The world dissolved into a single, searing point of existence: the pain.
It was not a wave that crashed over me; it was an ocean I had willingly submerged myself in, and every inch of my body was screaming in protest. The boiling, viscous liquid was a million needles of fire, piercing my skin, cooking my flesh, and searing down to the very bone. My nervous system was a harp strung with wires of lightning, and every convulsive shudder of the concoction played a symphony of agony upon it.
I did not allow myself the luxury of screaming. I locked my jaw, my teeth grinding together with enough force to shatter enamel, the sound a dull thunder inside my own skull. I focused on my breathing, on the rhythmic, torturous expansion of my lungs against the scalding pressure. In. Out. Each inhalation was a gulp of fire, each exhalation a plume of steam that carried away a fragment of my sanity.
My enhanced regeneration was both a blessing and a curse. It fought a desperate, frantic war against the destruction. I could feel my skin blistering, peeling away, only to be instantly reborn, tighter, tougher. Muscles fibers tore like overstretched rope and were rewoven with the raw, unrefined energy of the mana beast blood and the potent herbs. The process was a cycle of annihilation and rebirth, each rotation a hammer blow on the anvil of my body, forging me anew.
The mana stones at the bottom of the pot glowed like malevolent eyes, releasing their chaotic energy directly into the mixture. This wild mana was a storm inside me, clashing with the ordered power of my red core. It was like trying to drink from a firehose. My core spun furiously, a vortex of crimson light, straining to absorb, refine, and integrate the violent influx. It was a battle on two fronts: the physical crucible and the mystical one.
Time lost all meaning. It became measured only in heartbeats, each one a struggle against the urge to leap from the pot and end the torment. The six-hour requirement I had set for myself was a mountain I had to climb in the dark, with no sense of how far I had come or how far I had left to go. My consciousness wavered. Visions flickered at the edges of my perception—the cold, analytical eyes of my master in the forest, the sneering face of the thug leader, the silent judgment of the gold mask I still wore.
This is the price, the hungry voice within me whispered, a mantra against the pain. Power is never given. It is taken. Forged in fire and paid for in blood. Your blood.
I held onto that thought. I embraced the fire. I let it burn away the weakness, the frustration, the fear. I was not just enduring; I was consuming the pain, making it a part of me. The blackish-gray substance that seeped from my pores—the accumulated impurities, the physical limitations of my former self—swirled in the murky purple liquid, boiled away to nothing.
Sometime in the deepest hour of the night, a shift occurred. The pain did not lessen, but my relationship to it changed. It was no longer an enemy assaulting me; it was a tool I was wielding. The searing heat became a familiar warmth. The tearing of my muscles was a sensation of growth. My core, which had been straining at its limits, suddenly seemed to find a new rhythm, a deeper harmony with the chaotic energy. It was as if a dam had broken inside me, and my capacity to absorb and refine expanded.
I rode that wave, pushing deeper into the meditation, guiding the energy not just into my core, but through it, allowing it to suffuse every cell, every strand of my being. The boundary between my body and my core began to blur. I was no longer a vessel containing power; I was the power itself.
---
The first sliver of grey dawn light was filtering through the shutters when I finally opened my eyes. The pot had long since cooled, the liquid within now a thick, foul-smelling sludge, like tar mixed with ashes. The mana-heater stove had automatically deactivated, its runes dim.
I moved, and the sound my body made was a chorus of cracks and pops, like stones grinding together. Slowly, stiffly, I rose from the congealed mess. The sludge peeled away from my skin with a sucking sound, revealing what was beneath.
My body was… transformed. The lean, wiry frame was still there, but it was now sheathed in a layer of corded, defined muscle that hadn't been there before. It wasn't the bulky, obvious strength of a laborer, but the dense, coiled power of a predator. My skin, once pale, had a faint, coppery sheen, as if brushed with metal dust. It felt tougher, more resilient, like worn leather. I flexed a hand, making a fist. The tendons stood out like steel cables, and I could feel the raw, physical power humming within. It was a significant increase, beyond what I had hoped for. A single punch from this body would carry the force of a sledgehammer.
But the true surprise was internal.
I closed my eyes, turning my senses inward. I sought the familiar, solid red sphere of my core. What I found stole the breath from my lungs.
It was not red.
It was orange. A bright, pulsating, vibrant orange. The Orange Light Stage. Initial phase.
A jolt, part elation, part shock, ran through me. This was impossible. The Crucible was a method for body cultivation, for physical enhancement. It shouldn't have directly advanced my core stage. Core advancement required meticulous, gradual refinement of mana, a slow building of pressure and understanding. This was a leap. A forceful, violent jump across a chasm I had been preparing to cross for weeks.
The excitement was immediate and fierce. This changed everything. My falsely claimed Red Stage was now a truth I had surpassed. The power available to me had increased exponentially. But just as quickly as the excitement came, a cold, clinical caution doused it. This was too fast. Advancement without foundation was like building a tower on sand. What was the cost?
I needed to assess the stability. I carefully stepped out of the pot, my feet landing on the cold stone floor with a solid, heavy thud. I moved the pot aside, the iron scraping loudly in the quiet room, and sat cross-legged on the floor, ignoring the dried, flaking sludge that still clung to me. I closed my eyes and began my standard mana refinement ritual.
I breathed in, drawing the rich, morning mana of Xyrus into my lungs. I guided it down, a stream of pure, ambient energy, toward the brilliant orange core.
And it stopped.
It was the strangest sensation. The mana flowed into my core, replenishing its reserves. I could feel the orange sphere drinking it in, its light brightening slightly. But when I tried to push further, to will that new mana to compress, to refine, to increase the core's density and push it toward the next phase… nothing happened. It was like trying to push against a glass wall. The core accepted fuel, but it rejected any attempt at alteration. It was stable, solid, and utterly immutable.
I pushed harder, focusing my intent with razor sharpness. A sharp, warning throb of pain lanced through my center. The orange light flickered unsteadily. I immediately released the pressure.
So that's the trade-off, I thought, a grim understanding settling in my gut. The violent advancement had locked my core. It had been forced into this new stage, but it needed time to settle, to integrate this new state of being before it could be pushed further. Attempting to refine it now wasn't just futile; it was dangerous. I could destabilize it, perhaps even cause it to fracture.
A side effect of the forceful advancement. Annoying, but not catastrophic. It meant my core cultivation was on hold, perhaps for days, maybe weeks. But my journey to power had never been a single path. If one door closed, I would kick down another.
"Fine," I whispered to the silent room, my voice hoarse from the night's ordeal. "If I cannot refine the core, I will master the tools it provides."
The Orange Stage meant a greater reservoir of mana and a understanding for the elements which heightened my already extreme understanding due to my Quincy Lineage. My fire and wind magic, which had been simple tricks, could now become genuine weapons. That would be my focus. My schedule would adapt. Physical training in the morning, magic practice in the afternoon, and… other experiments in the evening.
First, I had to clean up. The room smelled like a charnel house mixed with an alchemist's failed experiment. I spent the next hour meticulously scrubbing the pot, scouring the floor where sludge had dripped, and washing myself with a bucket of cold water. The blackish-gray residue came away, leaving the new, coppery-tough skin underneath. I dressed in simple, dark training clothes, the fabric feeling strange against my heightened senses.
The sun was fully up by the time I finished. I followed the rest of my morning routine with a detached efficiency. The public gym was still too great a risk, so I used the confines of my room for calisthenics and katas. The increase in my physical strength was disorienting. A push-up that should have required effort now felt like a gentle stretch. I had to recalibrate my movements, learning the new limits and potentials of this forged body.
After a simple meal of dried meat and hard bread, I left the inn. The city streets were bustling with mid-morning activity. I moved with purpose, my enhanced senses taking in everything. The chatter of students, the rumble of carts, the scent of baking bread from a nearby stall—it was all amplified, a torrent of information.
My destination was a secluded training ground I had scouted weeks ago, a forgotten corner of a lesser-used public park, shielded from view by a dense grove of trees. It was there I would test my magic.
The difference was staggering. At the Red Stage, conjuring a flame was a effort of will, resulting in a flickering wisp of heat above my palm. Now, as I focused, a sphere of roaring orange fire the size of my fist bloomed into existence without a thought. It hovered, stable and hot, the air around it shimmering with distortion. I could feel the potential for destruction within it. I spent hours practicing: shaping the fire into blades, whips, and shields; controlling its intensity from a gentle warmth to a searing inferno; launching fireballs at a makeshift target of stacked rocks, which shattered and blackened under the assault.
Wind was the same. A simple gust I had used for cleaning my room was now a focused lance of air that could punch a hole through a tree trunk. I practiced creating vortices, barriers of swirling air, and enhancing my movement, feeling the wind curl around my limbs, promising impossible speed.
It was intoxicating. This was real power. The frustration of my locked core faded into the background, replaced by the immediate, visceral joy of mastery. I trained until the sun began its descent, until my mana reserves, though vast, were depleted, and my muscles ached with a pleasant, familiar fatigue.
But my day was not done. There was one more item on my new, adapted schedule. An experiment.
As twilight painted the sky in shades of violet and orange, I found myself walking through a different part of the city, away from the academies and training grounds, into a district of modest homes and small shops. I was looking for a very specific type of store.
I found it nestled between a cobbler and a laundress. The window was clean, and inside, I could see baskets of yarn, bags of feed, and a few small, portable cages. A hand-painted sign swung gently in the evening breeze: "Bennett's Beasties & Feeds." It was a pet store.
I pushed the door open, a bell jingling cheerfully overhead. The air inside was warm and smelled of hay, sawdust, and animal musk. An older man with a kind, wrinkled face and a balding head looked up from behind a counter where he was weighing out birdseed.
"Evening, son!" he said, his voice friendly. "What can I do for you? Looking for a companion? We've got some lovely songbirds just in. Or perhaps a cat? Good for the rodents."
I approached the counter, my movements calm, my gold mask reflecting the warm glow of the mana-lamps. The man's smile faltered for just a second, but his politeness held firm. He was a businessman.
"I need three cats," I said, my tone flat and transactional. "And a bird. Nothing exotic. Common breeds. Healthy."
The man, Bennett, blinked. "Three cats and a bird? All at once? That's… quite a handful for a young man. You have the space for them?"
"I do," I said, not elaborating. I let a silver coin appear between my fingers, placing it on the counter. "Health is the priority."
The clink of the coin decided the matter. Bennett's paternal concerns evaporated. "Of course, of course! Healthy as horses. Let me see what we have."
He bustled into the back and returned a few minutes later carrying a large, vented cardboard box that mewled softly. He set it down and opened the flap. Inside were three young cats: one a sleek black, one a tabby, and one a patchy calico. They peered out with wide, curious eyes. Then he went to a cage and carefully retrieved a small, brown sparrow, its heart beating a frantic rhythm against his gentle hands. He placed it in a smaller, separate box.
"These three are siblings, about twelve weeks old. Full of life. And the sparrow here is a tough little fellow. Eats anything." Bennett said. "That'll be… let's say eight copper for the lot."
I paid him without a word, taking the boxes. "Thank you for your business!" he called out as I left, the cheerful bell jingling my exit.
The walk back to the Grinning Gryphon was uneventful. The boxes were light in my arms. The cats mewed occasionally, a soft, plaintive sound. The bird was silent.
Back in my room, I barred the door. I placed the boxes on the floor and stood over them for a long moment, listening to the small, fragile lives within. I felt… nothing. No anticipation, no guilt, no excitement. This was a necessary step. Data needed to be gathered.
I cooked a simple, plain broth over the mana-stove, the smell of it filling the small room. I poured it into four small, clay bowls I had purchased earlier. The cats emerged cautiously from their box, sniffing the air before approaching the bowls and beginning to lap at the hot soup. The bird, released from its confines, hopped around before pecking at the liquid in its own bowl.
I watched them for a moment, then turned to my preparations. I took a clean glass flask and filled it eighty percent with water from my pitcher. Then I took a simple kitchen knife,as i did I held out my left forearm, the skin still bearing the faint coppery sheen from the crucible. I focused, enhancing the edge of the blade with a whisper of mana—a necessary step, as my natural skin was now likely too tough for a mundane knife to easily pierce.
With a quick, precise motion, I drew the sharpened edge across my skin. A thin, red line appeared. I clenched my fist, and dark red blood welled up, dripping steadily into the flask of water.
The effect was instantaneous and strange. As each drop hit the water, it didn't simply diffuse. It swirled, spreading through the liquid like ink, but instead of red, it turned the mixture a deep, shimmering, royal blue. It was an unnatural, vibrant color, like liquid lapis lazuli. After a dozen drops, the entire flask was filled with the deep blue liquid. I sealed the cut with a minor application of fire mana, cauterizing it instantly.
I stood over the four bowls. The animals were still eating, unaware. Slowly, deliberately, I poured an equal measure of the deep blue mixture into each bowl of soup. The blue liquid swirled with the broth, creating a murky, unappetizing color. The cats paused, sniffing at the change, but their hunger outweighed their caution, and they returned to eating. The bird continued to peck.
For three minutes, nothing happened. The cats finished their soup and began to clean their paws. The bird fluttered up to perch on the back of the wooden chair. I stood perfectly still, my senses extended, watching.
Then, the black cat froze in mid-lick. Its body went rigid. A low, guttural sound, half-hiss, half-gargle, escaped its throat. Its eyes widened, the pupils dilating to black pools. Then the convulsions started.
It was a violent, unnatural seizure. The cat thrashed on the floor, its limbs jerking at impossible angles. The other two cats began to mewl in distress, then they too were seized by the same spasms. The tabby crashed into the leg of the table, its back arching horribly. The calico vomited a stream of the blue-tinged soup before its body went limp for a second, only to be wracked by another series of convulsions. The bird fell from its perch, a feathered lump twitching spasmodically on the floor.
The room was filled with the sounds of suffering: the scrabbling of claws on stone, the choked cries, the terrible, dry heaves. It lasted for perhaps thirty seconds. Then, one by one, they fell still.
Silence.
I knelt down, examining each body with a detached, clinical eye. Their muscles were locked in rigor, their eyes wide and clouded with the shock of death. There was no visible external damage, no bleeding. The cause was clearly internal, systemic. Their body could not handle the power of my blood leading to multi system failure and a painful death.
I gathered the four small, lifeless bodies and placed them in the now-empty cardboard box. The night was fully dark when I slipped out of the inn and into the alleyways. I found a deep, foul-smelling dumpster behind a butcher's shop and deposited the box inside, covering it with other refuse.
As I walked back to the Grinning Gryphon, the city lights glittered around me. I felt no triumph, no sorrow. Only a cold, hard certainty. My body was a weapon. My blood was a weapon. The path ahead was dark and lined with thorns, and I would need every weapon I could forge.
I returned to my room, barred the door, and looked at the empty space where the animals had died. My face, behind the gold mask, showed no emotion. I had my data. The question now was not if my blood was poisonous i already knew this was a outcome of Blut der Macher , but to whom, and in what dosage was the question what was needed for one hundred percent success.
[END OF CHAPTER]