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A/N : Uploading 3 chapters today. Sorry for delay, been busy lately.
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The laboratory of Professor Dorotte hummed with a restless, arcane pulse, its dark walls aglow with silver-white rune inscriptions that flickered like living veins of starlight. (Image)
The symbols are sharp, angular glyphs interwoven with curling sigils flashed in hypnotic patterns, casting fleeting shadows that danced across the stone floor.
Before departing, Dorotte had reinforced these runes with meticulous care, their power a silent sentinel to contain the wild magical undulations born of experiments and to cage any rogue specimens that might writhe free.
The air was thick with the tang of dense disturbed magical power and blood, a faint buzz prickling the skin, as if the room itself breathed with latent power.
Leylin sat sprawled in a high-backed chair, his bright brown eyes locked on the specimen splayed before him—a Grand Knight's body, massive and unyielding, strapped to an iron table.
Around him, the lab was a chaotic shrine to his obsession, logs and parchments strewn like fallen leaves, their pages scrawled with feverish notes; quills dripping ink onto crumpled sheets; and delicate apparatus glass tubes, crystal gauges humming faintly as they fed data from the body.
His gaze darted between the specimen and his notes, a hungry intensity burning in his stare, his fingers twitching as if itching to unravel the secrets beneath the flesh.
This particular Grand Knight was a colossus—bulging muscles taut under skin, white hair stark against the red runes wriggling across his body like insects burrowing for blood, each inscription pulsing with a life of its own.
For an hour, maybe two, Leylin observed, his breath steady but laced with a coiled anticipation. He traced the flow of magical energy through the runes, noting their rhythm, their stability.
The circuit was flawless—a lattice of micro-runes anchored to muscle fibers, stabilizing the volatile flood of power. He'd tackled the body's fragility by mapping its tensile limits, inspired by Estelle's Anatomy of the Damned, ensuring the runes wouldn't shred flesh under strain.
For the soul, he'd woven stabilizing threads from Curse Weaving, binding the spirit's essence to prevent collapse during spellcasting. The spellcraft itself—a hybrid of Kael'thrun runes and modern matrices—channeled magic through blood vessels, a riverbed guiding a torrent. Every problem, every snag, he'd crushed with relentless studying and experimenting, and now it was perfect.
A smile broke across his face, slow and sharp, a predator's grin slicing through the gloom. "Finally," he whispered, his voice a low, triumphant rumble that echoed in the quiet.
He rose, stepping toward the Grand Knight's body, his boots clicking against the stone. The man was a mountain of flesh, his chest broad as a barrel, his runes glowing faintly under the lab's dim light.
Leylin leaned in, his fingers brushing the inlaid inscriptions, passing a thread of magical energy into them. The connection sang—circuit pristine, circulation smooth, lattice stable.
He marveled at his own handiwork, a quiet pride swelling in his chest, tempered by the cold pragmatism that defined him.
Then, without warning, the Grand Knight's eyes snapped open, twin orbs of wild defiance glaring up from the table. His body thrashed, muscles bulging against the restraints, a guttural snarl ripping from his throat as he fought to break free.
Leylin didn't flinch, his brows smooth, his expression carved from ice. He continued reading his notes, flipping a page with deliberate calm, as if the outburst were a minor nuisance.
With a casual wave of his hand, a blade, sleek and glinting slid from his sleeve, its edge catching the rune-light as it arced toward the specimen's throat.
A clean slash, and blood sprayed in a crimson arc, painting the table red.
Leylin pressed a button on the table's edge, and the lab responded like a living beast. Chains erupted from beneath, their iron links lined with barbed wire and etched with glowing inscriptions.
They snaked around the revolting specimen, barbs biting into his skin, pinning him tight as blood seeped from the gash, pooling beneath him in a slow, steady tide.
The specimen's thrashing weakened, his life ebbing with each shudder, and Leylin watched with a cold, uncaring stare, his eyes glinting like polished obsidian, untouched by pity or remorse.
"You really thought you could escape, did you?" Leylin chuckled, his voice a low, mocking drawl, thick with amusement and a trace of disdain. He leaned closer, his tone dripping with a cruel mirth. "Pathetic."
Truth be told, a month ago when the first successful specimen had regained consciousness, even he was caught off guard by the Branded Swordsman's raw power.
It was stronger than he'd calculated before and despite the strengthened potent tranquilizers pumped into the target for weeks, the man before him had also clawed back some shred of consciousness, a flicker of his strength but Leylin was already prepared.
'Even still it is quite commendable.' Leylin admitted to himself, respect flickering beneath his icy exterior. Although the branded swordsman path wasn't his heart truest desire, he couldn't help but respect the strength.
This was the third body where the runes had taken perfectly, and this one by far had roared the loudest.
Leylin couldn't hold back the laugh that burst from him, a wild, unrestrained sound that bounced off the walls, filling the lab with its jagged echo. Abigail stirred from her perch along the room's edge, her scales shimmering like liquid night as she raised her head, slithering toward Leylin with a soft hiss, her eyes glinting with concern.
"Yes, now it's my turn," Leylin said, his voice low but brimming with a fierce, eager hunger, his gaze locked on the snake.
She hissed again, sharper this time, a worried note threading through the sound, her coils tightening briefly.
"No, there's no need to wait for Dorotte," Leylin replied, his tone firm, edged with a quiet defiance that carried a weight of finality.
He shook his head, a faint smirk curling his lips. "He's off scouring nearby kingdoms for new kids, then heading to the Chernobyl Islands. It'll be months before he's back. And even if he was here, I wouldn't let him touch this."
His voice hardened, a steel resolve beneath the calm. "Not a chance."
There was no way a deeply mistrusting person like Leylin would let a Rank 1 Magus stronger, wiser, and far more dangerous meddle in an experiment that was his lifeblood, his path to power. Dorotte could tweak the experiment to bind him like a tool, and Leylin wasn't fool enough to risk that.
Leylin had gutted the soul-branding component of the Branded Swordsman which was it's centrepiece for a good reason—too easy for a Magus like Dorotte to slip in a leash, a hidden snare to bind him.
A Rank 1 level slave would tempt even someone as strong as Dorotte, and while Dorotte had been straight with him, Leylin's trust was a blade honed sharp by suspicion.
If Dorotte harbored no schemes, no personal agenda, that would only make Leylin warier, selflessness in a Magus was a lie waiting to unravel. Still, Dorotte's aid had been genuine, and Leylin let that thought settle like a stone in his mind, unmoved by what might come later. For now, his path was his own.
"Abigail," Leylin said, his voice dropping to a playful growl, his eyes glinting with a mock menace as he fixed her with a stare. "Get out of here, unless you want to be smoked snake meat for dinner."
Abigail hissed, a petulant snap in the sound, but her coils loosened, and she slithered obediently toward the door, her scales scraping faintly against the stone as she vanished into the corridor.
Leylin turned to the chaos of the lab, the white haired Grand Knight's body now still, blood pooling beneath it like a dark mirror. With methodical precision, he dragged the corpse to a corner, tossing it atop a pile of others mangled remnants of failed trials, their flesh pale and cold.
He swept through his notes, matching inscriptions one last time, his mind replaying the entire process like a ritual carved into his bones.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, he closed his eyes, the lab's hum fading as he sank into thought, visualizing every rune, every spell, every pulse of power. For an hour, he sat motionless, the weight of his ambition a steady drumbeat in his chest.
His eyes snapped open, obsidian jewels blazing in the dimness, their shine cutting through the gloom like a blade. Rising, he began to draw runes across the floor, his movements deliberate, almost reverent.
He gathered his tools—vials of blood from magical creatures, their crimson depths swirling with latent power; potions that shimmered like liquid starlight; alchemical powders that sparked faintly at his touch; brushes with bristles fine as spider silk; and knives honed to a razor's edge.
For the next three hours, he worked, carving intricate patterns into the stone, painting them with blood and potion, the air growing thick with the scent of iron and magic. Each rune was a piece of a greater whole, a circuit of power that pulsed faintly as he completed it. He stepped back, checking every line, every curve, his indifferent stare masking the fire roaring within him.
With a slow, deliberate motion, he slit his wrist, blood welling up in a dark, glistening stream. "By the ancient currents of the void," he intoned, his voice low and resonant, a chant that vibrated through the lab, "I summon the weave of runes, the breath of spellcraft, to bind my flesh and soul. Let the crimson tide carry my will, let the ancient powers rise."
The blood flowed from his wound, defying gravity, pooling before him like a canvas suspended in air, shimmering with a life of its own.
Leylin began to draw on the blood, his fingers steady despite the growing pallor of his face, the dark circles blooming beneath his eyes like bruises of exhaustion.
For ten minutes, he etched runes into the crimson surface, each stroke a pulse of intent, his wound clotting shut as his body faltered. He pressed on, undeterred, his breath shallow but his will unyielding. Then, he began the incantation anew, his voice rising in a foreign tongue, ancient and guttural.
"Oh, powers of the elder dark, hear my call," he chanted, the words rolling out like thunder. "Runes of eternity, spellcasts of the forgotten, bind my essence, forge my will. Ancient powers, weave the threads—flesh to flame, soul to storm!"
The lab trembled, the air crackling as his voice wove the spell, a tapestry of raw, primal force.
As he finished, the blood canvas surged, spreading like a tide. Ancient runes erupted from it, glowing red and gold, filling the room with their radiance, swirling around him like a storm of stars.
Leylin lay down in the rune circle's heart, his body sinking into its embrace. The blood crept toward him, seeping into his fingers, climbing his skin in searing trails.
Pain blazed—his hands, legs, abdomen, everywhere—runes burning into his flesh, scorching it red and raw. He clenched his teeth, silent, his face a mask of iron resolve, refusing even a growl of agony.
But the true torment wasn't flesh—it was soul. The runes clawed into his sea of consciousness, a violation so deep it tore a heart-wrenching cry from his throat, raw and primal, echoing off the walls.
"Aaahhhhh!!!"
The rune circle flared, its light suppressing the wild magical waves, channeling them into his soul space with brutal precision. Leylin forced himself into a meditative state, his breath ragged, and saw it—his sea of consciousness shimmering, runes forming like constellations.
A spell model coalesced, born of the Branded Swordsman's innate power, drawing magic from the lab's saturated air, weaving itself into being.
The runes flashed, linking like puzzle pieces, their glow intensifying until the circle collapsed in a burst of light. A primal power exploded from Leylin, slamming into the walls.
The silver-white runes blazed, suppressing the surge, but the lab erupted into chaos—scrolls scattered, desks overturned, potion bottles shattered, manuals torn, the dead specimen bodies mangled further in the corner. Cracks spiderwebbed the floor, the air thick with dust and the scent of charred magic.
In the center, Leylin stood, huffing and naked, his skin aglow with red runes that pulsed like heartbeats. His eyes shone brighter than ever, twin beacons of triumph cutting through the haze. A red hue cloaked him, magic particles flooding his body, linking the runes in his sea of consciousness.
He closed his eyes, feeling the change, a power vast and wild, coursing through him like a river unbound. A smile curled his lips, slow and fierce, and a laugh broke free, raw and victorious, shaking the ruined lab.
"Finally," he said, his voice a low, exultant growl, "power equivalent to an official Magus, it's league above any acolyte or Grand Knight."
"But the spell," he murmured, his tone shifting to a quiet hunger, "I should test it too."
Leylin disconnected the rune connection and the red-searing runes flashing on his body disappeared as if it was a mere mirage before.
Leylin draped a grey hooded robe over his shoulders, its fabric coarse against his pale skin, and stepped out, Abigail slithering close behind, her scales glinting like a shadow given form. (Image)
Without glancing at her, he strode through the laboratory area, his steps deliberate, the air around him crackling faintly with residual power.
The spell experimenting area lay deep within the academy, a fortress of white marble walls stacked tight, their surfaces etched with runes that glowed softly, isolating radiation and reinforcing the stone against magical strain.
Leylin had come here before, but now he walked as a Rank 1 entity, his runes and real power lay dormant unless he willed them awake, near impossible for even a Magus to spot his true strength.
A young woman's voice broke his thoughts, bright and eager. "Oh, Senior Leylin! Are you going to test your spells?" He glanced at her, noting her unfamiliar face likely a replacement for the last keeper, who probably dead in the war.
He said nothing, presenting a square token inscribed with flowing Byron language. The woman took it, her eyes widening at the name 'White Bones'—Dorotte's mark, granting access to his private testing chamber.
Envy flickered across her face, tinged with awe. "Please wait a moment, sir," she said, her voice respectful, a flush creeping up her cheeks as she fumbled with the token. "Your professor's too kind, lending you this."
Leylin's charm, sharpened by his strength, hit her like a wave, and she blushed deeper, her hands trembling slightly as she registered the token and handed back a black crystal card. "This is your room card! Number 3!"
Leylin nodded and stepped into the experimenting area, Abigail trailing like a silent follower, her coils whispering against the marble.
'Has my innate charm strengthened?' he wondered, a flicker of amusement curling in his thoughts. The girl's reaction starstruck, flustered was nothing new.
When the new batch arrived, he'd drown in fawning gazes, especially from women drawn to his reputation and looks. It bored him, a distraction too trivial to entertain but charm has its own benefits as well.
The marble walls glowed on either side, their runes pulsing softly, the Magus rooms empty as he strode past. Finding Number 3, he swiped the crystal card on a black platform by the door.
Ka-cha! The door slid open, a mechanical female voice intoning, "Welcome, Professor Dorotte…"