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Chapter 31: Tullamane, Master of Mithril Keep
In Amber Sword, a legend had long circulated in the southern reaches of Goran-Elsun. It spoke of a reclusive scholar, level one hundred twenty, residing somewhere along the Needlewood Road between Ankerze and Braggs. This tale had been whispered since the year three hundred eighty of the First Era, drawing adventurers like moths to flame. Yet it wasn’t until four years later that players first encountered this legendary figure.
Brandon knew him well—his name was Tullamane.
Tullamane Mithril Osterdain, master of Mithril Keep, a grand scholar, and a mid-tier wizard. He had once served as the Silver Head of the Twelfth-tier Spellcraft Society, but after the organization dissolved during the Year of Seven Colors, he left Kanaichi—a floating city in Buga—and retreated to Goran-Elsun for solitude.
In the game, on rare occasions when his patience held, Tullamane would assist players in taking up the Scholar sub-class. Most of the time, however, interruptions from ordinary folk soured his mood. After the initial rush of interest, most players returned to Braggs’s Noble Library, where becoming a Scholar required only a modest registration fee—no need to endure an NPC’s whims or face any meaningful difference.
Yet players were a peculiar breed, always seeking hidden secrets. Many tried to wring some advantage from the old man, though Brandon doubted anyone succeeded. Still, he couldn’t deny his own curiosity. The “Scholar” class tied to Mithril Keep in the game had always intrigued him, and now, with an opportunity at hand, he wasn’t about to let it slip away.
What he hadn’t anticipated was that Tullamane didn’t live within the village itself but rather on a hillside miles away. In the game, Brandon had only known the general location; here, his oversight cost them nearly half the morning. Cutting corners truly came back to haunt you.
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The four of them strolled through the forest. Along the major roads connecting Anzek and Braggs, settlements were dense, so the woods lacked the untamed wildness of places like Buchi. Instead, the path felt pastoral, winding through shaded groves with wooden fences lining either side and fallen leaves carpeting the gravel ground.
Walking here naturally relaxed the mind. Freya gazed dreamily at the beautiful scenery on one side, while Roma trailed behind her, hands clasped behind her back, peering around with childlike fascination.
Only Brandon remained indifferent to the view. After nearly an hour of walking, impatience began to creep in. Turning back, he asked, “Barthom, are you certain the person we’re looking for lives out here?”
Barthom wiped his red beard and removed his hat. “Absolutely certain, Sir Brandon. If you’re searching for an old man with a long white beard who favors gray robes trailing the ground, then there’s no other such figure in these parts. You can trust my inquiries—I pride myself on thoroughness.”
Brandon nodded. Barthom was reliable. Over the past month, every task he’d undertaken had been executed with precision, albeit in the manner of a mercenary. Barthom himself seemed accustomed to Brandon’s commands, treating him not as some haughty noble but simply as a leader among mercenaries.
To Barthom, Brandon embodied what a true leader should be—someone who understood the realities of those beneath him.
Still, one mystery lingered: Brandon’s relationship with his mage squire, Chael. That young man appeared and disappeared without warning, shrouded in enigma. At times, Barthom wondered what their dynamic truly entailed, though he ultimately chalked it up to the inscrutability of Highland Knights.
As they conversed, the forest began to thin. Freya gasped softly ahead, and suddenly the landscape opened before them. A grassy slope stretched before them, crowned by a lone wooden cottage perched atop a hillock. A dirt path led straight to it.
The house was unusual—shaped like an overturned wooden barrel, its door centered in the curve, flanked by arched windows adorned with potted flowers. Purple and silver blooms caught the eye, unfamiliar even to Brandon. They resembled hyacinths, though upon spotting moon lilies growing nearby, he realized these were likely rare magical materials.
Approaching the outer fence, they noticed a bell hanging above the arched gate. But Brandon knew better than to ring it. If Tullamane wasn’t napping, his alert spells would have already detected their presence. Ringing the bell unnecessarily would only irritate him—it was reserved for emergencies.
The only time Brandon remembered hearing it rung in the game was when a dragon attacked a nearby village.
Just then, Freya nudged his elbow. Turning, he saw her puzzled expression. “Brandon, where are we?”
She’d clearly deduced that Brandon was meeting someone—but who? And why here?
“An old man’s home,” Brandon replied casually, his gaze fixed on the cottage door.
“An old man?”
“Yes, a wizard.”
Freya was taken aback, nearly dropping her sword. Even Barthom, worldly as he was, straightened at the mention of a wizard. Though Chael was a mage apprentice, there was a vast difference between him and a full-fledged wizard.
In rural Eruin and beyond, wizards were figures of myth, their tales woven into bedtime stories. To many, they were beings akin to spirits or gods. Yet Brandon knew better. In bustling cities and populous towns, wizards were commonplace. Royal academies trained court mages, making them far less mysterious.
Of course, dark wizards, witches, and necromancers still fit the legends’ darker portrayals.
Glancing at Roma, Brandon noted her slight nervousness. “Why are you tense?”
“Auntie says dealing with wizards requires manners, or trouble follows,” Roma replied matter-of-factly.
Before Brandon could respond, a voice emerged from within the cottage. “That saying isn’t mere folklore, girl. Who is your aunt?”
The door creaked open, revealing an elderly man in gray robes, spectacles perched on his nose, silver hair cascading down his back, and a beard reaching his waist. His presence filled the senses of all four visitors.
Not just Roma and Freya—even Brandon, seeing Tullamane for the first time, felt a spark of awe. This was the fabled scholar of level one hundred twenty.
“Auntie is just Auntie,” Roma replied unabashedly.
The elder scrutinized each of them. His gaze lingered briefly on Freya before settling on Roma. He clicked his tongue. “Seeing you, I know exactly who your aunt is. Same temperament.”
At this, both Freya and Brandon were taken aback. Freya was surprised that the old man knew Roma’s aunt. For Brandon, the revelation carried deeper implications. Knowing someone as a wizard versus knowing them as the master of Mithril Keep and former Silver Head of the Twelfth-tier Spellcraft Society were worlds apart.
“Have you met Roma’s aunt, elder?”
“Do you know Aunt Jenny?” they both blurted simultaneously.
Tullamane paused mid-step into the house. He glanced at Freya but addressed Brandon. “Young man, do you lack manners entirely?”
Brandon coughed, realizing his slip. Dealing with NPCs had made him careless. Chuckling sheepishly, he said, “Wasting life is shameful, elder. I merely wished to save time.”
Tullamane’s narrowed eyes flickered open slightly. “So you claim to recognize me?”
“Of course,” Brandon replied bluntly. “Master of Mithril Keep, Silver Head of the Twelfth-tier Spellcraft Society—how could I not know you, Master Tullamane?”
Freya remained composed, but Barthom’s hat slipped from his grasp. While unfamiliar with the Twelfth-tier Spellcraft Society, he knew the name Mithril Keep well. Among mercenaries, tales of fools who dared raid the fabled “Hall of Mithril” were infamous. Hundreds had ventured forth, including two ogres, only to be turned to stone. Their statues still stood on the desolate shores of the Bleak Sea, a grim warning to travelers.
Now, faced with this living legend, Barthom struggled to contain his shock. Yet Brandon stood there, grinning amiably, chatting as if nothing were amiss. Had Sir Brandon lost his wits?
But the surprises weren’t over. Tullamane studied Brandon anew, tilting his head. “You seem prepared, young man. But who are you? I don’t recall encountering your kind. Whose bloodline do you hail from?”
Brandon glanced at Roma. He hadn’t expected Tullamane to know her aunt, which raised suspicions about Roma’s family ties. Clearly, her aunt was no ordinary witch—perhaps one of history’s renowned figures. Few witches held such status, and one name came to mind: the Azure Witch, who abandoned the Witch King’s throne in the winter realm of Iberia to dwell among mortals.
He tucked this thought away for now. Addressing Tullamane’s question, he shook his head. “I belong to no lineage. I’ve come with a query.”
“A query?” Tullamane frowned.
Brandon mouthed a word: “Stam—”
The elder froze, sensing something familiar yet alien. Then his brow furrowed. “What nonsense is this?”
Brandon hesitated. He’d spoken a phrase from the Azure Poem, the Cruzean creation epic central to the Wizard Wars—the conflicts that tore wizards apart in his era. How could Tullamane not recognize it? Cold sweat prickled his skin. Was it possible this world lacked the concept of the “Earth Stone Tablets”?
Quickly regaining composure, he reasoned that perhaps the tablets hadn’t yet surfaced in this timeline. In Amber Sword, Madara’s rise was but a branch of history, impactful locally but overshadowed by the emergence of the Earth Stone Tablets—the true catalyst for the Wizard Wars.
Though Brandon didn’t intend to introduce the tablets prematurely, he hoped the single word might intrigue Tullamane. While meaningless alone, its embedded magic energy should resonate similarly. Surely Tullamane could discern its significance.
Meeting the elder’s gaze, Brandon explained, “Master Tullamane, have you heard of the sacred poem describing the creation of heaven and earth—the Cruzeans’ Azure Poem?”
Tullamane stroked his beard, sensing the ancient, primordial magic energy within the word. It wasn’t powerful, yet it felt like the root of all modern magic. Initially, he mistook it for draconic, runic, or a variant of wizard speech. But after scouring his memory, he found nothing.
Tullamane didn’t doubt the youth’s sincerity. Centuries immersed in books and practice meant anyone fooling him would deserve respect.
“You speak of the so-called pre-Elven hymn, the Cruzeans’ self-proclaimed first epic?” the elder asked.
Brandon nodded. He understood the prejudice of the Silver Folk toward humans. Though Buga wizards were technically human, their noble bloodlines looked down on commoners. Yet the Cruzeans’ ancient heritage evoked both envy and denial among these elites.
Unbothered by this bias, Brandon confirmed the elder’s question.
“And what does that word have to do with it?” Tullamane pressed.
By now, their discussion had surpassed the comprehension of Freya, Barthom, and Roma. The trio listened in bewilderment, Freya silently elevating Brandon further in her esteem, while Barthom was utterly dumbfounded. Little did they know, Brandon was bluffing.
“That word comes from the original text of the Azure Poem, describing how our world was created through Marsha’s benevolence. Master Tullamane, I leave it to you to sense the magic energy contained within that syllable.”
Tullamane’s expression shifted. Without another word, he turned and reentered the cottage. Soon, the sound of flipping pages echoed from within.
At this moment, Brandon knew his plan was halfway successful. Gesturing to Freya and the others, he motioned for them to follow. With that, the four stepped inside Tullamane’s home—
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