Ale picked up the whip, fully aware of the formidable power that artifact held. He quickly stored it in his spatial dimension, vowing to examine it later.

He rushed to the door, closed it hastily, and pressed his hand against it. Ale focused his mana, feeling the energy seethe in his palm before channeling it into a dark, radiant beam. A complex symbol formed in dark magic, its edges glowing as the incantation was completed. The door resealed, and the symbol briefly flared before stabilizing, ensuring a temporary barrier. It would hold the Tenebrous long enough to give him a head start.

Suddenly, Ale felt a sharp shock course through his mind, like an invisible thread being violently severed. The mental connection he shared with one of his clones shattered, leaving an oppressive void and a dull ache pulsing in his head. He grimaced, instantly realizing that one of his doubles had been discovered and destroyed. His muscles tensed for a moment, his breathing turning ragged as if he physically felt the loss.

Fragments of memories flooded his mind, like fleeting flashes shared by his clones just before their demise. Ale glimpsed scenes: the second floor, a corridor lined with twenty rooms, and room number 06, where his clones had been taken. The room was furnished with ten children's beds arranged in two rows, bathed in an ominous light.

The memory sharpened, showing the moment a Tenebrous had grabbed a clone's hood, trying to pull it back. That act revealed the illusion, triggering an inevitable fight. Despite their desperate efforts, the clones, outmatched by experienced Tenebrous, were eliminated one by one, the room echoing with the brief, fierce battle. In the final shards of memory, Ale sensed the Tenebrous gathering their forces, moving en masse toward the ritual hall.

Ale stood frozen for a moment, eyes unfocused as he tried to piece together the shared memories of his lost clones. He snapped back to the present, shifting his gaze to the artifact hovering above the altar: an ancient horn, etched with mysterious engravings, emitting a low, oppressive sound like a drumbeat echoing a dark magic's pulse.

Cautiously, Ale approached and reached for the horn. But as his palm neared, miniature lightning bolts sparked around his fingers, crackling and dancing menacingly. In response, the artifact spun at a dizzying speed, forming a sphere of burning red energy. A wave of heat and force burst forth, sending Ale staggering back several steps, making him stumble.

He got up with difficulty, observing the flaming aura now surrounding the artifact. After a moment, the horn slowed and returned to its original position, hovering just above the altar. Ale immediately realized that the object was protected by powerful defensive magic, a sort of ward designed to repel any interference. The artifact seemed to possess an instinctive will, ready to fiercely defend against any intrusion.

He frowned, searching for a solution. Ale lowered his head, thinking intensely, and his eyes fell on his shadow stretched across the floor, cast by the flickering glow of the magical stones affixed to the walls. An idea flashed through his mind.

He took a deep breath and channeled his mana, letting it flow into his shadow. Gradually, he manipulated each strand of energy, controlling every movement with meticulous precision. Shadow tendrils began to rise from the darkness on the floor, one by one, then by dozens, hundreds, and soon thousands. Each dark thread swayed, moving as an extension of his will, extending with calculated grace toward the horn.

As the first tendrils reached the artifact, it spun wildly, trying to fend them off. But the shadows continued to cling, wrapping and pulling with force. Slowly, the shadow tendrils multiplied, gripping every part of the horn, covering it entirely and halting its rotation.

The once-unleashed horn slowed gradually. The red aura pulsed weaker and weaker, overheating under the pressure of the shadows. Then, with a final flash, the protective energy shattered into fragments of light that evaporated. The artifact, drained of power, lost its glow and fell heavily onto the altar. The deep, resonant sound ceased, and the horn lay still, inert. Ale exhaled a sigh of relief; the artifact was finally subdued.

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Ale channeled mana into his right hand again, feeling the energy pulse through his veins. With a precise and fluid motion, he traced a complex symbol in the air, each curve and line marking key steps of the invocation he had just performed. The symbol hovered briefly before him, vibrating with a dark, enigmatic glow, and Ale made a conscious effort to anchor it deep in his mind, engraving every detail into memory.

Slowly, he let the mana flow into his left hand, tracing a series of letters forming the name of his new creation: Umbra Filum. The characters shimmered, imbued with a light that shifted between shadow and brilliance. With a final motion, he closed his hands, merging the complex symbol and the invocation name into a perfect unity. A wave of power surged through his body, a shiver of recognition confirming the unbreakable bond he had just created. Now, he only needed to think of the symbol and speak the name to activate this magic, capable of raising shadow threads and binding them tightly around any object.

A moment of awe washed over Ale as he fully grasped what he had accomplished. He had forged a new spell, guided by that persistent, mysterious voice that sometimes echoed in his mind. It was more than just an echo of his consciousness; it was as if an intellectual being, infused with Nyxion's ancient knowledge, advised him when faced with the unknown.

Creating a magical formula is possible... the voice had warned, but it had also issued a caution: It requires absolute focus and consumes a phenomenal amount of mana. Even with the nearly inexhaustible reserve inherited from Nyxion, Ale felt the fatigue press down on him like an invisible weight. His muscles tensed, and his vision blurred momentarily as his mind struggled to stay alert.

However, he couldn't afford to succumb to exhaustion. Behind the ritual hall's door, hurried footsteps and enraged murmurs sounded. The Tenebrous were attempting to break the seal he had placed. Though his sealing magic was unique and powerful, it would eventually give way.

In front of the ritual hall's massive door, dozens of Tenebrous formed a curved line. All were focused, their raised hands projecting spells that burst against the door with a deafening crash. For a moment, the door held strong, but gradually, cracks appeared, emitting threatening creaks.

"Come on, just a bit more effort!" encouraged one of the Tenebrous, his voice strained with tension.

"Who the hell sealed this door? This seal is way too tough!" another shouted, frustration mixed with rage.

"It's clear this isn't our magic..." a third muttered, his eyes glinting with a worried gleam.

Finally, after one last coordinated effort, the seal exploded in a blinding flash, scattering shards of dark energy everywhere. The door creaked open, and the Tenebrous rushed inside.

The scene awaiting them was both familiar and unsettling. At the center of the room, a body lay lifeless, while the artifact, the magical horn, still floated above the altar, eerily silent. Confusion swept through the ranks of the Tenebrous.

"The intruder deactivated the artifact? But why is it still floating?" one murmured, a brow raised beneath his mask.

The Tenebrous approached the altar, their minds racing and senses on high alert. It was then they noticed the artifact wasn't what it seemed. The glossy black surface of the false horn was, in fact, composed of thousands of shadow threads so fine they were almost invisible.

Suddenly, the threads detached, retracting like enraged serpents and revealing a devastating energy that had been building within them. The artifact's red aura flared, glowing with a hellish light before exploding in a cataclysmic shockwave.

The explosion engulfed everything in its path. The Tenebrous, caught off guard, were swept away by the blast before they could react. Muffled screams and masks flung into the air were the last signs of their presence before silence fell, heavy and oppressive.

Amid the chaos, a shadowy figure had moved across the ceiling, using dark magic to blend into the darkness. Ale landed gracefully near the door, taking advantage of the widespread confusion. With a swift motion, he slipped out and closed the door behind him, sealing the destruction within.

Ale had set an ingenious trap using his newly created magic: Umbra Filum. Thousands upon thousands of shadow threads, woven with supernatural precision, rose from his shadow and enveloped several captive fireballs. These filaments compressed the searing energy, merging the glowing spheres into a single compact entity, shaped to mimic the form of the mystical horn. Suspended above the altar by threads so fine they were nearly invisible, the illusion was perfect.

The result exceeded all of Ale’s expectations. The trapped entity pulsed with such devastating power that deep vibrations resonated through the earth, making the ritual hall's floor and walls tremble. The air itself seemed to crackle under the force of the contained energy.

A new idea flashed in Ale’s mind: could he maintain the stabilization of compressed fireballs within the shadow threads for longer durations? This thought opened up a realm of possibilities—he could create formidable explosive weapons capable of staying dormant until activated at will. The excitement of this revelation made his heart pound harder, despite the exhaustion weighing on his shoulders.