Chapter 157
The silence that followed was not peace—it was weight. Heavy. Absolute.
The smoke curled like living things over the crater, rising into the sky where it distorted the very air. Even the wind hesitated, the forest creatures miles away hushed, as if the world itself bowed under the sheer resonance of what had been unleashed.
Daniel lowered his hand slowly, his expression unreadable. His breathing was steady, too steady for what he had just accomplished. To the guilds, it looked like composure. To the gods, it was alignment—will and power fused without friction. To Daniel himself, it was simply necessity.
But necessity had consequences.
The first to break the silence was Natasha Sokolov. She stepped forward, her boots crunching against charred soil, her gaze still fixed on the burning ruins. "The city is gone," she said, her tone even but touched with disbelief. "Every single one of them. He killed one hundred thousand… and made it look like art."
Behind her, whispers gained courage. Hunters, magi, mercenaries—those who had doubted him, envied him, or simply dismissed him, now found their voices cracking with awe and unease.
"Did you see how he controlled the blast?"
"Not even the rock-vine walls broke."
"Who is he really?"
Charlotte heard it all but ignored them. Her attention never left Daniel. The calm in his eyes unsettled her more than the destruction itself. No arrogance, no triumph—just silence, as though he had merely… corrected a flaw in the world.
Mary Kaye felt it too, the chill running down her spine as she whispered, "He's… more dangerous because he doesn't bask in it. To him, this is just… execution of a plan. No waste, no hesitation."
From the fractured skyline of the Empire's capital, far in the distance, word was already spreading. Messengers, arcane mirrors, whispered transmissions, the obliteration of Grisval would be known before nightfall. Entire courts would convene, armies would tremble, and rulers would demand answers.
And in the Tower itself, the unseen observers stirred again.
The God of Knowledge folded their arms, glyphs scattering into sparks.
"This will not be ignored. A mortal shaping power like this… is not supposed to exist within the Tower's rules."
The God of War clenched a fist of light, sparks dancing from the edges. "Then perhaps the Tower's rules are flawed."
A ripple of laughter, low and patient, spread from the Primordial forgotten god. "Rules… are chains only for those who believe in them." His smile remained, unseen by all but the void. "And my boy does not."
Back in the camp, Jacob finally found his voice. "So what happens now?" he asked, his words trembling into the heavy air.
Daniel turned his head, his gaze finally breaking from the horizon of smoke and ruin. His eyes, calm and deliberate, swept across them all, guild leaders, hunters, allies, and skeptics alike.
"Now?" His voice was quiet, steady, carrying more weight than a shout. "Now the Tower knows I'm here."
No one dared speak after that.
But in every heart, in every whisper of the watching gods and the plotting kingdoms beyond, the truth had already crystallized: The game had changed.
In the high sanctuary of the divine, where the cosmos itself bent around pillars of light and endless echoes of creation, the six Old Gods who had witnessed Daniel's strike stirred as though they had been roused from centuries of slumber.
The God of War's arm pulsed brighter, a resonance that trembled through the sanctuary walls. "At last… something worth watching. For ages, mortals have grown dull, predictable. But this one, this Daniel he tears the pattern apart."
The God of Knowledge leaned forward, glyphs orbiting faster, their luminous eyes narrowing. "And yet… why now? Why did this figure never emerge before? If he is born of the Tower, the pattern should have revealed him earlier. Instead, he appeared fully formed, a contradiction to centuries of careful balance."
The God of Dreams let out a low hum, like a chord strummed across the fabric of sleep. "Perhaps he was always there, hidden beneath the veil of our expectation. Or perhaps… something older chose this moment to let him rise." Their smoke-like form rippled with satisfaction. "Either way, I want to see more."
The three others nodded, stirred by the weight of his display. Even the God of Order, normally impassive, felt the pulse of renewed interest. They did not say it outright, but the six were alive again, hungry for spectacle, eager to witness what this mortal might unravel next.
But not all shared that fire.
From the outer edges of the sanctuary, the Old Gods who had long since grown weary shifted uneasily. The God of Life shook her radiant head, strands of silver light trailing. "This is not renewal. It is disruption. I will not chain myself again to the thrill of destruction." With that, she withdrew, vanishing into her verdant realm.
The Goddess of Ignorance followed, yawning with deliberate indifference. "Let the fools marvel. I prefer silence. I prefer the old stillness." Her shadowed form dissolved, leaving the sanctuary dimmer.
The Goddess of Stasis, unmoving for eons, finally whispered, "Change is not mine to embrace." And like stone sinking into the deep, she returned to her frozen dominion.
The Goddess of Peace lingered only a moment, her gentle glow flickering. "If they celebrate ruin, I want no part of it." She turned her back, her footsteps echoing softly until they faded into her tranquil domain.
Two more remained absent altogether, the God of Shadow, and the God of Waking—preoccupied with the troubles shaking their own realms.
The sudden departures did not weaken the sanctuary, but they shifted it. The balance had been disturbed. The six who remained, alive with anticipation, felt the absence of their kin not as loss, but as proof that what they now witnessed was singular, worthy of breaking the monotony of eternity.
And in that stillness, every god present came to the same unspoken realization: Daniel Rothchester had become a turning point.
Far below, in the mortal realm, the fires of Grisval still burned.
Three hundred guild members, drawn together from scattered factions, stood at the crater's rim where the city once stood. The scorched earth glowed faintly, still radiating heat from Daniel's strike. Steam hissed from broken stones. The very air smelled of ozone, copper, and ash.
Magi crouched close to the blackened ground, their palms glowing faintly as they tried to measure the residue. Hunters whispered in disbelief, eyes darting over the perfectly contained devastation. Warriors and scholars alike murmured calculations, their voices tinged with fear.
"It's… impossible," one muttered, staring at the faint ripples of residual mana that clung to the earth like aftershocks. "To concentrate this much energy, to contain it… even a god-tier caster would collapse before shaping such a spell."
"It wasn't a spell," another corrected, eyes narrowing. "It was… something else. Something deeper. The mana channels here aren't raw. They're carved, refined. As though every particle was placed deliberately."
Others nodded, their minds racing. They spoke of consumption, of what price must have been paid to unleash something equivalent to a nuclear payload. They questioned if Daniel had sacrificed years of life, or blood, or something darker. The air was thick not just with heat, but with questions.
At the center of it all, Daniel stood calm. He let them circle, let them speculate, his silence allowing their curiosity to ripen. Charlotte and Mary Kaye stood closer, silent guardians to his left and right, though their eyes carried the same questions.
Finally, Daniel exhaled slowly, his voice breaking the murmurs.
"You're all wondering the same thing," he said, his tone measured but clear, carrying across the burned expanse. "How much mana does it take? What did it cost? How can I wield something like this?"
Every guild member turned toward him, their collective anticipation sharp enough to cut.
Daniel's gaze swept across them, calm but piercing, before he continued.
"The truth is simpler than you think. Power alone doesn't decide the outcome of a spell.
Consumption, cost, yes, they matter. But what matters more… is control. Refinement. Efficiency." He lifted one hand, curling his fingers as though holding invisible flame. "What I did here wasn't about overwhelming force. It was about eliminating waste. Every arc, every spark of mana, placed exactly where it needed to be."
He let the words hang, their weight sinking deep.
"And yes," he added, softer, though the edge in his tone was sharp enough to chill them, "I have more. Techniques stronger, sharper, more precise than this. The Tower didn't give them to me. The guilds didn't teach them to me. I learned because I had to. Because where I come from, inefficiency means death."
The air thickened. The guild members exchanged glances, the awe now twisted with unease. For the first time, they understood that what they saw was not the limit of his strength, but merely a demonstration.
And Daniel, serene as ever, let them know it.
High above the mortal plane, the words Daniel spoke, calm, deliberate, efficient—reached ears not meant to hear them. The six Old Gods who still lingered in the Prime Sanctuary felt the echo ripple through their very essence.
The God of War's voice rang first, sharp and metallic, the sound of steel grinding against steel. "Control over chaos. Precision over power. He strikes like a seasoned general, not a wild caster. That philosophy is not mortal. That… is mine." His armored form pulsed, pride flickering in his stance.
The God of Knowledge leaned forward, scripts of burning glyphs spiraling madly around him. "No… it is not yours. Nor mine. It is something between. He is not casting spells as mortals do. He is rewriting the equation, narrowing it down to zero waste. That is not taught. That is not learned. That is understood."
The God of Dreams rippled with quiet laughter, the sound rolling like distant thunder in the subconscious. "Efficiency, precision, inevitability… he dreams awake. It is a kind of artistry even we forgot to admire. Tell me, why does he feel… familiar? Why now, after countless cycles of the Tower?"
The Primordial, shrouded in formless veils, answered in a whisper that rolled like a tide of chaos. "Because he was never meant to arrive on time. His absence was the only thing that preserved the old pattern. And now? He has slipped through. A piece misplaced, or perhaps hidden… until now."
Their words carried weight, and for the first time in an age, the sanctuary trembled with hunger. The Old Gods wanted more. They craved more. And in their excitement, they failed to notice the absence of their withdrawn kin, who had abandoned the chamber in disdain.
On the ground, the guilds were still frozen by Daniel's revelation. His explanation—clear, logical, undeniable, did not comfort them. If anything, it made the weight of what he had done heavier.
Veteran players, men and women who had survived the Tower's cruelest scenarios, who had crawled their way out of despair and death countless times, exchanged glances. Their brows furrowed. Their lips pressed thin. They had fought horrors, calamity beasts, and legendary foes, but none of that compared to this.
Daniel Rothchester was different.
And they could not understand why.
One by one, the unspoken thought spread: This is beyond the Tower's rules.
A grizzled spearman finally muttered what lingered in many hearts. "The quests… the ones the Tower gives. All of them are cruel, bloody, and twisted. But only one remained uncleared. One. The impossible one. Rothchester's name… it's tied to that. Isn't it?"
A hush fell. No one answered, but no one denied it either.
The veterans sighed deeply, the sound heavy and resigned. It was the sound of recognition without comprehension. The sound of players forced to accept a truth too large for them.
"He erased an entire city," a younger mage whispered, hugging his staff. "Like it was nothing. That kind of power… it shouldn't exist inside the Tower."
Another voice, this one sharp, broke through. "Or maybe it does. Maybe he isn't just Daniel. Maybe he's closer to a calamity being."
The words struck like a stone into still water. Calamities—the walking disasters, the anomalies the Tower unleashed without mercy. Beings of destruction without reason or restraint. None of them could ever be stopped by force alone.
The suggestion spread through the group like wildfire. Whispers rose.
"If he's the opposite of a calamity…""Or worse, if he's one of them, just wearing a man's skin…""Then what are we even standing beside?"
Speculation. Assumption. Fear. And yet… none could refute the possibility.
Daniel stood silent, watching them unravel their own theories, their own desperate explanations for what they had seen. His expression gave them nothing, neither comfort nor denial. Only calm acknowledgment.
The words hung in the air like poison. Calamity.
Daniel did not flinch, nor did he let his composure crack. Instead, he took a step closer to the blackened earth where Grisval once stood, his hand brushing the air as if feeling the pulse of residual mana.
"If I were a calamity," he said at last, his voice steady, "none of you would still be standing."
The murmurs stopped instantly. His tone wasn't arrogant, nor cruel. It was matter-of-fact, a line drawn with calm precision.
He turned to face them, eyes clear, almost serene. "Calamities destroy without reason. They are storms without pattern, fire without form. What you saw here was not chaos. It was intent. It was surgery. Every strike had purpose. If I were what you fear, this land would be ash from horizon to horizon."
The guild members shifted uneasily, but his words sank deep. He wasn't claiming innocence—only distinction.
From the shadows of the group, Charlotte Lazarus's voice slipped in, calm and measured, though her eyes never left the veterans. "You all know how the Tower works. Some quests can't be cleared by brute strength. Some require rules, conditions… a step hidden between the steps."
Her cousin Mary Kaye nodded faintly, her own tone softer, more metaphorical. "Sometimes, the Tower is like a locked door. You can throw yourself at it until your bones break, or you can find the key. What Daniel does—it looks different because it is different. Maybe he's simply following the rule none of us could see."
Charlotte's lips tightened as she added, almost as if in passing, "And if you remember the hidden quests… sometimes they aren't cleared by doing what the Tower demands. Sometimes, they're cleared by doing what it never expected."
The veterans exchanged glances. They knew she was speaking in riddles, avoiding details. But they also knew she was right. The Tower had always thrived on trickery, on unseen rules disguised as cruelty. Perhaps Daniel had simply found the hidden path where others had failed.
Daniel gave no sign of agreement or denial. He only turned back to the smoldering ruins, his silence as sharp as his explanation. The message was clear: he was not calamity. He was something else entirely.
Far beyond the Tower, the ripple of Grisval's obliteration surged across the world like a tidal wave.
In the marble halls of the Holy Empire, priests gasped as the sky flared with the afterimage of the strike, visible even through sacred wards. The High Bishop clutched his staff, his voice breaking. "Such light… it cannot be mortal sorcery. Is it divine? Or heretical?"
In the iron fortresses of the Northern Dominion, warlords slammed their gauntlets onto tables as maps trembled under the pulse of transmitted mana. "A city," one growled. "An entire city erased in a breath. If a man commands this… then no wall, no army, no fleet is safe."
In the crystalline towers of the Magocracy, archmages clustered around divining pools, watching replayed fragments of plasma and fire tearing through Grisval. One elder mage whispered, "It was controlled. Not wild. Not raw. Refined. This is not power alone… this is knowledge weaponized."
Even the mercantile Republics, pragmatic and cold, felt unease as their guildmasters whispered in candlelit councils. "If this figure exists within the Tower… what happens when he steps beyond it? What price will we pay if he walks our lands?"
And in the farthest reaches, where unseen watchers peered through their own magical mirrors, messages spread like wildfire. The word was simple, yet heavy enough to reshape politics:
The vision of Grisval's obliteration lingered far beyond the battlefield. It rippled outward through scrying pools, mirrored skies, and the whispers of spies carried across seas. What Daniel Rothchester had unleashed was no longer confined to the Tower—it had branded itself into the minds of kings, priests, and warlords alike.
In The Holy empire of Álfheim, bishops huddled beneath the cathedral's candlelight. Shadows stretched long against the stone, as if the flames themselves recoiled from what they had seen."If this Netherborn walks free," one muttered with trembling lips, "then our faith itself is shaken. Either we crown him as divine envoy… or burn him as heresy."
inside the largest known forest of Rithakwood, the the divine kingdom of Tyriarn Isssëa unrolled their maps across oak tables. Their calloused fingers traced borders, eyes gleaming like wolves."If he cannot be killed, he must be contained," one growled. "If he cannot be contained, then he must be ours. Better he march beneath our banners than against them."
In the City of Arockar: 200 thousand population with four small commercial towns under its domain the Magocracy, the conclave of archmagi gathered in secret. They bent over a great glass basin filled with liquid light, Daniel's likeness shimmering faintly within it.
"This Rothchester boy," an archmage whispered, voice carrying the weight of centuries, "has touched a branch of magic we thought forever sealed. If we cannot bind him, we must dissect the philosophy behind his precision. Knowledge at that level cannot remain in the hands of one man."
Even the South Republic, as the south ever guided by the cold arithmetic of profit, joined the silent race. Merchant-lords leaned forward in their gold-trimmed halls, eyes burning with calculation."Whoever owns his allegiance," one declared, "owns the future of war. And with it—the future of wealth."
Thus alliances formed in shadows. Some whispered of assassins already dispatched, others of envoys bearing chains gilded as gifts. A few dared dream of raising him as a god to be worshiped. Whatever their schemes, one truth bound them all: the game board of kingdoms had been overturned, and every piece now pointed toward Daniel Rothchester.
Inside the Tower
At the heart of the crater, the three hundred guild members stood silent, the dust of Grisval's death still drifting like ash around them. Their fear had not vanished, but curiosity gnawed louder than terror. Daniel's earlier words had tempered their unease, yet the question remained unspoken among them all: Could his pinnacle be reached, or did he stand forever alone above them?
The first to break the silence was Dmitriev, sparks dancing faintly across his arms like caged storms. His voice cracked despite his effort to steady it."Daniel… my lightning burns me out too quickly. I force it through my veins until it fries me. You spoke of efficiency. Could someone like me ever refine it enough to endure as you did?"
Daniel's gaze softened, calm yet piercing.
"Lightning is hunger," he said evenly. "It always wants more—it always drains more. You can't fight its nature, Dmitriev, but you can shape it. Don't force it through every vein. Guide it like water through channels. A storm that strikes everywhere is chaos. A storm that strikes once, with precision, is survival."
A foul, acrid scent clung to Borislav, his cloak still reeking faintly of toxin. He spat into the dust before growling out his words."Poison eats at everything. It consumes, it spreads. My power wastes itself at distance. Could it ever become more than rot?"
Daniel studied him with a tilted head."Poison is not destruction—it is patience. It is inevitability. Your mistake is rushing it. You want it to kill in a moment, but poison wins in silence. Channel your mana into what cannot be cured, not into what kills loudest. A quiet blade is sharper than a screaming one."
The next was Mikhaylov, whose fingers twitched with unstable energy."My paralysis is crude," he admitted. "It binds for only a second. Is refinement even possible for something so fleeting?"
Daniel nodded once."One second is eternity in the right hands. Learn to place it where it breaks rhythm, where it severs momentum. Stop wishing for hours when a heartbeat is all it takes."
Tamara, staff clutched tight, spoke with hesitant courage."I heal… but healing drains more mana than harm ever does. Can even that be made efficient?"
Daniel's voice gentled, a rare warmth threading through it."Healing is not patching wounds—it is rewriting what was lost. You waste mana because you try to fix everything. Heal only what is essential. The body knows the rest. Trust it. Trust the design."
A frown twisted Mariya's face, her aura dripping with shadow."My curses drain me as much as they drain my foes. I fear I'll always collapse before they do."
Daniel's eyes sharpened."A curse was never meant to be carried by you. Anchor it to the world—tie it to soil, to stone, to shadow. Let the weight fall on everything else. Only then will it last without consuming you."
Fedorova, vibrant with restless curiosity, raised her hand eagerly."I shape ideas—but they are fragile. Too much mana, and they shatter. Too little, and they vanish. How can such things ever be precise?"
A faint smile touched Daniel's lips."Ideas are seeds, not weapons. You try to make them bloom in an instant. Let them take root instead. Nurture them quietly. What grows slowly… lasts forever."
The ground trembled as Radinka, axe warrior, stomped forward with folded arms."You speak like a sage, but strength is strength. I cleave, I break. Can efficiency even exist for someone like me?"
Daniel's gaze flicked to her axe, then back."A single strike placed in the right moment will do more than a hundred swings in rage. Strength without precision is noise. Strength with precision is destiny."
Kuzmina, part-shifted already, growled as her form wavered between beast and woman."Shifting consumes me. My body tears, my mana bleeds. You say refinement—but can I refine what is primal?"
Daniel's answer came like iron."Primal does not mean crude. Animals waste nothing. The wolf hunts only when it must. The hawk strikes only when prey is in reach. Instinct is already efficient—you're the one complicating it."
From behind her herbs, Zalie whispered, barely audible."My potions are mid-level. Stable, but never great. Can I ever reach higher?"
Daniel regarded her gently."A potion is a promise. It's not about strength—it's about certainty. If yours never fail, then they already surpass those who gamble with stronger brews. Reliability is refinement too."
Moyra approached next, sand swirling at her feet."My constructs collapse if I compress them too tightly. How do I balance stability with power?"
"Sand was never meant to be solid forever," Daniel replied. "It's meant to shift. Instead of fighting collapse, use it. Let the crumbling become the weapon. A wall that falls at the right time is deadlier than one that never stands."
Liss pressed a gloved hand to her temple, eyes dark."My paralysis lasts only a second, by touch. Too weak to matter."
Daniel's gaze sharpened like a blade."A second at the right touch ends a fight before it begins. You don't need to extend it—you need to master when."
Behind her flickered the clones of Enan, faintly transparent."My copies last two minutes," he said. "But they drain me fast. Can they ever be more than a distraction?"
"A distraction well-timed is a victory," Daniel replied. "Your strength isn't in lasting long—it's in buying exactly the time others need. Don't measure success by longevity, but by opportunity."
Lack, flanked by spectral wolves, stepped forward with unease."My summons vanish too quickly to be decisive."
"Four wolves that fight for five minutes can still end a battle before it begins," Daniel answered. "Loyalty and ferocity in brief bursts are worth more than beasts that linger without resolve. Use them where five minutes decides life or death."
The towering frame of Romaldo loomed next, muscles rippling as if the transformation already stirred beneath his skin."I become a juggernaut for one minute. But one minute… is it enough?"
Daniel's voice grew solemn, firm."One minute of inevitability is worth a lifetime of struggle. When you become unstoppable, choose the moment carefully. That minute will reshape battlefields."
Last was Matt, knuckles white around his bowstring."I can summon a hundred arrows. Simple, weak arrows. How can that ever matter?"
Daniel met his eyes, unwavering."A hundred arrows don't need to be strong if they all strike true. Weakness multiplied by precision becomes strength. Remember that."
The crater fell into silence. Their questions had not been dismissed—they had been answered, not with false hope but with clarity. Each power they bore, each burden they carried, had its place.
For the first time since the annihilation of Grisval, the fear in their eyes dulled. In its place flickered something quieter, steadier. Not certainty, but the faint, enduring ember of understanding.
Daniel raised his hand slowly, his voice calm yet edged with intent as he faced the gathered joint guild players . "You don't need earth-shattering spells or divine tier incantations to be dangerous," he said. "Sometimes… it's about control, not scale." His palm flickered with a faint orange glow, and at first, the onlookers thought he was joking. It was nothing more than a low-tier fire bullet, the kind that apprentices practiced on straw dummies, barely enough to scorch bark or dent a shield. Yet as they watched, Daniel fed mana into it, not recklessly, but with precision. The flame condensed, tightened, spinning so violently that it began to whine like a miniature drill of pure heat.
The air around his palm distorted, shimmering as the bullet compressed to the size of a 22LR round. Then, with a sharp exhale, Daniel released it. The glowing ember streaked forward, faster than their eyes could properly track, hissing like molten steel. When it struck the five-foot-thick, seven-foot-tall boulder positioned before them, the sound was not the dull thud of fire colliding with stone but a sharp, cracking boom. The bullet bored clean through, piercing the slab as if it were no more than brittle wood. A heartbeat later, an explosion burst from the far side of the rock, shards of stone scattering outward in a violent spray.
Gasps rippled across the field. Smoke curled from the punctured stone, a perfect tunnel carved through it, the rear crater blown wide open as if a cannonball had ripped its way free. Daniel lowered his hand, his tone steady but firm. "That… was a basic spell. Nothing rare. Nothing forbidden. Just a fire bullet. But when you control mana the right way—when you force it to obey—you can turn the simplest ember into a weapon that rivals steel."
He let the silence hang, the faint smell of scorched rock drifting through the air, before adding, "What you lack is not power. You lack discipline. Learn that, and even your weakest spell can kill a troll."
Natasha Sokolov stepped forward, her expression caught between determination and doubt. She had watched Daniel closely, her sharp mind already dissecting the lesson hidden in his demonstration. It wasn't about brute force or pouring endless mana into a spell—it was about control, about guiding the flow rather than drowning in it. She inhaled deeply, summoning a basic ice arrow to her palm. At first, it looked ordinary, a shard of frost no larger than a pencil, its surface glimmering faintly in the sunlight.
The others watched in silence as Natasha began weaving her mana into it. Unlike Daniel, who made the process look effortless, she struggled to maintain the balance. The mana resisted her will, tugging against her focus, demanding to be released. But she pressed on, narrowing her eyes, not forcing it to bend but coaxing it into alignment. Slowly, the ice arrow began to spin, first sluggishly, like a toy top on its last turn, then faster and faster, the faint whistle of moving air becoming audible.
Her mana output rose sharply, 70 units poured into the small shard, and still she did not let go. Sweat traced the line of her brow, her breathing steady but tense. The arrow vibrated in her grip, its edges sharpening, its body hardening into something far more lethal than a simple conjuration.
"Hold… steady…" she whispered to herself, feeding the mana with precision. When the flow reached 120, the arrow was spinning so fast that the frosted air around it shimmered like heat haze, a paradox of cold so intense it burned.
With a sharp movement, Natasha hurled it toward the same boulder Daniel had used. For a moment, it looked like a slender icicle against the vast stone. But when it struck, the sound was like glass shattering under pressure. The ice arrow punched through the solid rock, tunneling clean across, and burst out the far side with a concussive snap. Shards of stone split and fell away, leaving behind a neat puncture that widened outward into a crater, proof of the raw penetration force.
The candidates gasped, several stepping back in disbelief. What had started as a simple, low-tier ice arrow now carried the destructive might of a tier-three spell, one that normally demanded over 300 mana to perform. Natasha, pale but triumphant, lowered her hand and exhaled hard. She had proven the point: with discipline and control, even the weakest of spells could be elevated into something devastating.
Daniel smiled faintly, his eyes gleaming with approval. "Exactly. She understood. You don't need a mountain of mana, you need mastery over what little you have. That is the difference between a mage who wastes power… and a mage who shapes it into a weapon."
The field that Daniel had erased from the map, once a fortress of Grisval, was now nothing but broken stone and scorched earth. The perfect proving ground. Where a kingdom once stood, hundreds of guild members now spread out, their eyes burning with the same fire that had carried Natasha to success. If she could take a low-tier spell and turn it into a weapon of tier-three devastation, then why couldn't they? That thought alone gnawed at their pride and fueled their determination.
One by one, they began.
Dmitriev's body crackled with sparks as he tried to weave his electrical bursts into threads of lightning, not just raw discharges but currents that flowed along invisible paths he attempted to guide toward multiple targets. He gritted his teeth, focusing so hard the veins on his neck bulged, but the arcs scattered wildly. Still, he kept trying, determined not to stop until he controlled it.
Borislav summoned poison mist into the air, attempting to condense it into a sharp, needle-thin projectile instead of the usual cloud. He nearly collapsed from mana exhaustion after his third attempt, coughing violently, but he pushed through, unwilling to be left behind.
Tamara, the healer, experimented by channeling her mana into multiple threads that reached out like strands of silver silk. Instead of healing one wound at a time, she stretched her power outward to touch three, then four players at once. Her face turned pale as the strain nearly broke her concentration, but when three warriors' cuts closed simultaneously, gasps of awe spread among those watching.
Others tried as well:
Matt attempted to summon and fire his hundred arrows, not in random scatter but with precise guidance. He strained his mind, locking onto specific targets he imagined, forcing the arrows to bend mid-flight. Several missed, but two struck true, piercing the exact spots he willed.
Moyra compressed her sand manipulation tighter than she ever dared, forcing her mana into a cube the size of her fist. When she dropped it, the flat rock cracked under its unnatural density.
Romaldo swelled into his juggernaut form, but instead of charging blindly, he focused on refining the transformation, pouring mana evenly until his frame moved with terrifying balance, less beastly rage and more controlled devastation. but doing this made him tired as he tested guiding his strength into precision strikes instead of wild cleaves.
Some fainted mid-practice, their mana veins screaming from the unnatural precision required. Others staggered on shaking legs, drenched in sweat. But the thought repeated in all their minds, the same unspoken chant: If she could do it, why can't we?
Even the non-combatants were swept into it. Bonnie, whose gravity magic had always been dismissed as support, now saw a spark of new possibility. She hesitated only a moment before walking directly up to Daniel. Unlike the others, she wasn't shy, because she knew. She knew who he truly was.
"Dane… no lord Daniel Rothchester." Her voice was steady, but her eyes betrayed a mix of awe and something more personal. "Can you guide me?"
Daniel studied her, his expression calm, unreadable. "Show me what you can do first."
Bonnie lifted her dagger, holding it flat across her open palm. She whispered the incantation, mana wrapping around the blade in a subtle shimmer. At first, nothing seemed unusual—until the dagger shivered, lightening, then gently floated above her hand as though the air itself carried it.
The crowd murmured in surprise. Some scoffed, it was no fireball, no thunderous strike—but Daniel's eyes sharpened. To him, the dagger wasn't just floating. He saw the hidden language of mana, the pathways and laws woven into the spell itself. His [Assessment] skill, honed beyond mortal limits, read the currents of energy others couldn't even perceive.
"Interesting," Daniel murmured, stepping closer. "You've given your mana form, not by binding it… but by changing weight itself. You're not moving the dagger. You're moving the rules that define its existence."
Bonnie blinked, her breath catching. No one had ever explained it like that before.
"Do you see what this means?" Daniel continued, his voice carrying just enough for the others to hear. "If you can make a dagger float, you can make an enemy fall. If you can make weight vanish, you can make armies crumble under crushing force. It isn't about the size of the spell, Bonnie. It's about what truth you force the world to accept."
Bonnie's lips parted, her focus flickering as her heart pounded. For the first time, she felt her ability was more than a support trick, it was a weapon, a possibility.
The others looked on, shaken and inspired in equal measure. If even gravity could become a blade, then what excuse did they have to limit themselves?
Daniel stood a short distance from Bonnie, his hand raised as though he were about to conduct an orchestra rather than instruct a guild member. His voice, calm and deliberate, carried the weight of a teacher unraveling truth.
"Bonnie," he began, "your gravity skill is not some mystical accident. It's a formula. Think of it as a command line, or a simple program written into the laws of the Tower. Every time you cast, you're feeding mana into that formula, telling reality to apply more weight or less weight to an object. Nothing more."
Bonnie frowned, staring at the dagger still hovering faintly above her palm. "A program…" she whispered, trying to grasp it.
Daniel stepped closer and, with a flick of his wrist, conjured his own dagger. He coated it in mana, the air shimmering around the blade. "Right now, your spell has two main instructions: increase gravity or decrease gravity. But you've been casting them as a single effect—one direction at a time. What happens," his eyes narrowed as his mana split, "if you separate the two into distinct streams, and then force them to act together?"
The gathered players leaned in as Daniel layered his mana with surgical precision. He wrapped one half of the dagger in decreased gravity, lightening it until it threatened to drift away. The other half he burdened with increased gravity, dragging downward with invisible weight. The blade shuddered under the opposing forces, then began to rotate, spinning in place like a perfectly balanced gyroscope.
Bonnie gasped. Her eyes followed the movement, the dagger cutting the air with impossible smoothness.
Daniel wasn't finished. "Now," he said, weaving a third thread of mana along the dagger's centerline, "add stability. A counterweight of equilibrium. Not pulling up, not pulling down—just holding it in place. And there… you've created motion without throwing it, without pushing it. Rotation born purely of isolated forces."
The dagger floated, spinning steadily in front of him. Daniel lowered his hand, leaving the currents to maintain themselves. "Do you understand what this means? Gravity is simple. It only knows up or down. But you are the one who chooses where to apply those rules, and how. You're not bending reality, you're negotiating with it."
Bonnie's lips parted, her brows furrowed as she tried to piece it together. "…Then who's supplying the force?" she asked, hesitant, almost fearful of the answer.
Daniel's gaze fixed on her, unwavering. "You are."
The weight of those words settled over her like a cloak. Her hand trembled slightly, the dagger in her palm wobbling as her concentration faltered. Daniel's voice softened but grew sharper in clarity. "Every ounce of spin, every ounce of stability—that's not the world moving it. That's you. Your mana is the engine. Your will is the code. The Tower only provides the laws. You are the one writing the variables."
Something clicked in her mind then. She wasn't just a caster bound to presets, she was a programmer of reality's most fundamental force.
Her eyes widened with realization, and she whispered, "Then… I can make gravity dance?"
Daniel's lips curved faintly. "You can make gravity serve. Whether it dances, crushes, or shields depends on how far you're willing to refine the formula."
Around them, silence stretched, the other guild members stunned not by the display of power but by the philosophy behind it. For the first time, Bonnie felt not like a support caster riding on stronger warriors, but like someone holding the potential to shift the flow of an entire battlefield.
The colossal drill of daggers spun above the crater, its roar drowning out even the whistle of the wind. Then Daniel's hand moved, just a small, effortless gesture, like a conductor ending a symphony. The construct shuddered, broke apart, and the eight blades shot outward in eight different directions, each propelled by the same spiraling force that had bound them together.
For a heartbeat, silence. Then the ground trembled as eight distant booms echoed across the barren expanse, thunder rolling in from multiple horizons. The shockwaves rippled back toward the crater, carrying the scent of charred flesh and burnt earth.
Daniel exhaled, lowering his arm, his eyes softening. "My apologies, Bonnie," he said, his tone quiet but firm. "I'll replace your daggers. I had to use them."
Confusion rippled among the guild members until the first reports came in from scouts posted at the perimeter. The eight blades had not vanished into nothing. Each had found a target: massive undead beasts, grotesque things of rotting sinew and bone, already lumbering toward their position. The daggers had pierced them clean through, detonating their cores before the monsters ever reached striking distance. By the time the guild realized what had happened, the corpses of the undead titans were already collapsing into the dust, their threat ended before it even began.
A murmur spread among the three hundred, awe mingled with disbelief. Even Bonnie stood frozen, her hand unconsciously brushing at the empty space on her belt where the daggers once rested. Her weapons, guided by Daniel's will, had just performed a feat she never dreamed possible—annihilating threats that would have taken squads of elites to bring down.
High above, in places unseen, the ripples reached further still. Sigma, with his administrator privileges, had shifted the battlefield again, weaving the undead monsters into the path of the quest without warning. His interference was subtle, masked beneath layers of system logic, but the old gods noticed.
They always noticed.
Yet this time, they only watched. Some wore expressions of feigned innocence, as though the manipulation of the Tower had nothing to do with them. Others smiled faintly, intrigued by the escalating game. And the Tower system itself—ancient, impartial—recorded the change but gave no warning. No violation was named. No tampering was declared.
And so the old gods settled into their silence, ignoring Sigma's interference, content to watch how the pieces moved. For them, the quest was not broken. It was simply… more entertaining.
Below, in the dust of Grisval's crater, Daniel turned back to the guild, his gaze steady, as if nothing extraordinary had just occurred. and asked Mary Kaye if he can rest as he acted as if he was tired from to much mana was used, as he stop the flow of his mana to be more convincing as many players around him can see mana manifestation.