testarossa's mansion for around a year, uneventfully. Sometimes, Mephisto would do something for his adoptive parent and master, and other times Testarossa would drop a bag of jewels worth hundreds of platinum coins each and tell him to, "Go out into town and have fun. Be back before dusk."

Mephisto was amazed by his treasury and asked how he obtained it. Testarossa replied with frankness, "Decades of looting draconic hoards and kingdoms will do that. I keep my savings in a bank in the Astral Plane, though, so it's safe."

Mephisto told him neutrally if respectfully, "I thank you for having me, master. But I desire to keep fighting, if you allow it, with hopes that one day I earn enough credit to buy my freedom from you."

Of course, he didn't have to. Not legally, but in the principles of his master, Mephisto was free already. Had he desired to do so, Mephisto could go away at any moment and never come back. In addition, no amount of money would ever sway Testarossa.

In other words, it was a challenge and declaration of admiration, both. 'One day, I'll surpass you in everything you can do, because I look up to you.'

His master, Testarossa, smiled at that. "You have mettle, kid, but you're scrawny. How do you plan to do that?" asked Testarossa, raising an amused brow.

"I'll train," Mephisto curtly replied, with an audible of certainty. "Become more powerful."

Testarossa's smile didn't waver.

"That won't work. There's a certain limit to what a man can achieve with effort and what he can achieve with other means. Let me give you some advice: The real path to power isn't training hard, it's learning how to cheat harder."

And so, Testarossa shared with him the secret of how he won his fights: Tricking his opponents.

Testarossa would use any advantage he had at his disposal and throw every disadvantage at his opponents to inconvenience them. He would ruthlessly aim to exploit their weaknesses while avoiding having his own weaknesses exploited. He would creatively use the environment as a natural weapon, or use himself as a weapon.

Most of all, Testarossa would compound his fighting with magic spells. Little people knew that, in addition to being one of the best swordsmen in the world, he was secretly one of the greatest magicians as well.

Even a single cantrip meant defeat to an opponent if used creatively. Why freeze opponents into bricks of ice when you can cover the ground in a sheet of frost and make them slide off the cliffside for a fraction of the effort?

"This doesn't just apply to combat, Mephisto," the old man said. "Anywhere you go, whatever you do, people can be tricked: Abuse all the universe has to offer, reap it of its riches. And then... you truly will become a hero of legend, like me."

There was only one thing Mephisto could say. His eyes glistening and staring as if he was peering into an infinite starlit sky, he excitedly requested: "Teach me!"

However, at that, Testarossa's smile disappeared, replaced by an uplayful frown. Following, Mephisto's excitement deflated like a balloon, taking this as rejection.

"Mephisto, do you know who I am?" The question had depth to it, a hidden meaning.

But his young mind could only perceive the path of least resistance; the simplest answer of the thousands of responses possible. He pondered the answer in but a second and quickly blurted out, "A hero?"

Testarossa shook his head, saying, "Yes, but no. That is not who I am, even though I am a hero."

Mephisto stood there, dumbfounded, not understanding what his master's words meant.

There was silence, but soon, Testarossa broke it, saying, "I will teach you, pass my knowledge onto you. But be guarded, Mephisto. I do not settle for second best, I do not go easy, and I do not grant mercy to my students. Do you still wish to go through with this? Do you have the determination to brave all of the world's hardships?"

Mephisto thought hard and long. Silence ruled over the small foyer they were in, and then Mephisto looked at him, raptured but now brimming with determination instead of boyish excitement. "Teach me."

Testarossa grinned. "I like those eyes, they have fire in them... We've known each other for a year, but in that time, you've never known the real me, and I've never known the real you. In the upcoming years, I will truly show you who I am."

"So will I."

A Trickster's Legacy 2

There are two black motes in the sea of transfinite blue flash, microscopic against the backdrop of eternity. One of them was lying on the ground.

Mephisto woke up.

He stared at the featureless plane of blue he was on and millions of gleaming fragments of crystal floating in the air. Instinctively, he reached out to touch the one closest to him. The shard turned in every direction simultaneously, morphing into a fracture displaying a green ocean made of crystalline flames.

"As aesthetically pleasing as the worldview of the Astral Plane is, the laws it imposes on organics isn't very congenial."

Turning, Mephisto glanced at a man manipulating crystallized existence with great dexterity.

Sharply dressed in a glinting dark silver armor, covered with eldritch dragonscales and the fur of mythical beasts, and possessing signs of the ravages of time, the man looked to be in his fifties or sixties; overall giving him an aura of worldly wisdom. Despite that, his half-elven ears betrayed he was actually hundreds of years older than that.

Testarossa, dressed in his armor.

"Welcome to the Astral Plane, Mephisto."

"This part of it is sealed off from the rest, and has oxygen that I put here. I've conquered it some time ago. To be honest, it's more like a demiplane; a piece of the Astral Plane separated from the rest of itself through a barrier."

Silence.

Mephisto took a moment to recall what had happened. He chose to have Testarossa train him, his master told him to follow, and the two went through a door. Then, a flash occured and Mephisto woke up here.

Testarossa told him, out of the blue, "Let me get something straight, that I haven't previously because I was impressed by your determined attitude: If you think I'm obliged to take you on as an apprentice, that you're somehow better than the other candidates or special, then you're deluded. I do it because you asked me to, because you seem modestly promising, and because I have nothing else to do. As the training proceeds, you will go through great pain."

Right.

"I understand."

"You don't," Testarossa answered. "But you will."

*
Day 5​

'Now, shift Zerwise, back, third fracture incipient on the negative time vector.'

Heaving with exhaustion, he had finally managed to push the boulder to the top of the hill. It lied within a field that negated gravity within the area it enclosed, and in addition had been spatially locked. Mephisto's eyes flitted shut, then snapped open.

He was at the bottom of the hill again.

With. The. God. Damned. Boulder.

Fuck Testarossa. No telekinesis, he said. It will build your strength, he said. Really, the old codger probably derived joy from making him emulate a hopeless legend like this.

It hadn't even been a week, and Mephisto's admiration for Testarossa turned into cold, begrudging respect sprinkled with a slight bit of resentment. Today's exercise, involving the aforementioned boulder, was easy compared to the tutorial he received yesterday.

Letting his sixth sense unravel, Mephisto examined the boulder for the nth time. It was a simplistic divination cantrip, not even requiring an incantation or hand gestures. It was intended for detecting the lines of magical energy. Since the human brain had no center for adjusting it, the caster could select how they wished to perceive aforementioned magic: sight, hearing, smell, taste, or touch.

He sighed.

Didn't the old man say that tricking your opponents was the key to victory? Not training, but learning how to cheat? Then Mephisto would do exactly that.

He channeled prana and...

BOOM!

An explosion sent him recoiling back as the boulder sent shrapnel in every direction.

Testarossa appeared beside him, an illusionary hologram, however, as Mephisto detected with his magic sense still activated.

The apparition shook his head with a shit-eating grin, saying, "I knew this would happen. Whether you did it instantly, or it took you hours to realize this test can't be beaten with strength, what you did was cast a spell on the boulder in an attempt to move it up there, right? That's very good, but cheating won't do you any good against me. This is the lesson for today:"

"Pick your battles. Tricking opponents is nilly-willy, but if they're smarter and know what to expect, they'll never let it happen. If you can't beat an opponent yourself, rely on someone else."

'This bastard...'

"To beat this test with success, all you had to do was go to the library, find a summoning ritual, and get another creature to do it for you. A spirit, angel, bound demon; doesn't matter. By using the strengths of others, you can avoid having to do work yourself. Strength is in people, Mephisto, and two athletes are stronger than one. As such, your grade for today is D min--"

Mephisto screamed in rage and threw his magical energy in a volley at the illusion, obliterating it.

*
Day 42​

With bestial speed, Testarossa kicked off the ground and ran straight at Mephisto. He lowered his stance, swinging his right fist at the old man at a speed only made possible by magic. His fist closed in... and missed.

In a single fluid movement, the old man spun on the balls of his feet and shifted out of Mephisto's vision, crouching and throwing a strong punch into his stomach, fist turning in a circle to increase the damage of the attack.

Darkness engulfed Mephisto, and when it cleared, he found himself lying on the ground, staring up at his bastard of an instructor.

"Being beaten by an old man is quite humiliating, no?"

Spitting blood, Mephisto awkwardly rose to his feet.

"I'm not... guh--" He hiccuped blood, the salty-metal taste acridly touching his tongue and teeth. Mephisto ran his sleeve across his mouth, wiping the blood. "--giving up yet."

God, was the old man trying to pulverize his internal organs or something?

Reinforcing his leg muscles as much as possible, Mephisto kicked off the ground, moving in an erratic pattern to make his attacks less predictable.

"Useless!"

A blow aiming for the head was blocked and Testarossa's knee rose, smashing into Mephisto's gut.

"I had killed things rightfully forgotten by history that are too terrible to be named. You're still a few centuries too young to defeat me, kid."

Mephisto spat on the ground and answered with a low kick without delay.

Blocked easily, though Testarossa's eyes observed with curiosity.

'My, I never thought I'd see someone who rivaled Schwarz in the sheer amount of stubbornness he possessed.'

*
Day 102​

Dodge two meters to the left, project a barrier to delay cluster of flame spells for 2.3 seconds, jump over curse barrage coming from behind, then-

Slamming his hand onto the ritual circle, Mephisto channeled prana as quickly as he could into it, hoping that the old bastard wouldn't take his head off in the same instant.

"There!"

Collapsing to the ground, he laughed in relief.

"Sloppy." If a voice could be said to sound like the feeling of sandpaper, this was it, ripping and eroding his happiness and satisfaction away.

"You... you...!" he growled when he was able to form coherent thoughts again.

"The lattice of the mana web was off-balance, the runes were drawn too roughly, the ritual circle was a full millimeter smaller than the instructions stated, though you finally managed to draw a perfect circle for once."

Mephisto wiped sweat from his eyes, trying to keep blackness from crawling into his vision. "I... hate... you..."

"The spell..." he growled. "Was fine. The ritual was flowing with more than enough strength to function as a scrying spell. The binding circle was more than sufficient to control the output! What the hell was wrong with it?"

"I never said it wasn't fine," The old man said, smirking slightly. "But 'fine' is not the same as 'flawless', and I am nothing if not stringent. Flawless is important. Start over from the beginning, the grimoires are on the shelf. Heck, I'll even stop attacking you this time, that's pretty lenient."

The room fell silent for a moment as Mephisto redrew everything. He couldn't help but be thankful.

The exercise 'draw a magic circle without spellcasting to help yourself draw it, the materials are on the other side of the room, also I will attack you constantly from every direction,' was getting tiring at this point.

"The northernmost rune, Uruz is slightly less than a centimeter too far to the left."

It was Mephisto's turn to smirk. "So it wasn't good enough after all. Thanks for the confirmation."

"Unless the rune was actually in the right place, and I just made you move it incorrectly. I suppose you'll have to check the book and re-measure, to be sure."

"... You're lucky I don't have a bowl."

"Not really... you throw like a girl."

"You bastard. I despise you so much."

"Saying it more doesn't make it get old! How novel."

When the blessed quiet was broken again, it was in the form of a question.

"Why do you want to be like me?" he asked. "I promised you that we would both discover who we are."

Mephisto thought for a moment. "Honestly, a mixture of curiosity and promised power. I don't want to be a slave anymore, and going in your footsteps is the best career choice available, so why not shoot for it?"

"Power is not an end. It is a means to an end. Power for the sake of power is worthless, transient. Why gather power when you don't spend it? A child's motivation. Besides, neither of those answer the question I asked. I didn't ask why you wanted to become like me, I ask why you want to be one. Right now. Even that you've evidently seen that a lot of blood and sweat will go into it."

Mephisto fell silent, thinking it over. At first, he'd considered this to just be the old man being obnoxious again, but it seemed the hero was interested in a deeper answer. And to his surprise, Mephisto really did have to think about it. Frankly, neither of the rapid-fire responses he had given sounded quite right to him anymore.

What did he really want?

"I want to be like you... because I want to make a difference."

"... Much less childlike. Go on."

"I fought in the arena before. It benefitted no one in the end except my old crapsack master, and I didn't do anything significant or impact on the world nor the lives of others. Does it have to be like this? Isn't there a better way? I couldn't just leave it like that.

"But maybe you can make me a different person. A stronger, better one. And that person can change some other people. And they can change others. Maybe then, I can bring some good into the world."

Slowly, Testarossa smiled. "And lo, behold, the student had found the answer."

"... Excuse me while I get a bowl."

"Ha! Oh, fine, be that way. It's rarer than you expect, and yet I find there is no one single quality that better defines a truly great hero. The will to stare into the abyss and fight with every fiber of your being, even when every instinct tells you that it is beyond you."

'Did he just raise a flag?! At this rate, I'll be battling a damned Primordial Demon Lord, or a True Dragon!'

"There are things out there, little one. Horrible things. Things that will repel you to the core of your being, and that you as a trickster and as a mage will feel compelled to oppose, at all costs. And when you're doing that... won't you be glad that your form was... flawless?" The old Sorcerer smirked.

The old man smiled. "Now! I believe the lesson has sunk in. So, if you would be so kind as to complete the ritual? You had most of the circle left to draw, I recall? And t-"

He was cut off, then, by a rather heavy ceramic bowl, intended for the holding of ritual potions, striking home on his forehead.

Mephisto smirked wickedly. "Flawless."

Testarossa smiled, rubbing the tender spot on his forehead. "I'm going make your training a special kind of Hell for this, you realize."

"Bring. It. On."

And the lesson continued.

Outside, a bright and beautiful full moon shone down.

*
Day 268​

"Hey, what kind of father are you supposed to be?" Mephisto asked, running around the monster at the speed of a horse.

Mephisto, scratched with red gashes all across his body, and a plate of armor with a rough trio of incisions on his chest, nonetheless kept his breathing orderly and kept his mind focused. He did not have a weapon, even though whatever he was fighting was so immensely huge that it cast a shadow on the entire training chamber.

Standing far behind him, with his arms folded, the old man grinned. "A good one?"

"How is this good?!" Mephisto asked, then he flattened his body into a straight line, braking with his heels sharply and turning to run the other way, as a massive fist, at least as large as a wagon, hit the ground in front of him.

He wasn't panicked. This was, after all, a normal daily occurence that all teenagers had to deal with.

"What kind of father doesn't train his son to fight a Tarrasque?"

"A normal one!"

"Bwah! I'm a good father, not a normal father."

Mephisto opened a blue portal and stepped through, appearing on the other side of the chamber, behind the Tarrasque which just charged at his previous position.

"Ah, that reminds me," Mephisto said. Though he spoke with the voice one would hold in conversation when standing next to someone, Testarossa heard him anyway. "I already told you who I am, that was the deal. It's your turn."

"Give me a moment to think," Testarossa said, thinking.

Mephisto loaded his legs with magic energy and jumped up, landing atop the Tarrasque's forearm. He ran, hopped above its attempt to swipe him away like a bug, then climbed onto its face. He threw a bag of fiendish gunpowder into its nostril, then kicked away from the face as he released a ray of scorching flame.

Its face exploded and flames fell out of its nose as it began to choke.

The old man was definitely right when he said 'learn to cheat harder.' Had Mephisto not known that Tarrasques can't breathe through their mouths, and only trained magic, his victory would be doubtful.

Cheating took many forms. In a way, cheating is just another way of doing things in a system with rules. In a way, nothing has rules, and paradoxically, everything has rules at the same time. Cheating, tricking people, scamming them. It's all the same thing; gaining an advantage by understanding the system and its elements with perfect clarity, then abusing it when your opponent can't.

It's all the more fun when the opponent doesn't know.

As the Tarrasque began to die, it sagged to the ground, before poofing into blue gas and dispersing in the air. It was just a summon, a costly one, but a summon nonetheless.

"Do you have your answer?" Mephisto breathed loudly a few times to give his lungs some rest, then quieted down.

"Hmm," Testarossa hummed. "I think your conclusion was right, but that I think about it, I am many things. A trickster, a hero, a teacher, and a father to you."

"And in the end? A hero?"

"A hero is an existence that goes around performing deeds of legend; I'll go with anything else. I am a distraught existence with no meaning. I used to be a hero, but I'm not one anymore. I am still many other things."

"Hmph. How unsatisfying. So many months spent learning how to cheat, and you give me this?"

"Ha! Good grief, no! Of course not," Testarossa told him, beginning to laugh. "The truth is, I am a trickster. All of your lessons, though their intent was to teach you to trick others, were tricks in their own ways. Each one designed to fool, but you attained the sight I hoped you would, and your determination was replaced by pragmatism."

"A trickster, huh... That's not too bad, dad." Mephisto sat down on the bench and summoned his waterskin, drinking from it. As he drank the last sip, he breathed out. "Does that mean I carry the legacy of a trickster?"

"Not... quite. You are your own person," Testarossa said, sitting beside him. "It wouldn't do justice to the hard work you've put into learning to say anything else. It'd be more accurate to say you were molded by the legacy of a trickster and added it to your own. Everything ahead of you - your entire future unraveling, whatever it may be - is going to be purely because of your own choices."

Mephisto smiled, for the first time this month. "That's going to be poetic in history books."

"If it finds its way into history books. I see no chroniclers here, boy."

"Of course not. You're too grumpy to invite anyone in," Mephisto teased.

"Hmpf. Is that so." His voice indicated anger.

Knowing what was about to happen, Mephisto cast a teleportation spell and disappeared just as the newly summoned Young Tarrasque's fist smashed into the wall behind him, leaving a spiderweb-shaped, cracked crater in it.

*
Day 360​

"Back here again?"

The Trickster and The Apprentice were back in the featureless plane of blue that was the sequestered domain of the Astral Plane.

"This place is the easiest place to cross the worldlines," Testarossa answered absently, his thoughts elsewhere.

Mephisto rose an eyebrow, though didn't show any concern. "You're sending me off to another Material Plane?"

That brought Testarossa's thoughts back into the present. "No. Have you counted how long I've taught you?"

Without a second of delay, Mephisto told him, "Three-hundred and sixty days, five hours, twenty-three minutes."

Testarossa grinned, washing his son and student in silent praise and evaluation. "Diligent, stringent; Flawless. Exactly as I aimed to mold you."

"Yes, it's been a year since I brought you here, and two since we met," Testarossa said, smiling, not in a wicked way, but in a joyful one. It was so unnatural that Mephisto found himself dumbfounded by it. "Isn't it right to end it where it began?"

"Henceforth, my son, my student, you are Mephisto Pheles. I adopt you, and by law of Jaga'tan, I relieve you of your slavery," he added. "Remember, first they ignore you, then they underestimate you, then they mock you, and then you scam them."

So that was the end of his training?...

The two contemplated last year silently, Testarossa smiling with his lips tightly together and Mephisto seemed melancholic and moderately elated, like he just turned in a stressful test.

"What's my grade?"

"A-plus," Testarossa answered him without missing a beat. "I couldn't ask for a better student, nor a better son. Brief it may be, I had fun being a teacher, and even more fun being a father."

Mephisto felt sad, like a demon gripped his heart, though he wasn't crying. He smiled bitterly, and in a weak, satiric voice said, "You were a terrible father... and yet, the only one I had. Thank you. For everything."

They shared the only hug ever, and it was awkward and silent, though it made them both feel better. They let go soon after.

There was a tone of finality to the Trickster's words and Mephisto tensed.

"Here."

Grabbing an object from his cloak, he hurled it at Mephisto.

Getting a sense of deja vu, Mephisto ducked, making it fly over his head... only for it to turn in mid-air and collide with his forehead.

A bracelet, though in reality, it was actually a powerful mimic spirit. Yes, a mimic, like those teethy chests in dungeons. It could turn into any item, weapon, armor, or object, mimicking it perfectly as long as it wasn't magical.

An ideal gift to give to a Trickster.

"A few last words of advice: All things end. This is not in dispute; it is an unassailable fact of our existence. You, everyone you know, the world beneath your feet, all of it will one day pass from existence. You will die, and no matter what you have done it will eventually be forgotten. Nothing lasts forever, except nothingness itself. In the end, all we can look forward to is the void. So why bother? It is the nature of all living things to spread. To propagate. To create works of great beauty and great evil. To fight with all their power to survive and cling to life for as long as possible, to leave behind a legacy. But why do we bother, then, if there is no hope of success? Why does life struggle in futility, when all are bound for the same ultimate end?"

"For me, it's just more fun that way."

Without even letting Mephisto absorb the meaning of his words, the Trickster Hero drew his own sword and swung.

There was a flash of searing prismatic light that burned throughout itself on a conceptual level below motion and a shattering noise.

There stood cracks in the air, and shards of spacetime lay on the floor, somehow physical, impossibly perceivable.

A Trickster's Legacy 3

Imagine falling from hundreds of meters in the air, with no parachute, or any other mechanism to save you.

It actually isn't so bad once you get used to it. The first few seconds are the worst; the primal fear of weightlessness and falling kicks in, your amygdala increases in activity, your stomach spasms. It comes to pass and you realize the situation you're in.

After all, thanks to a certain bastard magical instructor, it's hardly the first time this has happened to you.

(Seriously, you were just about to take a leak, and then you find yourself falling out of the sky - with your pants down.)

Mephisto threw his hand down, forming a lens of wind underneath his body with no incantation. The wind slowed his descent to a leisurely pace. After that, he simply cast Featherfall and let himself leisurely fall to the ground.

The land was huge, full of unbridled potential. He could go north, east, south, or west, or in-between the four cardinal directions. He could go along the leylines and seek out magical and rare places to explore. He could go and tunnel underground, seek the Underdark. Or he could try and find dragon nests to loot and get rich quickly.

Alternatively, if none of this worked, he could go to another plane of existence to troll Celestials and Fiends.

Or, if he felt like it, he could go into a city and scam people...

He did that.

Many, many schemes were abject failures.

Selling Ruin-delver insurance was impossible without established actuarial tables. Mages didn’t trust the idea of fractional reserve banking, which did make less sense when currencies were backed by materials directly convertible to personal power. The Thar scheme was just a bad idea despite its initial profitability. The world simply didn’t need a semaphore network.

The joint-stock company was a notable but limited success, as mages already held notable capital and were naturally distrustful of each other. Still, the opportunity to diversify one’s wealth as a hedge against localized disaster was tempting. Why be a lord tied to local holdings when you could take a small fraction of the world’s total output? All parties had to trust that dividends would actually be delivered, which slowed adoption dramatically.

Still, within a year, Mephisto became a successful entrepreneur, at only the young age of sixteen. He eliminated the opposition in much the same way that most companies did. And in five more years, his firm, slash Guild, was the biggest one in the country.

With the somewhat-free flow of liquidity, eastern Jaga'tan was even considering the reclamation of its monster-overrun wilderness to plant Spirit Alchemy ingredients! Next up, bond markets, investment banking, financial derivatives... one day, maybe even credit default swaps.

But as he dug more and more into scamming people, cheating them, though he found joy in it, there was something lacking.

That's right! He wasn't supposed to be a businessman, he was supposed to be a trickster, a mage, a hero!

As such, the young Mephisto went off on an adventure, intending to trick evermore creatures and to show that old geezer who really wore the pants around these parts. His first victim was a Demon Lord who invaded the northern parts of the country and that the Devils of Baator couldn't deal with on their own.

A few months later, he subjugated a forest full of orcish tribes that fought amongst one another each and every single day of every month of every year, and introduced them to the idea of a unified, civilized society. He led those efforts, became their king, and named their nation 'Ur-Gash,' which meant 'Union' in their native tongue, or more literally 'All-Together.'

He became the patron of the country, creating an education system, scamming his people, and simultaneously helping them.

The council system composed of a tripartite governing body was ineffable. It was also practically impossible to introduce corruption into the system, as politicians got paid only as much as low-to-middle class citizens, ensuring people wouldn't want the role for the money. The security system was indefatigable, not allowing for bribery, malicious intent, and making extensive background checks, both mundane and magical, to ensure the person in check wasn't a spy. And the way the power was spread and diluted ensured one maniac couldn't suddenly wrest power and become a dictator.

A country of orcs became the most civilized and prosperous civilization of the east, conquering almost half the continent from Jaga'tan. Mephisto felt the empire of orcs he created would stand for hundreds, maybe thousands of years to come.

In addition, due to his acceptance policy, the orcs' education system made them less jingoist and more tolerant of other races. Soon, duergar defectors and even a lot of elves and humans came to live in the country. A decade later, many other races would mix in, creating a nation of united tribes where race and origin didn't matter, only the unity it represented.

Ultimately, Mephisto got bored and left around a month later, though the politicians invited him to come back anyday he wanted to rule over them again. To ensure that his name be remembered, they wrote it down in historical records for their new country.

Mephisto travelled the land, and soon, he came to realize one of his master's lessons had a lot of truth to it.

'If you only grow your own strength, you’ll only control one person. But control the people around you, and you are the master of your world.'

Now at the ripe, prime age of twenty-six, he found a party of adventurers and became one of them. Though he wasn't the leader, he was by far the strongest member; a fact which he kept secret. None of them had any idea he was a corporate overlord nor the king of an entire multi-racial utopia to the east.

They defeated many things, years passing by.

Sometimes, it was dragons, and other times, evil upstart gods and liches. With time, it started to get boring, until one fateful day.

The entire continent was pretty much swarmed with demons, overflowing with them. People prayed to the Gods, and the Gods prodded the Devils to get to work, but nothing happened...

Baator has been sealed off. The very Gates of Hell were closed for the first time in history, locked away by some idiot who thought Devils aren't a necessary evil for the planar ecosystem of conceptual existence.

Having no other choice, Mephisto went there in person and unsealed it himself, well-aware this would be the end of his life. As soon as he unsealed it, the massive outburst of infernal energy would pretty much flood his soul in the River Styx. He could try to prepare barriers and rituals for a year and still not be close to defending himself from it.

Besides, demons would destroy the world in less than a year.

His incantation was flawless, his form was stringent, and his preparations for the ritual were diligent. He concluded his ritual with the words—"Third fracture incipient on the negative time vector!"

... He closed his eyes, smiling, and never having expected that rolling a spatially-locked boulder up a hill would have ever come in handy.

Was this enough to make him a Hero? Or a Trickster?

A Trickster's Legacy 4: Finale

When he came to, he didn't have a body, and his mind and soul were in tatters. It flowed in the vicious waters of the River Styx.

His mimic bracelet has been disintegrated in the river of infernal power, not that it mattered at this stage, since he could make a new one easily.

More importantly, as his soul went through the river, unnoticed and unclaimed for over two decades, someone finally bothered to fish it out with simplistic magic after a while and put it out to dry on the shore of Baator.

Bodiless and without an astral shell around his soul, it would've dispersed had he not spent those decades in the river. As spiritually corroding as it was, it fed his soul with its poisonous magifluid, but magifluid nonetheless. It was like eating spoiled meat; you would definitely get food poisoning, but at least your body would get enough protein to survive.

On top of that, his soul became accustomed to Baator's leylines, so he created an astral shell instantly, becoming a ghostlike body.

The imp that fished him out stared at him, majorly confused. Most souls, when fished out, would be incapable of proper magic like this. They would be broken like malfunctioning computer hardware and any bodies they tried to form would look like melted goops of writhing, dry flesh.

Mephistopheles, his eyes thrumming with violence, slew the imp with a spear of magical energy.

Its astral shell; the equivalent of a spiritual body, dispersed instantly in response. Its soul, left unprotected, lost mana at an astonishing rate and died out, leaving behind only dead, invisible, untouchable, and undetectable meridians that would never awaken and would eventually unravel into mana themselves, feeding it to the environment.

Humans and most other beings had a body, a mind, and a soul. The body included the brain, which was a part of the mind, the other part being the subconscious which was deeply tethered to the soul. When one cast spells, they sent down impulses into their mind, telling the soul what to do. If you died, the body was left behind and the mind evacuated into the soul, which formed an astral shell at the time of death.

A being with an astral shell was essentially a ghost. However, ghosts couldn't materialize in the Material Plane, as their souls, which just went through the shock of corporeal death, would be incapable of producing mana naturally in the Material Plane due to an incompatibility with the leylines. They would seek out refuge from the Ethereal Plane instead, automatically throwing the creature there and drawing on the power there.

A being without an astral body, and without mana to form a new one quickly, would leak its mana from the soul just like a body leaks blood. And a soul without mana would deactivate, and eventually rot. The only way to prevent this was if you were naturally powerful, producing more mana than you lost; or if your soul was compatible enough with the local leylines to draw on them without dissipating.

All of these concepts were related to worldly phenomena. The noble's mansion was haunted because the noble's soul was accustomed to the leylines there and could allow for his ghost to walk around in there. The angry, spiteful ghost returned to get vengeance because its hatred made the soul work harder, producing enough mana to allow it to manifest a shell.

At this point, he was aware the river made him into a devil. His skin was slightly pale blue, and his left hand grew black chitin spikes on its back. His eyes, on another hand, practically burned with blue soulfire.

Mephisto Pheles had no choice. He couldn't go back to his world in a long while. All he could do was get used to this life and scam every devil and demon he ran across, and get to the top.

And to the top, he got indeed. He became a very valuable resource to Devilkind, eventually becoming promoted to Archdevil rank by Asmodeus himself.

Hearing of his supreme heroic feat, the mortals on Gaia began to worship him as a God of Magic and Trickery. Devils had a good reputation back in those ancient times, since they were the sole protectors of the world from demons before paladin orders became a thing, so releasing them at the cost of one's very existence was seen as the ultimate sacrifice.

He survived, of course, so one could insinuate he scammed the entire world. Or sold it.

He casually rebuilt the Mimic Bracelet, then created other artifacts that he gifted to his cult: among them, the Draconium Rope, Staff of Elemental Havoc, and an attempt at parodying and simultaneously one-upping the Book of Vile Darkness and the Necronomicon, that he called the 'Book of Darned Awful Things.'

On his way to godhood, he was summoned many times.

Summoners who respected him and weren't idiots, he helped as much as he could. If there was a drought, he brought rain. If there was a war, he discussed with the national leaders. If there was no magic, he tore open a leyline in the ether.

Other summoners didn't receive preferential treatment and were turned into jokes, scammed, then double-whammied, often with the use of an intrinsic loophole.

And speaking of godhood, the Overgod Ao paid him a visit and officially made him a God of the Infernal Pantheon, with the portfolios of Magic and Trickery, bestowing upon him concentrated divine essence containing these concepts.

Mephistopheles grew in power more than before, his Magic portfolio granting him virtually unlimited ability to create new spells, that one could outright call wishgranting. His Trickery portfolio granted him a divination ability called 'Grand Trickster Equal to Heaven' that gave him the ability to calculate odds, find weaknesses, and understand the fundamental workings of the universe at a whole new level.

Mephistopheles also invented a bunch of stuff. Mythals were a patent of his, which he gifted to elves and dwarves with the intent of learning Elven High Magic from the former and Artifice from the latter.

He also invented a lot of useful magic items, being the progenitor of the popular wizard accessory: The Tome of Books; a portable library that contained books within books, based on how Bags of Holding worked. By opening it and scrolling through the pages and selecting the name of a book stored within, the Tome of Books illusorily showed the contents of the chosen book.

In the end, history forgot the noble sacrifice of Mephistopheles. As the radicalist churches spread through the planet, he would become to be known as the 'Evil Devil Lord Equal To All Pandemonium.'

He was primarily worshipped by Urgashians, though there were a few other groups mixed in.

Mephisto Pheles also discovered through the grapevine that his father, his master, passed away and was now in Valhalla.

Alone with his legacy, a Trickster's Legacy.