Along the way, he passed through spell-events in various states of decay—corpses exploding with violence, a waterfall of black mist wailing like a ghost, and warped creatures reliving their curses in endless, broken loops. He even spotted a castle on a mountain that touched the blood moon. Some were far too strong for him, while some weren’t what he was looking for. Though his curiosity for trying them out itched, he remained focused and looked for only what he needed. Time was of the essence. He couldn’t afford to play around.
Eventually, he reached the entrance of a village.
Pale men and women drifted within the confines of a cracked mud wall, their grimy rags hanging from emaciated, sick bodies. Ribs pressed against loose skin, as though the flesh had forgotten its purpose. No words were exchanged. No glances lingered. Even Thorin’s presence passed through them unnoticed. They continued their routines without deviation, repeating the same motions in an endless loop.
They moved in the exact same pattern. Yet with every completed cycle, their bodies grew more sickly, more diminished.
Then something gave.
The village froze, as though time itself had released its grip. Men and women collapsed where they stood, flesh failing all at once. Their bodies softened, sloughed, and rotted into formless remains that stained the earth.
Moments later, the village reset.
Thorin watched with quiet fascination as life returned to the streets, walls repaired, bodies restored. The loop began again, the villagers once more whole and unaware.
Perfect. The radiation level of the village was just enough for him to digest, and the type was what he looked for. So, after some observation, he took a decisive stride towards it and triggered the spell-event. To create a spell out of it, he had to live through the experience. The longer he survived and sustained, the easier it would be for him to create a spell—and the stronger the result.
The moment he set foot inside the walls, a sense of weakness assaulted him. An icy current tore through him, leaving him shivering as a harsh sneeze burst free. Despite the internal assault, though, he always kept a mind on how this village affected him. What path it followed, and what effect it left behind.
His body heated up and his face felt feverish within minutes. His muscles ached; waves of pain hammered his head. He hacked and hacked, dry coughs racking his chest until it ached. He was down with the most common cold and fever. But before he could unravel the complete mechanism of what was working on him, the pale men and women of the village rushed at him with deep grunts and growls. As the book had mentioned, the entities of spell-events saw outsiders as a threat. He was that ‘threat’ right now. Or perhaps, this might even be a part of the spell-event.
Deathwisps!
He barely traced the spell model and hurled the black wisps of mana at the incoming crowd. The first line fell, but there were just too many. The men behind them surged forward and jumped him. Thorin tried to dodge, but his weakened knees buckled, and he went down with them. He punched and kicked them away, rolling in the mud. But their sheer numbers swallowed him. They bit and scratched, fingers clawing at his eyes, hands closing around his throat.
Thorin struggled to get away with another cast of Deathwisps. When the nearest attackers dropped, he crawled away, panting, the taste of blood thick in his mouth. He’d already lost one of his eyes. From the other, he saw only red. Through that crimson gaze, the men and women he killed rose again and rushed at him.
Paperball: Firebomb!
The paper-ball turned into ash, and the cloud of fire exploded above him, engulfing all who came close. The stench of burning skin and hair assaulted Thorin as the attackers ignited, turning into living torches. Flames licked over them, reducing bodies to charred remains. Yet, they rose again before he could draw a breath.
His sickness worsened. With his back to the walls, he fought tooth and nail against the rabid mob.
Nonetheless, his end was nigh. The more he fought, the sicker he became. Soon, chunks of blood and flesh accompanied his coughs as he strained his soul to cast another spell. At last, when the crowd ripped his skin apart, the final hack snapped the light from his remaining eye. He collapsed where he fought. Within seconds, the village returned to how it was, and Thorin melted away. He dissipated into black mist and blended into the foggy air of the Death Arcana.
……
Thorin opened his eyes in the cave with a deep gasp. He could still feel the pain that led to his death, but all the wounds were gone. He wasn’t sick anymore either save for some phantom coughs and aches. What happened inside an Arcana left only mild effects on a Magus, and even those would soon fade.
But the spell-event branded his memories. It would never fade.
He used it to build a new spell model. The bends and the curves proceeded according to the effect he wanted. Bit by bit, the crude model gained some finesse. Finally, he connected the circuit, and the spell model glimmered in his soul space in its full glory. The notification from the Archive arrived the next second.
[Spell Extracted from the Death Arcana: Ailment]
[Spell Added: Ailment]
[Ailment: Neophyte Level 1/5]
It was his first adventure in an arcana, after all. What he gained from the spell-event wasn’t the best it had to offer. Still, it should be enough for his current situation, he reckoned. Since it was an area-of-effect control-type spell, he would have an easier time managing the horde of Faes now.
“You’re back too?” Clay asked, massaging his forehead. “I just returned as well. My head hurts like hell though.”
“Did you get a good one?” Thorin asked.
“Yeah, I think so,” Clay said. “What about you?”
“It should help out with the waves of Faes,” Thorin said. “How long were we out for? I think I spent several days in there.”
“Only a couple of hours,” Iver chimed in. “It’s still the ebbing period of the mana tide, so you can rest some more if you want.”
Thorin nodded and spent some time to check his wounds and all his spells in the arsenal. Because he’d used one spell after another against the Faes’ onslaught and also inside the Death Arcana, his mastery over them had increased a lot. The notifications from the Archive popped up so many times that he had to block them during the battles.
had reached level-3 of the pathfinder.
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reached level-1 of the pathfinder.
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reached pathfinder level-2.
? Its twin spell
reached pathfinder level-1.
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? Whereas
The mana from his vessel surged out on his call as he traced the spell models of
When the spell models reached a symbiotic balance with the several layers of cocoons, Thorin dropped them inside his vessel where a handful of seeds were already floating. The active spells dimmed into an idle state, and the cocoons of mana maintained their life. Thus, the spell seeds of
The mastery level of scholar already amazed Thorin with how much it boosted his spells, especially the ability to trigger them instantly. How much improvement would a sage-level spell show then? He craved to know what his spells would look like at the sage-level. The books had mentioned the term ‘trait’, but there weren’t many details on it. Alas, each level of scholar took longer to progress than all the levels of the previous stages combined. So, he had no other choice but to wait for any of his spells to touch that final realm of mastery. As of now, his
“Alright, its time again,” Iver said and broke the silence of the cave. The spell array in the center gurgled again, and the mist it released had thickened. The ebbing period was over. The mana tide would rush out with force before long. The hordes of Faes would knock on their door once more. But this time, Thorin was prepared to control them.
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