Author Note
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Chapter 21
I was deep in my research—completely absorbed, mind sharpened to a point as I tried to unravel the twin mysteries of enchantments and seals.
The room around me faded into nothingness.
No walls.
No ticking clock.
Just parchment, ink, and a scattered ring of glowing glyphs scribbled in rough haste on the floor around me.
I had decided to focus first on enchantments, specifically the act of embedding commands into lifeless objects.
Think of it like coding a video game NPC.
You don't give it emotions or thoughts—you give it rules.
"Walk five steps forward."
"Activate when struck."
"Repel flames." Simple instructions, but beneath that simplicity was a maddening level of complexity.
The theory was straightforward: enchantments allowed you to imprint a single function onto an object, but only if it was non-living.
The real art came in binding that command with mana, and making sure it functioned constantly, under all conditions.
The object had to obey your rules like a perfect machine, without deviation, hesitation, or error.
And to do that... you needed an almost surgical level of control over mana.
I remembered Odin from Marvel, casually enchanting Thor's hammer with just a sentence.
No chants.
"Whosoever holds this hammer, if he be worthy, shall possess the power of Thor."
Simple.
Powerful.
Terrifying.
To do something like that, you'd need to have such absolute control over your mana that even breathing wouldn't interrupt it.
The spell would need to bind itself to the object on a conceptual level, latching onto the very idea of worthiness.
Few in this world—if any—could dream of doing that.
But I knew someone who had tried: Maron.
From the memories I still carried, I recalled that Maron's enchantments could only produce basic movement—clumsy, draining, and fragile.
The equivalent of forcing a stone to roll downhill and pretending that made it alive.
In contrast, what I aimed for required precision. Vision. And something close to genius.
At the moment, I was trying to enchant my clothes.
Not the formal robes I wore as a Professor.
These were different—tailored, simple, black and silver with a crescent rune stitched along the collar.
These were for my alter ego—the version of me who would move in the shadows.
A persona built for secrecy.
For manipulation.
For crimes that I couldn't afford to be linked to my real identity.
And so, the enchantments had to be discreet, durable, and deeply personal.
The first enchantment was self-repair.
I needed the fabric to regenerate itself using the ambient mana in the air.
But to make that happen, I had to understand exactly how fabric was made.
I had to mentally reconstruct the threads—what they were made of, how they were stitched, woven, and connected.
Only then could I craft a magical "blueprint," a kind of auto-restore function the enchantment could reference if the fabric ever tore or burned.
Next came something far more ambitious—healing.
My goal?
That anyone wearing these clothes would recover from injuries while wearing them.
Originally, I dreamed of giving the outfit the power of regeneration—instant cellular repair, regrowth of limbs, revival from the brink of death.
But I had to face reality.
Regeneration required atomic-level knowledge.
You'd need to see each cell, each protein, each strand of DNA to reconstruct what was lost.
I wasn't there yet.
So instead, I aimed for healing.
Even that wasn't easy.
Healing Magic fell under a rare category—one of the Three Pillars of magic.
The first was Elemental Magic—your fireballs, ice shards, wind blades, and the like. Raw, destructive power bound by nature's laws.
The second was Healing Magic, which, unlike Elemental, required finesse.
You weren't breaking the body—you were repairing it.
That demanded a deep understanding of human anatomy.
You needed to know where to send the mana, how to stimulate cell growth, close wounds, mend bones.
And finally, there was Unique Magic—those born from bloodlines, or forbidden rituals.
As for me?
I could claim mastery over mana control—perhaps the best in the world—but my biological knowledge was laughable in comparison.
I knew how to force mana into a lattice of runes.
But I didn't know how to rebuild a torn muscle, or how nerves reconnected, or how to trigger cellular mitosis with mana alone.
And that's what made what happened next so shocking.
I succeeded.
Barely.
The enchantment I placed into the cloak worked—but just enough to close small wounds.
A scrape, a cut, a bruise—it could mend those.
Anything more, and the enchantment flickered like a candle in a hurricane.
But it gave me hope.
If I could figure out how to heal with even a limited effect, then maybe... just maybe... with enough time, research, and experimentation, I could ascend to the level where true regeneration was possible.
I would need to learn everything: the structure of bones, the nature of skin, the regenerative functions of cells.
It wasn't impossible. Just… not possible yet.
The only catch?
The mana cost.
It wasn't something I could maintain at the moment—
But it was easy...
Too easy.
And that scared me.
The final enchantment was both simple in theory and incredibly powerful in practice—Strengthen and Reinforcement.
Its purpose was to enhance both the wearer and the clothing itself.
The spell would fortify the fibers, making them far more durable—resistant to tearing, piercing, and even minor elemental damage.
But more than that, it would also infuse the wearer's body with added force, as if mana itself was weaving through muscle and bone.
From my calculations—and a bit of experimental testing—the enchantment granted a 30% boost in physical defense, and an equal 30% boost in strength.
That's a significant leap, especially in a world where small differences often determine who lives and who dies in battle.
It was a true boon, especially for what I had planned.
But while enchantments offered a degree of flexibility and control, seals were an entirely different beast.
Brook had been the first to explain it to me in his memory.
Seals, he said, were like casting a spell into a symbol.
You inscribe it, anchor it, and under the right conditions—it activates.
Some were passive, constantly providing an effect like a ward or a light.
Others were conditional, only triggering when a specific criterion was met.
A basic Light Seal, for example, would make any object it was bound to glow like a lantern.
A Fire Seal could be used to heat water or cook food without flames.
Harmless.
Domestic.
Convenient.
Most seals were used for daily life—not for battle.
Or rather, they hadn't figured out how to use them in battle.
But I had.
At least... in theory.
Right now, I couldn't implement my ideas.
My mana foundation and control were unparalleled, but the complex layering needed to trigger seals dynamically during combat was still beyond my reach.
And that was where the true tragedy lay—because seals, as impressive as they could be, were just a faint whisper of something far greater.
From the fragmented records I'd uncovered, from the shattered memories that still echoed through my mind, I knew that seals were merely a 0.1% fragment of something ancient and lost—the Runes.
The Ancient Runes.
A script said to defy reality itself, allowing the user to twist logic and law to their will.
Not just cast fire, but command it.
Not just move earth, but reshape landscapes.
The kind of power that sounded like mythology—but the kind that always hides a grain of truth.
Legends said those Runes came from a time before recorded history, before nations, before even the concept of structured magic.
But no one understood them anymore.
They had outlived their creators, becoming mystical fossils—powerful, but inert.
Forgotten.
And in forgetting them, the world had come to believe that seals were the origin, when they were nothing more than a broken echo.
For now, I was still working with basic seals.
The ones I was layering into my outfit were practical—but far from harmless.
I engraved seals to boost mana flow, both in myself and anyone else who wore the cloak.
I added a seal that would warm the wearer when cold, and another to cool them when overheated. Comfort mattered, after all—especially in extended combat or when infiltrating unfamiliar climates.
One seal would block all scent, making it impossible for even magical creatures or beasts to track me.
Another would prevent anyone from seeing through the clothes using magical detection or scrying eyes.
A different seal would render the wearer invisible for a limited duration, while another would alter their voice completely, fooling voice recognition spells and even people who knew me.
Then came the reinforcement seals—stacked over the original enchantments—to further fortify the fabric, and enhance the user's resilience.
And that was just the beginning.
In total, I placed over two dozen seals on the outfit—far more than any sane magician would dare to attempt.
If anyone were to examine it closely, they'd rightfully question what I was planning.
Why would someone need this much stealth, protection, and utility in a single set of clothes?
They would assume the worst.
And they'd be right.
Because this outfit wasn't just for some academic field test.
I designed it for war in the shadows—for when I would step into the underworld and reshape it to my vision.
Not out of revenge.
No.
I wasn't interested in petty emotions.
This was about control.
Control over the very forces that tried to bend me.
Control over the Organization that forced me to serve them.
A single man cannot conquer the infinite ocean of knowledge.
So I will take over the underworld.
And from there, I'll take over the world—not for fame, or domination, but to push us forward.
To accelerate the march of knowledge.
To force humanity to evolve, and extend its reach beyond this planet, beyond this realm.
To extract the truths buried in stars, ruins, and dimensions no one dares to explore.
Aren't you already getting excited about the future like me?