At the edge of the island's cliff.
Ruger felt the ache in his cheeks and mouth as he worked hard to cast spells and maintain Word of Flame. His so-called rest, the time spent outside meditation, seemed even more exhausting than meditation itself. After several cycles, he had finally settled on a routine for meditation and recuperation, though not the one he had used before. He had found a better point at which to alternate: three days of recuperation and six days of sleeping meditation made up one cycle. After repeated trials, this was the best arrangement he had found so far.
Shortening the previous seven days by one left him with plenty of leeway. Three uninterrupted days of recuperation also made it easier to get things done and allowed his mental power to readjust properly outside meditation.
Overall, the rate at which his mental power grew had improved considerably, exceeding his expectations.
That was enough.
He did not need earth-shattering changes, only a clear advantage over ordinary wizards.
All of this depended on him having no important matters at hand. If he suddenly became absorbed in something as Lord Benson had, he would switch back to his previous, most basic daily meditation, or even set it aside entirely.
Ruger finally stopped moving his mouth. He tilted his head to spit, only to find that his mouth was too dry to produce any saliva.
He looked a little bedraggled.
Still, he smacked his lips, looked up into the air, and smiled.
After all his efforts over this period, the number of his Flaming Centipedes had finally surpassed a hundred and fifty. They moved more nimbly through empty space. Looking up, he watched their densely packed pairs of legs brighten and dim as they crawled in a steady rhythm.
He watched