Chapter 95: Disciple of Dagda
Robert sat cross-legged on the smooth stone floor of his workshop on the top floor. Mana swirled around him in lazy, sparkling ripples as he gathered and sorted his thoughts for the upcoming enchantments. The badges, rough discs carved from hydra-scale mineral, rested on a low table before him. Each one glowed in the low light, hard as nails, waiting for the enchantments to make them lifesavers.
He picked one up, turning it over in his hands. It felt coarse but solid, with streaks of green and gold running through it. Langston had brought this material back from the hydra's lair, tougher than anything and perfect for channeling mana, ready for a greater purpose. Robert traced a finger over the etched three-headed hydra, each head poised to strike.
Closing his eyes, he let his mana flow into the disc. The carved hydra heads lit up with a faint glow, and with a quick surge of energy, they came alive. A scatter of bright lights shot out in three directions, like sparks from a blacksmith's hammer. It was a clear sign of authenticity, proof to any citizen of Doras Dagda that the wearer carried Robert's authority and Moira's blessing.
With the first badge done, Robert focused inward. His hands hovered over the table as he planned the next steps. These badges had to do more than mark rank. They needed to keep their wearers alive. He piled on enchantments, his mana poured out in a steady rush, a flood of power. The hydra scales drank in the energy like parched ground, sparking with a gritty crackle.
He spoke softly as he worked, naming each spell aloud to lock it in place.
"Strength, so they can fight," he murmured, his voice steady and sure. A pulse of red energy sank into the badge, settling deep like a rooted seed.
"Agility, so they can move." A flash of silver mana darted in, binding to the hydra's carving.
"And constitution, so they can endure." A warm, golden glow spread over the badge, solid and unyielding.
The enchantments grew heavier as Robert pressed on, his mana draining with each layer. He shaped the badges for the fight ahead, adding a final blessing: an aura of purification. It would let the wearers push back the Nuckelavee's corruption, drawing on their own mana to cleanse the filth left by the demon's minions.
By the time he finished the first badge, Robert's breath came hard. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his hands trembled slightly. Still, he felt a spark of pride as he set the badge aside and reached for the next. Three more to go, and he stayed locked in. The work was brutal, but it was needed.
When the last badge took its enchantments, Robert's mana felt nearly spent. He leaned back, exhaling long and slow, and looked at the four badges. They pulsed steady, each one packed with the power to protect and strengthen their wearers. The room was still, save for a low crackle of magic hanging around.
As Robert steadied himself, the room warped. The air thickened, heavy with a strange spark, like mana coiling tight, and his vision blurred as the stone walls melted away. He blinked, and the workshop was gone, replaced by a vast field, grass soft under his boots. The badges shone brighter, their light pulsing steady and strong, tied to his resolve. Each pulse carried his determination, binding him to the tools he'd crafted.
Then, a voice spoke. Deep and powerful, yet warm and familiar.
"If you can name me, I will add my own power to your badges, as the embodiment of Destruction and Creation, Life and Death."
Robert stood in the vast field, the grass soft beneath his boots. Looming over him stood a massive man he'd seen in a dream, the one who'd saved his life from the Warlock and hyenas while he lay in a coma. The man, a friend in that dark time, grinned wide, his gleaming teeth bright against his weathered face. His presence was intense, but comforting to Robert.
The man's club rested on his shoulder, its runes glowing pale. Robert's mind raced, pulling up old research from his Scotland studies. He thought of the club, a cauldron of endless stew, a harp that healed him faster than anything. The club, called Lorg Mór, struck with mighty force. The cauldron never ran dry. The harp was pure magic. This being had pulled him back from death.
One word took shape: Duality. It all clicked. "Dagda," Robert said, his voice low with awe. "You are the Dagda. God of Balance, Generosity, Protection. Master of Druidic Magic, God of Plenty and Bounty."
The man's grin widened, and his laughter boomed, rich and warm. "And leadership," he added. "Will you have me walk beside you, mentor you with Moira?"
Robert nodded, his words caught in his throat. Standing before a god tied to Clan MacEwan's faith was overwhelming, but he stood firm, ready for what came next.
"Try to hold yourself together, Robert," The Dagda said with a mischievous grin. "This will be quick."
The Dagda clapped his hands, and a deafening boom slammed through Robert. His chest tightened, his instincts screaming as the force hit him. There was no time to react. The sound wasn't just noise. It surged through him, shaking his core and wiping his mind clean for a moment. It tore him apart, his body crumbling to mist under the god's raw magic. Yet, somehow, he lived. Every excruciating second felt like hours to Robert, as time lost all meaning. All that existed was the searing agony.
His skin peeled away in dry ashes, muscles unwound fiber by fiber by hot holy fire. Every nerve ending burned with purifying electrical currents, blasting out blockages, impurities, or mana clogs. He screamed right up until his vocal cords were also removed. Then every molecule and atom split apart. He was a fine mist of a human, flesh made cloud, while the Dagda stepped through him and eliminated every corrupted particle of Robert with his flaming gaze.
The pain faded, and the Dagda's voice thundered through the void, speaking in an ancient god-tongue Robert couldn't grasp. The words hit like a storm, heavy with power. Each one shaped the mist that was once him, forging it anew.
The Dagda reached into the mist, pulling out a foul black spirit. It was like a sludge, and alive. The Dagda sneered at the slithering, disgusting corruption and threw it to the floor. The foul matter hissed at him and spoke in a dark and infernal language. Neither the Dagda nor Robert knew the language, but the intention and meaning were clearly made plain: threats and vile curses. Living lightning shot forth from the Dagda's eyes. Twin bolts of electricity, white-hot and glowing with super-heated plasma, all infused with light energy to ensure permanence. The sludge shrieked, then vanished in a burst of acrid smoke.
Then the Dagda put him back together, bit by bit, coalescing Robert's vapor together. To Robert, the feeling was entirely different than the splitting apart. Being put back together, one bit at a time, felt like the essence of healing. His atoms realigned, his nerves flared alive, his muscles wove together like strong cords, and his skin sealed smooth and new. Each piece felt clean, whole, like a wound closing under a warm touch. He stood whole, clothes restored, but changed. He felt stronger, clearer, like his body was rebuilt from the ground up. Magic surged through him steadily, smooth and powerful. His enchantments would strike harder now, and he carried the Dagda's protection, a shield for balance and justice.
The Dagda placed a heavy hand on Robert's shoulder, then pressed the other against his back. Heat flared, sharp as a blade, burning through him. Robert's breath caught, the pain fierce but laced with a rush of strength, like his core was remade. It stung but rebuilt him, the mark now part of his soul. A white-hot flash erupted, and Robert gritted his teeth as a tattoo burned into his skin.
The symbol, the Triskellion, was a Celtic mark with three spirals joined at one center. They curved clean and sharp, tied to life, death, and rebirth, alive with raw strength and ancient power. The tattoo glowed on Robert's back, its light flickering like a fire you can't look away from. It was the Dagda's mark, radiating power and protection, proof he was claimed.
The Dagda's gaze softened. "Your badges carry my blessing now. They'll guard your team from the Nuckelavee's corruption and strengthen their fight for justice. Use them well, Robert, and know I stand with you."
Robert, claimed by the Dagda, gave a firm nod. His resolve was steel, and the badges, alive with divine power, were ready for the demon fight ahead.