If Vael had to name one disadvantage of his Space attribute, it was the toll it took on his body.
An average person's frame wasn't built to withstand the strain of being torn through space.
Think of it like this: a fire mage's flames won't burn him, but another fire mage's fire could reduce him to ash.
Space was different. It didn't belong to anyone. Vael was merely granted the ability to manipulate it.
That was why, even with his Awakened body, drawn-out battles weren't ideal.
Which was fine. His style revolved around surprise—and ending fights quickly.
But it also meant training was either done without his attribute… or had to end fast.
And now, Vael really wanted to let out some steam. But with less than an hour left before the banquet, that wasn't an option.
So, he returned to his room, where a little project of his waited.
A pocket dimension.
He didn't bother with the door, simply teleporting inside.
The room was as he had left it—clean, except for his old clothes scattered across the floor.
Back at the inn, Vael had often struggled to sleep. That was when he discovered an activity that required only mental effort.
The idea already existed; his Spatial Pocket was proof of that. But what he sought now was something far greater.
Not just a built-in inventory. A world of his own—one where he dictated the rules.
For the past week and a half, Vael had spent his nights shaping mana, working to crack the code of his personal dimension.
He had begun by dissecting the way his mana intertwined to form the Pocket ability. The process came as naturally to him as breathing—
but natural didn't mean simple.
The deeper he looked, the less it resembled instinct and the more it felt like staring into an impossibly tangled knot. Thousands of invisible threads, each humming with power, weaving and unweaving in a pattern so elaborate it made his head throb.
He'd close his eyes, forcing his focus inward, and trace one line of mana after another, only to lose his place and feel the whole construct collapse like a house of cards.
Every failed attempt left a ringing pressure behind his eyes, as if space itself was pressing against his skull in protest.
At first, he thought the spell's outcome depended solely on pathways—which mana veins were chosen, which routes were cut off. Like roads on a map, he believed the direction alone determined the destination.
That theory shattered quickly.
Quantity mattered. Speed mattered. Even the density of each thread mattered. One strand stretched too thin, and the Pocket warped into nothing. Too fast, and the pattern twisted violently, destabilizing before it even formed.
It wasn't a spell. It was an equation. A living, breathing formula that refused to stay still.
The realization didn't frustrate Vael. If anything, it thrilled him.
He wasn't dealing with a trick of magic—he was deciphering the language of reality itself. And somewhere inside that maddening storm of threads lay the key to his own dimension.
Now in his room, Vael returned to his obsession. It wasn't easy—every attempt left him drained, rattled—but the difficulty only made him smile. Because what he was doing was unheard of.
No master to guide him. No ancient scrolls to hint at the path. No scraps of knowledge tucked away in forgotten tomes. This was his creation, raw and untamed. His puzzle. His rebellion against the limits of magic. And if he solved it, the reward would be nothing short of power that defied comprehension.
He lowered himself to the floor, crossing his legs into a steady meditative stance. The air in the room grew quiet, heavy, as he let his thoughts sink inward. He had time to kill before the banquet—time he refused to waste.
Vael drew a deep breath, feeling the thrum of his core pulse through his veins. Threads of mana stirred, answering his call.
And with a faint, hungry grin, he began again.