The First Magic Energy Experiment

What does despair feel like?

Rolf thought he knew the answer to that question.

His Adam's apple had been crushed by that Brotherhood barmaid—he still didn't know Yala's name—with a heavy hand, the tearing agony as vivid as if it had happened five minutes ago.

And ever since, it felt like he was enduring that pain every single moment.

Blood poured from his throat back into his lungs.

Agony shot from his throat to his brain.

Even his airway was blocked.

He couldn't speak.

He couldn't breathe.

He couldn't move.

Like a dying stray dog, grievously wounded, he was casually discarded on Red Quarter Street.

Whether by pain, suffocation, or drowning, his end was near.

Only the will to survive, forged from his childhood wandering the Kormas League, drove him to cling to life.

He, an Air Elementalist, used his power again and again, like squeezing a sponge, forcing air thick with dust, blood, and filth, mouthful by mouthful, through his torn throat into his lungs.

Then he pushed the exhaled breath out through another wound on his neck.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Each "breath" came with inhuman agony, like shuttling back and forth between the Prison River and the living world.

Using his power just to survive—he was probably the first, Rolf thought bitterly.

Rolf felt like a stray dog scrabbling through a gutter for garbage to live on.

That barmaid was gone.

That Green Skin was gone.

Several gangs of thugs passed by his dying body.

A scout turned him over and checked his mouth and nose.

A massive explosion reached his ears.

Rolf paid it no mind.

He just instinctively, mouthful by mouthful, "breathed" with his power through the pain.

Until dawn.

Until Numino, retreating in panic, hoisted his "corpse."

Numino, that backwoods hunter, the acknowledged coward among the Twelve Supremes—Rolf had always looked down on him, mocking, humiliating, and bullying him within the gang. It was a pastime for Rolf the Wind Ghost.

The cruelest irony was that this coward he despised was the one to "collect his body" at the last moment.

Rolf was jolted awake by the searing pain in his legs.

Bound tightly at the wrists, he opened his eyes in the Vigilant Hall morgue.

And saw Nekla.

The head of the Blood Bottle Gang's eight officers—he didn't know five had already been lost on Red Quarter Street—"Red Viper" Nekla.

But Nekla just stared at him with a complicated expression, shaking his head in disgust and fury.

"You're one of the few from the Blood Bottle Gang who survived," Red Viper said darkly.

Rolf struggled, trying to speak, enduring the agony in his throat, but only managed meaningless hoarse sounds.

A sharp pain hit his knees!

Below them, there was no feeling at all.

"Look at you, Rolf, the Strongest One among the Twelve Supremes, the only Transcendent Rank."

"That excellent, proud, arrogant, promising—Rolf the Wind Ghost."

"The young man Lady Catherine proudly and confidently recommended to the Air Elementalist, basking in glory."

Red Viper patted his face lightly, over and over, his eyes still filled with complexity and disgust, and said sarcastically:

"Now you lie here like a corpse, unable to speak, unable to breathe, unable to move, unable to eat."

"Why are you still alive?"

Red Viper's brows furrowed, his face turning ugly and frantic.

"Why did you survive, and not Kex, Song, Spinn, or Dorno? Why you, of all people, why did Catherine's man survive, and not mine?"

Rolf stared wide-eyed, struggling in fury and agony, but the twin pains and his crippled state held him back.

The Red Viper reined in his anger, then burst into loud laughter—hearty, joyful, and sick.

"The Blood Bottle Gang took heavy losses, and my own power's been badly damaged," he said softly. "If I had a full crew, maybe Catherine could step over me to rise up—who knows."

But Nekla's face twisted into a snarl.

"But a Wind Ghost who can't speak, has no legs, and is dying from wounds—how's he supposed to serve her?"

"So," Nekla said, reaching out, his face contorted as he grabbed Rolf's knee, squeezing the wound where fire had barely staunched the bleeding, "you might as well die in battle and go missing!"

"Ugh—ugh—" Rolf squeezed his eyes shut in agony, thrashing his body, too weak from injury to move, not to break free but to ease a fraction of the searing pain in his knee.

The wind power he relied on to "breathe" nearly faltered!

"I'm in a foul mood today—cleaning up loose ends, hitting dead ends everywhere," Nekla sighed, then went on. "But taking you out, cutting off a talent Catherine had her eye on—that still feels good."

Watching the fury, pain, and rage in Rolf's eyes, Nekla put on an apologetic, helpless smile.

"Can't be helped. 'They' demanded a Transcendent Rank, and insisted on keeping the wrist for blood. Otherwise, I'd have cut off your hand instead of your leg."

He patted Rolf's cheek one last time, whispering in his ear, "Hope you get along with the vampires."

Nekla's footsteps faded away. Two Blood Bottle Gang thugs came up—one picked up a three-inch copper needle with a tube, the other grabbed Rolf's limp wrist.

In that moment, Rolf felt despair, deep and absolute.

Tales stared blankly at Rolf.

He had an urge to ask him—what happened to Yala afterward? How did their fight end? Did Yala escape? How did Rolf end up like this? Wasn't he part of the Blood Bottle Gang?

But Tales hesitated.

Because he saw Rolf as he was right now.

Saw this legless man with unfocused eyes, venting his feelings in meaningless gasps, his gaze a tangle of despair, pain, regret, and sorrow.

He remembered last night's Rolf.

Flippant, confident, proud, skilled.

Moving freely through endless wind, leaving behind his signature laugh.

And now?

"Huff—huff—" Rolf squeezed his eyes shut again, groaning in pain.

The carefree, sharp-tongued, reckless Rolf the Wind Ghost was gone.

His lips were dry and black, clearly severely dehydrated, but Tales couldn't find water, nor was he sure Rolf could even swallow in his state.

Tales didn't even know how he was breathing.

The boy just sat there, dazed, watching Rolf suffer and struggle, clinging to life by a thread.

In his second year after crossing over, a beggar girl had her legs broken by Quade. That poor girl wailed all night before she died.

Tales had been muddled back then, with only a few scraps of memory recovered. He was shocked, terrified by the horror of reality, and could only hide in a wall hole, trembling.

So, half-asleep, he'd listened to that girl's cries all night.

Just like now.

Later, he'd wondered why he hadn't found the courage to end her suffering.

Tales looked at Rolf's ruined form, his heart heavy.

No matter what crime someone committed, no one deserved this kind of torment—he told himself.

Finally, Tales let out a sigh, crawled over to Rolf, and said softly:

"Rolf."

"Midira Rolf."

Though his mind was fading, Rolf's pupils instinctively focused at that moment.

Who?

Who still remembers me?

A waste like me, waiting to die?

Tales quietly drew JC's dagger and pressed it gently against Rolf's neck.

"I know you're in pain right now, suffering torment and agony beyond what anyone can imagine."

"And I can end your life, help you escape all this."

Rolf's breathing, through his throat and his power, suddenly turned erratic.

Torment.

Agony.

Relief?

"But I must ask you seriously and cautiously, Midira Rolf: are you willing to let me relieve you of your pain, here and now?"

"If you are, blink once."

"If you are not—"

"I will only ask this once."

Tales's face was heavy as he waited for Rolf's response.

In the dimness, Rolf stared fixedly at the blurry outline of the boy before him.

Relief.

Rolf felt the agony from his throat to his knees. Every "breath" tore open the wound on his throat; every struggle wrenched the broken ends of his knees.

He was thirsty, hungry, cold, in pain—and worst of all, despairing.

He remembered the feeling of wind flowing around him, the first time he killed with his power, the first time he joined a gang, the first time he received a reward from his superiors, the first time he became a man with that scrawny girl, the first time he made a pilgrimage-like visit to see the Air Elementalist.

He remembered the fear in his enemies' eyes, the obedience in his companions' gazes, the admiration on "her" face, and the smug satisfaction that curled his lips when he overheard whispers about the "Twelve Supremes."

That was the glory he once had.

And he had lost it all forever.

Hadn't he?

The next instant, Rolf's gaze hardened. He strained to drive his severely depleted power, forcing a sharp "breath" into his half-crippled body.

Then, the Wind Ghost trembled, using every ounce of his strength, enduring the pain of the clamps scraping against both sides of his head, to lift his head with effort and stare seriously at Tales.

He prepared to blink.

One blink was enough.

One!

So Tales saw Rolf's upper and lower eyelids twitch, trembling as they slowly moved toward each other.

Tales sighed inwardly, slowly tightening his grip on the dagger.

But Rolf's eyelids only trembled, stopping at the midline of his eyes.

They stopped just short of closing.

A long moment passed.

Another long moment.

The former Wind Ghost saw a blur of familiar and unfamiliar scenes flash before his eyes: barren fields, muddy roads, stray dogs everywhere, flies swarming.

That was his childhood, scraping by in the countryside of the Kormas League.

That time, he fought a pack of stray dogs over a piece of black bread nearly devoured by flies.

Those dogs were vicious—Rolf thought quietly in the dungeon.

Their deafening snarls, their desperate bites, their frenzied ferocity—yet Rolf unconsciously licked his upper teeth.

That bread tasted terrible.

In Tales's eyes, Rolf's face twisted and trembled.

His eyelids slowly relaxed, opened, and returned to their previous angle.

"Thud!"

Between the two clamps, Rolf's head, which he had barely propped up, fell back in defeat, the back of his skull hitting the ground.

He had never blinked.

Tales silently exhaled, slowly lowering the dagger in his hand.

But Rolf seemed oblivious to the pain in the back of his head or the scrapes on his cheeks.

His twisted face began to tremble along with his head.

"Ugh—ugh—"

This was not a groan.

Tales was momentarily stunned.

He saw Rolf close his eyes in agony, his face quivering as clear liquid slid endlessly from his eyes.

"Ugh—"

The sound was suppressed, bitter.

He was crying.

The Wind Ghost, once a powerful and glorious power-wielder, a man, a warrior.

Was weeping.

Whether for his own cowardice or his present suffering.

Like an ordinary person, a normal person, even a slightly weak-willed commoner.

As if overwhelmed.

He wept.

Tales could only stare blankly.

He watched this man, unable to speak or breathe properly, who, after giving up his chance at release, collapsed to the ground and sobbed bitterly.

Tales looked away gloomily, but the dagger in his hand tightened more and more.

Ensorra, Nide, Kellit.

Those nameless beggar children who died in the Sixth House—one by one, they surfaced before his eyes.

He thought about his own situation, thought about Gilbert and Yordel.

The boy furrowed his brow, then looked down at his own hand, at the fresh cut on it, as familiar as the searing heat that had just coursed through his body.

In that moment, something seemed to settle deep in his heart.

Tales leaned close to Rolf's ear for the second time.

"I understand."

He said softly.

Rolf was still weeping uncontrollably.

"So, are you willing to break free from these shackles?"

Rolf's sobbing paused for a moment, didn't stop, but gradually quieted.

Before Tales's eyes appeared the little girl with the broken leg, wailing in pain, and nearly every child who had died in the Ruined House over the past four years.

From outside the cell came more screams and wails.

This fucked-up world.

The boy didn't know what lay in the dungeon, but his gaze at Rolf grew simpler, clearer.

Then, Tales looked seriously at the Wind Ghost, who could no longer ride the wind, and said firmly:

"Break free from these shackles, and then, with this broken body, struggle on in this world, survive."

"See just how cruel it can get."

"Are you willing?"

Rolf stopped crying.

He couldn't move his head, so he shifted his gaze, staring blankly at the boy beside him.

The boy spoke, word by word:

"This might not be freedom."

"It might come at a great cost—you could even die right away."

"And I'm only doing this for myself."

Tales lowered his head and said slowly:

"But I can try to give you a chance, to leave these shackles behind and struggle once more."

"Are you willing?"

Rolf's eyes locked onto the boy's eyes.

Though tears still lingered in them, at that moment, something inside him wanted to laugh.

He felt the pain in his throat and knees gradually go numb.

Those stray dogs.

Those stray dogs that stole his bread.

The fate of those stray dogs—Rolf forced a "breath," and a strange joy welled up from his heart—their end:

How miserable it was.

Lying on the ground, Rolf trembled and lifted his gaze again, fixing it on Tales.

The next moment, the Wind Ghost slowly, but unmistakably.

Blinked once.

Every person blinks countless times in their life.

Unremarkable.

But just now, Rolf might have blinked the most important blink of his life.

Rolf slowly lowered his head.

Tales smiled, dispelling some of the gloom in his heart, and nodded lightly:

"Alright, I understand."

"I thought His Highness had awakened early."

"But that's clearly not the case now."

On the third floor of Weed Manor, in a dim room, Chris frowned deeply.

Before him stood a massive brown-black stone coffin, covered in intricate patterns and connected to countless transfusion tubes—tall as a man, three meters wide, and six meters long.

At this moment, that Giant Coffin kept shuddering from within.

"I tried to connect with His Highness's consciousness, but the feedback was nothing but chaos—only hunger and the instinct to kill. No matter how I soothed or communicated, it was the same!" Chris set down a transfusion tube in his hand, his expression growing heavier.

"At this rate, His Highness will burn through his remaining energy and blood ahead of time!"

Lorraine's face was pale with shock. The red-haired Blood Race spoke nervously: "Something must have stimulated His Highness, but we haven't done anything!"

Chris's eyes glinted sharply, devoid of the dead, withered look from before. The Old Man said decisively, "It's not us!"

"His Highness only started reacting like this five minutes ago. At that time—"

Chris's expression shifted. Remembering something, he whirled around and barked at Istrone, who stood behind him with a grave face:

"That Little Brat!"

"We could smell the fragrance of his blood from two floors away, and with His Highness's sense of smell, even more so—where is that Little Brat now?"

Flustered, Istrone looked at the agitated Chris and answered instinctively:

"He just accidentally cut himself, then pulled out the transfusion tube from that half-crippled Transcendent Rank, and said some strange things I didn't catch. Then he—"

Expressionless, Chris didn't bother listening to Istrone's explanation—the suspicious Giant Coffin kept shuddering and thudding. The Old Man cut him off bluntly:

"Bring that Little Brat up here—no, Isa, you stay. Lorraine, go."

Watching the increasingly frequent tremors of the Giant Coffin, a strange spark flickered in Chris's eyes: "What His Highness craves is his blood."

"This plan is risky," Tales stated calmly to Rolf on the ground, as if he were back in the Sixth House, using every trick he had to protect those innocent, blameless, guiltless children who were born to suffer in the Prison River.

"But sitting here waiting for a miracle, surrendering without a fight, is clearly even more foolish."

Rolf just watched the boy, whose eyes were clearly unlike any ordinary child's, and struggled to "suck" in a breath of air.

The earnest look on his face—Rolf chuckled inwardly: Not bad, not worse than Big Sister.

The Wind Ghost didn't realize that after facing the choice between life and death, he had already let go of much.

Tales continued his calm explanation, as if he weren't the one speaking:

"I don't know how much strength you have left, but I doubt it's much, and that Old Man's power—"

"So reckless gambles and passive waiting won't suit our situation. Our best and only chance is when my reinforcements arrive, in the instant they break through the door—"

"You won't get any reinforcements, you Short-Lived Species Little Brat."

A cold female voice cut off Tales's words.

Rolf's face tightened instantly.

Tales froze for a moment, then turned his head in disbelief toward the cell door.

Outside the bars, Lorraine Corleone, dressed in a playful riding outfit, traced her slender, beautiful right index finger seductively across her lips while her left hand, transformed into a terrifying claw, wrenched open the lock on the cell door!

"Istrone said it, didn't he? Whatever you do, we can hear it."

"The little gentleman who fooled Istrone," Lorraine laughed softly, as if mocking him, swaying her tempting, slender waist as she stepped gracefully and seductively through the open door into the cell. "Too bad—maybe if you were a few years older, even I might fall for your charms."

"But now, you're about to become His Highness's rich, fragrant energy drink—maybe sweet Lorraine will get a taste too?"

Watching Lorraine, who had appeared out of nowhere, Tales understood that she could subdue him at any moment.

The boy let out a deep, sincere, and regretful sigh.

"Rolf," he said flatly, his voice betraying no panic, "I need ten seconds."

Ten seconds?

Lorraine suddenly felt uneasy.

She remembered how Istrone had been fooled.

What trump card could he have? That half-crippled Transcendent Rank Short-Lived Species trapped in the Nightwing Stone Shackles?

But the cunning Lorraine didn't want to take risks. Her expression turned sharp and decisive in an instant.

A pretentious little brat.

Her alluring figure flickered instantly before Tales!

Once His Highness drains you into a dried-up corpse, you'll still—

But just then, a strange gust of wind suddenly whipped up in the cramped cell!

"Whoosh!"

The firelight flickered wildly, guttering low.

The gale blasted Rolana back three steps. Startled, she grabbed the railing beside her and held on firmly.

Was this—an ability?

Impossible. This child couldn't be an ability user.

Then that meant—Rolana strained to look past Tales, at the Transcendent Rank expert shackled to the ground by the Nightwing Stone Shackles—it was him!

Even in this state, he still had some power left.

Useless, Rolana thought with relief and satisfaction. Shackled like this, gravely wounded—even if it's your ability, how long can it last?

As for that tricky little cub... I'll risk Chris's scolding and take a bite first.

I'll make sure you remember this! Rolana thought viciously.

"Then, let's begin."

Tales gazed at Rolana, blocked by the raging wind, and calmly reversed the dagger in his grip.

Ten.

In Rolf's bewildered stare, he used his intact right hand to grip the blade's edge.

Nine.

"Good luck to us both," he said.

Eight.

My first Calamity Trial.

Seven.

Begin.

Six.

Tales fixed his eyes on the black stone shackles binding Rolf.

Rolf, face flushed crimson, stared dead at Rolana as the wind howled on.

Rolana, face cold, clutched the railing beside her. Her left hand began to warp, transforming into a terrifying crimson claw.

Five.

I'm going to break his shackles—Tales thought silently.

Free this man who has nothing left.

Four.

If it's as I imagine—Tales recalled, in his mind, scenes of life and death:

Quade's hand, tightening around his throat.

Ashida's hand, gently clenching.

And, from a distant memory, a patch of blood, and that nameless, gentle chuunibyou.

Three.

Tales gritted his teeth, closed his eyes, and his right hand suddenly grabbed the metal lock!

Heat seared from the metal.

But he endured, biting down hard.

Rolana sensed something.

She turned in shock and found the railing in her hand was vibrating!

What's going on? the female Blood Race thought in panic.

That half-crippled one—could he have multiple abilities?

Two.

"Ssshh—"

The railing, along with Rolana's hand, shattered into countless pieces!

Off-balance, Rolana clutched the stump of her arm, screaming as the wind from the ability blasted her out of the Dungeon in an instant.

One.

In his ears came Rolana's shrill, mad roar.

A scorching sensation hit.

Zero.

Light—Tales thought, his consciousness fading.

So much light.

In the room on the third floor where the Giant Coffin was stored, Chris's expression suddenly turned strange.

"What is Rolana trying to do?" he said coldly, staring at the Giant Coffin that rumbled without pause.

"Perhaps she wants to test her bite first," Istrone replied cautiously, sensing the tension from this lord, and continued: "She's always been fond of the delicacies at hand—no! They're—"

Istrone's words were cut off from outside, as both of them wore expressions of shared shock.

"Boom!"

A deafening explosion-like roar came from underground!

A gust of dust swept in from the direction of the doorway.

The expressions of the old and young Blood Race shifted in unison, exchanging a glance.

Something had happened in the Dungeon.

The next moment, their figures appeared outside the manor!

The instant Istrone took in the scene before him, his mouth fell open in stunned disbelief.

There, under the moonlight.

That tattooed, legless Transcendent Rank Short-Lived Species.

Once known as Rolf the Wind Ghost, Midira Rolf.

Had broken free of all restraints.

He was tightly clutching that Little Brat of a Short-Lived Species, riding the gale, his face set with resolve—

Flying through the air.

Not far away, Gilbert, riding hard with thirty Terminus Swordsmen, changed expression!

"Bloodline Lamp," he said in a low voice to the Court Official beside him, over the rushing wind.

Jinnie, jostling on her horse, stared grimly at the lamp in Gilbert's arms.

The flame had turned red.

Leaning to one side.

"That direction—" Gilbert recalled, his face growing grave:

"Is the Cavendish Family's Weed Manor!"

The Court Official roared, lashing her mount with a whip.

"To hell with whose manor it is!"

"Even if it's Exeter's Walton Family ahead—"

"—we charge in!"

Gilbert nodded, his face hardening with resolve and ferocity:

"All troops, turn with me!"

"Spare no horse!"

"Full speed ahead!"

"Prepare for battle!"

If this book still suits your taste, feel free to bookmark it, drop a recommendation, support a new author, and back this niche fantasy tale beyond the usual level-grinding.

Any opinions or questions are welcome in the review section, or join the group for discussion.—from a dead-serious Wu Jian