Chapter 6

Master Camble

“Mana is naught but uncertainty; within such uncertainty lies everlasting potential.”

-268, On the Nature of Mana

Eliot

Eliot feigned a grimace with a touch of genuine sympathy.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized sincerely, “That was never . . . I thought we would be able to catch them. They would fall unconscious in seconds and get some hypothermia from being so high up, but then we would catch them and warm them up. I should have warned you beforehand, I’m well and truly sorry.”

“I-it proved necessary. I should be expressing my thanks,” Henry shook his head, eyes attached to the floor.

“No, you should not!” Penelope shouted, outraged. “You were crying—and shaking when I woke up! If you hadn’t been so quick to give yourself soul damage, that wouldn’t have happened.” she thrust a finger at Eliot.

“You’re right,” he admitted. “I knew the Serpents had infiltrators in the Guard, but I’d thought Polly Ofal would have assigned us vetted individuals. But I’m not trying to make excuses. In the future, I’ll be as circumspect as possible. And I really am sorry.”

“They fell in mere moments,” Henry said quietly. He took a deep breath, then finally lifted his head. “That hardly seems enough.”

Eliot furrowed his brow. “Now that I think about it, this proves you can cast the portal spell. But you don’t have the proclivity or mastery that I have, so the mana needed to create so many portals so far away would be pretty big. In fact, I would say you probably shouldn’t have been able to activate it at all, I’ll have to see how it somehow compromised on shorter portals. Also, if it only took moments, they were probably incapacitated by the kinetic spells that pushed them into the portals in the first place. I thought better safe than sorry, but maybe I’ll tone that down in the future,” he analyzed.

“I’d hate for you to harbor regret. It was but a pittance in return for your lives. I’d repeat my actions without trepidation should a peril befall you two once again,” he swore with a fire in his eyes.

Eliot bloomed a smile. “I love you too, man.”

“We’d do the same,” Penelope nodded.

Henry returned their sentiments with a warm smile.

In the end, the operation was a big success. The Guard eventually caught word something was happening, and cleaned up after them. Eliot woke up in an infirmary without a trace of soul damage, the morning after. He was very relieved to see that his soul was at least strong enough to handle a few tiny, little intercontinental portals that weren’t physically tiny or little at all. It also excited him to know he could push himself much harder than he thought safe, when he feared he had a fragile soul. After all, it was only something not even most archmages could reproduce shortly after his Spiritual Awakening. It was expected of a genius like him, really.

So, maybe it was a pretty good ego boost, too.

Naturally, soon after, the story had spread like wildfire. Henry was given a scolding by the king and told not to do it again. Although, on his way out, he received more than a few backhanded compliments from some prominent nobles that had written him off. Among the populace, he was a hero—they all were. The common people were more than a little excited that finally someone—especially someone like Henry—was doing something about those pesky serpents. Even in the academy, their peers treated them with genuine deference and respect, more than they'd previously been forced to give on account of status.

“Ah, it slipped my mind,” Henry realized as he got up and rummaged through his chifferobe. “I’d rather you have this. Diane Ilva produced it upon her person in the midst of battle.” He handed Eliot the Rod of Fire.

“What’s this?” he asked, taking the rod and tossing it in the air.

“As far as we can tell, a genuine artifact from before the Genocide of Ignorace,” Penelope told him.

“Seriously?” he gasped, stars in his eyes. “What does it do?”

“It produces flames.”

“What else?”

“Other stuff to do with fire . . . probably.”

“Probably? You mean you don’t know?” Eliot questioned.

“They were advanced but it’s not like they could zap information directly into someone's brain. So no, we don’t know what it can do yet, but I’m sure it’s a safe assumption that all of its functions have to do with fire,” Penelope huffed.

“If that’s true, then I can’t take this,” he shook his head in disappointment.

“Shouldn’t it prove useful against your animus?” Henry argued.

“Maybe, but fire’s just not my style,” Eliot sighed. “Besides, it’s a part of your spoils, you should keep it.”

“I insist.” Henry remained unmoved.

“Seriously, I don’t need it,” Eliot maintained.

To prove his point, he multicast a handful of simple spells. The air in the room kicked into a medium gale as everything not pinned down began to float a few centimeters off the ground. The actual effects of the spells weren’t the focal point of his display, rather it was the fact that he cast them all at the same time. The common rule of thumb is that splitting focus between two things would result in each thing getting drastically less than fifty percent the quality and time of focusing on just one thing. Considering the fact that casting a spell in the first place was one of the hardest and attention requiring things out there, casting multiple was completely out of the question for most beginner mages. That being said, as a mage practices more and more magic, the mind inevitably grows more and more used to it. The truly impressive thing about his display was the fact that Eliot could multicast so many spells while only having around two months of experience, even if they were simple spells.

His friends, on the other hand, were used to Eliot’s talents by now, and didn’t look very impressed. In fact, after he was done, Henry copied his display.

“So, we’re playing that game, are we?” Eliot smirked. Mana gathered around him in an electric gray maelstrom, then consolidated into eleven different portal spells, all cast at the same time. Eleven sets of portals appeared scattered throughout their dorm, but that was just the amount he could cast at once. He added eleven sets of portals every second until the entire room was filled to the brim, leaving hardly a few centimeters of space around the three of them.

“I could add more, I only stopped because I ran out of space,” Eliot boasted, “I could keep this up . . .” he paused as he realized he should probably calculate that, then barked a laugh, “Indefinitely. Paradisiacal shit! That’s hilarious!”

The portals closed as he clutched his stomach in maniacal laughter. The portals were only ten centimeters in diameter and hardly any distance from him, so it made sense. But it was still all too amusing that he passively recharged more mana than it cost to fuel them.

Henry frowned with a trace of bitterness, begrudgingly taking the rod back.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I don’t mean to rub it in,” he apologized hastily, “The truth is: if you gave it to me, I would obsess over it for like two days, then throw it in a corner and forget about it, never to be seen again. As our main damage dealer, I’m sure it could be more useful adding some fire to your repertoire.”

Penelope shot him a very disapproving glare, but added, “He’s right. And, from what I know, any artifact in the shape of a wand, staff, or rod should also double as a spell focus.”

Casually opening his journal—which was never very far away—with the help of a spell that located keywords, he searched for spell focus. Apparently, they were incredibly rare and valuable items that increase the purity and general qualities of mana funneled through them. In most cases concerning artifacts, they also add a separate proclivity to the mana depending on the artifact’s other properties. The most surprising bit of information he found was that the gods gifted their clergy the knowledge to create spell foci to help their churches rebuild after the Genocide of Ignorance. Predictably, the process swiftly became one of the most well protected secrets across the globe.

Eliot looked back up with bright eyes.“If that’s true, that’s all the more reason you should take it. I’m sure Penelope has her own, and my spells don’t exactly need to be more powerful.”

“Very well,” Henry sighed in defeat.

After a few moments, Penelope collected her things and said, “As much as I would love doing nothing all day, I have important things coming up. I probably won’t get much free time for a few days.” She put a hand on Henry’s shoulder and gave him an assuring look. Then, she bade her goodbyes and left.

Eliot flopped back on his bed with a sigh. “At the risk of sounding like a total asshole, man does this suck. I was all hyped and ready to fight some bad guys, but now the opportunity’s past and I’ve got nothing to do with all that. I just know I won’t be able to focus on anything right now.”

“A visit to the dueling arenas may be pertinent,” Henry floated an idea.

“Dueling arenas?” Eliot repeated in confusion. “Last I checked Everveil doesn’t have any coliseums or some such.”

“The academy’s,” Henry clarified.

“The academy has dueling arenas?” Eliot asked in equal parts excitement and exasperation. “Why is this the first I’m hearing of this?”

“I’d assumed you already aware.”

Eliot used a telekinetic spell to launch him to his feet. “Do I have to register somewhere? How soon can I get an opponent?”

“Unfortunately, competitive dueling takes place biyearly, the first of which is set for three month’s time. In meantime, so long as you’ve an opponent, simply set foot in an arena,” he explained.

“Hmm,” Eliot considered, rubbing his chin. “Do you think if I harass Mark Medici enough, he’ll want to duel me?”

“Perhaps you should let slumbering dragons lie,” Henry admonished. “I’d enjoy a bout or few.”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather relax?”

“Yes, it’d do me well to exert myself; ease my mind of the subject for a time.”

“In that case,” Eliot said, clapping his hands together, “Where are these arenas, exactly?”

The dueling arenas were housed in an open air mix between a small coliseum and a large gymnasium. The arenas themselves were in a barren field of compact dirt, surrounded by elevated, tiered seating. Six rectangles with abstract circles at each of their vertices made out of a sleek white crystal were embedded into the ground. When they arrived, two duels were already taking place. Projecting from the borders of the arena, a transparent, hemispherical forcefield of purple enclosed the two fighters within its confines. It seemed to isolate the arena’s combatants as much as possible, including dampening sound.

“Wow, this palace is neat,” Eliot commented, crouching down to study one of the circles. “They can do all that with just some fancy line art?”

“Not entirely,” Henry corrected, “In truth, these are all beholden to one ritual far below the earth, powered via the pressure of the mass bearing upon it. What’s observable are simple relays.”

“Wait, you can do that?” Eliot breathed, hands on his head in realization. “I can create portals as deep as I want without any digging. I need to learn how that works as soon as possible!”

“Predictably, something’s captured your focus after all,” Henry teased.

Eliot rolled his eyes. “After this, I mean.”

As they stepped into the ring and activated the rituals, the small coterie that had kept a respectable distance crowded around them in a small fuss. Eliot spied the entrance, where people flooded in and joined the growing congregation. Somehow word that Eliot and the prince were dueling was already spreading.

“The force field can be obfuscated, if you’d like,” Henry told him after taking in the audience.

“Eh, I’m fine if you are,” he shrugged. “They came for a show, I say let’s deliver.”

Henry nodded, brandishing a practice sword in his right, the Rod of Fire in his left. It was definitely a little awkward, but he knew plenty of one-handed forms, if the need arose. Eliot, by contrast, had nothing on his person. He cracked his knuckles and spent a few moments stretching.

“Ready?” Eliot asked with a confident grin. Henry nodded.

Eliot took off at a sprint, rushing directly at Henry. Henry readied his blade, pulling his left hand slightly behind him as a counter weight. A meter away, Eliot twisted for a punch and jumped, a portal suddenly depositing him behind his opponent. Henry ducked the blow and rolled under the closing portal. While Eliot was still unsteady on his feet, he thrust the Rod of Fire forward, spewing a ravenous cone of flames. Eliot dropped to the ground and rolled on his side, the close proximity still singing him. Pressing the offensive, Henry fired a bolt of lightning.

Eliot knew full well it would be the kind that bypassed his mage armor. Luckily, he had no metal on him, so he didn’t need to be faster than the lightning, just faster than Henry’s aiming. He dove to the side, into a portal that reoriented him on his feet. It was then that Henry took flight, using the reprieve to begin the casting of a long spell. It was also then that Eliot realized he had very little offensive options, especially against someone like Henry. The plain battlefield didn’t help either.

Finishing his spell, Henry drew his sword back as if preparing for a wide strike, which erupted with golden arcs of electricity. He loosed his sword with a grunt of exertion, the sword turning into a golden saucer and zipping through the air at astonishing speed. With nowhere to run and the sword approaching far too fast, Eliot conjured a shield of shadow and braced himself. It smashed into his defense without remorse, causing his shield to burst back into nothingness and sending him flat on his back with enough force to knock the wind out of him. Fortunately, he didn’t need to breathe to cast spells.

His body flipped high into the air from a kinetic spell before the sword could hit him again, meanwhile water began gushing from the runes of a spell he left at the floor. As the sword immediately skewed up and zoomed after him, a portal opened beneath him, allowing him to land safely on the swiftly rising water’s surface. Finally, as he’d hoped, the sword couldn’t chase him forever and flashed back to its caster’s side. Henry hadn’t been idle, though. In the air before him, he drew a complex sigil with reddish-gray mana using the rod as a stylist.

It pulsed with mounting energy once, twice, then shot a beam of roiling white flames. It flared with blinding light and seemed to warp space as it passed. Eliot dual-cast a simple spell, making a large amount of water rise up between them. A massive explosion of steam burst from the water as it flash-boiled, pelting them with scorching temperatures and concussive force. Deciding he would bend the rules some, Eliot opened a few portals in front of him, shepherding the worst of it high into the sky, outside of the barrier around the arena. The next second, his eyes widened in shock as the fire completely ate its way through the water and continued forward.

He opened a portal in its path, redirecting it to hit the water directly below Henry. As it did before, the water boiled instantly and continuously as the growing deluge attempted to fill the space. Feeling victory near, Eliot created a gust of scorching winds to concentrate the steam and heat towards Henry. The inferno of fire finally ceased, letting the water still and an eerie silence take hold. For a few long moments, nothing happened as the copious quantities of steam clouded the battlefield. He waited for a splash of water that would signal Henry’s unconsciousness, wondering if it had happened earlier and he’d missed it. Of course, if that was true Henry would be drowning.

He waited a few more moments, drenched in sweat and struggling to breath, before deciding it’d been too long. It was already almost too much to bear on his side, there was no way Henry wasn’t unconscious and suffocating. The second he started running, however, a sword dressed in lightning pierced the steam and smacked his forehead, making everything go black.

Lander Dresn

Headmaster Dresn planted his elbows on his desk and massaged his temples with a tortuous sigh.

“That boy will be the death of me,” he groaned. “How is it that such an impulsive, suicidal brat inhereted Karl’s legacy? He must have been truly desperate.”

“You aren’t in any position to make such judgments,” a voice scoffed from the corner of the room.

The office roared to life. A smattering of barriers formed around him and the intruder, every common object or piece of furniture animated, his artifacts bathed him in myriads of effects, rituals flared into action, potions injected themselves directly into his bloodstream, and a legion of wraths, poltergeists, wisps, and spiritual constructs surged from their bindings. From his staff of gnarled stygian wood, he shot an expanding ball of black destruction, bending space as it went. Regularly, it would be devouring everything in its path, but he’d whitelisted all of his possessions.

The intruder simply walked forward—the barriers shattered, the undead dissolved, and the animated items fell lifelessly, as an afterthought—and extended their arm. The ball of annihilation collapsed in their grasp. Finally able to get a good look at the intruder, the headmaster’s heart jumped into his throat.

“M-Master Camble,” he gasped, hastily deactivating his defenses. The situation went from bad to completely undesirable. He would have much rather been attacked by an assassin that somehow bypassed his security than spend a second with the man.

“Ever the icy greeting, I see,” Master Camble spoke in a severely strident voice. “Is it true?” he demanded, tucking his arms into the baggy folds of his bright white garbs.

“Yes,” Headmaster Dresn answered immediately, not daring to play coy, “He’s a genius from the Town of Flora by the name of Eliot Reileus.”

“Reilues,” the withered, bald man corrected.

“Pardon?”Dresn asked in confusion.

“Reilues,” he snapped, nostrils flared, “It’s of procudean descent. I won’t have you slandering his name.”

“Of course,” ceded the headmaster, biting his tongue.

Master Camble straightened the objects on the headmaster’s desk as he said, “I do hope you haven’t named him your discipulus.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” he ground.

“How did he receive Karl’s inheritance?”

“He tutored under Karl’s spirit for a brief time.”

“Excuse him of any classes or obligations for the foreseeable future,” ordered the monk as he turned to leave.

Finally, Dresn spoke up, “I forgive your trespass in my office, but I cannot allow you to sabotage the boy. Regardless of your status, as headmaster, while Eliot Reilues is in my academy’s care, I will not allow any obstruction of his education.”

Suddenly, he was slammed into the wall, held up by his throat. Master Camble radiated unadulterated killing intent.

“So quick to proclaim Karl’s efforts as your own. Almost as quick as you were to usurp his position and research. Lest you forget, I spoke in your favor in light of Karl’s unfinished testament. If I acted according to my whims, I would have snuffed your miserable life the moment you attempted to seize his estate. Be grateful I stay my hand for his sake.”

The next second, his breath returned as the crushing pressure lifted, Master Camble nowhere to be seen.

Eliot

He woke up in the infirmary with Henry sitting at his bedside. Thankfully, no raging headache welcomed him into consciousness.

“How long have I been out?”

Henry flashed him a vauntful grin. “But an hour.”

“How the Abyss did you stay conscious?” he demanded, smarting from his unfair loss.

Henry collected his thoughts and explained, “The Rod of Fire somehow cloaks its wielder in something akin to a Mage-Armor-imposed temperature barrier. Otherwise, I simply flew low so as to avoid the rising steam.”

Struggling not to complain about the completely unfair difference in equipment, Eliot continued, “But how did you know where I was? I even used a water walking spell that floats me just above the water’s surface!”

“Additionally, the Rod imparts an enhanced sense of temperature.”

“I should have taken that damn stick when I had the chance,” he mumbled, crossing his arms.

Henry laughed good-naturedly at his antics. “I do apologize for my shameless seizure of victory,” he said bashfully, rubbing his arm.

Eliot sighed, letting the childish outrage leave him. “Nah, you needed a win, plus you deserved it. I was messing around, honestly, I should have taken it more seriously. I also completely underestimated the Rod of Fire. In a real fight, that would cost me just like it did now, only then I would lose my life.”

“Unfortunately, the supports did advise against your continued dueling,” Henry told him.

“They’re probably right,” Eliot conceded. “You’re right, too. I have things I wanna study, and I came up with a few things to try and figure out why the portals in a ball opened halfway instead of exploding, like it should have done.”

Eliot’s mind already swirled with all the experiments and training he had planned, his excitement growing by the second. Unfortunately, his momentum was completely interrupted when they found an uninvited visitor waiting for them in their dorm room. Both he and Henry froze in shock at the fact that someone could get inside without their permission. The man looked even more lanky than Eliot: his height was comparable and his sun-spotted skin seemed to be pulled taut on his bones. In contrast, his bright robes spilled out from where they were tied at the waist, brushing against the floor and exaggerating the man’s frame to imposing proportions. His bushy eyebrows—the only hair visible on his body—furrowed, accentuating deeply sunken brown eyes as he studied Eliot’s portals in a ball.

“Hey!” Eliot called, “You should know better by now than to touch other people’s things.” Afterall, he’d yet to patent the design, as it was now anyone could lawfully steal it.

Henry elbowed him in the side and shook his head in fright. “Henry Crucible pays respects to the master,” he intoned, bowing at an acute angle.

Eliot grimaced, reevaluating how much time he’d have to spend on this nuisance. “Yeah, I’m not doing that,” he asserted with crossed arms. “No one is my master.”

“Disappointing,” the man hummed, leisurely setting his artifice aside and taking a step forward, “Your predecessor had enough sense to estimate my esteem.”

Elito bared his teeth and growled, “OBVIOUSLY you’re important, you have the fucking prince bowing to you, and you somonehow got into our room. But I don’t give an ogre’s fat ass how important you are. You touched my things without permission, trespassed in my place of living, narcissistically insisted I call you master, not even deigning to acknowledge my existence until I talked first. If you have business, walk out and try again, politely.”

“If I don’t?” the man challenged.

Eliot stepped forward to glower directly into his eyes. “Then I’ll dedicate every waking moment of practice and study to knocking you off your high horse. And after I do I will raze and salt the soil you’ve nurtured.”

Before he could register what happened, he was on the ground, clutching his stomach and struggling to breathe. His ribs seared with the might of a thousand suns, consuming his world for a few endless seconds. When he finally rasped a breath after a severe coughing fit, he sneered and barked a laugh.

“And what was that supposed to do? You’re a Demigod, so what? Either bash my skull in or there’s the door,” he snarled, jamming his finger behind him.

“I beg of you, forgive his transgression just once, he knows not what he does,” Henry interjected shakily. “I fear he’s lost his reason, for I’ve just cracked his skull in a duel.”

“Let his wyld disrespect not concern you, princling.” The man lifted Eliot by his vest’s collar. “I’m unwilling to wrought permanent damage upon an asset of the Empire, as per my divine covenant. I look upon this being of unholy blight and resolve to impart it some measure of humanity.”

Eliot clamped the man’s gnarled hand in a death grip. “Careful. This Child of Blight is borne of wrath and arrogance. Baptized in all of creation and gifted utter competence.”

The man frowned. “Your proclamation holds more truth than you could ever know. I apologize for my belated presence, more time has passed on the prime than I was aware. It seems I am sixteen years late.”

“Yeah right,” Eliot scoffed, “Younger me would have eaten you alive, old man; that kid was malevolent. Wait twenty more years, maybe by then I’ll have learned to tolerate you. I doubt it, though.”

The old monk ignored him and turned to Henry. “I apologize also for my unannounced interruption, Prince Henry. You can expect him back in a few months’ time.”

Terror like never before lanced through Eliot’s body. “Hey, hey, hey! You can’t do this!” he shouted, trying desperately to escape his hold. “I can’t miss a few months, not now. I swear to the Gods, if you do this I’ll—!”

Fortunately, he wasn’t able to finish his solemn vow as massive g-forces rendered him unconscious.

Eliot woke up with sore ribs, difficulty breathing, and a bright light stabbing through his eyelids. Groaning, he shaded his eyes with a hand and squinted at his surroundings. It seemed to him he was in the classical concept of Paradise. Bright sunlight pervaded every centimeter of a clear blue sky, without any apparent source. He laid on a ground of physical clouds, empty fields of it as far as the eye could see, and likely farther. To his left was a meiduo with a traditional Procudean tea set faithfully arranged on its top. Unfortunately, the walking skeleton was seated across from him, sipping a green colored tea.

“Before you do anything, drink. It will ease your pain,” he advised placidly.

As much as Eliot wanted to spite the man, every breath in and out smarted something fierce. Realistically, if the man wanted him dead, he would be dead, so he grabbed the stone yunomi and downed the drink. It tasted of bitter matcha, one of Eliot’s favorite flavors, and as it was the perfect warm temperature, it went down pleasurably. Immediately, he could feel his ribs knit back together; rhapsodic tranquility roared to life within him. A surge of energy filled his weary body, yet it didn’t make him feel restless or wired, simply invigorated.

Eliot knew he should be mad, fuming really. Serving the tea was paramount to manipulating his emotions, after kidnapping him and preventing him from studying magic for gods’ know how long. But whatever was in the tea, it did its job and then some.

He sighed lightly, releasing every last bit of negativity he’d harbored within him. “Well, care to explain what’s going to happen now?” he asked while pouring himself another cup.

“As Karl is unable to properly guide you, in his stead I shall name you my discipulus,” he answered matter-of-factly.

“And who the Abyl are you, again?”

“I am Master Camble.”

Eliot nearly choked on his tea. “You’re Marvin Camble, Demigod of Equilibrium, God of Monks, Pinnacle of Humanity, Master of all Things? As in the Marvin Camble, Immortal, Undying Sage, Champion of Humanity, Breaker of Horses, Grand Slayer of the Greater Races, Feller of Tyranny that played a pivotal role in spearheading the rebellion during the Genocide of Ignorance? Madre Dios, man, why didn’t you lead with that?” he whined pitifully, throwing his hands up. “Paradisiacal shit, I almost swore to the gods that I would kill you one day!”

“Could you have fulfilled that vow, do you think?”

He fumbled for a few seconds, deeply considering it. “Maybe? I wanna say no because of your track record, but at the same time I fully expect to surpass Karl Favesh in terms of magic—he died prematurely, afterall. And, if I understand it correctly, becoming a Demigod is all about understanding reality, glimpsing a truth of the universe, so I expect to become one pretty much as soon as I hit the Mortal Limit. I wanna say no because I know I don’t really understand just how strong you are, but at the same time I fully expect to reach the pinnacle of power one day. So . . . for now let’s say I could match you one day,” he concluded. “Emphasis on one day.”

“Time shall tell if your words are born of arrogance or competence.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Eliot pointed out, “Why didn’t you tell me who you were to begin with? All I knew was that some random, oddly dressed man was suddenly in my room. My first instinct was that you were trying to steal my designs.”

“It was meant to provoke you,” Master Camble admitted. “It worked too well for my liking. Honing your severe temperament will be the focus of your early training.”

Eliot rolled his eyes and drawled, “Who would’ve thought intentionally being an asshole would make someone mad.”

“In a sense you are fortunate. When I first visited Karl, I ordered him to prostate himself over dirt so that I may pass, before he finally resisted,” he recalled quietly, his smile painfully melancholic.

“I may respect you now, but as a fair warning, no matter what you dish out as punishment if I don’t want to do something, I won't do it,” Eliot promised.

“We shall see how long your will lasts.”

He definitely didn’t like the sound of that. If the tea wasn’t still mellowing him out, he probably would have tried to portal away then and there. No matter how powerful Master Camble is or how amazing results his training might produce, Eliot’s recently gained freedom was more important to him than anything. Whenever he wanted, he could do whatever he wanted, and go wherever he wanted—literally, thanks to his portals. Even under the influence of the tea, he resolved to do everything in his power to resist if Master Camble threatened that. In fact, the prospect was mildly tempting. Since Master Camble was a Demigod he couldn’t hope to injure, he could test some of his cruel and brutal ideas he deemed too depraved for use in front of his friends. Only as a last resort, of course. And maybe as an ‘accident’ every now and then during training.

“Alright,” he sighed, “What first?”

“First, you must swear to an ascetic lifestyle for the duration of your training.”

“Great. And that entails?”

“You will maintain absolute bodily discipline. I will not deprive you of your possession as they are integral to your magic, however you will practice daily exercise and meditation. You will sleep when I say, wake when I say, and you will be given a single meal per day,” Master Camble decreed.

“I’m sorry,” Eliot laughed in utter disbelief, “Did you say one meal per day? I’m taller than some species of tree! And you expect me to exercise on top of that? I’ll starve!”

“That is the intention,” Master Camble told him mercilessly.

“Unbelievable,” he sighed in exasperation, holding his head in his hands. “Will I have any time at all to work on my magic, at least?”

“That will depend on you. Now, stand and stretch. We will begin immediately,” ordered his new, self appointed Magister.

As expected, Eliot’s life swiftly became one of Abyssal torture. First, he was expected to function on six and a half hours of sleep. Apparently, eight hours was only necessary for untrained mortals. That would’ve been bad enough, but because of the omnipresent, glaring light he didn’t get any sleep at all the first few days. Thankfully, he figured out how to construct a lean-to with shadows that rebuffed the light. Second, every day for six hours— three hours from the second he woke up and again the last three hours of the day—he was forced to follow a rigorous, demanding, and all around inhuman exercise routine. Running, push-ups, pull-ups, planks, squats, jumping jacks, burpees, crunches, side to side jump squats, as long as the exercise could be done with little to no equipment, he did it.

Whenever he wasn’t doing that, he was either forced to meditate or listen to philosophical lectures. Aside from being known as the strongest mortal being in history, and most probably immortal, Master Camble was the most well known for the fact that he was one of three Headmonks in the crucible empire. Each Headmonk was in charge of their own monastery where they guided and trained disciples. The monks of the Crucible Empire all followed a vague doctrine known as The Way of Enlightenment. Though Eliot went into it cantankerously, he actually found it extremely interesting. To Eliot, it sounded like the base of it was do whatever you need to do in order to achieve ‘Enlightenment’. With Enlightenment being the transcendence of mortal tribulations and ascension into a higher form of being. To make things more confusing, it was apparently impossible for modern day mortals to achieve Enlightenment thanks to some stupid ‘perversion of natural order’ that cursed their ancestors and passed down to them. However, it wasn’t impossible to achieve varying levels of Enlightened. While described as a state of mental transcendence, the idea of becoming Enlightened is believed to be what modern peoples called Demigods, while fully fledged Enlightenment was something even further beyond that was no longer achievable. The Way of Enlightenment was said to be the purest form of cultivation, passed down from generation to generation since the Glorious Epochs of Cultivation at the beginning of all history. All other methods mortals use to meet the Mortal Limit and become Demigods, including magic, were said to be mere derivataions of The Way. Nothing like personal bias and arrogance to tie things together in the end.

At first, it sounded to Eliot like becoming Enlightened was simply chasing power. Afterall, what other reason would someone have to become a Demigod besides the pursuit of power? The more he thought about it, though, the more his perspective changed. To become a Demigod, first it was necessary to train the physical body to the Mortal Limit, a sacrosanct restriction on the strength of a mortal being. It was absolutely and utterly impossible to get any stronger through any means other than becoming a Demigod. From everything he knew about crossing that threshold and becoming a Demigod, it was a completely mental process of understanding and wisdom. The more he thought about it, the more he realized just how well the idea of mind over matter, which pervaded most ascetic principles, meshed and harmonized with the process of becoming a Demigod.

As usual, when it came to the specifics of how to become Enlightened, people disagreed. Some things were universal, like integral ascetic elements and physical training, however when it came to philosophy of how one should conduct themselves, there were many separate and diametric views. It used to be that there were twelve different schools of thought, but over hundreds of thousands of years all save three eroded into nonexistence.

Master Camble was the Head Monk to the Monastery of Clouds, which believed to reach Enlightenment one must discipline themselves to a fault and overcome mortal coils like emotions, feelings, hunger, boredom, and lust. It was supposed to be about absolute benevolence and stoicism, but it seemed obvious to Eliot that things like the cloud aesthetic only pervaded a sense of arrogance and holier-than-thou attitude. Master Camble was no exception; afterall, he had the audacity to kidnap and force a way of life on him just because he knew Karl Favesh. From the absolute travesty that was the quality of friends he kept, Eliot was starting to think the man was the stereotypical social wreck that let people walk all over him.

In any case, though the Monastery of Clouds was the most popular by far—no doubt thanks to the corpse of a Head Monk—it had two other competitors. The second largest was known as the Monastery of Still Waters, headed by a Headmonk Laverne. Its philosophy was the exact opposite of the Cloud’s. It believed that one must embrace mortal desires and conquer them through assimilation rather than eradication.

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

The third faction, the Monastery of Perpetual Mountain’s philosophy was similar in practice to the Cloud’s but followed very different core ideas. They believed in selflessness above all. For one to become their best self, one must forget the self entirely. It was led by Headmonk Polle, the youngest and freshest of the three Headmonks.

Clearly, after hearing about the others, it was a tragedy that Master Camble happened to be backing the option that was literally worse in every way, therefore making it the most popular. The Monastery of Still Waters’ philosophy in particular sounded like something Eliot might even agree with and willingly practice. But Fate was a cruel mistress.

Eliot, student to the biggest head honcho and senior authority on The Way, was expected to begin his journey properly; he was given a white and silver robe and everything. Thankfully, he wasn’t dissuaded from learning magic. Au contraire, Master Camble encouraged him to learn it with just as much conviction as he followed The Way, since it would prove to be a useful secondary pillar in his cultivation.

None of that, however, earned Eliot’s ire like meditation did. Physical pain was nothing new and usually welcome; he loved to learn what others would call mind-bendingly boring and useless information. What he couldn’t stand was doing absolutely nothing. Boredom had been his sworn enemy for as long as he could remember. Although there was precious little to do in the Town of Flora, at least he had the freedom to come up with something on his own, like chart the stars or calculate the golden ratio. Meditation, literally sitting down and doing nothing for hours, was the bane of his existence. Anathema to everything Eliot lived for.

It took him an embarrassingly long amount of time to realize he didn’t have to do nothing. As long as he crossed his legs, put his hands together, and closed his eyes, he looked like he was meditating. The tricky part was coming up with something to do that Master Camble wouldn’t be able to notice. He was supposed to be mana ignorant, but he was also a Demigod. Thankfully, there were a few things Eliot could do that were completely internal, the first being improving his Mage Armor.

The topic of Mage Armor had much more depth than Eliot had first thought. The basic structure blocked and responded to most any physical attack, most magic however was harder to respond to. For instance, there were two kinds of lightning spells, bolts and charges. The former grouped the lightning of the spell into a bolt that resisted dispersion or other attracting forces like metals, but in consequence the Mage Armor recognized it as an attack and blocked such spells. Charges, on the other hand, more or less spew raw lightning and are usually paired with an electro-attraction runarch centered behind the target. They cost more mana and required a few seconds’ casting time but didn’t trigger the regular Mage Armor.

To modify Mage Armor, a mage needed to have incredibly refined and expert-level mana manipulation. So, with a little less than two months’ experience under his belt, Eliot felt confident he could figure it out. Afterall, he had all the time in the world to do nothing but practice. Unfortunately, he would have to figure it out by himself, since his trusty journal that he knew had a section about advanced Mage Armor was unavailable to him. He wouldn’t be in that situation if he’d just read through the whole thing and memorized it, but then the novelty and excitement would be ruined, so he stood by his choice. The only reason he didn’t figure everything out by himself in the first place was because of time, and time he now had.

Luckily, he knew where to start, at least. More than just purity, everything about mana is controllable by a mage, as long as said mage had the mana manipulation to enforce it. All he had to do was figure out exactly how to rebuff lightning. Unfortunately, as optimistic as he was, that was where he hit a wall. He knew that lightning could be attracted or repelled with electro-attraction and repelling spells. He also knew that there were two kinds of such spells: the first simply abused the attraction rune to specify lightning and attract it, the second type was said to create an observable effect on reality that attracted lightning naturally. The former cost more mana and it stopped after a short time, but it was easier to cast, meaning it was better for beginners and had less casting time. The latter cost less mana and created a permanent effect, but had a much longer casting, much more complex runic grammar, and could be undone by a mage of similar strength.

Eliot was dead sure that if it was possible to embed spells into Mage Armor, it would be done already, so figuring out the second type was his only option. Of course, he knew that some materials conducted lighting, like metals, and others insulated it, like rubber, but the question was why? What about rubber made it immune to lightning? Unfortunately, no matter how much he racked his brain, he would never figure it out just by thinking about it. So, he asked a different question: did he really have to know why? If he simply commanded his mana to be more rubber-like, why wouldn’t that work?

Much to his surprise, it did. Honestly speaking, he thought for sure that it wouldn't. He only humored the idea out of desperation. At his command, however, the outer layer of the mana that made up his Mage Armor gradually shifted from a fluctuating mass of charged gas, to a connected, elastic shell. Over the course of a few days, though his mana still looked to be a gas, it embodied the properties of rubber without fail. Not just the insulation either. When presented with blunt force trauma, the rubber-like-mana dispersed the force like a thick layer of fat. It also had its undesirable qualities, becoming especially susceptible to piercing and cutting.

In his experimenting, Eliot saw first-hand why major augmentations to mage armor were so unpopular among most mages, save for the highest of echelons. It took him days of intense focus to make the rubber-like-mana, and it took a similar length of time to repair damage or change it to something else, even turning it back to regular mana. The practical implications were obvious. Unless he had prior knowledge that the enemy he was going to face used primarily lightning, he might as well not have any Mage Armor at all. Even then, once his opponent figured out his ploy, they would no doubt switch to a secondary. In that situation, if he didn’t score a winning blow before that happened, again, he might as well not have any Mage Armor at all.

But that didn’t mean it was useless. Far from it. Over the course of the next two months, he got to work honing his manipulation and perfecting his design. In the end, his Mage Armor was made entirely of special-propertied mana, delineated into three layers. Taking heavy inspiration from regular armor, the outermost layer was metallic in nature and grouped into interlocking ‘plates’. The middle layer featured rubber-like mana that prioritized elasticity at the edges and shifted to prioritize heat and electrical resistance as it got closer to the innermost layer. The thinnest of the three—with the second layer quadruple its size—the final layer had mana bearing the properties of refractory ceramic. Theoretically, his set-up should have it all. The metallic layer would rebuff bladed weapons while blunt force and heavy weapons would simply cause it to sink into the second layer, dispersing the force as it went, and pop right back up afterwards. Finally, the ceramic should render him immune to most flames while providing the rubber some structural integrity. The only thing he imagined that could break his mage armor without a concerted effort would be an arrow shot from a crossbow, or similarly piercing projectiles. Even then, it would get caught in the thick second layer—at most it would hit the ceramic with the last of its force and stop. Only further testing and practical use would say for sure, though.

Following the high of completing such a long project, the rest of his daily life started to look up as well. Even eating one large meal a day, he somehow grew a respectable amount of muscle. Enough that Master Camble had finally deemed him ready to start actual fighting exercises. Much to Eliot’s dismay, ‘actual’ fighting exercises meant punching and kicking the air a thousand times. Literally a thousand times. Each limb. Needless to say, any sort of happiness he felt in finally progressing to something new, promptly died in its infancy. The only saving grace was that Master Camble designated Sundays as resting periods, where he was allowed to do whatever he wanted. Which is to say, he could finally practice magic again. Thankfully, after some convincing, Master Camble also let Eliot conjure a pillar of darkness to hit, since it more resembled the real thing. His knuckles certainly didn’t thank him, but the painful feedback was the only thing that made the exercise bearable.

As sour as he was about the whole ordeal, with the new schedule—switching off between regular and fighting exercises and having Sundays for magic—slowly but surely his mood began to improve. Exponentially. The more time passed, the more he started to enjoy the exercise. Now that he wasn’t on the verge of passing out each and every day from the exertion, his body felt on top of the world. The more he did it, the more exhilarating it was. He started to wake up every morning backflipping out of his impromptu bed, ready to wear himself out. Now he understood how people could put themselves through such grueling conditions. It was addicting. Even if Master Camble spontaneously decided he wanted nothing to do with him, Eliot wouldn’t be able to find the will to stop.

Then, there was his progression in magic. Somehow, something about the room they were in negated the use of his portals. No matter how much mana he poured into it, the spell simply refused to cast. It didn’t explode, either, which was most unusual. Since Master Camble didn’t have the decency of letting him pack, he was without any physical resources. That, however, turned out to be a blessing in disguise. Without loftier pursuits like portal experimentation and engraving plundering his attention, he was able to focus on some of the more mundane, yet foundational aspects of magic. Along with manipulation exercises, he was able to start on his spiritual infrastructure. Usually, a mage wasn’t supposed to start working on spiritual infrastructure until after specialization, since it required extremely developed mana manipulation. It so happened that Eliot had just spent two months practicing nothing but.

The reasoning behind spiritual infrastructure was simple: the spiritual body is mostly empty space. On the spiritual plane, it’s hundreds to thousands of folds larger than the physical body. The true depth of that size—as far as he knew—could only be experienced by the owner. Just like back when he first opened his eyes while traveling with that caravan, to anyone else it looked to only extend a few centimeters out from the physical body. The theory of how the spiritual matched up with the physical was another field altogether, though. Spiritual infrastructure aimed to do something with all that empty space. By solidifying and stabilizing mana into permanent structures, all that empty space could be put to good use. What exactly a mage built was up to their imagination and personal needs. That said, the one structure every mage needed, no matter their circumstance, was a Manaemundas. In other words, a mana refinery. One of the more shocking revelations Eliot had was when he learned that a mage’s mana doesn’t simply purify as they grow in power—at least not to the extent he had thought. While it is true that ambient mana is naturally purified and condensed as it joins a mage’s mana storm, there’s a hard limit at around high-higher quality aqueous that not even archmages are able to surpass.

In order to step into the realms of mucilaginous and tangible, a Manaemundas was absolutely required. The question Eliot faced was how exactly one would go about purifying mana. The prevailing school of thought was to follow the Mana Mass theory. The theory postulated that the reason mana naturally condenses to an extent as a mage grows more powerful is simply because the size and purity of their mana storm increases. The more and the purer the mana there already is, the stronger the pull it has on surrounding mana, an effect known as spiritual gravity. The theory also explains why the passive rate of recharge increases, as well. A Manaemundas uses artificial spiritual gravity, among other things. to condense the mana further.

Of course, the better the Manaemundas, the purer the mana. While there were plenty of OK Mnaemundas designs readily available on the market, Eliot obviously wouldn’t let himself just copy what everyone else had. Since he didn’t have an incredible Manaemundas passed down from generation to generation like most nobles, and Karl Favesh’s magical secrets were entrusted to Headmaster Dresn before he could claim them himself, he would have to create his own. While he’d definitely be more powerful much faster if he had Karl Favesh’s design, as with everything else, Eliot would rather figure things out for himself than simply copy the answers. Guidance, on the other hand, like words of wisdom from his journal, was very welcome.

His journal advised that a good Manaemundas made use of all of mana’s inherent properties in the refinement process. Pressure from mana’s liquid and gaseous properties. Both artificial gravity, and spiritual gravity from the soul and mana’s apparent mass. Heat from mana’s propensity to higher temperatures as it condenses. Electricity from mana’s charge. As well as, Kinetic potential from mana’s inability to be still.

Eliot was a manic, arrogant perfectionist. For most things, he simply wouldn’t allow anything less than the best he could possibly do. Creating a Manaemundas, however, wasn’t so simple as to even have a ‘perfect’ way to go about it. It was something he would have to constantly improve and change throughout his progression as a mage. So, he disabused himself of the notion that he couldn’t accept anything but extraordinary. In fact, he fully expected to produce nothing but utter garbage. Afterall, to achieve anything worthwhile, he needed to start from somewhere.

With his expectations appropriately lowered and his body and mind riding the high of exercise, he got to work. His life was rote enough that everything faded into the background. Every second of every day was spent agonizing over how he should fulfill every base requirement. Making use of every facet of magic was one thing. There were two other absolutes he needed to adhere to. The first was to maintain a scaffolding for his soul. The mana surrounding the soul naturally helps to alleviate some of the stresses placed upon it in everyday life. As a mage, Eliot needed a larger and purer mana storm to help his soul cope with the weight of reality as he used magic. To keep his soul safe, he either needed the Manaemundas to be centered around his soul, or to create some kind of artificial scaffolding. Since he had no idea how to do that, Eliot felt it was best for his first design to center around the soul. The second requirement was the need for easy access to his mana despite whatever conditions he placed it under. Regardless of how pure the mana was, if he couldn’t access it instantly, it would all be in vain. Even if it resulted in only a single second of time to access his mana, that was an extra, unavoidable second of casting time for all of his spells.

With all of that put together, it suddenly felt to him like an impossible task. So, he lowered his expectations once more and resolved to start even smaller. For now, he would focus on gravity and pressure, which should go hand in hand. Unfortunately, it seemed, for once in his life, Eliot found an intellectual challenge he couldn’t conquer. Design after design failed to properly work. He could fulfill a few of the requirements no problem, but without fail, every design had a glaring flaw that made it impossible to use. Throughout the process, Eliot even figured out how to make tangible quality mana. In fact, it was easy. The problem that seemed to plague his every waking moment was accessibility. Simply shoving enough mana together with enough brute force was all that was needed to make tangible mana. But the second he let up on the pressure or let it out of its container for use, it dispersed immediately. His findings made him question the validity of any design. Theoretically, the second mana was taken from the Manaemundas, it should disperse. Except, when mana was naturally condensed by the spiritual gravity of a mage’s mana storm, it remained condensed even when removed from the storm. Meaning, not only did he have to figure out how to condense mana while still having instant access to it, he had to figure out how to condense it in such a way that it stayed condensed. He simply couldn’t fathom how there could be a right and wrong way to condense mana, it all seemed so nonsensical.

Three months flashed by. In that time, Eliot quite literally spent every minute of everyday wracking his brain for a solution, to no avail. He was ready to throw his hands in the air and give up. Who needed a Manaemundas, anyway? Why would he need purer mana if he could just master every spell he came across and reduce mana costs to near nothing? Manaemundas weren’t around back during the times of the ancient Ieconions, and clearly they did just fine. They didn’t even have them during the Golden Age of Magic, and an average archmage back then could eat just about any modern archmage for breakfast. So, did he really need a Manaemundas?

Fortunately, before he could stubbornly swear against ever making a Manaemundas, Master Camble of all people stepped in. On a fateful Sunday, as Eliot ate his one meal for the day, Master Camble suddenly said, “It seems you still have yet to make a functioning Manaemundas. I’d held out on the chance you’d somehow succeed, but it seems I shouldn't have expected you to achieve the impossible.”

“How’d you know I was working on a Manaemundas?” Eliot asked, thoroughly shocked.

“The same as how I know you were improving your mage armor whilst you should have been meditating,” Master Camble non-answered.

Eliot snarled in frustration. “Fine, then, don’t tell me. But what do you mean by achieve the impossible?”

“The creation of a Manaemundas is impossible before specialization.”

“You’re only telling me this now?” he shouted in exasperation. “I wasted three fucking months!”

“It seems your temper has yet to improve, as well,” Master Camble commented, sedately.

Eliot’s nostrils flared. “No thanks to you! All this time, you’ve told me to do things, but you haven’t actually done anything yourself. If this is your idea of teaching, I loathe to think about how lost and frustrated the other monks are in your gods’ forsaken monastery.”

“I’d thought you would appreciate more independence. Perhaps not.” He reached under the meiduo and produced a stack of aged vellum out of thin air. “Read it over, then stretch. You’ve conditioned for long enough, your proper training is to begin now,” he decreed.

Overjoyed that his tortuous—apparently impossible—endeavor was finally coming to an end, he grabbed the vellum and got to reading. The material and language itself interested him more than the actual substance, at first. It had been far too many ages since human society wrote on anything but parchment and paper. However history was chock-full of ups and downs. During particularly harrowing events—usually a war of some kind—the lack of resources had affected peoples resorting to tried and true methods of the past to do expensive things like write. Although the vellum was definitely worn, it wasn’t decomposing and falling apart like it would be if it was truly from all the way before the widespread use of paper. Still, that didn’t mean it wasn’t the oldest thing Eliot had ever laid eyes on—beside Master Camble, of course. The writing was the oldest Killian dialect he’d ever seen. The modern conception of Old Killian was actually Middle Killian, to the point that many professional scholars mislabel Middle texts as Old texts. Eliot had the privilege of being able to learn how to read, and by extension, correctly identify Old Killian. The text in front of him was an older dialect yet; he could hardly make out half of the words. By his completely unprofessional judgment, since it had aspects of Dẽn, Dan, Hywsel, and what looked to him like Abyik, it might even be a pre-Killian dialect used when the language was first forming.

The language was interesting enough, but when he finally started making sense of what he was reading, he was ready to explode in excitement. It looked to him almost like a design for a Manaemundas, key word being almost. Just from the time that it was likely to be made, he knew it couldn’t be a Manaemundas. The text mentioned something about changing the attributes of mana many times, and the diagrams all focused on the soul with different kinds of special-attribute mana.

“Is this . . . a design for a soul scaffolding?” Eliot asked. “Clearly, it does more than that. If I had to guess, it actively strengthens the soul, too, which should in theory increase a Mage’s Sensitivity. But that sounds way too good to be true.”

“Yes, it strengthens and supports the soul, among other things.”

“Ok, but what is it?” he insisted, “And more importantly, why do you have something like this?”

“It is the beginnings of a cultivation technique.”

Eliot sat stunned for a long moment. “I’m sorry, did you say cultivation technique?” he breathed in disbelief. “I thought all actual cultivation techniques were lost to time.”

For once, Master Camble’s placid expression became tainted with a hint of disapproval. “I’d thought you were listening whilst I lectured upon the virtues of The Way.”

“If you have something like this, why don’t you give it to everyone? At the very least give it to all the mages out there?”

“If you’ve read the technique, you should know that it’s meant for Sensitives. Nigh all cultivation is out of reach for those not. Furthermore, cultivation is not for those weak of heart. As with all things, it must be sought and earned.”

“Wait, so only Mana Sensitives could cultivate?” Eliot had always assumed cultivation was something everyone could do. Everything Eliot had learned about the Glorious Epochs of Cultivation told him everyone back then was a cultivator, they had to be. Also sometimes called the Age of Greater Races, it’s said that all the way back then, dragons, Leviathans, Manticore, Greater Elementals, and all sorts of mythical creatures roamed the land

. Dragons and Hydras in particular were said to be just as plentiful as humans in the modern age. They had to be cultivators, otherwise survival was completely and absolutely impossible. “Then, does that mean that everyone used to be Mana Sensitive? Is that what you meant when you said it was impossible for mortals to be Enlightened?” he guessed.

“The widespread loss of our connection to the Weave is but one of our many punishments. To be truly Enlightened is lost to all, including Attuned such as yourself.”

Eliot was quickly learning that getting information from sources that were incredibly old, like Master Camble and his journal, often raised just as many questions as they answered. It certainly didn’t help that they used outdated terms that he had to figure out from context. Unfortunately, he knew if he just rapidly fired all of his burning questions, Master Camble was likely to deflect or ignore him. At least now it made sense why magic was deemed as an alternative cultivation path, since that’s pretty much exactly what it was.

After organizing his thoughts, he asked what he deemed his most pressing question, “Does that mean you’re Mana Sensitive?”

“No.”

Though he really wanted to ask how it was possible for him to cultivate otherwise, he had a strong feeling that was exactly the type of question that would see his training resumed posthaste.

“Why are you teaching me a cultivation technique you can’t use, then? As your discipulus, shouldn't I be learning yours?”

“Cultivation is a personal journey. There were once as many techniques as the stars in the sky as each person carved their own path.”

“Right, but why is it that you give me this one in particular?” Clearly, it wasn’t widely used, otherwise it would be transcribed on a modern medium in a modern tongue. More than that, the technique obviously paid special attention to strengthening the soul. As far as Eliot knew, there was very little reason outside of bolstering Sensitivity to care about the strength of a soul. Even more than that, it also doubled as a soul scaffolding. “What’s so special about this one?”

Master Camble took in a small breath and sighed lightly. “Very well. I suppose it is now you should choose.”

“Choose what?” Eliot perked up, his interest through the roof.

“The technique is known as Lex ruptor. It has long since been used by powerful Attuned. Though all but its foundations have been lost, it was the technique chosen by your predecessor.”

“You’ve had a discipulus before? How is it that I’ve never heard of them?”

“I’m sure you have,” Master Camble nodded, an unknowable sadness reflected in his eyes. “His name was Kangan Dellam. You may know him as The Emperor of Death.”

Eliot's eyes widened in shock, the pieces connecting rapidly in his mind. “How the Abyss did things go so wrong?”

Story went, The Emperor of Death was a deranged, sadistic Demigod obsessed with killing. Though that sounded terrifying, the Crucible Empire had nearly thirty demigods under its banner, including Master Camble, hailed far and wide as the strongest Demigod in existence. Problem was, The Emperor of Death’s raw strength and ability to instantly kill anything in his vicinity was completely unprecedented, to the point that he could fight Master Camble to a near standstill. Furthermore, the Empire used to have nearly forty Demigods; he killed ten of them.

During his so-called reign, he massacred settlements all across the continent, and was only stopped when he attempted to attack the Metropolis. As every Demigod in the realm was on standby in Everveil, they set an ambush for him before he could get near. After an arduous, epic battle it’s said a nameless, recluse Sword Sage gave her life to deliver the finishing blow. There was even a statue that Eliot visited with Henry and Penelope. At the time, he thought it was hilarious how the statue was such a blatant example of biased history. Out of all the Demigods that fought, the only one that got a statue was a ‘recluse Sword Sage’ that came out of hiding to protect the Empire, and valiantly ‘gave her life’ to kill The Emperor of Death.

Unfortunately, his hold on the Empire remained long after his death. Every settlement he slaughtered and every place he fought, his law permanently poisoned the land, leaving nothing but wastelands of death and decay. A Demigodly battle leaving lasting effects on the environment wasn’t uncommon in and of itself, but The Emperor of Death’s wastelands killed even Demigods given enough time. In fact, Celeste Chantell’s original claim to fame was being the only Demigod on the Two Continents capable of reviving the land. If she hadn’t joined the Empire when she did, a massive part of its territory might still be deadly wastelands.

Master Camble nearly whispered, “He was led astray on his path. In pursuit of power, he shattered his mind. I failed him.” His voice hardened as he swore, “I do not intend to repeat my mistakes.”

“He had white hair, didn’t he? And skins and eyes like mine?” Eliot asked, the question nearly jumping out of his mouth.

“It should be said your features are similar to his,” Master Camble confirmed. “Kangan developed much of Lex Ruptor as his personal path, however it remains unfishished and I’ve been forbidden from teaching it. This room is the sole haven in which I may impart it upon you.

“Kangan was an Attuned, as you are, and your physical constitutions are nearly identical. You are the only one capable of completing Kangan’s true legacy. I hope that you will, but should you refuse, I could not force you.”

Now that he had some context, Eliot could come to a wealth of conclusions about his situation. On a somewhat unrelated note, the person Beelzebub spoke of all the way back then that she was attracted to was clearly Kangan. And the implications were wildly interesting. Beelzebub was also touted as a deranged serial killer, so why would she care if he was the second coming of Kanagan? If anything, she should be happy about it. Instead, she debated killing him to prevent it, and presumably only left him alive out of hope he wouldn’t turn out like Kangan did. Either she was a heavily deluded hypocrite, or there was something else he wasn’t seeing.

What’s more concerning—rather what really should be more concerning—was the fact that Eliot would probably have to contend with the same ‘power’ that led Kangan astray. Considering what he used to do in his free time, Eliot had a sneaking suspicion he was already in contact with it.

All of that was future Eliot’s problem, though. Right now, he had to make what looked to him to be a painfully obvious choice. Learning a cultivation technique was already an amazing prospect. Learning a cultivation technique that helped The Emperor of Death fight on equal footing with Master Camble was even more amazing. Getting to finish said cultivation technique himself was everything he’s ever wanted: power and independence. Still, Eliot put on a severe face and solemnly proclaimed, “It would be my honor to inherit Kangan Dellam’s legacy.”

Afterall, he already had Karl Favesh’s on his plate, and technically, as his discipulus, he was Master Camble’s legacy. So, what was one more genius powerhouse? If he ever actually managed to get Celeste Chantelle to teach him, he would be the product of all of the Empire’s strongest powers—minus Beelzebub, of course, but most nobody would count her as a Demigod of the Empire. Unfortunately, that wasn’t very likely to happen. Celeste Chantelle was said to be very peculiar, especially in regards to students. If she didn’t like the cut of your jib, you were denied, and there was nothing you could do to change that. While he was confident in his charisma, she was also infamous for turning away cocky geniuses like Eliot, simply to give them a reality check. He could definitely agree with the sentiment, but it was unfortunate that Eliot himself would most definitely fall into that category, in her eyes.

After allowing him a minute of contemplation, Master Camble pulled him back to reality, “I do believe I told you to stretch before your training.”

Eliot snapped out of his thoughts and jumped into a round of calisthenics. “Right away, Magister!” he responded cherrily. Considering everything they just discussed, the least he could do was to stop being a dissentful brat. “So, what are we doing?” he asked after finishing.

Master Camble simply stood, walked near him, and punched him in the stomach hard enough to send him flying three meters. “From now on, every other day, you shall receive my blows for an hour, then attack me for two more,” he decreed mercilessly.

Instead of complaining, Eliot smirked and assumed a defensive stance. “I’m finally worth sparring with, huh? Well, you better believe I’m going to make you use both hands in no time!” he boasted, knowing how these things usually went.

Master Camble blinked in front of him and—using both hands—jabed Eliot’s neck, sternum, and abdomen in quick succession. “Why would you assume I wouldn’t use both? Regardless of morals, you should never be so arrogant as to disadvantage yourself in battle against an enemy you know to be your equal or your better,” he admonished severely.

“I appreciate your high assessment of me, I really do, but there’s just no way you could call us equals, Magister,” Eliot scoffed, wincing through the pain.

Master Camble proceeded to smash into his side with a roundhouse kick before explaining, “You should only ever disadvantage yourself when you know for fact you can weather the consequences. If I should bind myself to one arm and you somehow managed a glancing blow, I would be required to extend our training so that I may pulverize your inevitable conceit. Our time here is precious and not to be squandered on extraneous lesson.”

Eliot—though it was quickly becoming apparent that he was in for a very painful hour—was forced to agree. If he ever did land a hit on Master Camble, he had no doubt in his mind he would be riding that high for years. Of course, it went without saying that Master Camble didn’t allow him to touch even a strand of his robes. Everytime he got anywhere near close, Master Camble would flash from his position to somewhere a few meters away.

Though it definitely looked like some kind of movement technique of cultivation, seeing as Beelzebub could do the same thing, it couldn’t possibly be related to cultivation. In fact, after some close analysis, it was clearly just the exercise of insane speed. That was made evident by the fact that every time Master Camble sped up, he appeared a few meters away, presumably, to give himself some time to slow down. As a Demigod of the highest echelon, Eliot had no doubt in his mind that if Master Camble could instantly accelerate himself to such speed, he was also capable of instant deceleration. The reason why he didn’t was obvious: Eliot was a squishy little mortal that would be gravely injured just from being near the shockwaves of such a maneuver. Ultimately, he used it as motivation. If Beelzebub and Master Camble could kill him just by moving too fast, he had to start progressing much faster. So, that’s exactly what he resolved to do.

Despite waking up bruised, battered, and sore each and every day, Eliot continued to throw himself into training and practice. As tempestuous as their original meeting was, his situation was exactly what Eliot had wanted. Wherever they were, nothing could possibly get in the way of his training, study, and practice. The original downside of not being able to practice much magic was basically rendered null, as well. In reality, Eliot could be progressing in magic light speeds faster than he had been. With his nigh-eidetic memory, he basically only had to see a spell or rune once to memorize it. The same applied to any piece of knowledge he could learn from a book or instructor. In spite of this, he went out of his way not to learn many spells, read the entirety of his journal, or practice very many manipulation exercises, completely ignoring his foundation to pursue higher levels of magic like portal experimentation and complex engravings.

The reasons were obvious. After seeing how simple magic was, he was afraid that if he pursued it at full speed, he would spoil the novelty and run out of material too fast. It also helped to make sure he didn’t get too far ahead of Henry and Penelope. If he just researched everything he wanted to know and eclipsed them in magical prowess, their dynamic would be skewed. However, now that he was shown just how far he had to go and reminded of the stakes at play, he couldn’t justify intentionally sabotaging his growth for the fun of it.

Finally getting out of his own way, Eliot pursued Lex Ruptor without rest. The technique was very simple—at least it appeared so at first glance. From what he could gather, all he needed to do was take an amount of mana and have it revolve around his soul, separate from the rest of his mana storm. Then, he needed to repeat the process six times with longer revolutions each time, though that would come much later. To do so, he needed to change the form of that mana so that it created a permanent body of mana and didn’t fall back into the mana storm. Exactly which properties that body of mana should have, the precise revolution it should follow, and the speed of that revolution were explicitly laid out. Clearly, the details were important, but the worrying part was that it didn’t specify which properties any of the other bodies of mana should have.

Unfortunately, since the technique he had access to wasn’t finished and he had no idea what the specifics were based on, he could only leave it as a problem for the future. So, ignoring that, he got to work fashioning an exact size of mana into an imperfect sphere with the properties of iron and stone, at an insanely high temperature. It took him the better part of a month to hone his manipulation skill to the point where he could enforce and maintain so many different attributes on one, fairly small, body of mana. When he tried to have it revolve around his soul, he hit a wall. The text didn’t describe how he should make it revolve, so since everything else was painfully laid out in exact detail, he assumed the spiritual gravity of the soul would be enough.

The second he let go of it, it plummeted like a rock—which it basically was—and its precarious attributes unravel when it hit his soul, erasing a month of work in the process. Eliot, slightly miffed, decided he would craft a body of mana similar only in weight and shape, then try again at different places in its planned revolution. After two more months, nothing worked. Clearly, he was missing something important in the translation, so he dedicated two week’s of time to re-translating the text. Finally, after agonizing over grammar, connotation, and context, he found the problem.

When describing how the body of mana should be, half the time the text used a word he thought to be ‘attributes’, and half the time it used a word he knew to be closer to ‘form’. He’d thought they were synonyms that were used interchangeably to refer to the attributes of the mana. It used ‘form’ mainly when describing the body of mana in respect to the rest of the mana storm and the soul. Although he felt triumphant after finding what he thought to be the problem, his high quickly took a dive when he couldn’t for the life of him figure out what the practical difference between attributes and form would be. Fed up with attempting impossibilities, he decided to ask Master Camble.

“Just how long have you been pondering the meaning on your own?” was his response.

“Does it matter?” Eliot grumbled around a mouthful of rice.

“Yes. I’d rather you not hesitate in seeking out my guidance.”

He grimaced and explained, “It’s a mana thing, so since you’re not mana sensitive you weren’t my go to. And don’t lynch all the blame on me. You could always ask me if I need any help.”

“I may not be sensitive, however in my long life I’ve learned much of mana and magic. Should you have similar difficulties, you should seek my help first,” Master Camble asserted, handily ignoring Eliot’s constructive criticism.

He rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Fine, then enlighten me.”

“Attributes are ephemeral, form is eternal. Attributes of mana shall be malleable regardless of the permutation. Once formed, mana shall never be unformed.”

“Alright, and how exactly am I supposed to do that?” Eliot grouched. It’s always riddles and faux acromatics with this one.

“It should be similar in nature to your engraving upon reality. Your mana must take upon a form other than itself. Karl once said that formed mana shouldn’t be considered mana at all, but something closer to a spell frozen after it’s been cast,” Master Camble elucidated.

As always, with the many ways a complicated subject could be explained, Karl Favesh’s explanations made the most sense. When put that way, Eliot immediately knew what he had to do. It seemed to him there wasn’t any real difficulty behind it, it just required a level of knowledge he didn’t have. After scarfing down the rest of his rice, he assumed a meditative posture and dove into his spiritual body. As a sensitive, he was born with the ability to bend the laws of the universe to his will by way of mana. Using runes to cast spells was solely to organize his instructions. In layman’s terms, he was telling reality what he wanted the mana to turn into. If the mana was already exactly how he wanted it, all he had to do was let reality know he wanted it to stay that way. In other words, engrave the mana upon reality, just as he would with the mana comprising a spell. So, that’s exactly what he did.

As the mana became real and easily fell into its orbit around his soul, he felt the world sharpen into more focus than he thought possible. His body filled with energy and newfound strength; his mind expanded, leaving more processing ability than he knew what to do with. Mana rushed to join with his storm and rage ever stronger, ever purer. What had once been light and runny became thick and viscous, every drop filled with the weight of power. He forewent static progression and immediately broke through multiple quality thresholds at once. Exactly how pure his mana now was, he didn’t know, but he knew it had to be a monumental improvement.

The next thing he knew, the unending mana funneling to join him disappeared. Eliot and Master Camble found themselves on the floor of what looked to be a sparse office, complete with a desk and chair.

Master Camble frowned disapprovingly. “You’ve stolen the Room of Enlightenment’s mana,” he admonished, as if Eliot had known that would happen beforehand.

Master Camble stood just in time, as one of the room’s two doors opened. A procession of monks, dressed in exactly the same white-silver garb, bowed in the cramped space of hallway just outside the room. The thing that surprised Eliot the most out of the quick series of events was the fact that nearly all the monks had lively and healthy hair of all shapes and sizes.

“Headmonk Camble, it’s only been three months, has something gone wrong with the Room of Enlightenment?” asked the forward-most monk.

“It’s gone as expected,” he assured them. “Have you done what I asked?”

“Yes, the word has spread, the Empire knows you’ve taken Eliot Reileus as your discipulus. The crown expressed their disapproval.”

Master Camble nodded with a smile. “I shall be around shortly. You may leave us.”

By his word, the monks bowed once more and filed out.

“Did he say three months? We were in there for eight and a half,” Eliot immediately addressed. “Does it slow down time, or am I missing something here?”

“Yes, as the Room of Enlightenment is nearly separate of our plane, it experiences time much slower than we do,” Master Camble explained.

“That’s . . . That’s,” Eliot stammered, at a loss for words. “That’s just unfair.”

“However much time has passed, your training has only just begun. I expect you to be present at first light six of the seven days,” Master Camble demanded. “As you’ve drained the Room of Enlightenment, we must begin your training in the early morning.”

Eliot ignored the excessively stringent orders and said, “There’s something that I don’t understand. Everything I’ve read about Manaemundas says that there are proven ways to refine mana. Lex Ruptor doesn’t follow any of them and yet it increased my mana quality by leaps and bounds. How is that possible?”

“There is always more than one path to reach the same destination. Both are correct,” Master Camble explained.

“I get that much,” Eliot continued, “What I don’t get is exactly how Lex Ruptor increases the quality of mana. What does making a hot rock of mana revolve around my soul have to do with increasing the purity of my mana?”

“True knowledge isn’t simply told, it is learned and understood.”

Eliot rolled his eyes in annoyance. “Is there anything you can say to, I don’t know, guide me?”

“The answer to your questions will not be found in any books. You must look to the stars and receive inspiration from the universe itself.”

Irritated he didn’t get any actual answers to his burning question, he turned and opened a portal. “Kuso-jiji,” he muttered under his breath in Dan as he jumped through.

“Kuso-gaki,” Master Camble chuckled after the portal finished closing. Eliot was more similar to Karl Favesh than anyone else would ever know. Many would underestimate him, too. They would confuse Eliot’s late start as a lack of talent. In reality, Eliot’s raw talents in magic and cultivation far eclipsed Karl’s. But that was to be expected. Karl was only human, after all.

Henry

Word of Master Camble’s new Discipulus spread throughout Everveil like wildfire. In less than a day, all of Everveil's powers were utterly shocked and, in some cases, outraged. Eliot Reileus was already Karl Favesh’s Discipulus, no one in history had the privilege of discipling under two people of such great power and knowledge. Then, there was the travesty that become of Master Camble’s last choice. The Emperor of Death was still fresh in the psyche of everyone in the Empire. While everyone was respectful and fearful of the man, they wouldn’t just forget his mistakes. If Eliot was to follow in Kangen Dellam’s footsteps, as the Discipulus of both Karl Favesh and Master Camble, the Empire would face a cataclysm worse than ever seen before.

Master Camble’s return should have been a jubilant affair. After the news of Karl Favesh’s disappearance, Master Camble ventured on a journey to find him. Since Karl Favesh was confirmed to have passed on, many were anticipating the return of the Empire’s strongest protector. Instead, they were given fear and apprehension. To make matters worse, it seemed he disappeared again. It was like he fell off the face of the earth, along with Eliot.

Once everything sunk in, Henry couldn’t help but laugh at himself. With Eliot, life was just easier. Penelope found Eliot’s empathy to be unnerving, but to Henry it was everything he ever wanted in a friend. They could go days without talking; talking was simply unnecessary, they hardly had to communicate to understand what the other was thinking. When they did talk, it was always something interesting or eye-opening or important. Although Henry was technically a more experienced mage, Eliot’s take on even simple concepts opened him to new perspectives. And when Eliot explained things, it was tailored so that he could immediately understand. What more, it was obvious he made Penelope happier. And through their friendship, he and Penlope’s relationship improved as well. While Henry and Penelope had once been good friends in the distant past, they’d grown more and more apart over time. As she was quite literally his only friend, he’d wanted to reach out to get back in touch, but just couldn’t figure out how.

Eliot had dropped into his life and effortlessly made it better than he ever could alone. He knew it was wishful, but he hoped it would last. While Eliot was technically Karl Favesh’s Discupulus and wielded the portal spell, in reality, aside from that single spell, Karl Favesh had taught and left him nothing. Under such circumstances, while Eliot was a genius, he would still be within reasonable limits. Provided all things went well, Eliot would stay in the Crucible Empire and become a figure like Karl Favesh or Celeste Chantell. Henry had even thought he expressed some interest in being an advisor. While Henry wasn’t presumptuous enough to ever ask something like that, if Eliot offered he would jump at the chance to have him by his side as he inherited the crown.

Now, it was painfully obvious none of that would happen. He was an idiot for even considering the idea. Now that Eliot would receive actual training from Master Camble of all people, it was clear the role of advisor to a pathetic king like him was too little for Eliot. In all likelihood, the Crucible Empire itself won’t be enough. While he was never given instruction from Karl Favesh, it was pretty much indisputable that they were cut from the same cloth. Given he had enough time to reach his potential, since Karl Favesh passed on prematurely, it was guaranteed Eliot would become an even stronger archmage. With Master Camble’s instruction on top of that, Eliot was destined to become a powerhouse like the world had never seen before.

Penelope was similarly shocked when she heard the news, but not about the matter itself, just that it had happened sooner than she thought. According to her, back when the practice of taking Discipuli first formed, there were a great many rules and expectations attached that had mostly faded with time. If a master were to take a Discipulus and perish, then the responsibility of guidance would fall to their next of kin or closest companions. Although Master Camble and Karl Favesh were born in vastly different times, it was said that Karl Favesh had an ageless wisdom to him. A wisdom that could only be matched by Master Camble himself; they become very close, despite their differences. To anyone that was paying attention, it was obvious that Master Camble, as old as he was, would adhere to the tradition. Penelope’s explanation only cemented Henry’s shortcoming in his mind. Everyone but him could see the writing on the wall all along.

The days without Eliot stretched by one at a time. Penelope didn’t visit as often. As much as he tried, their conversations were awkward and short lived, just like they were before. He tried focusing on magic and study, but more than being a good friend, Eliot was an amazing distraction. With him gone, Henry was alone with his thoughts once more.

Every time he closed his eyes, he was back in that room, on top of Diana Ilva’s corpse. He was trapped in that moment after her heart stopped. Her empty eyes, wide and hateful. Judging him from beyond the veil. And he could see himself, too. Looking down at her, dim and removed. As a ruler should be as they reaped the lives of those that trusted them. All the while, a chorus of angry angels screamed. You are no different.

Henry agreed. He stayed in that space as much as he could. He did everything possible to prolong it. But even that faded away with time. Diane Ilva’s life, forever smothered, was but a temporary wound in the face of his wickedness. Now, the more he tried to search for grief, the more he felt what he said to his friends was true. He wouldn’t hesitate to do it again. And the next time, it would be easier.

Eventually, he got used to it all. As dreary as his days were, it didn't take long for it to become the new normal. Now that he’d disabused himself of the notion that his time with Eliot and Penelope would last, he was able to reconfigure his expectations for the future. Right now he needed to enjoy his time with friends while it lasted and make the best of any altercations with the Serpentine BrotherHood to garner practical experience.

Soon enough, everything would go back to the way it was before. Or so he thought. It seemed the Fates weren’t through with him just yet. While everything else in this period of his life would probably be temporary, he’d stumbled upon one thing that would stay with him forever: the Rod of Fire. The first time he’d tried to use it, when trying to escape from the BrotherHood’s ambush, it hadn’t worked. From his observations of the way Diane Ilva used it, there was no spiritual stirring going on whatsoever. She hadn’t been mana sensitive, either, meaning when she used the rod, she simply thrust it forward and it spewed flames seemingly on its own. It wasn’t until after, when he stepped foot into the arena with Eliot, that some of its functions spontaneously revealed themselves to him. Since then, just holding the rod gave him a myriad of benefits having to do with heat. He still didn’t know how it all worked or why it started when it did. All of its features came to him like second nature. Simply intending for the rod to spew flames caused it to spew flames just as he wanted. There was no mana or any cost at all involved. It just worked.

At first, he thought he’d been blessed by good fortune. The more time went on, however, the stronger the rod’s abilities grew. Just being near it caused more and more of its functions to present themselves, at a faster and faster rate. Before long, the rod seemed to gain a rudimentary sentience. Along with it came a burning desire, a hunger to be used. He started to use it without even noticing. To reheat his meals, cool down his water, warm himself during cold nights.

Then came the dreams. He dreamt of all consuming, scorching flames, only kept in check by eternal, bitter cold. Henry already had trouble sleeping, and before long he began to jolt awake in the middle of the night, lighting various parts of his dorm on fire and freezing others.

Three months flashed by with no change in sight. The Day of Life, with all its cheer and festivals, passed as it always did. It was a shame Eliot couldn’t see Everveil at arguably its greatest time of year. Nearly a week into the new year, late in the day after Penelope stopped by and they talked some, Henry sat leaning on the windowsill with one of his legs dangling out in the fresh air. From so high up, he could see the entire west side of the academy, still covered in a thin layer of melting snow. He marveled at the beauty of the budding trees and sprawling fields shining under the specular light of the full moon. For a long while, he forgot himself, all the worries of the past months and challenges of the future left him.

When he came back to himself, all his worries flooded his mind one after the other and the Rod of Fire’s deep urging gnawed at his will. Except, each blow felt softened. The longer he ruminated, the more grounded he felt. It wasn’t the end of the world, he would get through these things. The Rod of Fire seemed to agree with him. Though it still longed to burn and freeze, it didn’t feel as urgent. A small sense of satisfaction and anticipation began to rise within it. Somehow, it knew that Henry intended to use it soon.

Eventually, he drew the window closed and went back to bed. The only reason he was up so late was because he was finding it impossible to sleep. His newfound relaxation didn’t do much against the insomnia, but it did help him make up his mind. He dug through his chest, rearranging things until he had a clear view of its bottom, where he opened a hidden compartment. He grabbed the only thing inside, a small bottle of dimly glowing black liquid. He unscrewed the top that also functioned as a pipette. With a deep breath, he squeezed one drop in each eye. Immediately his body shivered with pleasure. Although he managed to lean off of it, his body would never be able to forget it entirely. He knew that when he first started using it, he knew that now—and just like back then he knew he needed sleep, no matter the consequences. A mere moment after the pleasure, an unrelenting drowsiness overtook him. As fast as he could, he made sure the bottle was closed and fixed everything back the way it was. Heaving himself to his feet and lurching for his bed already took every ounce of willpower he could muster. In just a few seconds after application, Henry flopped on his bed and fell into a deep, deep slumber.