Atticus sat on the earthen chair in complete silence, his piercing gaze sweeping across the training grounds.
His glowing purple eyes flickered rapidly from one trainee to another as they trained. Every movement, every technique, every subtle fluctuation of mana, he absorbed and memorized it all.
His intelligence had always been extraordinary, one of the things he was most certain about. But now, his mental capabilities had reached a level that defied description.
His comprehension speed was astonishing, processing complex patterns and ideas in mere moments. His thinking speed was unmatched, analyzing multiple layers of information simultaneously. His memory was flawless, storing everything he saw or learned as though engraved into his mind.
The trainees, filled with energy and hope, believed he was there to recruit. Maybe he was searching for young talents to mold into an elite force?
They couldn't have been more wrong.
To Atticus, his current subordinates were as useless as a broken sword. Considering his overwhelming power, they were far too weak to be of any real use.
So why would he add more dead weight?
He wasn't there to scout. He was there to train.
"Interesting," Atticus muttered under his breath, his gaze darting across the field.
The Ravenstein arts were impressive to most. But to Atticus, they were basic. Elemental manipulation was the foundation of the family's techniques, and with his current mastery over the elements, there was nothing they could do that he couldn't surpass.
His control over elemental arts was so refined that he could replicate their techniques effortlessly, should he wish to.
But that wasn't his goal today.
He was here to sharpen his use of Ozeroth's ability: Omnicognition.
This ability allowed him to perceive mana signatures, breaking them down into their purest forms. With enough focus, he could replicate them and use whatever ability they represented.
However, Omnicognition wasn't perfect. It demanded sharp precision, intense focus, and time. Replicating simple mana barriers at the academy had been easy. But these were techniques, more complex, layered, and dynamic.
Atticus wasn't ready to replicate them just yet. Instead, he committed every mana signature to memory. He studied every flow, every twist of energy, and every nuance, burning them into his mind.
On the training field, the youths gave everything they had, pushing themselves to their limits. They stole glances at Atticus, hoping to catch his attention.
Each one wanted to stand out, to be chosen.
But their boundless energy wasn't infinite.
Slowly, their stamina began to wane. Breaths grew heavier. Movements slowed. Some stumbled, their bodies betraying their limits.
Still, a few gritted their teeth and pushed on, refusing to give up. They thought it might be a test, a way for Atticus to see who had the greatest determination.
But Atticus remained unmoving, silent, and unbothered.
The tension on the field grew as exhaustion overtook the trainees.
And then, it happened.
Atticus stood.
The motion was simple, but it sent a ripple of shock through the crowd.
Eyes lit up. Breaths caught. Every gaze locked onto him, waiting.
Was he finally going to speak?
Was he about to choose someone?
The air was thick with anticipation.
Atticus nodded slightly. Then, without a word, he turned and walked away.
The youths froze, disbelief etched on their faces.
"What just happened?" someone whispered, their voice barely audible over the sound of labored breathing.
No one had an answer, but their shock was plain to see.
Atticus didn't look back. The sound of his footsteps faded into the distance, leaving the training grounds in silence.
He made his way back to his room, shutting the door behind him. Sitting cross-legged in the center of the room, he closed his eyes. His breathing slowed, his body relaxed as he exhaled steadily.
But the silence didn't last long.
"Impressive," Ozeroth's voice rumbled in his mind. "Watching children flail around in the dirt. Truly a display worthy of the apex of humanity." His sarcasm was impossible to miss.
Atticus's lips twitched as he suppressed a grin. "You'd prefer I waste my time fighting gods every day?"
"Perhaps. At least then you'd be challenged." A mocking chuckle followed. "But no, here you are, piecing together scraps from toddlers. How inspiring."
Atticus opened one eye, his tone dry. "Do you ever stop talking?"
"Not when there's so much mediocrity to address."
Shaking his head, Atticus ignored the spirit, closed his eye again, and refocused.
His thoughts turned to everything he had observed earlier. The Ravenstein family was built on elemental mastery, but Atticus had already determined that each technique or art carried a distinct mana signature. His goal was clear: to replicate as many mana signatures as possible and increase his replication speed.
Quick replication,that was his true aim.
He didn't want to replicate techniques over hours or days. He wanted to replicate them in real time, in the heat of battle. The moment he saw a technique, it needed to be his. No delay. No hesitation.
It was exactly what he had done during his fight with Blackgate in Sector 8. Back then, his enhanced power had made it possible. But that power was gone now, and he needed to train relentlessly to reach that level again.
The element of surprise was a weapon, a weapon he intended to master.
Delving deeper into his memory, Atticus recalled the mana signatures he had observed. His own mana stirred within him, moving to mimic what he had seen.
Each signature was intricate, like a maze with countless pathways. This complexity was what made replication difficult and time-consuming.
He focused on one. The work was slow. Each twist and turn required precision and patience. A single wrong flow of mana could cause the replication to fail, or worse, backfire. Fortunately, the backlashes weren't severe.
Hours passed as Atticus remained focused, unraveling one signature after another. The process was exhausting, mentally draining, but rewarding.
Slowly, the patterns began to make sense. Each signature was unique yet familiar in its elemental foundation. They weren't as advanced as the arts of the other races, where the complexity had once pushed his mana to its limits and taken him weeks to master.
These were simpler, their foundations aligned with what he already understood: the elements.
But simple didn't mean easy.
Each signature required focus, precision, and an intimate understanding of the mana flow behind it.
Atticus didn't falter. He pressed on, determined to reach the point where no technique could escape him.