[ PI ] The longer a spell takes to invoke , the more potent its effects . A single wizard has been casting a spell for hundreds of years . Today , he is finally done .

The door, fortified with steel bands and arcane runes, stood firm as a dozen burly men tried battering it down. On one side, the Church of the One True God, its witchfinders and priests exhorting their minions with vehement prayers to their deity. The other, the Cult of the Whispering Man led by one Kalkas Nigmund, last apprentice of the archmage whom the Cult was named after. He and the handful of believers in the small enclosed room were all that remained of the Cult after 271 years of relentless persecution, of playing cat-and-mouse with the most powerful organization on the continent. 
 
 The Whispering Man sat on an ancient platform, his soft incantations the only visible signs of life. His hair and beard were meticulously groomed every day. He had no need for food and drink, and his visage was that of a man in the apex of his prime. Such were the benefits of the Spell of Immortality which he casted upon himself, Kalkas, and few dozen of his most trusted apprentices before embarking on his greatest feat yet. `` Protect my physical form'', he said, ``... for they will come for me with fire and steel and hatred in their hearts.'' 
 
 And so they did. One by one, the apprentices were found and slain over the years. Each time, the Whispering Man was transported through the secret pathways in the Aether to the next sanctuary by his loyal followers. Each time, the witchfinders came just a little bit closer to stopping the Whispering Man from completing his final spell. 
 
 `` This just might be the last time,'' thought Kalkas as he mentally prepared himself for the fight of his life. A half-dozen spells were ordered and ready to be unleashed with a single word when the final door falls. 
 
 A sudden hush on the other side of the door heralded their doom. A moment later, a ringing chorus of `` IN THE NAME OF THE FATHER!'' and the door trembled and shook itself apart, revealing a venerable old man. His expression was far from serene however, twisted by anger as he shouted wrathful prayers. His zealots behind him surged forward, their swords and cudgels met with arcane words and flashing sorcery. 
 
 In the heat of the battle, Kalkas suddenly became aware that his master's incantations were increasing in volume and in speed. The archbishop and the witchfinders likewise began to make out audible words originating from the Whispering Man. 
 
 ``... closebracketendclosebracketendclosebracketend...'' 
 
 The battle in the small room became more desperate as one side sought to end the conflict before the spell completes and the other to protect their master for just a few moments longer. Prayers to the One True God from a dozen mouths tried to drown out the voice from the Last True Mage. 
 
 ``... closebracketendexitdebugmode. Run.'' 
 
 The battle paused as everyone turned to watch as the Whispering Man slowly stood up. He put his hands behind his waist and bent backwards, stretching his back, yawning all the while as the archbishop gaped and forgot about his prayers. He recovered quickly however, and beseeched a smiting upon the still-stretching mage. 
 
 Nothing happened. 
 
 Eyes wide, the archbishop clutched at his crucifix, orb, and holy book. Never had his god denied him a smiting. As he continued muttering various prayers, the Whispering Man straightened up and laughed. 
 
 `` God is n't here anymore.''
