[3 Days Ago]

CRAAAAAASH! CRACKLE! RUMBLE…! CRACKLE–CRACKLE!

“I can’t… do this… why is this so hard…? I’m on my limit…!”

Three days ago, on the military training grounds near Edensor Palace, the aftermath of a mechanical massacre painted a grim picture.

Battle mech armors and guard mechs lay scattered like the discarded toys of a giant, dented and scrapped, their metal carcasses smoldering under the indifferent sky.

Amidst this chaos of twisted steel and black smoke, 12-year-old King Yvain was sprawled on the earth, his chest heaving in ragged breaths. He had single-handedly turned these towering behemoths into an exhibition of modern art titled "Defeat."

Standing a mere few paces away was Emperor Burn, his face twisted not with concern, but with a distinct, unimpressed sneer.

"Is this all you've got? Pathetic," he declared, his voice dripping with sarcasm so thick it could be used to grease the gears of the fallen mechs.

“Is this the rumored ‘Little Merlin’? The sole disciple of the great Infinity Witch, Morgan Le Fay?”

His words hung in the air, an added pollution that was somehow more toxic than the plumes rising from the smoldering machines.

Yvain, with the stubbornness of a weary yet defiant child, tried to push himself up, his arms shaking not just from the exertion but from the raw irritation of being so belittled.

“Shut up…!”

Here he was, having danced a deadly ballet with machines of war, and all Burn could do was offer critique as if he were judging a poorly rehearsed play.

Burn, ever the tactician, saw this not just as a battle fought but as a lesson in humility—or humiliation, depending on which side of his sarcasm one was standing.

To him, every dent in the mechs was a missed opportunity, every scrape a tale of inefficiency that Yvain had yet to learn to correct.

In Burn’s eyes, the battlefield was not just a test of strength but a forge for the spirit; and from the looks of it, Yvain’s spirit was still very much in need of some hammering.

“I’m not a monster like you! I’ve only been studying magic for... e-eight years!” Yvain yelled, his voice cracking under the strain of exhaustion and indignation.

Burn raised an eyebrow, skepticism written all over his face. "Eight years, huh? But wasn’t your tutelage under Morgan Le Fay cut short at four years, at most? Two years before you ascended to kingship, and two years before her disappearance?"

Yvain bristled, drawing himself up with all the dignity a winded twelve-year-old could muster.

“My time with the master was brief, true, but learning didn’t stop when she left. She entrusted me with her books, her research, even her margin notes—all the tools to fend for myself,” he retorted, his voice tinged with a mix of pride and sorrow.

The young king's eyes then took on a faraway look, his sudden loneliness painting a stark contrast to his words of self-sufficiency.

“Have you not learned your family’s force magic?” Burn asked.

Yvain raised his face, surprised.

“T-that… ugh… I-I…” Yvain couldn’t answer that.

In Nethermere, magic was not just a tool but a profound dichotomy of existential philosophies, neatly divided into Vision and Force.

Stolen story; please report.

Vision, the darling of the magical elite, was as much an art as it was a power. It was the manifestation of Mana into shapes, elements, and even whimsical concepts—like trying to sculpt fog into fine art.

This magic was intimately linked to the mage's soul that was granted directly by God to each and every creation, but there was a catch. Not everyone would be able to become part of this rare breed.

Only few could awaken and dive deep into the soul's murky waters, wrestle with destiny, and align it with personal goals and growth through years and years of research and meditation.

Vision was not for the faint of heart; its users often yearned for death, not out of a morbid fascination but as a means to escape their mortal shackles.

They believed that dying would spring them into a state of pure enlightenment, achieving immortality in its pure perfection.

On the flip side, Force was the manual worker of magical types. Unpretentious and robust, it dealt with the enhancement of the physical or, as the philosophers liked to say, the "mortal, tangible self."

Force users earned their power through sweat, blood, and the occasional tears. These mages were the gym rats of their world, training their bodies to the brink of impossibility.

They sought not to ascend to some higher existential plane but to hammer down, building their self-made destinies like a do-it-yourself furniture project without the instructions.

Their magic came by force—pun gloriously intended—pushing physical limits until they could bend Mana to reinforce their bodies and extend their lifespans.

Some even achieved immortality through sheer willpower and stubbornness, proving that sometimes, the body could be just as stubborn as the spirit.

Thus, while Vision users flirted with existential crises and afterlife ambitions, Force users kept their feet—and their hopes—firmly planted on the ground.

In this mystical world, where most folks were happy to get either their souls or bodies into magical shape, there were some real overachievers—or as the local taverns whispered over their third round of ale, “the crazy bastards.”

These rare individuals weren’t content with mastering just Vision or Force; no, they had to go for the magical equivalent of a double major in existential powerlifting and metaphysical marathon running.

Achieving enlightenment in both Vision and Force was like trying to bake a soufflé during an earthquake. Nearly impossible, and honestly, a bit of a show-off move.

Yet, history—ever the drama queen—had recorded not one, but two such luminaries.

First, there was the Dragon from the East, an enigmatic creature who presumably had nothing better to do after a few millennia.

This dragon managed to combine the introspective soul-searching of Vision with the brute physicality of Force, probably because it got bored of terrorizing locals and hoarding gold.

Then, there was the Vampire from the West, who had all the time in the night to ponder over existential dilemmas while also hitting the supernatural gym.

This vampire had mastered both arts, which was a handy party trick and a useful way to one-up any rival at those endless undead banquets.

Practicing both Vision and Force was common enough—like dabbling in both painting and sculpture, except with more potential for self-destruction.

But achieving enlightenment in both simultaneously? That was a different kettle of fish.

It required balancing the serene, soulful dive into Vision with the grueling, sweat-drenched climb of Force. It was a spiritual biathlon that demanded you meditate like a monk and lift like a blacksmith.

In the end, those who walked both paths were the ones truly living on the edge—because when you play the game of souls and sinews, you win or you... well, you turn into a very enlightened pile of magical dust.

Moderation was key, though. While practicing for Force, one must try to also practice a little bit of Vision to strengthen the mind soul. That, and vice versa.

“You chose the path of Vision like Morgan Le Fay, but you know you must also practice your Force to paintain your physical strength and stamina, right?” Burn asked.

“That’s… not it,” Yvain sighed. “My father… I was too small… He hadn’t had the chance to train me with Edensor Force Art…”

Yvain grimaced. His father had intended to train him, but he had shown a keen interest in Vision from an early age. At just four years old, he was so captivated by Vision that his father decided to postpone his training in Force.

Unfortunately, his father passed away before he could revisit this decision.

“Then, should I teach you?” Burn offered.

“Your force? I-is that okay? Isn’t that supposed to be Soulnaught’s Royal Family’s Force Art?” Yvain asked.

“My force art is not compatible with your style. Why not learn your own Edensor Force Art?” Burn shrugged, explained.

Yvain furrowed his brows. A suspicion rose. “How did you know about my family’s Force?”

Burn noticed the uncertainty flicker in the young boy's eyes and a sly grin spread across his face, detecting the implication behind Yvain's question.

"What's the matter? You think I had a hand in your father's death?"