Vastarael stepped through the obsidian portal, expecting—dreading, really—the next test.
He braced himself for another bout of cosmic horrors, another tormenting challenge meant to strip him bare of whatever semblance of sanity he still clung to. Yet, as the shimmering void engulfed him and he emerged on the other side, Vastarael immediately knew something was different.
He stopped dead in his tracks, sapphire crystal bowl of potato and meat curry stew still cradled in his hands, the warm aroma momentarily grounding him in the surreal scene that sprawled out before him.
He blinked, the sharp acuity of his Mystic Eyes kicking in as they adjusted to the overwhelming scale of what lay ahead.
It was a workshop. No, a workshop was too simple a term for what this place was. Vastarael had seen smithies, crafting rooms and laboratories before, but this? This was something else entirely.
The sheer size of the place was incomprehensible. The ceiling stretched so far into the sky that it was lost in a haze of swirling, glowing mist, as if the stars themselves had decided to settle up there. Columns of polished obsidian and emerald-green crystal lined the edges of the room, each pillar so massive they dwarfed the largest trees Vastarael had ever seen, their surfaces etched with runes that pulsed faintly, as if alive.
The floor beneath him was a perfectly smooth, reflective black stone that stretched endlessly in every direction. It gave off a faint shimmer, reflecting the ambient light of the workshop like a dark, tranquil lake. His boots clacked against the surface as he stepped forward, the sound echoing in the cavernous expanse.
Everywhere he looked, Vastarael saw so massive and elaborate they could only belong to beings far beyond mortal comprehension. An anvil sat in the center of the room, and calling it an anvil felt like a disservice.
It was gargantuan, a hulking monolith of gold and black steel with veins of molten red running through it like magma. It hummed faintly, a low vibration that Vastarael could feel in his chest, as if the very anvil had a pulse, a life of its own. Nearby, a hammer leaned against it, a hammer so enormous that its handle alone towered like a skyscraper, literally, its head large enough to flatten a mountain.
To his left, Vastarael spotted a workbench, though "workbench" felt laughable when compared to what this monstrosity actually was.
It spanned the length of an entire city block, its surface cluttered with tools and instruments of unknown design. There were screwdrivers the size of airships, chisels as tall as castle towers, and spools of thread as wide as bridge steel rods. Enormous vices lined the edges of the bench, their jaws big enough to hold entire buildings in place—or at least, that's what it felt like.
Vastarael walked up to the nearest stool and tilted his head upward. It was absurdly tall. The legs alone were like massive columns, their polished wood glinting under the soft, ethereal light of the workshop. If Vastarael wanted to sit on it, he'd need a grappling hook or maybe a ladder that spanned several stories.
He turned his gaze forward, his Mystic Eyes sharpening the finer details of the workshop. Every tool, every structure, every inch of this place was wrought with care that bordered on obsessive. There were no imperfections, no uneven edges, no wasted space. The golden rivets holding the anvil together were flawless, their surfaces inscribed with intricate sigils so small that only his Mystic Eyes could make them out. The floor was alive, faint pulses of essence rippling through it like veins in flesh.
It was a giant forger's workshop.
Further ahead, Vastarael spotted storage shelves. They were impossibly high, reaching up into the hazy ceiling. Rows upon rows of materials were stacked neatly on them, each glowing faintly in their own colors.
Crystals of every hue, shimmering metals that seemed to shift and flow like liquid and strange, organic materials that pulsed faintly as if breathing. One of the shelves even held what looked like a massive dragon's skull, its fangs longer than most swords, its empty eye sockets glowing faintly with green fire. Vastarael couldn't help but gape, his mind struggling to comprehend the beings that would consider this place a mere workshop.
To his right, there was an enormous forge. If the anvil had been impressive, the forge was downright intimidating. Its mouth was a roaring maw of white-hot flames, yet the fire didn't behave as ordinary flames would.
They twisted and danced in precise, almost mechanical patterns, the light shifting through countless colors. The heat radiating from it should have incinerated him on the spot, but some invisible force kept it at bay, allowing Vastarael to admire the forge without becoming a charred husk. Above the forge, enormous bellows hung suspended from chains thicker than castle walls, the leather of the bellows creaking faintly as they pumped rhythmically, feeding the flames with air.
Vastarael slowly walked further in, each step accompanied by the soft clinking of his sapphire bowl against his hand. He felt small, insignificant even, in this place. This wasn't a workshop for mortals or even gods. It was a divine forge, a place where the very fabric of reality might have been shaped, where the tools that created worlds were born.
He ran his hand along one of the giant tools lying on the floor; a pair of scissors the size of a small tower. The edges were impossibly sharp, so much so that his Mystic Eyes picked up the way they seemed to split light itself into tiny, prismatic beams. He couldn't even fathom what such a tool would be used for.
"Is this... some kind of joke?" He muttered to himself, his voice echoing in the vastness. "How the hell am I supposed to use anything here?"
And yet, as he said it, Vastarael noticed something. The workshop wasn't just big—it was shifting. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the edges of the room seemed to warp, the massive tools and furniture rearranging themselves. The colossal anvil seemed to shrink slightly, the workbench lowering ever so subtly, the tools on its surface rearranging themselves into more manageable sizes. It was as if the workshop was alive, responding to his presence, adjusting itself to fit his needs.
"Of course," Vastarael said, smirking to himself as he set the sapphire bowl of stew down on the now knee-high workbench. "A workshop for gods, and it's playing nice for me. This is either a blessing or the start of another headache."
He looked around again, his Mystic Eyes catching new details now that the workshop seemed to acknowledge him. The runes on the columns glowed brighter, the veins of molten energy in the anvil pulsed faster, and the flames in the forge seemed to twist in patterns that almost resembled language. It was welcoming him, inviting him to craft, to create, to test the limits of his abilities.
Vastarael cracked his knuckles, a grin spreading across his face. "Alright, then. Time to see what this place can really do—whoa!"
Vastarael barely got the words out when a sudden, dizzying sensation hit him like a tidal wave.
"Whoa—hold on!"
The air shimmered like heat waves on a summer day and his body felt… strange. It wasn't pain, exactly, more like a tingling pressure that ran from his toes to his head.
And then it happened.
In mere seconds, his entire frame began to enlarge. At first, he thought the workshop was shrinking, but instead, he was growing. Rapidly.
The workbench he'd barely reached the top of moments ago now seemed to sink beneath him, the massive tools and furniture quickly coming into scale. His feet planted firmly against the reflective black floor, which no longer felt like an infinite abyss but more like an enormous, albeit manageable, hall.
His Mystic Eyes kicked into overdrive as his perspective expanded. The once hazy ceiling above him came into focus, revealing elaborate golden mechanisms that spun lazily in the air, each gear and chain moving in perfect harmony. He could finally see the edges of the workshop, though it was still vast, its walls adorned with shelves of glowing artifacts and impossibly large scrolls written in languages he didn't even recognize.
He flexed his fingers, his grin widening as he took in the change.
"Okay, this is… new. I'm a walking skyscraper now? That's definitely one way to deal with the size problem."
The chair that had once been an impossible monument now looked like... well, a very fancy, intricately designed chair. He walked toward it, each step creating a satisfying thud against the floor, and ran his hand along the smooth armrest. It felt solid, real, like something made for someone his size.
"Guess I'm not the little guy in the room anymore," he muttered, glancing back at the workbench. What had once been an intimidating behemoth now looked like an ordinary, oversized crafting table.
The tools were still impressive in their design, but they no longer seemed absurdly large. The hammer, once too big to even comprehend using, now fit snugly into his hands, the weight just right as he gave it an experimental swing.
He turned back to take in the entire workshop, his grin softening into something more reflective. Even at this size, the place was still sprawling enough to put any mortal palace or fortress to shame. The walls stretched high above him, glowing faintly with runic etchings that pulsed in rhythm with the room's energy. The anvil in the center of the room still radiated its molten aura, but now it looked like a tool he could use, rather than a monolith built to intimidate.
"Still pretty big, though. This floor's got a better sense of scale, at least. Doesn't feel like I'm about to get crushed by everything anymore."
He glanced down at his hands, turning them over as the last traces of the enlargement spell settled in his body. He could feel the shift in his muscles, the energy coursing through his veins—no, not veins. His core. His pseudo-heart pumped with steady, efficient precision, filling him with pure soul energy. It wasn't just his body that had grown; his awareness had expanded too.
His Mystic Eyes were sharper than ever, taking in details he hadn't noticed before. The tiniest imperfections in the runes lining the walls, the subtle fluctuations in the flames of the forge, the way the tools seemed to hum faintly, as if alive.
Vastarael couldn't help but chuckle as he set the hammer back down and grabbed the sapphire bowl of stew from the now reasonably-sized workbench. He scooped a piece of potato into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully as he surveyed the workshop again.
"Alright, spire. You've got my attention. Let's see what kind of secrets you're hiding in here."
He turned toward the forge, its flames dancing wildly as if inviting him closer. The room might have adjusted to him, but he could tell there was still more to uncover. With a final gulp of stew and a satisfied sigh, Vastarael set the bowl aside and stepped forward, ready to explore this strange, divine workspace.