Chapter 80: Mimir’s Call

Joan’s intelligence attribute had risen to 17, making him stand out among low-level mages. Unfortunately, intelligence, as a mental attribute, was not like strength or agility; one couldn’t tell who was smarter just by looking. Joan only felt his mind was clearer than before, but the true benefits of those two extra points of intelligence became apparent during complex mental activities—such as studying spells.

He put away the "Tears of the Gods" and crouched beside the soul-thieving sprite’s corpse to search it, ultimately finding four items: a fairy skull about the size of a fist, a bronze bottle shaped like a gallbladder, a small hard-wood carved vial, and a spell scroll.

Joan first picked up the skull, recalling it was the weapon the sprite had used to attack him. It seemed to contain some evil magic, able to attach itself to a target and control their mind. Such unique artifacts could only be wielded by their creator; others could not activate their power. Joan tossed it aside, planning to bury it along with the sprite’s body later.

He then picked up the bronze bottle. As he opened the stopper, a pungent smoke wafted out. Peering inside in the sunlight, he saw that only a little orange-glowing liquid remained. Joan had seen the sprite use this magical potion before; drinking it apparently enabled one to breathe fire. The remaining potion was only enough for a single use. Not wanting to waste it, Joan sealed the bottle, saving it for future study.

The wooden vial also contained a magical potion, pale blue in color, radiating a faint chill. Joan was inexperienced and couldn’t discern its specific magical effects. The “Identify” spell could solve this mystery, but each casting required at least one pearl, and he had none to spare. He suppressed his curiosity, resolving to identify it when he had more resources.

The final prize was a spell scroll, which fortunately required no pearls to identify. Unrolling it, Joan quickly recognized it as the first-level arcane spell “Burning Hands,” and his face lit up with delight. "Burning Hands" was a rare area-of-effect spell among first-level arcane magic; the caster could unleash a cone of flames from their hands, dealing damage to all creatures within fifteen feet and igniting flammable objects in its range. Joan had been lacking area spells, so this scroll was timely. He decided to copy it into his spellbook as the next focus of his studies.

After stowing the “Burning Hands” scroll, Joan used his dagger to dig a pit, pushed the sprite’s corpse inside, and covered it hastily. Brushing the soil from his hands, he stood and looked around, only now realizing the environment felt odd. The distant mountains and valleys resembled the terrain near Powhatan Village, yet something about them was subtly wrong. The sun hanging in the sky looked like a colored paper cutout pasted onto a gray backdrop, seemingly unmoving. In such an unnaturally quiet world, Joan couldn’t sense the passage of time, and his consciousness began to feel blurry.

“What on earth is this place?” Joan muttered, suppressing his fear and quickly retracing his steps. Fortunately, Irminsul still stood rooted deep in the valley, though the dense ash woods around it had vanished. The battling ogres and Aesir tribesmen had disappeared, leaving the valley lush and silent, with the wind singing like an ethereal organ. If “Old White” hadn’t been standing there intact, Joan might have suspected he had traveled to another plane through the tree hollow.

“Never mind all that; the priority is to leave this strange place as soon as possible.”

Joan hurried to Irminsul, looking up and calling, “Old White, can you hear me?”

A wizened face appeared on the trunk, smiling and nodding at him.

Joan breathed a sigh of relief and asked, “I want to return to Powhatan Village. Can you send me back?”

Old White’s expression turned strange, neither affirming nor denying. Silently, he lowered a branch, wrapped it around Joan’s waist, lifted him into the air, and tossed him into the tree hollow.

Once again, Joan plunged into the pitch-black hollow, surrounded by a whirlpool of magic. Remembering his previous experience, his heart leapt in his chest. But unexpectedly, this time the swirling magic did not press upon him. It was gentle, like a cloud, supporting him and allowing him to fall at a steady pace through the void.

Joan sensed this journey through the tree hollow was different from before. Only when the cloud of magic safely delivered him to the ground did he realize it was truly so.

Darkness surrounded him; he could see nothing. He steadied himself against the inner wall of the hollow and tried calling, “Old White,” suddenly noticing his voice was trembling.

His call echoed through the darkness, unanswered for a long time. Judging by the echo, he guessed he was in a vast, empty space—perhaps a cavern deep beneath the earth.

Joan didn’t understand why Old White had sent him to this abyss. Doing his best to stay calm, he fumbled for his spell component pouch, intending to cast “Light” and dispel the darkness so he could examine his surroundings.

Just then, a glow appeared ahead, catching his attention. An orange sphere of light, like a firefly in the dark, drifted toward him, sending a telepathic wave into his mind.

“Child, this light is my spirit. Follow it, and I’ll lead you to meet someone.”

Joan quickly followed the floating ball—Old White’s manifested soul—and asked curiously, “Who are you taking me to?”

“Lord Mimir.”

“And who is Mimir?” Joan was increasingly confused.

“Lord Mimir is a demigod, one of the ancestors of the Aesir.”

Joan had heard the name “Mimir” before, and Old White’s explanation reminded him that Conti had once mentioned it. Legend had it that forty thousand years ago, during the Age of Floods and Giants, the ancestors of the Aesir lived in the Asgard Plateau in central Velnoya. In those times, the Aesir still possessed mythic powers, and the chiefs and prophets of their tribes could even wield level-10 mythic strength as "demigods."

Mimir was one such Aesir demigod, revered as the “Wise Elder.” Sadly, during the fateful “Twilight War” that decided the Aesir’s destiny, their ancient and glorious civilization was ultimately destroyed by the giants. Now, Asgard, their homeland, had become the realm of giants, and the Aesir’s descendants had been forced to flee to Velnoya’s eastern coast, settling in Midgard and Alfheim, marrying and mingling with the native peoples. Over time, they lost all mythic powers, and their civilization lagged behind even other human societies of the continent—so much so that colonists from the Old World mocked them as “ignorant savages.”