Knowledge truly was the root of all power.
Zeke had never been more aware of the truth behind that statement than he was now. His core, thrumming with energy, had long since reached the point of saturation. Yet, with his limited understanding, he hadn't dared to attempt his advancement. No, in truth, it wasn't just about courage—he didn't even know how to begin. That had changed now.
His time in isolation had taught him much about the essence of the Core, as people called it. Zeke found the term lacking. In his view, it was more accurate to call it a gateway—a gateway to the soul. It was the only place where the physical could interact with the spiritual, a tool to give form to one's will.
It wasn't the only terminology he found lacking: stages, advancements, spells—almost every word failed to capture the essence of what was truly happening on a fundamental level. But what bothered him most were the names of the different stages. 'True Mage,' for example, was a laughable term for the first advancement. True? There was nothing true about that stage. 'Fledgling' or 'embryo' would have been far more accurate descriptions of what he was at the moment.
In Zeke's view, the Archmage level should have been the first stage worthy of being called a 'True Mage.' It marked the point where body and soul truly merged. But whoever named the stages had clearly opted for titles that sounded far more grandiose than they deserved—likely an attempt to stroke the egos of those striving for the pinnacle of magic.
But then there was the final stage... Monarch.
This was the only stage Zeke thought actually understated the true magnitude of power achieved at that level. Of course, he couldn't grasp what the Monarch stage entailed, but based on logical progression, Zeke was certain it wasn't something a human could attain. Reaching it would likely require a Mage to shed their mortal coil and ascend beyond the physical—a true manifestation of Magic.
He was getting ahead of himself again…
His current goal wasn't anything as lofty as that. He was just a 'True Mage' trying to advance to the level of 'Grand Mage.'
Despite his disdain for the titles, the transformation he was about to undergo was no small feat. From his research, Zeke had learned that the purpose of his current stage was to prime the Core, preparing it for its evolution. He had figured out early on that the spells a Mage chose to engrave were more than just minor enhancements; they fundamentally shaped one's journey. A poor choice could prevent someone from advancing to even the mid-stages.
Thankfully, Maximilian had intervened, saving him from making any foolish decisions. Zeke couldn't be sure how much Maximilian had truly known and how much he'd simply guessed, but it was likely the old man understood far more than Zeke did, even now. A man like his mentor couldn't have lived for hundreds of years without making a few discoveries in his field of expertise.
Zeke took a deep breath, savoring the soothing effect of the purified Mana. He had no idea how much time had passed outside, and neither did he care. He couldn't afford any distractions now and was secretly grateful that Akasha hadn't updated him on anything happening beyond his chamber.
When his mind was clear, he focused on his Core, a sphere divided into three distinct sections: Red, Purple, and Blue—each representing one of his affinities. The ability to use his Spatial Awareness to inspect his own Core was one of the few reasons he had managed to learn as much as he had. He couldn't imagine how anyone could study the Core without this skill.
At the moment, his Core radiated power, and Zeke could almost see the tiny embryonic seeds nestled within. It was no surprise the ritual for advancing to the next stage was called 'Seed Infusion'—because that's exactly what was happening. The Core he had cultivated so far was merely the soil from which a seed was about to sprout.
The time had come.
Zeke took a deep breath and directed all the purified Mana toward his Core. This was a step typically managed by the Ritual, but with the resources in this chamber, he had all the Mana he could ever need. He took another breath, then quickly added a third. He felt his Core straining under the influx of Mana, but he didn't let it escape—like a lung already full, being forced to take in more air.
It felt stifling.
Alongside that sensation, Zeke could vaguely sense another: the seeds were sprouting. He pushed more Mana into his Core, feeling a sharp pain like being stabbed with a knife. But just as quickly as it hit, the pain faded. He didn't stop breathing deeply but also focused on the changes in his Core.
A smile spread across his face as he saw three tips emerging—the sprouting of his Core. Technically, this already marked a successful breakthrough, but Zeke was far from satisfied. With the chamber's resources, he was eager to find out how far he could push himself. This was only the start, and he would accept nothing less than perfection.
Zeke had developed a theory that each advancement came with different grades of success. One could either advance by doing the bare minimum or achieve it flawlessly. Though he wasn't entirely sure of the consequences of a subpar breakthrough, he was unwilling to take that risk. The full ramifications would likely only reveal themselves when attempting to reach the higher stages.
During his advancement to True Mage, the depth and precision of the engraving had determined the grade of his success. Back then, Zeke had done everything in his power to achieve a perfect breakthrough. Now, as he faced his advancement to Grand Mage, he aimed for the same result. Though he wasn't entirely certain what defined perfection this time, he was prepared to endure as long as necessary.
Zeke continued to breathe, feeding the fledgling seeds with as much Mana as he could. His breaths were deep and even, and he was trying to keep the inflow of Mana as steady as possible—a task that was easier said than done.
With each breath, the seedlings grew, tearing his core apart bit by bit. The pain was excruciating, not physical, but a torment of the soul. With this pain, there was no escape—no trick to avoid the agony. It would follow him wherever he went. No. The only way through this was to endure.
Zeke gritted his teeth. If this was the price for power, he would pay it gladly. No matter how much each second tore at him, he knew the greatest pain was that of regret—regret for being too weak to protect what mattered, regret for not reaching his potential. He had tasted that pain before, and he would never allow it again, not if he could help it.
"…A moment of pain for a lifetime of strength…" Zeke muttered under his breath.
The mantra had stayed with him since his first advancement, a constant reminder of why he endured. Why he pushed himself every day, never allowing himself a single break. Why he had left his family behind to roam foreign lands…
Soon, the pain grew so intense that it wiped out all thought—his world reduced to a single painful breath after another. Yet, Zeke didn't stop. Eyes shut, shivering and convulsing, he kept his breathing steady.
In… and… out.
In… and… out.
In… and… out.
In…
In a world of white, an apathetic woman stood. Her hair was as white as snow, and her face appeared as if sculpted by a master artist. In front of her eyes, various scenes unfolded within vertical screens.
In one of them, a young man sat cross-legged in a smoke-filled chamber, struggling to breathe as his body convulsed. In another, a complex mechanical device was displayed, and every so often, the woman made small adjustments, fine-tuning its operation.
The most intriguing screen, however, showed a round orb of three colors. From it, strange tendrils sprouted—one red, one blue, and one purple. Each tendril stretched in a different direction, relentlessly chasing some unknown goal.
"How long do you think he will last?" a sudden voice resounded from behind the woman.
She didn't turn, already knowing the identity of her visitor. It was the only person who could come here, aside from her Host.
"…As long as it will take," the woman replied, not taking her eyes off the screens.
"Willpower isn't infinite, you know?" the deep voice said, a hint of mockery to its tone.
"And yet," the woman replied, "he will last. As he always does."
The man stepped up beside the woman, his gaze also shifting to the screens. He had flowing red hair, and two curved horns jutted from his forehead. His vertical pupils flicked between the displays as a slight smile crept across his face.
"You could ruin his advancement if you wanted to," he said with a teasing lilt.
"Why would I do that?"
The man shrugged. "Power makes people do strange things. And you, dear Spirit, have quite a bit of it right now."
The woman glanced at him sideways, her eyes leaving the screens for the first time. "Is this supposed to be a test?"
"Who can say?" the man said, his tone still as light as before. "I just know that I wouldn't have put as much trust in you as the boy has."
The woman turned her gaze back to the screens. After a moment of silence, she spoke. "Neither would I," she said quietly. "But maybe that's why he can achieve what neither of us can."
The red-haired man scoffed. "Reaching the pinnacle takes more than a few bold moves. Sooner or later, his luck will run out, and he'll trust the wrong person. Mark my words, Spirit—his foolishness will be his downfall."
The woman's lips twitched, forming a faint smile. "We shall see..."
While the two spoke, the view on the middle screen shifted. The small seedlings emerging from the orb had stretched significantly, revealing their destination. The red tendril had reached the heart, encircling it like a cocoon while boring into it. It was sucking in big gulps, akin to a hungry chick greedily consuming life-giving essence. The blue tendril had moved up to the head, targeting the brain. It formed a protective shield around the organ, acting as an additional layer of defense alongside the skull.
The last tendril was the most mysterious. It seemed to end abruptly, only to reemerge in a different part of the body. Whether in the hands, feet, or other extremities, the purple tendril covered the largest area, weaving throughout the entire form.
Seeing this, the two spectators fell silent, watching the spectacle with utmost focus.
"Fascinating…" the man murmured, his vertical pupils narrowing. "It's a shame I couldn't take over his body back then."
The woman gave him an unimpressed look. "The chances of you ending up a cripple would have been far greater than a successful merger. If anything, you should thank my Host for repelling you."
The man frowned but didn't argue. As a member of a different species, his Soul was fundamentally incompatible with human physiology. Driven by madness and desperation, he had made that choice. Yet the Spirit was right; even if the boy had given in, success was unlikely.
"Do you know the limits of their growth?" the man asked instead, pointing at the seedlings.
The woman shook her head. "There is no reference in the books I've read. If anything, Host would have the best chance of venturing a guess, but he doesn't know for certain either."
"Humans…" the horned man scoffed, filled with disdain. "Unity has always been their strength, yet they deny it at every opportunity. I wonder where their race would be today if they shared their knowledge among themselves…"
The Spirit gave him an amused look. "Maybe… you'll get to see such a future."
The man pondered her words, his gaze fixed on the growing tendrils. The two stood in silence for a long time, neither of them speaking. Finally, the seedlings slowed their growth, seemingly reaching maturity. At that moment, the figure sitting in the smoke began to tilt forward, collapsing gracelessly onto his face. He didn't flinch at the impact; it was clear he was no longer conscious.
Watching this, the man smiled slightly and broke the silence with a single word.
"Maybe…"