Tars was not intimidated by the enthusiastic recorder's warnings.

  It had to be said that learning a spell with high compatibility was an incredibly smooth experience. It felt as though his mind had been unlocked; every concept and insight snapped into place with perfect precision. It was like transforming overnight from a dullard into a scholar—from a Big-Dumb-Humper into an Aiskin.

  When the difficult and obscure becomes effortless, it turns into a luxury. Tars was reveling in it now, watching riddles unravel before him as every step felt natural, spontaneous, and entirely within his control.

  He set the book down, humming a tune as he topped off the pits for the three transforming creatures with a bit more dragon blood. Normally, a single cup would be enough to change a kobold. This "immersion" method was extravagant, destined to create Dragon-Vein kobolds far stronger than the norm, with a much higher concentration of draconic essence. As for the success rate, there was no reason to even worry about it.

  After a moment of thought, he put away his book and stepped out of the space.

  Finally having a moment to breathe, he noticed his spatial bedroom looked a bit bleak. He wanted to transplant some vegetation to see if it could survive inside. His first thought was that specific tree, and he acted on it immediately. Bolstered by his spells, he dashed out of the settlement's cave and sprinted toward the resting place of the wingless variant dragon, following the path he had once taken with Aiskin.

  While the black fruit was no longer useful to him, he looked at the soil in his space—already saturated with dragon blood from the earlier spill—and thought that planting the tree there might make the fruit even more potent. He could give them to other kobolds or feed them to his familiar as snacks.

  He sprinted at a breakneck pace. When he saw the tree again, it was still stubbornly clinging to life. Though a large amount of soil had been excavated around it previously, the impact was minor; its roots continued to push outward in a desperate bid for survival. Today, however, they would face a pruning they hadn't expected.

  Following the marks he had left last time, Tars dug deeper, further reducing the "island" around the tree. The Bedroom Space functioned as a storage area rather than a direct "cut-and-paste" tool, so he still had to clear the perimeter manually. The overgrown branches were a nuisance; despite being laden with fruit, he ruthlessly trimmed them back.

  After much effort, the mangled fruit tree was finally hauled into the Abyssal Bedroom and planted where the soil was thickest. It would clearly need more earth to sustain its future growth, but he hoped the blood-soaked soil would keep it alive for now. He also experimented by transplanting a few small mushrooms and tucking them in beside the tree.

  On his way back, he stopped whenever a spot caught his eye, collecting massive amounts of soil and rock. He would work until his mental energy was spent, recover, and continue. The topography on one side of his spatial bedroom shifted constantly as he moved the blood-stained earth toward the tree.

  In the process, he inadvertently collected several fat meat-maggots. After his experience in the castle, he still held a great deal of affection for these grubs—as the saying goes, it's better to have them and not need them. He traveled in fits and starts, occasionally popping into his space, where he could still hear Big-Dumb-Humper's heavy snoring.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  Returning to his three-walled bedroom, he lay down in his familiar spot to begin another round of meditation. He had realized something on the road: if he stayed hidden in his space indefinitely, the half-man would never be able to find him.

  In the newly revealed pages of the Black Book, the number of meditation runes had doubled again. There were twelve more complex runes to master. Just like his previous advancement, the construction of the third Sigil would require twenty-four runes—twelve new and twelve old—to coalesce. He realized the difficulty of meditation had shifted; it was no longer just about mastering new symbols, but about the stamina required to construct twenty-four distinct runes in a single, rapid, and stable sequence.

  He slowly opened his eyes and exhaled deeply. Twenty-four runes. Third-level wizard apprentice. He was confident he could reach it without much delay, but he dared not think too far beyond that; the answers were already floating at the back of his mind.

  A steady, unhurried set of footsteps approached from the left. He sprang to his feet.

  Is it the half-man? He felt a spark of excitement. Yet, despite his enthusiasm, he moved stealthily to the corner of the opposite tunnel, pressing himself against the wall.

  The remaining spells he had yet to master were Seed-Ear, Script, and Demonic Body. He lacked a scouting spell; Seed-Ear could make mushrooms or plants temporarily sprout "ears" to relay sound to the caster, making it a legitimate reconnaissance tool, though it wasn't as direct as visual sight.

  "Little kobold, are you still here?" A figure in a wizard's robe and pointed ears emerged from the tunnel.

  It was the Dark Elf wizard apprentice who had pestered him several times before. Tars's heart skipped a beat—it definitely wasn't the half-man.

  He weighed his options and decided not to reveal himself. He took two quiet steps back and waved his hand to open the spatial door. Wouldn't it be better to just lounge on my stone bed and read Demonic Body? he thought. He was close to mastering it.

  But as he raised his foot, he hesitated. He remembered the look of contentment on Old Golden-Tooth's face as he watched the roasting meat—that satisfaction with a simple life. At the time, Tars had felt a different sensation. Now, in his role as a wizard apprentice, he realized he was just another Old Golden-Tooth, and these spellbooks were his "roasted meat." When Old Golden-Tooth had cheerfully mentioned the war between the Red-Horns and the elves, happy that they were too busy to bother this small corner, it mirrored Tars's current situation. Security cannot be built on external circumstances; it must be found within oneself.

  He had joked about hiding away to meditate, but once he finished Demonic Body, he would only have Script and Seed-Ear left to learn. He slowly pulled his leg back.

  If something happened to the half-man, or if he simply never returned, would his path as a wizard be cut short? Never! But in the vastness of the warrens, with tunnels leading into more tunnels, how would he find his way? It was better to use the increasing number of apprentices here to forge a new path—perhaps even try to join a proper wizard organization, like the wizard academy mentioned in Karyu’s diary. A smart kobold shouldn't put all his eggs in one basket.

  "Beautiful Elf wizard, I am here!" he called out, stepping from around the corner.

  His previous contact with this elf had been relatively positive. She hadn't flown into a rage even after he'd seen her bathing, and she had passed the test of Fetid Skin. It was worth the risk. Besides, her every movement suggested she wanted something from him.

  As he stepped out, Tars slipped into his old robe to look the part; after all, he was now a veteran of a battle between fifth-level apprentices. His sudden enthusiasm seemed to take the elf by surprise.

  "You've put on a robe. I take it you've stopped playing the part of a lowly kobold," the elf said, eyeing him.

  "Beautiful lady, you've come looking for a smelly kobold. Is there something he can do for you?" Tars asked, walking toward her.

  The elf didn't speak immediately. Instead, she circled him slowly. "You seem different," she said with certainty. "More confident."