"So," he said calmly, "shall we continue our lesson?"
Heron did not answer.
He remained on one knee, one hand pressed against the cracked floor, the other clutching his chest as he tried to steady his breathing. Blood stained the corner of his lips, and his eyes were wide and unfocused, as if the world in front of him no longer made sense. The runes on his arms had already dimmed, retreating back into his skin, but the strain they had endured was clear from the trembling in his fingers.
Lysander noticed it immediately.
Heron was not pretending. He was not exaggerating to make a point. He was genuinely shaken.
And that alone was terrifying.
Heron was an S-rank Magi. Spatial magic was not something one reached through talent alone. It required extreme calculation, deep understanding, and control so precise that even a small mistake could tear the caster apart. Every spatial spell Heron used had been refined over decades, tested carefully, and strengthened through experience.
Yet moments ago, his Absolute Containment had been shattered.
That was what Heron was trying to understand.
Inside his mind, the moment replayed again and again. The way space had compressed. The way the light had struck it. The way the pressure had not dispersed but instead focused inward, as if the spell itself understood where to strike.
That was not how Tier X spells behaved.
No. That was not how any known light spell behaved.
Heron slowly lifted his head and looked at Aurelian again. The young man stood at the center of the ruined floor, posture relaxed, expression neutral. There was no sign of strain on his face, no shallow breathing, no instability in his stance. If not for the cracked ground and damaged shelves, it would have looked as if nothing had happened.
Heron swallowed.
Light magic spells had existed for thousands of years. From the earliest practitioners to modern magi associations, light had always been studied, refined, and categorized. Spells like Virtuous Lance were not new creations. They were products of generations of work. Hundreds of magi had poured their lives into improving casting speed, reducing cost, stabilizing output, and increasing penetration.
Some had succeeded.
Many had failed.
Some had died.
All for the sake of humanity, and for what they believed was the righteous use of light.
And yet, Aurelian had taken that spell and pushed it beyond its recorded limit in less than an hour.
If this was possible, then it meant something deeply unsettling. It meant that light magic, as practiced in this world, had been incomplete.
No one had truly matched it.
Heron slowly pushed himself up, but his legs trembled, forcing him to pause halfway. He took a deep breath, steadying himself, and remained silent.
Aurelian noticed.
He had already sensed that something was wrong. The pressure in the room had shifted, and the silence stretched longer than expected. He glanced at Heron, then at Lysander, who was still kneeling, eyes fixed on the cracked floor.
'…I might have gone too far,' Aurelian thought.
He had not meant to cause this much disruption. He had simply followed the flow of the spell, testing his understanding and output. The reaction had surprised even him, though he had kept it off his face.
As that thought crossed his mind, a faint itch sparked on his left hand.
Aurelian frowned slightly and lifted his hand, turning it palm-up. At first, he saw nothing unusual. Then, tiny particles of light flickered between his fingers, appearing and vanishing like weak sparks.
His control had not fully settled yet.
The spell itself was gone, but the aether inside his body had not completely calmed. Light affinity was still responding to him too eagerly, slipping out in small amounts whenever his focus wavered.
'So I'm still rough around the edges,' he thought.
He closed his hand slowly and focused inward.
Control.
That was the problem now.
Power was not the issue. Understanding was not the issue. What he lacked was fine control, the ability to keep everything perfectly contained when not in use. Without that, even simple movements could leak energy.
Aurelian took a slow breath and let his thoughts drift inward, beginning a long internal reflection.
He thought about how power moved. How it gathered. How it responded to intent. He thought about the balance between restraint and release, about how holding too tightly caused pressure, and how loosening too much caused overflow. He imagined adjusting invisible weights, shifting focus slightly left, then right, finding a center that felt stable.
The process was not clear or structured. There were no rules being defined, no new techniques formed. It was more like feeling around in the dark, adjusting things based on instinct rather than logic.
He thought about calm. Then about firmness. Then about letting things exist without forcing them.
The thoughts went in circles.
Some ideas felt useful. Others faded immediately. He discarded most of them, keeping only the vague sense that control was not about domination, but alignment. Or maybe that was wrong too.
He did not reach any real conclusion.
But slowly, the sparks on his fingers faded.
The light stopped leaking.
Aurelian opened his eyes.
'Good enough for now,' he decided.
As his attention returned to the room, another thought surfaced in his mind. A simple one.
Spell ranks.
He had seen Tier X. He had seen Tier XII. But how far did it really go? And how did the world classify spells compared to the system?
He did not speak. He did not consciously ask.
The thought simply existed.
And the system responded, reading his mind innately.
A translucent panel appeared before his eyes, larger than before, with clean rows of text displayed clearly.
[Spell Tier Classification Request Detected]
[Displaying complete tier comparison.]
[World Rank ≈ System Rank Equivalent:]
[Tier I ≈ Common Ranked
Tier II–III ≈ Uncommon Ranked
Tier IV–VI ≈ Rare Ranked
Tier VII–X ≈ Epic Ranked
Tier XI–XV ≈ Legendary Ranked
Tier XVI–XXI ≈ Mythic Ranked
Tier XXII–XXV ≈ Cataclysmic Ranked]
Aurelian read the list carefully.
His gaze lingered on the higher tiers.
Legendary. Mythic. Cataclysmic.
He did not feel excitement. He did not feel fear.
Only curiosity.
'So XII is still early Legendary,' he thought. 'That means there's a long way up.'
The panel faded quietly, leaving no trace behind.
Across from him, Heron finally straightened fully. He wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand and took a steadying breath. His eyes were sharp again, though something new lingered in them. Not fear, and not hostility.
Interest.
He looked at Aurelian for a long moment, then glanced at Lysander, who was slowly standing back up, still visibly shaken.
A small smile appeared on Heron's face.
"It seems," he said slowly, his voice steady but thoughtful, "Lysander always brings intriguing people to my library."