But a forge underground required ventilation, or they would all suffocate within a day.
Lencar looked up at the ceiling of the workshop. He used his Wind Magic, creating a highly concentrated, spiraling drill of high-pressure air. The wind drill bore a perfect, smooth shaft straight up through hundreds of feet of solid rock until it breached the surface of the mountain. He created three such ventilation shafts throughout the base. Inside the shafts, he left permanent, slowly rotating vortexes of Wind Magic that would constantly cycle fresh air down from the surface and pull the forge's exhaust up and out.
With the physical layout of the workshop and the living quarters finished, Lencar moved on to the most tedious, but most crucial step: the runecraft.
He walked through every corridor, every room, and the main hall, his index finger glowing with a sharp, condensed blade of mana. He physically carved complex, overlapping magical runes into the smooth stone and crystal walls.
He carved stabilization runes to ensure the chaotic mana of the Grand Magic Zone wouldn't bleed into the base and disrupt Dominante's work. He carved durability runes, tying the structural integrity of the entire base to the ambient mana of the mountain itself, meaning the only way to collapse the base was to destroy the entire Crag.
The physical toll of carving thousands of intricate runes was maddening. His fingers cramped, his vision blurred slightly from the intense focus, and his mana reserves dipped dangerously low once again.
He sat down heavily in the center of the magnificent main hall, his back resting against the cold, smooth floor. He stared up at the vaulted ceiling. He was exhausted, truly and deeply exhausted. But as he looked around at the imposing, flawlessly constructed underground fortress, a profound sense of satisfaction washed over him.
It wasn't just a hideout. It was a seat of power.
He spent another twenty minutes cycling mana, pushing through the wall of fatigue, relying on his sheer, unyielding willpower to prepare for the final phase.
"Now for more Security," Lencar whispered, his voice echoing softly in the pristine silence of the hall.
He walked back up the long, sloping entrance tunnel until he reached the surface. The night was still pitch black, the wind howling just as fiercely as when he had arrived.
He turned around to face the massive, rectangular opening he had carved into the cliff face.
Lencar raised his hands, weaving a highly complex tapestry of defensive spells. First, he used his Illusion Magic, pulling the visual essence of the surrounding jagged, unblemished cliff face and stretching it perfectly over the entrance. To the naked eye, the gaping tunnel completely vanished, replaced by a flawless continuation of the mountain.
But visual illusions were easily pierced by strong mana sensing. To counter this, Lencar deployed his highly refined Concealment Magic, the same attribute that allowed him to hide his own monstrous power. He wove a massive, invisible blanket of static mana over the illusion, perfectly matching the erratic, chaotic frequency of the Shivering Crags. Anyone attempting to scan the area would only feel the natural, violent storms of the Grand Magic Zone.
To hide the exhaust from the ventilation shafts, he deployed dense layers of Mist Magic around the exits on the mountain peaks, ensuring the hot air from the forge would blend seamlessly with the natural, freezing fogs of the Crags.
Finally, he laid the traps. He didn't want curious beasts or wandering fools stumbling into his domain.
Around the concealed entrance, he seeded the ground with his Needle Magic, creating thousands of microscopic, invisible barbs that would paralyze anything that stepped on them. Woven into the stone itself, he placed highly volatile proximity wards using his Lightning and Shock Magic; anyone attempting to forcefully breach the illusion without his specific mana signature would be hit with thousands of volts of non-lethal, but entirely debilitating, electrical force.
And as a final, cruel deterrent for those truly persistent, he layered a subtle perimeter of Curse Magic—a localized hex that instilled a profound, suffocating sense of supernatural dread in anyone who lingered too close to the entrance for more than a few minutes, forcing their primal instincts to turn them around and run.
Lencar lowered his hands. His entire body was humming with residual magic, his muscles protesting the continuous four-hour marathon of high-tier spellcasting.
He stood alone in the howling wind of the Obsidian Crags, staring at the solid black cliff face that completely hid his magnificent creation.
He had done it. Utilizing almost every facet of his vast, stolen, and integrated magical arsenal, he had carved a masterpiece out of a nightmare environment. The base was utterly undetectable, incredibly durable, and perfectly equipped for the people who were waiting for him.
Lencar let out a long, slow breath, feeling the cold air bite against his skin beneath the dark cloak. He was drained, but the adrenaline of the accomplishment kept him standing tall. He wouldn't show weakness, not to himself, and certainly not to the people who were depending on him.
He tapped the silver spatial ring on his finger.
It was time to bring Dominante, Fanzell, and Mariella to their new home.
Lencar raised his hand, his fingers glowing with the familiar dark purple light of his Spatial Magic. He visualized the cramped, chaotic safehouse beneath the Nairn Black Market, remembering the exact coordinates he had left behind.
"Spatial Magic: Void Step," Lencar commanded.
The air tore open before him, revealing the bright, warm light of Dominante's workshop. Without a backward glance at the howling, desolate wasteland of the Grand Magic Zone, Lencar Abarame stepped through the portal, ready to officially usher in the beginning of his new syndicate.
The howling, chaotic storms of the Shivering Crags raged against the magically concealed entrance of the newly forged underground base, but Lencar Abarame heard none of it.
He was entirely removed from the physical world, having retreated into the secluded spatial dimension housed within the plain silver ring on his finger.
The interior of the ring's dimension was a stark contrast to the violently hostile Grand Magic Zone outside. It was a serene, boundless void bathed in a soft, ethereal green light. The source of this light was the Breath of Yggdrasil—a magnificent, ancient relic Lencar had acquired, which hovered gently in the center of the space. It pulsed with a rhythmic, heartbeat-like cadence, emitting a dense, almost liquid mist of pure, unadulterated life force and mana known as Quintessence.
Lencar sat cross-legged beneath the gentle glow of the relic. He had removed his heavy black cloak and the featureless wooden mask, setting them neatly beside him. His usually calm face was pale, his skin pulled tight over his cheekbones, and his chest heaved with the lingering, deep-seated exhaustion of expending a terrifying amount of Stage 3 Peak mana to hollow out a mountain in a matter of hours.
He closed his eyes and opened his mana core, drawing the Quintessence into his body.
The effect was instantaneous and profound. The Quintessence didn't just refill his mana reserves; it actively repaired his physical form at a cellular level. Lencar felt the cool, soothing energy wash through his heavily taxed veins. It rushed into his aching muscles, knitting together the microscopic tears caused by channeling such massive, contradictory elements like Iron, Fire, Earth, and Crystal magic in rapid succession. The heavy, throbbing ache at the base of his skull—a byproduct of the intense mental calculation required for the intricate runic carving—melted away like snow on a hot stove.