Chapter 145
Daniel leaned across the table, his voice steady despite the tavern's roar of laughter and clashing tankards. He kept his eyes fixed on the crown prince, ignoring the smell of roasted venison and spiced ale that hung heavy in the air.
When Prince Lashrael spoke again, his tone was softer, almost confessional, yet sharp enough to cut through the noise.
"That feeling of fear," he said, "is what I am preparing for. What happened at the queen's tournament was only the start."
Daniel's jaw tightened. His voice dropped, the words carrying weight.
"When I faced those things, it was beyond life and death. I never fought with all my strength, never truly drew on every ounce of my skill. If I had… I would be dead now." He leaned closer, the firelight catching the hard line of his cheek. "I want to test my limit, cousin. And learn more. Please—help me."
Thalen Merrow shifted in his seat, clearly on the edge of offering some opinion, but he pressed his lips shut and drowned the thought in his drink. Ysil Thorne, unbothered, carried on a light conversation with Melgil about her elaborate beauty regimen.
"You've never tried anything?" Ysil teased, brushing her raven hair back. "Not even a simple balm?"Melgil gave a flat look, stabbing her fork into the bread. "The world is cruel enough without me painting my face to please it. If I am flawless, it is by nature."Ysil laughed, tinkling and sharp, earning a few glances from the nearby tables.
Meanwhile, Princess Caerthynna sat with perfect composure, her knife gliding through the venison with deliberate care. She expected the meal to be dry and flavorless—but when she lifted a morsel to her lips, her eyes widened slightly. The dish was far better than she had allowed herself to believe, and she took another measured bite, concealing her surprise behind the grace of a princess.
The words Daniel had spoken lingered between the clatter of tankards and the glow of the hearth. The table seemed divided: Daniel sat flanked by Melgil, Ysil, and Thalen, while across from them Caerthynna kept her dignified distance, her older brother—the crown prince—sitting at her side, facing Daniel directly.
The four companions ate diligently, balancing small talk with subtle glances around the tavern. The air felt thick, as though the hearthlight itself held its breath, waiting for Daniel's reply.
At last, Daniel exhaled slowly. "Again, fighting me is not the same as sparring with the kingdom's knights or your combat instructors. I won't hold back. I'll push you to your breaking point."
Lashrael's lips curved into the faintest smile, eyes steady. "I wouldn't ask if I weren't sure. No holding back, that is exactly what I want."
Before Daniel could answer, Caerthynna dabbed the corner of her lips with a cloth and spoke, her tone even, though her eyes glimmered with interest.
"If it is a true test you both seek, then there is a place."
The others looked toward her. Ysil paused mid-sentence, Melgil raised a brow, and even Thalen leaned in despite himself.
"The Crescent Magus, Archmage Sylveth Melriel—once fashioned a dimensional space where she could unravel and test her magic without tearing half the castle apart. The spellwork still lingers. It is sealed, but not lost. Within it, you could fight without destroying halls, walls, or each other's reputations."
Ysil tilted her head. "You make it sound like a training hall in another world."
Caerthynna gave the slightest nod. "Precisely. A contained realm. Whatever happens inside, stays inside."
Daniel arched a brow, gaze flicking from the princess to Lashrael. "So… we fight in a pocket world?"
Thalen finally spoke, unable to restrain himself. "That's madness. If that place was meant for an archmage to test spells that could level armies, what makes you think mortals clashing with steel won't tear it apart?"
"Because," Lashrael replied, his voice calm but burning with certainty, "we are not merely mortals."
A silence fell over the table, broken only by the fire crackling and the tavern's rowdy chorus.
Daniel smirked faintly, raising his cup. "Then perhaps it is time to see just how far the blood of kings can be pushed."
Lashrael lifted his own drink in answer. "And how far it can endure."
Caerthynna's eyes lingered on Daniel as she took another delicate bite of venison, already measuring him, not as an enemy, but as someone she wanted to understand. Ysil leaned closer to Melgil, whispering something that made the other woman roll her eyes. Thalen muttered a curse under his breath, already regretting he'd let himself be pulled into this madness.
And in the middle of it all, Daniel and Lashrael locked eyes across the table, both already hearing the clash of steel that had yet to be drawn.
The last of the plates were cleared away. Thalen Merrow pushed back his chair with a grunt, shaking his head as if he wanted no part in what was to come.
"I'll leave this madness to the rest of you," he muttered, standing. "The last time Daniel dragged me into training, I could barely walk for three days. My tutors nearly skinned me alive for missing class."
Ysil Thorne rose gracefully beside him, patting her lips with a napkin before offering a knowing smile.
"And I prefer not to have my face smashed again, thank you. Some of us value beauty over bruises." She flicked her hair and glanced at Daniel. "Train hard, but don't break each other before the tournament season. We need you alive."
Daniel smirked but said nothing, watching as the pair left the tavern. Their absence left only the four: Daniel, Lashrael, Melgil, and Caerthynna.
The group stepped out into the open air. Afternoon light spilled across the cobblestone streets of the shopping district, where merchants hawked spices, fabrics, and trinkets. The bustle of voices, the smell of roasted chestnuts, and the clatter of hooves made the city seem alive with rhythm.
Melgil drifted a little closer to Princess Caerthynna, her tone unusually casual.
"You don't strike me as someone who enjoys tavern food," Melgil said, watching the princess with sidelong curiosity.
Caerthynna's lips curved faintly. "I admit, I was surprised. It was better than expected."
Melgil chuckled. "Everything is better when you allow yourself to try. I've… been trying to learn more about humans. What you value. How you" she hesitated, lowering her voice as Lashrael and Daniel walked a few paces ahead, deep in conversation, "how you approach intimacy."
The princess's step slowed. She studied Melgil carefully, noting the bluntness of the question. "That is not usually a subject of courtly discussion."
"I know," Melgil said, unbothered. "But I've lived too long hiding behind my strength. When it comes to closeness, to understanding… Daniel has already taught me something. I wonder what more I could learn from someone like you."
Caerthynna lifted her chin, considering. "Intimacy is not only touch. It is patience. It is listening without judgment. It is choosing to be seen." Her eyes softened, though her words carried the cool clarity of a teacher.
"Power means little if you cannot share yourself with another soul."
Melgil hummed in thought, her expression unreadable, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of something—longing, perhaps, or uncertainty. "Then maybe there's more to strength than scars."
Their conversation carried them from the bustling shopping district toward the sweeping arches and marble columns of the central district. The air grew quieter, the streets broader, and the common chatter was replaced by the distant sound of bells from the royal district. Ahead, the castle's spires rose like silver lances piercing the sky, while to its left stood a solitary crimson structure, the Crimson Tower, home of the Crescent Magus.
By the time they reached the tower's heavy gates, Daniel had gone quiet, his shoulders tense. Melgil noticed; she always did.
Inside, the tower was suffused with a pale crimson glow. Floating crystal lanterns lined the stairwell, their light both warm and unsettling. And at the top of the spiraling steps stood Archmage Sylveth Melriel.
She was beautiful in a cold, distant way, her robes embroidered with sigils that seemed to shift when one looked too long. Yet her composure faltered the moment her eyes fell on Daniel.
"You…" Her voice cracked before she caught herself, though her fingers trembled against the staff she held. For an instant, she was no longer the famed Crescent Magus but a woman remembering terror. She had not forgotten the Evolve Drake mission, nor the suffocating presence she had felt when Daniel had unleashed his power. Even now, the memory made her chest tighten.
Daniel gave a small bow, but his eyes remained locked on hers. "Archmage."
Lashrael stepped forward, breaking the silence. "We seek permission to use your void training hall, the one you created with the ancient language of magic. They say within it, time itself halts. A year inside is but a single day without."
Sylveth's gaze flicked to him, then back to Daniel. Her lips pressed into a thin line. "You know not what you ask. That space is woven with ancient tongues older than kingdoms. You could spend ten years in its halls, pushing yourselves to the brink… and walk out to find only ten days passed here. But…" she hesitated, her eyes narrowing on Daniel again, "…such power is not without cost."
Lashrael inclined his head. "We understand. But if we are to push beyond our limits, it must be there."
Sylveth's breath shivered as though fighting against memory, but finally she raised her staff and traced a sigil in the air. The tower shook faintly as the crimson light pooled into a swirling gate.
"Very well," she whispered. "Enter, if you dare. But remember this—time may not claim you, but what you face inside will."
Daniel stepped forward without hesitation, the first to cross the threshold. Lashrael followed, his expression alight with determination. Behind them, Caerthynna's eyes flickered with curiosity, while Melgil's steps were measured, as though weighing the princess's earlier words even as she walked into the unknown.
And then the portal sealed, leaving Sylveth staring at the closed gate, her knuckles white around her staff.
"They do not know," she whispered to the empty chamber, "what waits for those who tempt the ancient tongue."
The moment they crossed the gate, the world dissolved.
Sound, light, even the weight of their own steps seemed to blur. For a heartbeat, they floated in nothingness, and then the void training space unfolded around them.
It was vast, a plain of pale stone stretching endlessly in every direction, though the horizon shimmered like liquid glass. Above, no sun hung in the sky, yet the air glowed with a muted silver luminescence. The ground pulsed faintly under their boots, alive with veins of light that shifted with every breath.
Princess Caerthynna paused to take it in, her eyes widening slightly. "It feels… endless."
"It is," Melgil replied simply, her gaze sweeping the space. "The hall manifests in proportion to the mana of those who enter. With Daniel here, it may stretch further than any of us can walk."
But Daniel was not looking at the plain, nor the horizon. He was staring at what shimmered in the air around him,thin, translucent glyphs of an ancient language, faintly swirling like dust motes in sunlight. They were indecipherable to most, yet his eyes caught the rhythm, the flow, as if part of him already knew them.
This… is built on a foundation of words, he thought. Every stone, every ripple of light—it speaks.
He narrowed his eyes, letting his subconscious rise. The familiar echo of his inner realm—the strange geometric landscapes that haunted his dreams, flickered at the edge of his vision. For the first time, he wondered if the void space and his mind shared a common root.
Across from him, Lashrael flexed his shoulders, drawing his sword with a clean metallic whisper. His armband glowed, unfolding into a shimmering hexagonal shield that hovered at his side. He cast a glance at Daniel.
"To him, this is warm-up," the prince thought grimly. "But I've seen how he trains. Warming up for Daniel is like others throwing themselves into battle."
And he was right. Daniel stood still, yet the air thickened around him. Glyphs of ancient language bent toward him, drawn by some unseen gravity. He wasn't forcing them—they seemed to recognize him, hovering, merging, and fusing with the shapes that rose from his subconscious.
From Lashrael's perspective, it was terrifyingly beautiful. At first, the symbols glowed faintly like drifting embers. Then, slowly, they began to connect, forming chains of light, twisting into spirals and rings.
The ground beneath Daniel's feet flared. A new circle bloomed, larger than any spell Lashrael had ever seen, a symbolic spell manifesting itself, not in the language of the archmage, but in Daniel's own hybrid creation.
Lines crossed where no mage would ever dare place them. Curves intersected with sharp angles that should have shattered the flow of magic, yet instead they sang together, humming with resonance.
Lashrael steadied his stance, shield raised, his knuckles whitening around his sword. He's not even beginning the fight. He's… building something.
Daniel's expression was unreadable, his gaze locked on the swirling glyphs that now wrapped around his arms and shoulders like living tattoos of light. His subconscious was no longer just a hidden place within him—it was leaking into the void training space, reshaping it.
Melgil folded her arms, watching with quiet fascination. "He's not fighting you yet," she said softly, half to herself, half to Caerthynna. "He's trying to learn. To build."
Caerthynna's eyes lingered on Daniel, her lips tightening. "Or to create something none of us can predict."
And then the air pulsed—once, twice, like a heartbeat. From Daniel's circle, new symbols emerged: jagged, radiant, glowing brighter than the void's pale horizon. They twisted into a spiral, then shattered outward, forming what looked like the skeleton of a structure—half temple, half weapon.
To Lashrael, it felt as though the void itself was bending under Daniel's will. He tightened his grip, breath steadying.
"So, is this is his warm-up?"
The crown prince raised his blade in salute. "Then let me be the first to see what your creation can do."
The void rippled, waiting for the clash.
Daniel did not move at first. He only stood, hands at his sides, while the void training space breathed faintly around him. Yet from Lashrael's view, the stillness was an illusion. The air trembled as though every grain of magic in the realm had bent toward Daniel's presence.
The crown prince steadied his stance, shield humming at his side. His blade was ready, but even he knew, instinctively, that what he was seeing was not battle. It was creation.
The glyphs of ancient language that drifted like pale fireflies in the void began to swirl faster around Daniel. His eyes followed them, narrowing, not with fear but with focus.
It's a code, he realized, breath slowing. Each glyph is a command. Each command alters the space. It's like… editing a program. If I rewrite the sequence, I rewrite the foundation itself.
He lifted his hand. The glyphs responded instantly, fusing, breaking, and then recombining. Where they resisted, he altered their flow, rearranging them as though dragging lines of text across a parchment no one else could see.
Lashrael exhaled sharply. To him, it looked like Daniel was weaving chains of light and shattering them just to rebuild stronger. Symbols collided violently, yet instead of dispersing, they reformed into new structures. Circles that should have collapsed instead birthed spirals. Crossed lines, the bane of every mage's circle, instead split into lattices that strengthened the form.
He's rewriting the ancient tongue itself, Lashrael thought, stomach tightening. Like it was never sacred, never forbidden, just… clay in his hands.
The ground beneath Daniel flared with a pulse that shook the endless horizon. A second circle rose inside the first, then a third, each layered with patterns no scholar had ever documented. They spun together like gears, grinding reality into a new rhythm.
Daniel's mind drifted deeper. The symbols he forged now began to reflect his subconscious. Images he had seen in dreams the impossible staircases, the endless libraries, the shadow of something vast and unknown, all pressed forward as though yearning to break free.
And then they did.
With a resonant crack, the void space bent. A seam split open before Daniel, light spilling outward. From that light stretched an endless stair of black stone leading into a towering library—his subconscious made flesh. Shelves upon shelves stretched into infinity, each lined with books that hummed with power, their spines etched in languages both known and lost. The smell of aged parchment and ozone filled the air, utterly alien within the sterile void.
Melgil froze, breath catching. "He's… pulling his mind into reality."
Caerthynna's fingers curled against her gown. "No," she whispered, awe coloring her voice, "he is rewriting reality with his mind."
Daniel's eyes glowed faintly, the pale light of the glyphs winding around his arms like burning circuits. The symbols pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat, yet their resonance was far older, echoing with the cadence of the ancient tongue.
And then, without his conscious intent, the world shifted.
The others felt it first: a pressure, as though the air itself had been drawn out of their lungs. The silver plain of the Crimson Magus's void trembled, cracked, and then shattered like glass. The next instant, they were no longer inside Sylveth Melriel's domain. They stood instead within Daniel's creation.
A space five times larger than the Crescent Magus's hall unfurled before them, a sphere so vast that the horizon bent with its curvature. Where Sylveth's void had been cold and sterile, Daniel's was alive, etched with the geometry of his subconscious. Endless libraries of black stone arched into infinity, staircases twisted into impossible angles, and fragments of shifting landscapes bled in and out of existence as though reality itself had not yet decided what shape to take.
The void no longer belonged to ancient spellwork, it had been overwritten, remade according to Daniel's subconscious rules.
He tilted his head, studying the great sphere that now surrounded them. His voice was low, calm, and detached, yet carrying the weight of something inevitable.
"So it all begins with language… and ends with creation."
The glyphs along his arms pulsed brighter, rearranging into new chains of symbols that danced like living fire. His gaze swept the horizon, watching as invisible threads stretched outward, pulling from beyond.
"All the matter particles outside this bubble…" he murmured, raising a hand, "are funneling into this place. Every grain of dust, every breath of air, every unseen spark of motion… is rewritten here as mana. Energy is the very force that sustains creation."
As he spoke, the others could see it happening. Beyond the translucent barrier of the sphere, the outside world seemed to warp. Tiny streams of starlight and fragments of unseen particles flowed inward, drawn into the space like rivers into an ocean. The energy condensed into radiant currents, filling the vastness around them with a soft golden mist that shimmered against the black stone floor.
Melgil's eyes narrowed, her voice hushed. "He's turning reality inside out… siphoning what is to fuel what could be."
Caerthynna's composure faltered for the first time, her breath catching as her gaze swept the towering structures birthing themselves out of raw mana. "This is not training anymore. This is… genesis."
Lashrael remained silent, gripping his blade tighter, his shield humming louder at his side. He did not pretend to understand the depth of what Daniel was doing, but he could feel it. The sheer density of power pressing on his chest, the way the air itself vibrated like the prelude to a storm—it was more than magic. It was authorship.
Daniel lowered his hand. The glyphs swirled back into his skin, glowing faintly beneath his flesh like hidden constellations. His eyes burned with a strange clarity.
"If the void is written," he said softly, "then I will be its author."
And at that moment, the library gates yawned wide, as though inviting them deeper into the space Daniel had calculatedly made.
Meanwhile in a different space, ash hung heavy in the air of Thrakir's domain, a choking haze that never settled, drifting endlessly across plains of cracked obsidian and rivers of ichor that pulsed as if alive. The land itself warped under his presence; mountains bent at impossible angles, shadows crawled against the direction of light, and the very geometry of the ground seemed to twist, as though the world resented his existence yet could not resist bowing to it.
Corpses of lesser infernals lay scattered in heaps, their forms half-melted by energies they were never meant to endure. The stench was unbearable: iron, rot, and something older, like the taste of burnt marrow pressed against the back of the tongue.
Thrakir, the Twisted One, stood at the center of this decay, his outline never fully stable, shifting as if reality strained to contain him. His clawed hands traced symbols into the air, the markings burning with black fire before vanishing into the gloom. His voice was low, but it carried like a drumbeat through the ash, summoning his lieutenants to kneel.
"The rift is not natural," one dared to rasp, its voice wet with ichor. "Beings from the other realm forced it open. Our kind paid the price."
Thrakir's gaze was molten void. He bent the creature's form into the ground without touching it, bones snapping inward until nothing remained but a smear of dust. The silence that followed was worse than his words.
He looked upward, though there was no sky, only a heaving canvas of storm and fire. The old gods lingered there, watching with their ageless eyes. He knew their vigilance. To cross fully into the mortal world, he would need more than brute force. He would need a mask, a pathway cloaked from their sight, something subtle that even their ancient gaze could not pierce.
So he began to work. His claws etched runes into the ichor-rivers themselves, forcing them to glow with forbidden light. He would make a gate, not a violent rift, but a quiet one, a wound so precise it would slip unseen. Through it, he would bleed into the human realm. And there, he would find the pawns fate had set against him.
On the mortal side, the day carried a different weight.
Daniel stood within the training hall, its stone pillars echoing with the clash of steel. His duel in the prize spar was no longer a test; it had become a statement. Every strike he made against his opponent carried the murmur of whispers from students and instructors alike. Melgil leaned against the wall, arms folded, watching with the sharp grin of someone who trusted Daniel's instincts even when others did not.
When the final blow was struck and silence rippled through the chamber, Daniel let out a steady breath. The price was paid. The way forward was his.
Beyond the hall, the Royal Academy waited, its spires gleaming beneath the morning sun. The air smelled of oiled steel and parchment, of magic crackling faintly at the edges of every warded stone. Here, futures were forged, alliances tested, and rivalries sharpened into blades.
Already, their paths had begun to diverge. Thalen Merrow had gone ahead, eager as always to prove himself, while Ysil Thorne had slipped away without a word, her presence a shadow in its own right. Daniel felt the gap between them but did not dwell on it yet.
Because far beyond, in the place of ash and ichor, Thrakir's hand reached closer. The veil was thinning. Two realms, unaware of how close they were to colliding, moved inexorably toward each other.