Anton Agrunour—one of the greatest mages in history—was a name that echoed through every mage's study and every scholar's tale. Son of Augustus Agrunour, who was also a legendary figure among mages, Anton's destiny seemed written in the very fabric of magic. He was the one who had helped bring an end to the Fourth Era of War, a feat that earned him eternal renown.
Most mages deemed the "greatest in history" had reached the formidable 9th Rank, the pinnacle of magical mastery. Anton, however, never attained that rank—he stopped at Rank 8. Yet, he was celebrated not for titles, but for knowledge. A prodigy unlike any other, Anton was gifted with two of the rarest magical attributes in existence: Time and Space. With them, he wove spells that bent reality and altered fate itself, proving that greatness was measured not by rank alone, but by the mastery of what one commanded.
In the world of magic, attributes were the foundation of every spell and every mage's power. Earth, Water, Wind, and Fire were common, familiar to almost anyone who studied magic. Less common were Lighting, Sound, Metal, Wood, and Ice—attributes that required talent and effort to master.
Light and Darkness were unique and rare, seen only in a few exceptional mages.
And then there were the rarest of all: Time and Space. So rare, they appeared in perhaps only one in a billion mages. Buy only a few ever reached even a fraction of their potential.
In the entire history of mages, those who reached the 9th Rank had all wielded common attributes, though some had mastered uncommon ones. To climb the ranks in any attribute required knowledge, skill, and a deep understanding of its nature. The unique and rare attributes—Light, Darkness, Time, and Space—were different. None of the mages gifted with these extraordinary powers had ever reached the 9th Rank.
While a few mages had reached Rank 8 in Light and Darkness, Anton Agrunour was the first to achieve Rank 8 in both Time and Space. After him, very few accomplished the same—mostly because these attributes were so rare, appearing only in a handful of mages across generations.
Kaisel thought to himself as he turned the pages of the book. My brother was literally named after this person… Father must have admired his knowledge that much.
He continued reading, absorbing what he could about spatial magic, slowly beginning to grasp the ways it could manipulate distances, dimensions, and the flow of space itself.
The most basic spell was called Object Swap, allowing two things to swap places. This was a Rank 1 spell. At Rank 2, the distance over which the swap could occur increased—but the weight of the objects still played a role, limiting how far or how easily the spell could be used.
At Rank 3 came Blink, a spell that allowed a person to appear anywhere within a few steps of their current position.
Rank 4 introduced Short Distance Travel, enabling teleportation within a radius of several meters, and Position Swap, which allowed a mage to exchange places with another person or object. At Rank 5, the range of these spells increased—what worked within a 15 meter radius at Rank 4 could now cover 25 to 30 meters.
Rank 6 brought Long Distance Travel, allowing teleportation across much greater distances, though still limited by the mage's skill and understanding of spatial magic.
The book contained only this much. Kaisel felt a mix of excitement and disappointment. He was thrilled to gain knowledge of the spells tied to the Space attribute, eager to reach Rank 4 so he could use Short Distance Travel. But he was also frustrated—the book contained so few spells, and only up to Rank 6. Of course, that was natural; most mages jealously guarded their greatest creations and trump cards, leaving behind only fragments of their craft for others to find.
Kaisel let out a quiet sigh. "Well… it's better than knowing nothing at all."
Kaisel closed the book in silence.
His thoughts wandered…
The words Wrath had spoken echoed in his mind—about his lifespan, about how he had only thirty years left to live.
Is this… is this because of that curse of mine? he wondered.
A heavy stillness settled over him. He searched for a feeling—fear, grief, anger—but found none. Instead, he sat lost in an emptiness he could not name. He was only ten. A boy who had barely stepped into the world, who hadn't even begun to live—and yet someone had told him his years were already numbered. Thirty years. Three short decades, and then… nothing.
He couldn't even decide what to make of it. Should he despair? Should he rage? Should he cry? No answer came.
But even as the reality of his limited time pressed against him, that was not what consumed his thoughts. It wasn't death that frightened him. What gnawed at him was doubt. Doubt that thirty years would be enough. Enough to grow strong, strong enough to rise above everyone who had trampled the Ravengard name. Strong enough to tear down those who had orchestrated his family's downfall. Strong enough to avenge his mother's death.
Would he have the time to seize power, to claim vengeance, to bend the empire to his will before the curse claimed him?
That was the question that burned more fiercely than the fear of dying.
He closed his eyes and let out a deep breath.
Rising from his seat, he gathered the books he had taken earlier and carefully placed them back in their shelves. By now, Kaisel had consumed a great deal of knowledge—books on both arcane magic and the magic tied to his own Attributes, as well as tomes on combat theory and swordsmanship. Yet, knowledge alone was never enough.
He understood concepts, structures, and the principles behind both swordplay and sorcery, but he lacked the experience and refinement to put them to use effectively. What he possessed could only be called the bare foundations.
Kaisel's swordsmanship was roughly on par with a knight's squire. He understood the basics of stance, balance, and striking, but lacked the refined technique of a trained knight. More than that, his physical body had yet to catch up with his skill. Without greater strength and endurance, his blade could never reach its true potential. What he needed most now was both raw power to drive his strikes and the finesse to sharpen his technique into something deadly.
His magic was more advanced, though still far from mastery. His Spatial Attribute stood at Rank 2, granting him the ability to perform Object Swap over short distances. While the spell allowed him to exchange the position of two objects, distance and weight placed heavy limits on its use.
His Darkness Attribute, meanwhile, had reached Rank 3, granting him a deeper grasp over shadows. At this stage, he could shape multiple streams of darkness simultaneously—turning them into crude tendrils, veils for concealment, or simple attacks. Though limited in scale, this already gave him more versatility in combat than most Rank 2 mages.
Arcane magic, however, stood apart. It had no ranks to measure progress. Its strength lay not in fixed stages, but in the depth of one's knowledge, understanding, and the creativity of application. In that sense, Kaisel's arcane studies were still shallow, like a map with only a few landmarks drawn. He had knowledge, but little experience in wielding it.
Kaisel decided he needed to train more. With a quiet sigh, he wandered the halls for a while, letting his thoughts settle. The shelves that lined most of the chamber were filled with books—tomes on magic, combat, and theory. Some sections held containers of colored liquids and jars of rare materials, mostly for alchemy.
Eventually, his steps carried him to another side of the hall where there were no books or glass vials, but weapons instead. Rows of steel gleamed faintly in the dim light: broad swords, short swords, and greatswords, their blades honed to lethal sharpness; battle-axes heavy enough to crush armor; maces built to shatter bones; and even large bows crafted for precision and range.
As he walked past them, his eyes fell on a polished wooden box, half-hidden under a thin layer of dust. Its top was made of glass bordered with carved wooden edges. Curious, Kaisel brushed away the dust with his hand and peered inside.
Within lay several strings—thin, black strings coiled neatly, almost too ordinary to be stored with such care. His brow furrowed. Something about them felt… out of place. He opened the box and reached in, picking up one of the strands between his fingers.
A sharp sting made him hiss and instinctively jerk his hand back. He looked down in surprise—faint pain lingered at his fingertips, and a thin line of blood welled from a shallow cut, trickling down his hand. The string, deceptively delicate in appearance, had sliced his skin as if it were a blade.
Kaisel suddenly remembered something he had read. His eyes lingered on the black strands, and he whispered quietly:
"The Strings of Death."
To be continued.