After repeatedly testing and refining his fire magic, Liam found he could now solidify his flames—not into flawless forms, but enough to shape basic weapons. He crafted crude throwing daggers from fire, hurling them at moving dummies. The moment they embedded into their targets, he detonated them with a mere thought—controlled blasts that tore through magical armor with precision.
Twenty minutes passed, each dummy programmed to move with near-human agility. Liam danced between them, dodging, attacking, unleashing myst like a storm. Gradually, fatigue began to creep in… but only faintly. It struck him as odd. With the sheer volume of myst he was using, he should've been drained.
Then it hit him.
Crimson Breathing.
He had mastered it to the point where it felt instinctive, automatic. It didn't just sustain his endurance anymore—it let him draw myst directly from the surrounding air, replenishing his reserves at a remarkable rate.
