Only three days had passed since Kael’s breakthrough.

  But his schedule had hardly changed—the same training, the same short visits to the Academy. The only difference was that he had finally begun to study the Path of Silent Pillar.

  In those three days, Kael had already told his father and sister about his “miraculous recovery.” He gathered them at the table in the evening, demonstrated how he could control mana, and demanded an oath of silence. His father didn’t really understand what was happening but wisely decided not to ask unnecessary questions.

  With his sister, things went faster and harsher. Kris had gasped at first, then a sly gleam lit her eyes, as if she were already thinking whom she might tell. But Kael immediately quelled her with a threat: “If you tell anyone—I swear I won’t help you in the future. And I’m a potential Magister, you know, which means I’ll be rich.”

  The threat worked instantly: Kris went pale, then gave an awkward laugh and solemnly promised silence—as if signing a contract in her mind.

  That, perhaps, was the most reliable motivator—and he saw it in her eyes. The silence around his little secret solidified, and the house returned to its usual quiet order.

  In those same three days, Kael had also paid a visit to his favorite merchant—that same crook from the market who had already become something like a regular business partner.

  At a “special discount,” as the merchant called it, Kael ordered a batch of herbs and powders—mostly for practicing potion-brewing. But what interested him most was a special alchemy cauldron, capable of withstanding mana and transforming it into heat and cold.

  And, of course, Kael hadn’t forgotten his promise to poor Lissandra. So he ordered several more sheets of special parchment and ink made from a blend of beast blood and mana ore.

  ? ? ?

  The sun had only just risen over the horizon when Kael was already out to train. But now he had moved his training elsewhere—he needed specific conditions.

  He was now in a small training room—one of those that could be rented for a few days for just a couple of bronze coins. The space was simple but well-kept: a springy wooden floor, several racks of training weapons, a pair of mannequins by the wall, strike boards, and targets scorched with traces of mana.

  He stood on a tall ladder that reached almost to the ceiling, fussing with a rope he was tying to a beam. On the other end of the rope hung a core—a weighted sphere.

  His fingers moved quickly and confidently, tightening the knot. Kael tugged the rope to test its strength, then nodded in satisfaction and muttered:

  “There… that should hold.”

  He began to climb down carefully, feeling the rungs creak treacherously beneath his feet. The ladder wobbled with every shift of weight, and Kael tried not to tip it over.

  Once he’d stowed the ladder in the corner, Kael stood facing the suspended core, which now hung level with his chest.

  He narrowed his eyes, as if mentally calculating how hard it might hit him, and murmured:

  “Even though I practiced a little at home, working with a heavy moving object will be a lot harder.”

  He took a step back, setting his right foot slightly behind the left, bending his knees a little—his stance became stable, his center of gravity lowered.

  “The main thing now is to grasp the fundamental principle of the Path of Silent Pillar,” he said aloud, mostly to himself. “It’s still too early to explore the other aspects.”

  With that, Kael placed his palm on the core and pushed it forward with force. It swung in an arc, the rope tightening, then, like a pendulum, began to swing back toward him.

  Kael’s amber eyes narrowed, and his body tensed. A faint gray mist traced across his skin—a manifestation of his mana.

  He froze, waiting—ready to replicate what he had already learned at home. The Mana Core around his heart was already preparing to release waves of mana.

  The sphere was coming fast, the rising whistle slicing through the air, and Kael, without blinking, raised his palm to meet it.

  “Now!” he cried out in his mind.

  Snap!

  A light burst of mana shot from his palm; another echoed through his feet—an impulse meant to cancel the sphere’s momentum. For an instant, Kael thought it had worked—the ball seemed to slow…

  But a fraction of a second later came a dull impact.

  THUD!

  The inertia sent Kael flying backward. He hit the floor hard, grimacing as a sharp pain shot through his back. The sphere, meanwhile, swung away undisturbed, tracing an arc through the air and continuing to sway—as if mocking him.

  “Tch…” Kael exhaled, wincing as he looked at his palm. “Seems I overestimated myself. Everything I practiced at home… was useless.”

  He couldn’t decide what to rub first—his aching hand or his sore backside. Lifting his gaze to the sphere, Kael frowned and, drawing on his flawless memory, mentally replayed the moment of impact.

  In his mind, the scene unfolded in slow motion—the movement of his hand, the wave of mana rolling from heart to palm and feet, the instant of collision.

  Narrowing his eyes with annoyance, he muttered:

  “I released the mana too early… and the burst was too weak.”

  Thinking about it, Kael focused again, channeling mana into his palm.

  But this time, things didn’t go the same way. Instead of creating a sharp burst, the energy began to seep along the edges of his hand, as if pulling inward. The current twisted, forming a faint vortex of attraction—as though his palm itself were trying to pull the space around it.

  Kael watched the phenomenon closely, not interrupting the flow.

  “I need to achieve perfect impact absorption,” he murmured. “Then the second step—redirecting the force sideways through attraction…”

  He frowned, feeling a prickling sensation still running through his palm.

  “Even simple absorption still gives me trouble,” he added quietly.

  Looking up, Kael fixed his gaze on the sphere, still swinging evenly on its rope.

  “Maybe I should hang a smaller core?” he said aloud, studying the pendulum. “But then its impact will be weaker than my peers’ strikes…”

  He exhaled heavily, watching the gray trace of mana still sliding down his hand.

  “So what should I do?” he muttered, feeling his mind drift away from the rhythm of training.

  Kael froze for a moment, eyes closed, as if pushing away stray thoughts. Then he shook his head sharply, stood, and muttered with a hint of self-reproach:

  “Sometimes I think too much… I should at least make a hundred attempts first—then start analyzing. If it still doesn’t work, I’ll hang a lighter core.”

  With those words, he caught the right moment and lunged forward again, ready to meet the returning sphere. His palms and soles flared with the familiar gray mist—he steadied his breathing, preparing for the next round.

  “This time, I won’t lose to you, damn core!” he thought with a daring grin.

  And at that moment, the sphere struck his palm again. There was a snap of mana, and—

  THUD!

  Kael was thrown backward at once, landing even harder on his backside.

  “Damn it! That one was even worse!” he swore immediately.

  This time, he didn’t waste a second on reflection—he simply stood up, brushed the dust from his pants, and stepped calmly back to the center of the room. There was no confidence or panic in his voice—only the calm focus of a researcher.

  “Alright,” he said under his breath. “Minimum plan—one hundred tries. Only then will I start thinking things through.”

  ? ? ?

  Time flowed slowly forward, one attempt following another.

  The core swung rhythmically on its rope, and the strikes and mana bursts had already become a natural part of the room’s rhythm. Each time—a flash, a dull THUD!, and the sound of another fall.

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  Kael kept bruising his hands and backside over and over, pausing no longer than a couple of breaths between attempts.

  By now, he looked completely different. Sweat streamed down his back and chest, his hair clinging to his skin. He wore only his trousers—his shirt had long been tossed aside.

  Both his hands were red, his wrists ached, and his fingers trembled slightly—he was clearly alternating hands just to spare his joints a little.

  Sitting down on the floor, he exhaled noisily, struggling to steady his breathing.

  “Sixty-eighth attempt…” he rasped, staring at the damned core.

  Kael gave a crooked grin and snorted:

  “I’ve almost burned through all my mana. I won’t make it to a hundred,” he said, gasping for air.

  Despite the pain, his voice carried no despair—only quiet anger and stubborn resolve.

  Trying to catch his breath, Kael lowered his gaze to his body—and for the first time noticed the changes.

  His chest rose and fell evenly, the muscles in his arms no longer looked as thin as before. His skin glistened with sweat, veins stood out faintly on his forearms. He smiled and slapped his chest lightly.

  “My body’s starting to change…” he exhaled with quiet satisfaction. “Better nutrition, constant training, mana flowing inside… it’s finally taking effect.”

  He ran a hand over his stomach—the muscles beneath his skin had grown firmer, even his breathing felt deeper, fuller.

  Of course, he still didn’t look imposing—neither the strength nor the bulk of the senior students—but his thin frame was slowly giving way to definition, his body to real strength.

  “If I keep this pace and combine it with body training through the Path of Silent Pillar…” he muttered, “then within a year, maybe sooner, I’ll have my body tempered to form.”

  With that, Kael pushed himself up, groaning quietly as he forced through the fatigue and rose to his feet.

  He closed his eyes—and at that instant, dozens of images came alive in his mind.

  One after another, all his previous attempts flared up: sixty-eight failed motions, each with minute differences in speed, stance, angle of the palm, or mana release. They overlapped like translucent layers, the image flickering, trembling, losing form.

  But there, at the center of that chaos, Kael suddenly saw it—an almost perfect movement. A movement where everything aligned: breath, impulse, balance.

  His eyes snapped open. Resolve flashed in his amber eyes.

  “Today I have to neutralize at least one strike,” he said with a grin, as if challenging himself. “I have to make it perfect.”

  He exhaled, brushed the wet strands of hair from his face, and took his stance, centering his breathing.

  He stepped forward and pushed the core.

  The pendulum swung into motion, and in that moment, time seemed to slow for Kael.

  His concentration reached its limit—every muscle in his body froze, waiting for a single signal. In his mind, that “almost perfect image” blazed—the mental projection where all his past attempts converged into one.

  The sphere swung back along its arc, cutting through the air with a sharp hiss. Shhhv!

  Kael’s palm moved forward—smoothly, yet along a precisely measured path. The Mana Core in his chest pulsed, a wave of energy rippling through his whole body, gathering in every joint—most of all in his hands and feet.

  “Now!” he barked aloud.

  At the very instant the core nearly touched his hand, a sharp crack rang out.

  PAM!

  Kael was sure he would be thrown back again—but suddenly, the sphere seemed to freeze in the air.

  For a heartbeat, everything fell silent—no sound, no movement. The core hung before his palm as if it had met an equal and opposite force.

  Kael’s heart stopped. He could feel the energy flowing from his palm, dissipating the inertia.

  The core settled softly into his hand, no rebound, only the weight pressing against his skin—no longer attacking, only seeking balance.

  Unconsciously taking a step back, he calmly let go of it, watching as it hovered quietly above the floor.

  And the moment Kael realized it—that the impact had been absorbed, that it had truly worked—he jumped on the spot and shouted:

  “It worked! Ha-ha-ha! I did it!”

  Pure, almost childlike joy flooded him. He laughed, spinning in place with clenched fists, as if he’d forgotten everything else. In that moment, he really did look like an ordinary teenager—not someone who had lived through countless years.

  But in truth, all these emotions were new to him. The breakthrough to Core Mage, this successful strike—they were his first real victories in training. What he had dreamed of for centuries—and so he allowed himself the luxury of such simple, vivid emotions.

  Buoyed by success, confidence surged through him at once.

  “Come on, you damned piece of iron!” he shouted with a grin, giving the pendulum an even harder push. “You’re not knocking me down again!”

  The core swung and came at him once more. Kael focused, replaying the perfect movement in his mind—and executed it flawlessly.

  PAM! The sound rang out again.

  But this time the glow on his palm was weaker, the mana burst uneven—and Kael instantly realized his reserves were spent.

  “Damn it…”

  BAM!—the core slammed into him with a crash, sending him into a short but spectacular flight straight onto his backside.

  Gritting his teeth, Kael groaned softly, awkwardly rolling onto his side and rubbing his bruised rear. Wincing as he got up, he muttered with a crooked grin:

  “Ow… Guess that’s enough for today…”

  Though his body was sore and covered in bruises, a satisfied, defiant smile was already spreading across his face. In his amber eyes gleamed that same light—the spark of a researcher tasting his first victory.

  “I can’t wait for tomorrow’s training…” he said eagerly, replaying that perfect strike over and over in his mind. “If I can solidify it, I’ll start learning attraction next!”

  He picked up his shirt from the floor, shook it out, slung it over his shoulder, and headed for the door. In the corridor outside was a row of washbasins—a common area where one could wash off the sweat, clean up, and look at least somewhat presentable.

  Smiling to himself, Kael walked along the wooden floor, feeling a deep sense of satisfaction.

  ? ? ?

  And at that very moment, while Kael was calmly training and Lasthold lived its measured, almost tranquil life, far beyond the mountains—past massive, impassable ranges—events of an entirely different order were unfolding.

  In a vast hall of white marble, where crimson banners embroidered with dragons swayed solemnly under the high ceiling, a tense silence reigned. At the center, upon a raised dais, stood a massive throne carved from red stone. Upon it sat a man of about forty, his long bright-red hair tied carelessly into a loose knot.

  Across his face, cutting over his right eye, ran a jagged scar that made his expression even harsher. And his left eye… burned with a deep crimson glow, its pupil elongated and predatory, like that of a reptile.

  He sat leaning on the throne’s armrest, fingers slowly drumming on the stone, his gaze fixed downward—on three men kneeling before him.

  The silence lasted too long. Then his lips parted, and a deep, heavy voice rolled through the hall:

  “Two of you have already disappointed me…”

  All three men flinched at once; their heads bowed lower, their breathing quickened.

  “But…” he turned his gaze to the one kneeling in the middle. “Perhaps you will please me, Cornelius?”

  The red eye flared, and the air in the hall seemed to thicken, as though his very will pressed upon the space.

  Cornelius—the gray-haired old man in a heavy crimson robe embroidered with gold—slowly raised his head. His eyes were the same as those of the man on the throne: red, with narrow, slit pupils like a reptile’s. He looked as if each word cost him effort.

  “Your Highness…” his voice trembled, though he forced it steady. “My research… has yielded nothing so far.”

  He faltered, as if afraid to continue.

  But the man on the throne barked instantly:

  “Speak!” At that single word, the air in the hall seemed to shudder.

  The old man flinched, drawing back slightly, a hand pressed to his chest.

  “Until now, the Central Dragon Mountains had prevented us from exploring the lost lands to the east…” he forced out, hastily choosing his words. “But it’s possible we’ve discovered a safe route. A small expedition might be able to pass through it…”

  He trailed off, still not daring to lift his gaze. Heavy silence filled the hall, broken only by the echo of his last words.

  It seemed the tension in the hall eased—if only slightly. The man on the throne leaned back, his fingers drumming against the armrest, and for the first time, a shadow of satisfaction flickered across his face.

  “Good…” he said slowly, almost lazily, yet his tone carried authority that brooked no dissent. “The God of Blood and War desires that we seize control of the entire Human Dimension. Half measures do not satisfy Him.”

  At those words, the three elders visibly trembled. Cornelius lowered his head even further, but after a moment’s hesitation, he gathered his courage and whispered:

  “Your Highness… has the God… spoken to you again?”

  In response, the man let out a proud, derisive snort; his gaze turned colder than steel.

  “Have you forgotten your place, Cornelius?” His voice was low, threatening. “Do not meddle in the affairs of Gods and their Shards.”

  He leaned forward, and his red eye flashed like molten ember. For several moments he simply stared at the old man, as though deciding whether he deserved punishment. Then his lips curved into a thin, barely perceptible smile.

  “All you need to know,” he said, his tone calmer now, “is that if we expand our influence over the Human Dimension, He will grant us greater knowledge.”

  He paused, his voice dropping lower:

  “Soon, I will depart for the southern front. When I return, I expect good news waiting for me. Do not disappoint me again…”

  All three subordinates bowed their heads at once, their foreheads touching the cold marble floor. The air trembled with the weight of their stifled fear.

  Cornelius slowly lifted his gaze, daring to speak first. His voice was respectful and cautious, each word chosen with care:

  “The research into the path through the Central Dragon Mountains may take a year… perhaps a little less,” he said. “Once a safe route is confirmed, we can begin exploring the lost lands.”

  He paused briefly, then added with reverence:

  “It seems the God of Blood and War has blessed us. Most likely, Your Highness, your absence will last about the same.”

  The man on the throne gave only a faint nod. A flicker of approval passed through his gaze, but also fatigue—as though the discussion had lost its appeal. Slowly, he lifted his hand and waved them off with a short, dismissive motion.

  “Very well. You are dismissed.”

  The three figures rose almost in unison and, without lifting their eyes, backed toward the exit. A moment later, the great doors slammed shut, and silence reclaimed the hall.

  The man on the throne remained still for several more seconds. Then he straightened slowly, and a predatory, near-mad gleam ignited in his single eye.

  He exhaled softly—but the breath carried more fury than calm.

  “I will not allow anyone to trespass upon the Master’s domain…” he said darkly, almost to himself. “Not even other Gods or their wretched servants.”

  He gripped the armrests of his throne, and the stone beneath his fingers cracked faintly.

  “When I unite all humankind and every one of our resources…” he went on, his voice low and thick with conviction, “rivers of blood and war will at last descend upon the beasts… khe-heh…”

  He gave a quiet, rasping chuckle—the sound echoing through the empty hall. His red eye flared brighter, reflecting a fire not his own—a flame kindled by another, one who watched the mortal world through his gaze.