Greetings, this fan fiction uses the same concept as another work of mine where someone with vast scientific knowledge ends up in the new world. However, unlike in "A Chemist in King Ainz's Court", the scientist is a powerless human who was summoned directly from earth, and thus will not have friendly ties to Nazarick, it should hopefully be a little more interesting that way.

Deep underground between oppressive stone walls, several shrouded figures stood around a chalked circle, surrounded by candles and marked with blood. Their voices were hushed but filled with importance as they chanted forbidden words from long forgotten languages.

A black cowl turned its head. "Disciple Aamon, it's almost midnight, the time is right."

Aamon was tall and spindly, like someone who had gone through a ritual to turn themselves into a skeleton but stopped halfway. Under his hood was a face that had long since succumbed to age, but his amber eyes were clear and filled with a cold intelligence. He tapped his staff on the stone floor to silence the chanting. He addressed the other hooded figures around the circle.

"My brothers, who are we?"

They responded in unanimous litany. "We are harbingers of apocrypha, the postulants of power, the orphaned of Zuranon"

"And what is our goal?"

"To peer into the abyss of magic."

"And how will we capture the fish of knowledge?"

"Our magic is our seine, and the heavens are our sea."

"And are we prepared to capture the knowledge of the gods?"

"To slay the very stars themselves."

Aamon tapped his staff on the ground once and spread his hands.

"Every 100 years on the first of the Upper Wind month, the boundary between worlds is weakened and the gods descend to walk among us. We will use the chance when the boundary is weak, cast our net into the heavens and pull forth the secrets of the abyss of magic. We will no longer be mere men, but beings who come to posses the powers to remake the world in our image. Are you ready my brothers?"

They responded once more in unison. "Yes, disciple Aamon."

"Then let us begin."

The cultists began to chant and focus their mana. Energy permeated throughout the crypt. The flames of the surrounding candles grew into long tendrils of fire that coiled and whirled about the circle.

Suddenly they converged at the center and formed a brilliant ball of fire. The flames subdued and revealed a starry black sphere in the center of the ball, the flames lapped around it. It was a hole in the very fabric of space and time.

The group's breathing was ragged and it was clear that their ritual was rapidly draining their vitality. "Disciple Aamon! Now!"

Aamon outstretched his hand and a wispy tendril shot forward into the hole. It stopped halfway in as if it had made contact with something.

"Disciple Aamon! Hurry!" The cultists were dropping to their knees one by one as they forced themselves to stay conscious.

Aamon yanked his tendril back out of the hole.

There was a flash of light and the cultists collapsed to the ground, the fiery gate closed and the hole in reality disappeared. Half of the cultists laid on the ground unconscious while the other half shakily stood up struggling to catch their breath.

"We did it….We did it disciple Aamon."

However Aamon was not sharing in the triumphant smiles of his brothers. He was staring at the object that his tendril had supposedly pulled from the realm of the gods.

"No, this isn't right. Something is wrong."

Laying in the center of the circle was a happily sleeping man. The cultists wiped the light from their eyes and began to look at the man with confusion.

He looked to be in his late forties. His features were sharp and well defined, and his face was like that of a wolf. His nose and chin looked to be artfully chiseled from stone and they came to sharp points, his cheeks were flat and smooth. His eyes and mouth were shut but they curled into a slightly sinister smile on his happily sleeping face. He had the kind of face one would expect to see on a movie poster. He had short hair that would've been a beautiful shade of umber, but it had already started to grey, possibly due to a stressful life.

"We were supposed to pull some kind of tablet or tome from the other side, not a person."

Worried glances were being exchanged amongst the cultists. "Could he be a god?"

Aamon cautiously walked over to the mysterious man sleeping in the circle and passed his hand over him. "No, it can't be."

"What is it, disciple Aamon?"

"I can't detect any magic from him at all, he's just an ordinary human."

"Is it possible we overshot it and caught someone from some village somewhere?"

Aamon scratched his chin, "That may be the case… no, wait, look."

They looked at the man's alien clothing. He was wearing a t-shirt and blue jeans along with a magnetic bracelet.

"I've never seen clothes like this before."

Suddenly their eyes went wide. "Look, his chest! There's writing!"

On the man's chest was a set of large japanese characters. Aamon's piercing amber eyes examined them closely.

"Yes, yes. I recognize this language, this is the language of the gods."

He continued to look the man over. "He gives off no magical signature whatsoever, but he might still have the magical knowledge we're after. Let's keep him under surveillance and wait for him to wake up."

...

The cultists had carefully moved the sleeping man into a small stone room within the crypt. They were unsure of how to best handle him. They had buckled him to a chair so that he couldn't escape, but had still made sure that he would at least be comfortable when he woke up.

The room was damp and every surface was made of stone brick. The only light source was a magical point of pale blue light that lazily wandered through the air.

Aamon sat across from their new guest along with another cultist.

The sleeping man broke his peaceful rhythmic breathing and began to slowly open his dark green eyes. He spoke groggily "Wha?.. Where am I?"

"Greetings, my name is Aamon. We are the ones who brought you into this world."

The man began to shake the sleep out of his head and realized his hands and legs were bound to the chair.

"W-Wait, what is this? Who are you people!?" He looked at the little point of light floating through the air.

Aamon took a deep breath and was half relieved. It seemed to him that the person they had just summoned was just a simple human, and not some all powerful god who could smite them, "As I said, my name is Aamon. We are the ones who grabbed you from your world, we would very much like to know everything you have to tell us about magic. Could I ask your name?"

The man was fully awake now and staring back at Aamon with an arrogant fury. "Oh please. Of course you know who I am. This isn't the first time someone has tried to kidnap me."

"What?" Aamon was genuinely confused.

"I wouldn't be surprised if my security detail comes marching through that door right now."

The cultist in the back shifted with a worried look as Aamon sat internalizing this for a second, "So who are you then?"

"Cut the bull shit. You wouldn't have kidnapped me without knowing who I was. I'm Wesley Asimov Stockwell for crying out loud! Owner of Stockwell Industries. 2132 Nobel Prize in chemistry."

Aamon's face showed no sign of recognition, which slightly irritated Stockwell. He was confident that his kidnappers didn't pose him any real danger to him, so he chose to act angry in order to intimidate them.

"I funded the mission to Europa last year. There's a fucking unit of measurement named after me. I could probably buy this whole goddamn country if your fucking corporate counsel would allow it!"

Aamon was unmoved, like a still pond. "And what country would that be?"

The question startled Stockwell, he looked around the decrepit stone room. For some reason his eyes kept glancing back to the pale blue light that was wandering through the air. "This is Japan right? I was here on vacation."

Aamon sat deep in thought as he tried to determine the nature of the person in front of him, he decided it would be best to make him understand exactly where he is, "You are no longer in your world, this is the Re-Estize kingdom, and we are the cult who summoned you. We spent a great deal of effort trying to get you here. So I will ask you nicely once more, tell us everything you know about magic."

Stockwell stopped. He had been feeling that something was very out of place since he woke up, and not just because he had been kidnapped. His feigned anger disappeared.

"After you tell me how you're doing that magic trick."

"Excuse me?"

Stockwell's eyes were now locked on to the pale blue light, "The light. How are you doing it?"

"What do you mean? It's magic obviously."

"Cut the bull shit. I just now realised that that was what had been bugging me since I woke up. It can't be magnetic levitation, there's no way you robbed freaks have magnets installed in this god forsaken crypt. It can't be localized gravitation either since it's floating under its own weight and it's still managing to produce light. And I don't see any anchors for strings either. All I can think of is some kind of microscopic hot air balloon, but that would require some kind of controlled fusion reaction to produce that level of light from something so small."

Stockwell sneered and mimicked what Aamon had just said, "So I will ask nicely once more, how the hell are you doing it?"

Aamon stopped and looked at the man as if trying to discern if he was serious, he gave a safe answer. "Like I said, it's magic."

The reply he got was instant and full of vitriol. "I said to cut the bull shit. Magic isn't real."

A world where magic didn't exist was simply too alien for Aamon's mind to grasp, so he assumed that Stockwell was trying to make fun of his relative naivete.

"In that case Mr… Stockwell was it? It seems we'll have to resort to violence."

Stockwell's bravado disappeared instantly. The bindings around his hands and feet suddenly felt very tight. "V-Violence?"

"Yes, violence."

Aamon looked over his shoulder.

"Brother Ishtar, I think it's time our guest learned exactly what position he's in."

The cultist shuffled and revealed a wooden club bristled with small metal wires.

Stockwell began to struggle in his chair. "Y-you're g-going to regret i-it if y-you hurt me."

The cultist hesitated, unsure of the threat made by the mysterious man who could still very well be a god.

"Relax brother Ishtar, I assure you, this man is powerless."

The cultists gulped and continued forward.

Aamon strided to the door, "I think you'll be spending a lot of time with us, Mr. Stockwell."

Aamon closed the door behind him and walked away so he wouldn't have to listen to the screams.

...

Seven Weeks later

One of the rooms in the crypt had been converted into a torture room. Various metal tools hung from brackets fastened into the stone walls. In the middle was a wooden torture rack which complete with leather and iron restraints.

"Answer the question, Mr. Stockwell."

Stockwell lied sprawled on the rack while Aamon held a piece of paper to his face.

How long have I been in this god forsaken crpyt? One month? Two Months? When was the last time I've seen daylight?

A torturer slowly fed a wire sideways into Stockwell's chest and blood was spurting out from around the hole where it entered. Stockwell was mumbling gibberish incoherently between his reflexive cries of pain.

The torturer stopped and looked back at Aamon, "I don't think he's listening, disciple Aamon. He's clearly insane."

Aamon's clear and calculating eyes stared intently at Stockwell's madly contorting face. "No, he's faking it. He's still sane."

"If you say so." The torture resumed feeding wire into his chest.

Stockwell released another gasp of pain and continued to mumble gibberish.

Dear god that hurts! Stop the torture already! Can't you see Mr. Aamon, I'm insane! I've been making a point to mumble gibberish ever since you started torturing me! Why won't you believe that I'm a madman!? Why won't you believe that I know nothing about magic!?

Aamon's voice was void of mercy. "Answer the question Mr. Stockwell, I know you can read the language. You wouldn't have had that writing on you clothes if you couldn't."

Stockwell continued to cry in pain as the wire dug in between his ribs. Of course I can't read Japanese! That shirt was a bloody souvenir! I speak english for christs sake!

Aamon sighed for the thousandth time as he realised he wouldn't get any useful information from his prisoner today either.

"Cut the wire and heal the wound over it, throw him back in his cell and make him dig it out himself. We'll resume the questioning the same time tomorrow."

"Understood, disciple Aamon."

Aamon left the room and the torturer started to undo the rack's restraints.

...

Stockwell was being dragged through the labyrinth-esque crypt by a pair of cultists. His bare chest was covered with ugly scars and bruises. He was madly mumbling gibberish under his breath.

They must think I'm a devil or something. They take me out and torture me routinely, asking me all these questions about magic. I've been trying to fake madness as best as I can, but their leader, Aamon, it's like he can see right through me. He won't stop the damn questioning, he refuses to give up.

Leading ahead of them were two points of pale blue light that floated through the damp air.

Magic is real, there is no other explanation at this point. The lights, the fireballs, the lightning shooting from hands. I have no choice to believe I really have been summoned into some kind of fantasy world.

They reached Stockwell's cell. It was a completely sealed stone room with a heavy iron door, the only light source was a pale blue magical light. They threw him in without any sort of care and closed the door behind him.

They never even bother to take out the wires.

He began picking the metal out of his flesh, it made squelching noises as he dug his gore covered fingers into his flesh and pulled at the head of the wire. His body had long since acclimated to the pain. He lurched as he pulled the bloody wire out of his body, it was nearly a foot in length. He threw it into a pile of wooden and metal scraps, fragments of broken torture devices that he had been forced to dig out of his body.

So far I've only been faking madness, but now I can really feel my sanity slipping away

His face curled into a wolfish grin. I'm going to kill every last one of them before that happens.

...

"Hello? Mr. Prisoner?" There was a woman's voice coming from the other side of the door.

Awww yes, the female. I guess I'll go greet her.

Stockwell stood up and approached the heavy iron door. He started to mumble. He had perfected the art of acting like a madman.

The hatch on the top of the door slid open, revealing the face of a hooded young woman. The first thing he noticed was that her eyes were two different colors. Her left eye was a chalky yellow, and her right, a deep purple-black. It was as though an artist had crafted the eyes of her porcelain face using a chunk of sulfur and a shard of obsidian.

Peeking out from under her hood was a lock of flowing raven hair. Stockwell's first impression of her was that she was breathtakingly beautiful. He maintained his facade.

She stared back into Stockwell's blank, wayward green eyes, as if trying to discern if there was truly an inherent madness behind them.

She spoke through his mumbling. "...Anyways, I've been assigned to give you your meals from now on."

She opened the hatch at the bottom of the door and slid in a tray of textureless gruel.

Stockwell didn't respond and simply continued his mumbling.

She closed the hatch and stood back up and looked into Stockwell's eyes once more. She shook her head and turned to leave.

She continued to walk down the stone corridor and almost rounded the corner when-

"You know fräulein, you don't particularly strike me as a cultist."

She turned and looked back at the cell door. Did that madman just call out to her? She was unsure if she was just hearing things.

Stockwell called out to her again, his speech was light and fluent, "Your eyes are very beautiful fräulein, they aren't the eyes of crypt bound cultist."

She stood frozen for a long time, unsure of how to respond to Stockwell. She decided she should just ignore him. She slowly walked away down the corridor, but as she was about to round the corner, she stopped once more.

She couldn't ignore him. She hunched over while grabbing her chest, something the madman had said had struck a chord within her.

She spoke without looking back toward the cell, "It's Vera. My name is Vera."

She couldn't see Stockwell's face, but she was sure he was giving her a warm smile, "Well then, Miss Vera. You best be moving along now, we wouldn't want anyone getting suspicious now would we?"

"Y-Yeah…"

She rounded the corner and Stockwell could hear her footsteps echoing down the stone corridor.

I think this woman is my ticket out of here.

...

Stockwell worked in near-complete darkness since the magical light in his cell was incredibly weak. He was scouring through the fragments of broken torture devises that he had accrued in his cell. He was looking for usable bits of wood and iron.

Those fools, they think I'm powerless, they let me keep my braclet, they have no idea what a magnet and some iron scraps are capable of.

He undid his magnetic bracelet and began assembling something. That Aamon is too confident in his magic, say's he'd like to see me struggle to get out of his magically sealed cell. I can't wait to see his face as I'm holding a dagger to his throat.

Stockwell's mouth curled into a truly insane grin. I just need a few more bits of metal to get this working. I hope the torturers use that spikey one today, that one tends to leave the most metal in my body for me to pick out later.

His hands continued to move in the pale blue light, he began to laugh maniacally to himself.

I'm actually looking forward to torture, perhaps I really am going insane.

Suddenly there was a rhythmic thumping on the cell's door. "Mr. Stockwell?"

Awww yes, it's the female again. What was her name again? Oh that's right, Miss Vera.

Stockwell stopped his hands and went to meet her at the door's window.

She was trying not to look him in the eyes, "I've brought you your meal."

She opened the door's bottom hatch and was about to slide in the tray of gruel, but she stopped halfway.

"Is it true?"

"Hmm?"

She was taking glances at Stockwell, "What you said about my eyes, and… what you said about me not being a cultist."

Aww, I think I see where this is going.

Stockwell straightened his posture and gave her his warmest smile. "Of course Miss Vera, the moment I saw your eyes, it was as though I saw the brilliant sun, shining in your left, and the sacred night, hiding in your right. A glimmering marble of pyrite next to freshly cut onyx. Your eyes spoke to me, Miss Vera, they told me that you were a diamond in the rough, a rose among weeds, a light in the darkness. They told me that you were out of place amongst these cut throat cultists."

Stockwell impressed himself on how fluently he had recited that. Hopefully she's the type that's receptive to flattery.

She pushed the tray in through the bottom hatch. She stood and leaned her back against the door. Stockwell could see the side of her face and her raven black hair as she stared at the stone wall on the opposite side of the corridor.

"The truth is, Mr. Stockwell, I've always thought I didn't fit in with the cult either."

Oh? So there was more to this then.

"We were actually once part of a larger organization called Zuranon. My grandfather, Aamon, he was one of the leaders there, one of the twelve disciples."

Stockwell decided it would be best to actively involve himself in the conversation. "So what happened?"

"First, I think it should be noted that Zuranon is a cult that prizes the art of necromancy. They will stop at nothing if it means gaining more power. I've seen them slaughter entire villages."

I think I'm begging to get the picture here. "So what happened? You said that you guys were no longer part of this larger group?"

"Yes, there was this ritual, one that enables people to turn themselves into liches. As one of the twelve disciples of Zuranon, my grandfather was supposed to undergo this ritual."

"But he was scared?"

Vera turned and looked at Stockwell, surprise written on her face. "How did you know?"

"I just had a hunch, please, continue Miss Vera."

"Y-Yes, it's as you say, he was scared to give up his humanity. He kept looking for ways to increase his power without turning himself into a lich."

"And they kicked him out?"

"Yes, exactly. He became obsessed with the idea that he could open a door to the realm of gods and steal their knowledge. The other disciples thought he was crazy. They kicked him out along with his followers, myself included."

She stared back out into space. "I've never met my parents, I've been under my grandfather's care for as long as I can remember. He's been raising me to be his successor, a sorcerer and a murderer. He says that I have talent as a magic caster, but also that I'm too soft. The other cultists agree with him."

"I see, but being soft and having empathy isn't necessarily a bad trait."

She silently thanked him and continued.

"I'm the only one who can go outside since all the others are wanted criminals. They're always sending me into the city to buy supplies. Everything is so different out there. There's no killing, no dark magic, there's smiles and laughter. I can't help but see all the things missing from my life."

She wiped a tear from her eyes. "You're the first person to compliment my eyes."

Huh? I thought that such a unique feature like heterochromia would be coveted, perhaps this world really is a call back to the prejudice dark ages.

"The people I meet in the cities just ignore me or call me weird behind my back. And the cultists here are incapable of giving compliments. So it made me really happy when you said that."

Stockwell read the mood and decided it would be best give her an affirmation, "It seems to me that you're just not socializing with the right people."

She nodded in silent thanks and then leaned her head against the iron door, looking at the stone ceiling of the crypt.

"Some of the others are calling you devil."

"Are they now?"

"Yes, most of them think you're just a madman who stumbled into the summoning spell. But a few of them are scared of you. They've even given you a nickname."

"And what could that be?"

"They've taken to calling you 'Rhamnusia'. It's a name from an old children's story about a demon who punishes mortals for their hubris. They're scared that you're secretly a devil, and that you're here to punish us for trying to tamper with the realm of the gods. They think you're faking madness, that you're actually lying in wait for the chance to smite us."

Hmm? Rhamnusia? Isn't that a greek goddess? I must say that I'm not particularly displeased with my reputation.

"So tell me, Miss Vera, what do you think I am?"

"At the very least, I don't think you're insane. But I also don't think you're a demon."

Well, that was to be expected-

"I actually think you're a god."

"Excuse me?" It was a natural reaction, Stockwell had a stupid expression on his face.

Vera turned to look at Stockwell, her mismatched eyes were filled with conviction. "Yes. You must be. You're so kind, and you seem so wise. And I saw for myself during the summoning, you definitely came from the realm of the gods. And I've heard stories about how the gods sometimes disguise themselves as mortals in order to judge us. That must be it! There's no other explanation!"

What the hell? Is she stupid? Wait, no, this is good, I can use this. Wait! No, if I try to use this and she learns the truth, there's no telling the damage that could cause. I need to play this safe.

"I think you're getting ahead of yourself fräulein, I could very well just be random person with a thing for multi-colored eyes. And believe me Miss Vera when I say that I am not a nice person." I'm planning on killing everyone in this crypt after all.

This only steeled her conviction. "You're just trying to test my faith, right? Don't worry, I know in my heart that you're a god, I'm sure of it."

Stockwell was stunned.

Vera finished giving him his meal and stood to leave. She walked a little ways down the corridor stopped. She turned and bowed toward the cell.

Her face was ablush, "Thank you for the talk, Mr. Stockwell…..sama."

As she added that last honorific, she giggled softly to herself, like a little sister who had just learned an important secret about her older brother that only she knew.

She turned on her heel and bounded around the corner.

Stockwell was still recovering from the unexpected direction the conversation had taken. I guess it could be worse.

...

Stockwell worked like a man possessed. He was using his nails to tirelessly carve fragments of wood into usable shapes. His fingers were bleeding and covered in splinters, but he didn't seem to mind the pain.

Damn this blood, it's making the wood all slippery.

He wiped away some of the blood and continued to dig his nails into the little fragment of wood.

Yes, Just a little longer now and I'll kill them all.

He was mumbling insanely to himself as he feverishly worked.

I'm going to kill them all, I'm going to kill them-

There was a knock on the door.

Blasted! They found me out! Wait, no…

"Stockwell-sama?"

It's the female, and she's using those damn Japanese honorifics. GO AWAY!

He yelled in his mind but stopped himself because he realized he was acting crazy. Wait no, this is good, I forgot that I'm using her.

He got up and walked to the door's window. His mumbling subdued and he put on his warmest smile.

He was met with a pair of eyes, one yellow and one black.

"I've brought your food for you, Stockwell-sama."

As she was was opening the bottom hatch and sliding the tray in, Stockwell stood deep in thought.

If I asked her to help me escape, there's no doubt she would agree. But I doubt we would be able to do so, not with that hawk Aamon flying around. I can use her, but I need to do it in a way that won't cause too much suspicion.

"Excuse me, Miss Vera?"

She looked up through the window, "What is it, Stockwell-sama?"

"This may seem like an odd request, but when you give me my meals, could you also give me some chili peppers?

"Chili peppers?"

"Yes, the spiciest chilies you can get."

She nodded with conviction, "Understood."

Well that was easy.

"And could I also get some alcohol."

"Alcohol too?"

"Yes, it doesn't have to be expensive, just something with a high alcohol content."

She nodded again. "Okay, got it. Do you need anything else, Stockwell-sama?"

"Yes actually, two more things. One, you can stop using that honorific, it would be suspicious if someone overheard you calling me that."

She looked away, slightly embarrassed, "I-I understand, Mr. Stockwell."

"And two, could I see that necklace you're wearing?"

"Huh?" She looked down at the necklace hanging around her neck, it was a simple loop of string connected to some kind of shiny silver rock.

"Yes, I'd like to take a look at it."

"Uh, Okay." She sheepishly pulled down her hood, revealing her flowing black hair. She lifted her necklace up around her head and handed it to Stockwell through the window.

He held the angular grey rock in his hands and examined it.

This is a chunk of pyrolusite ore, manganese dioxide, I can use this.

"Where did you get this?"

"I got it last time I went into the city to get supplies. There was a stall there selling a whole bunch of them. They were really cheap and I thought it was pretty so I bought it."

"Hmm, yes, I see, it certainly is pretty, then how about this, every time you go into the city, could you grab a little for me? Not too much though, just maybe one or two here and there, we wouldn't want your grandfather getting suspicious of us."

Vera hadn't the faintest idea what he was planning, but she trusted the wisdom of someone she believed to be a deity in disguise, "I-I see, in that case, you can keep that one, I'll get some more next time."

"You have my thanks, Miss Vera."

She finished giving him his meal and stood back up.

"Are you sure you don't want me to help you escape? I would do it if you asked me to..."

Stockwell gave her a warm smile. "And are you confident we could succeed?"

She looked down at the ground, cursing her own powerlessness, "No..."

"That is quite alright, Miss Vera. I am more than capable of handling myself. Your continued faith and friendship is more than enough."

"I-I see."

She turned and bowed before leaving.

Stockwell's face turned into a truly insane grin after she rounded the corner. You don't know it, but you're actually already helping me kill everyone here.

...

One of the stone bricks in Stockwell's cell was loose, and after several weeks of effort, he had managed to pry it loose. Behind it however was an invisible magic barrier that the cultists had supposedly cast. He didn't care however because he wasn't planning to escape like that anyways.

He had been using the heavy stone brick to crush chili peppers that he had left to dry in his cell. For the last several weeks he had been drying and crushing chilies and then rinsing them with alcohol, leaving them to evaporate. After many repeated distillations and filtering through cloth, he had ended up with a thick, reddish-black liquid. He had torn a piece of cloth from his ragged trousers and was using it as a makeshift face mask and gloves.

His madness was no longer feigned, he had long since succumbed to the never ending daily torture. He laughed maniacally as he carefully siphoned off the liquid into a small glass phial that Vera had given him.

I don't care if those bastards are magic, this will bring a dragon to it's knees. Aamon knows what I'm doing in here, but he doesn't know why I'm doing it. He is too confident in that magic of his. Men must be punished punished punished for their hubris.

He continued to laugh like a madman.

He looked at the large pile of silvery rocks in the corner of his cell. It's only a matter of time now, that should be enough manganese dioxide to clear out this whole crypt, all I need now is some hydrochloric acid, luckily that isn't hard to find if you know where to look.

He hid the phial of liquid underneath his bedroll.

I'm going to kill them all. I only need a little more time now.

He took a large glass of water that had been sitting on his tray and placed it in the middle of the cell. He then revealed a small wooden crank with a couple of wires sticking from it. He stuck the wires into the glass of water and began to turn the crank.

Weak current is still current, I have time time time.

Bubbles were slowly forming on the wires and rising out of the glass.

Hydrogen and oxygen, boom, hot. That magic barrier is keeping all the hydrogen in.

He kept turning the little crank tirelessly for an hour straight until his arm hung limp with exhaustion. Nearly half of the water had turned into gas.

How many glasses is this now? 10? 100? 1000? I don't know it's almost time...

There was the sound of locks being undone.

It's the magic. Time to hide.

He hid the crank under his bed roll and drank the rest of the water with his arm that wasn't exhausted.

A single robbed cultist pushed the heavy door open and walked in. He held his nose due to the stench.

"You know what time it is prisoner, out with you."

They're only sending one man to retrieve me now, they must be punished for their hubris.

...

Stockwell was strapped to the wooden torture rack and laughing like a madman.

Aamon was holding out in his hand a chunk of pyrolusite ore, "Whatever you're planning, it won't work Stockwell, it's just a rock. Know that any one of my brothers that walk these halls could kill you with a point of finger. However, I'm eager to watch you struggle, which is why I've been letting Vera give you your meals."

Stockwell was giggling maniacally and repeating after Aamon "...hehe...just a rock...hehe... just a rock rock rock."

Aamon wasn't paying attention. "I don't know what Vera sees in you. She thinks you're some kind of gdo of justice in disguise."

He put down the rock and combed his palm through his hair in a tired manner. "What a stupid girl."

He leaned in so that he was only inches away from Stockwell's giggling face. "You want to know what I think, Mr. Stockwell?"

"...stupid girl...hehe...what a stupid girl...hehe…girl…"

"I think you really do have the knowledge we're looking for. And I even agree with Vera in some respecst. You most certainly did come from the realm of gods, but outside your realm your powerless. And now, you're nothing but a deprived and depraved little imp, as all gods are. You just won't crack because you don't want to lose. I will break you Stockwell, I don't care how long it takes. You'll be mine to keep Stockwell, so don't worry, I won't kill you."

"...hehe…kill you…. Hehe...kill...kill… hehe…kill...you..."

Aamon sighed and gestured to the cultist behind him. "Take him back to his cell."

"Understood."

He undid the restraints on the torture rack and dragged Stockwell out of the room

That was the last time I'll be on that rack, Mr. Aamon.

Aamon watched them leave the room. He was used to seeing Stockwell's deranged smile as he was dragged from the room so many times before then. When he had first seen it, it was clearly faked, but it had gradually gotten more and more sincere over the last several weeks.

However the one that he had just seen plastered on Stockwell's wolfish face, for the very first time, it had genuinely disturbed him.

...

Stockwell was playing peekaboo while having a conversation with the little blue light floating in his cell.

"Why yes, little light, you do have a very nice smile. What me? Noooooo, you're too kind Mr. Light."

He heard a knock on the door followed by a woman's voice.

"Mr. Stockwell, I've brought your food."

The moment he heard her voice, it was like a switch being turned off and his insanity disappeared. He ceased his ramblings and walked to the door's sliding window. The two of them had grown very close over the last several weeks and he had realized that his madness subsided whenever he talked to her.

The hatch at the bottom of the door opened and a tray of gruel slid in, along with a small glass of alcohol, three medium sized chili peppers, and a small silvery rock.

"Thank you, Miss Vera. You have been a good friend to me during my stay here."

Vera turned her mismatched eyes away from the door and blushed. "You're too kind, Mr. Stockwell."

"Not at all Miss Vera. Your friendship has helped me in more ways than you realise."

"It has?"

"Yes, it really has. So as a reward for your faith and your friendship, I will give you a little bit of advice."

Vera's eyes showed that she was ready to listen.

"Leave this crypt and do not come back within the next 48 hours."

She looked like she wanted to say something, but she stopped herself. She nodded in understanding. "I understand."

"Excellent. Then I hope to see you again soon, but under different circumstances, Miss Vera."

"Me too."

After she bowed, she turned and left her god with a smile.

The moment she rounded the corner, it was like the switch had turned back on and Stockwell's insanity returned.

He reached down and picked up the silvery rock and threw atop the pile in the corner.

His sharp features morphed into a wolfish grin.

Now, we wait.

Name: Wesley Asimov Stockwell

Epithet: Madman, Rhamnusia

Birthday: October 10th, 2091 AD

Residence: Aamon's Crypt

Racial Level: Total: N/A

Human: N/A

Job Level: Total: ?

Scientist: ?

Physicist: ?

Chemist: ?

Lunatic: ?

Stats: Total: ?

Name: Vera Calico Koshkin

Epithet: Female Cultist, Mismatched Eyes

Birthday: Upper Flame Month, 13th Day

Residence: Aamon's Crypt

Racial Level: Total: N/A

Human: N/A

Job Level: Total: ?

Wizard: ?

Necromancer: ?

Stats: Total: ?