Dawn broke cold and gray, the mist clinging to the forest floor like a shroud. Astraeus woke to the sharp, clean scent of pine and the dull, protesting ache of muscles that had been pushed far beyond their limits. The fire he'd managed to start had burned down to a pile of pale embers, and his breath plumed in the chill morning air.
He sat up, every joint groaning in protest, and immediately felt the familiar, unwelcome stir of Kha'Zul's presence in the back of his mind.
You're awake. Good. We're wasting daylight.
"Good morning to you too," Astraeus muttered, pushing himself to his feet and stretching. His back popped loudly, and he winced. "Can't a guy at least have breakfast before the torture begins?"
You can eat while I explain just how utterly inadequate your training has been.
Astraeus gnawed on a piece of tough, dried meat from Mira's bundle, the salty flavor a welcome distraction. Kha'Zul's mental voice, sharp and disdainful, filled his head.
Your academy training is garbage, the demon began without preamble. You've been taught to cast spells like a baker following a recipe—memorize the gestures, speak the words, channel the essence in a precise, pre-approved pattern. It works, after a fashion. But it's inefficient, inflexible, and utterly devoid of true power.
"The academy's methods have been refined over centuries," Astraeus said, the defensive words tasting like ash in his mouth.
And in those centuries, how many of your academy-trained mages have killed gods? Conquered dimensions? Reshaped reality to their will?
Astraeus had no answer. The silence was damning.
Exactly. Your academy teaches you to be competent. I am going to teach you to be dangerous. There is a profound difference.
"What's the difference?"Competent mages cast the spells they've memorized. Dangerous mages understand the fundamental principles of reality and create new applications on the fly. Competent mages follow rules. Dangerous mages know when and how to break them.
Kha'Zul's shadow detached from his own, rising from the ground not as a fully manifested form, but as a towering, crimson-black silhouette that seemed to drink the morning light. It gestured toward the center of the clearing.
Stand. We begin with the absolute basics: Ethereal Essence manipulation, free from the crutches of your so-called spells.
Astraeus moved to the center of the clearing,
finishing the last of his meager breakfast. "What do you want me to do?"
Close your eyes. Feel the essence around you. You did this in the ruins, but you were panicked and desperate. Now, we do it with purpose.
Astraeus closed his eyes and reached out with his awareness. The Ethereal Essence was there, a cool, humming current flowing through everything. It felt more vivid now, more tangible, as if his senses had been permanently sharpened by his death and rebirth.
Good. Now, instead of forcing it into a spell, simply move it. Gather it. No structure, no formula. Just your will.
It sounded simple. It was anything but.
Astraeus focused, imagining the essence gathering into a single point in front of him. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, slowly, he felt the invisible current respond, flowing sluggishly toward his point of focus. It was like trying to herd water with his bare hands; the moment his concentration wavered, it dispersed.
Hold it! Don't let it slip through your grasp. You are the anchor. Command it.
Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the chill. He poured his will into the task, and the essence began to coalesce, forming a sphere of invisible energy that pulsed with raw, unformed potential.
Now, make it visible. Give it form, but no purpose.
Astraeus pushed, and the sphere began to glow. A silver-blue light materialized in the air, a perfect orb the size of his fist. It wasn't a spell; it was pure essence, raw and untamed, made manifest by his will alone.
[SKILL EXPERIENCE GAINED: BASIC ETHEREAL MANIPULATION]
[PROGRESS: 40/100]
"I did it," he said, opening his eyes to stare at the glowing sphere.
Don't celebrate. Now comes the hard part. Shape it.
"Into what?"
Anything. Everything. That is the point. Essence is malleable. It is the clay from which reality is sculpted. It can become fire, ice, lightning, force, matter. The only limit is your understanding and your will. Show me what you can do.
Astraeus stared at the sphere, his mind racing. He thought of the fire spell, of the searing heat and destructive force. He imagined the essence transforming, taking on those properties.
The sphere flickered. Tiny, hesitant flames, like sparks from a flint, danced across its surface.
Pathetic, but it's a start. Now, something else. Don't let the essence dissipate—transform it directly.
He imagined ice. The sparks died, and a delicate lacework of frost spread across the sphere's surface. The air around it grew cold, and his breath misted.
Better. Again. Faster.
Fire. Ice. Lightning—that one was a miserable failure, producing only a few weak, crackling sparks. Force—the sphere compressed, becoming a dense, heavy point of pressure in the air. Light—it blazed with a brilliance that forced him to squint.
With each transformation, the essence responded more readily, but the effort was draining him at an alarming rate.
[ETHEREAL ESSENCE: 25/50]
"I'm running low," he panted.
Then be more efficient. You are bleeding essence because you are forcing it to change instead of guiding it. Feel the difference.
"How?"
By practicing until your bones ache and your mind is numb. Again.
For another hour, he worked. He transformed the sphere over and over, his control growing slightly better with each repetition, but his essence pool dwindling to fumes. His head pounded with a migraine that felt like someone was driving nails into his skull.
[ETHEREAL ESSENCE: 5/50]
"I can't," he gasped, letting the sphere dissolve. "I'm empty."
You're not empty. You're uncomfortable. There's a difference. Kha'Zul's tone was less harsh, almost thoughtful. Rest. Let your essence regenerate. We continue in an hour.
Astraeus collapsed onto a log, his body trembling with exhaustion.
[SKILL EXPERIENCE GAINED: BASIC ETHEREAL MANIPULATION]
[PROGRESS: 65/100]
Twenty-five points of progress. At the academy, that would have taken a month of tedious exercises. The cost, however, was brutal.
"Is it always going to be this hard?" he asked, his voice weak.
No. Eventually, it will become as natural as breathing. But that takes time. And pain. You don't have time, so we will focus on the pain.
"Joy."
Your survival is my survival. I have a vested interest in making you formidable. Now, be quiet and regenerate.
The hour passed in a haze of exhaustion. When his essence had recovered to about thirty points, Kha'Zul's presence stirred.
Round two.
This time, Kha'Zul had him create multiple spheres at once. It was exponentially harder. Maintaining three separate orbs of light, preventing them from collapsing or merging, made his head feel like it was splitting open.
He failed. Repeatedly. But each time, he held them for a few seconds longer.
Again.
Three spheres. One minute.
Again.
Four spheres. Twenty seconds of chaos before they imploded.
Again.
By the time Kha'Zul finally called a halt, Astraeus was lying flat on his back, staring at the sky, too exhausted to move. His essence was at three points, and his headache had blossomed into a full-blown symphony of agony.
[SKILL EXPERIENCE GAINED: BASIC ETHEREAL MANIPULATION]
[PROGRESS: 90/100]
"I think I'm dying," he groaned.
You're learning. It often feels the same.
Astraeus forced himself to his feet. The sun was high in the sky. He needed to get back on the road. He gathered his meager belongings and started walking, each step a monumental effort.
While we walk, Kha'Zul said after a while, let me explain something about our bond. I cannot control you. But I can guide you. When you fight, I can offer tactical advice, warn you of dangers, draw upon three thousand years of combat experience. If you are willing to listen.
"And you expect me to trust a demon who wants me dead?"
I expect you to trust that I want to survive. Your survival is currently linked to my own. Therefore, your survival is in my best interest. Whether I like you is irrelevant.
It was a cold, pragmatic argument, and Astraeus couldn't fault the logic. "Fine. I'll try to trust your advice."
Good. Now, plan quietly. Your anxiety is giving me a headache.
"Can demons even get headaches?"
When they're bound to neurotic teenagers, apparently yes.
Despite the pain and exhaustion, Astraeus almost smiled. It wasn't friendship. But it was better than silence.