Chapter 15

The second time, the red mist condensed into irregular flakes, their edges ragged like torn leather.

It lasted three seconds, then collapsed with a sound like a sigh.

Rain began to fall.

Amid the rhythm of raindrops tapping against the window lattice, Zhao Yu heard something else—a distant whimper from the other end of time.

He closed his eyes and stopped trying to control his magic, instead letting his consciousness sink into that whimpering sound.

When he raised his hand for the third time, he felt his palm press against some hard, scorching curved surface.

Opening his eyes, he saw a broken red arc floating before him.

It was only half the size of the one Wong summoned, its surface covered in cracked patterns, dark golden light seeping through the fissures.

Yet it truly existed, swallowing even the sound of rain striking it and leaving behind an eerie silence.

Wong stared at the arc for a long time before finally nodding. "Remember this sensation.

The next time you need it, just dig it out of the ruins."

Perhaps it was still too early to expose Zhao Yu to this.

But his rate of comprehension was astonishingly fast.

If Wong did not give him something difficult to puzzle over, Zhao Yu would probably drain his entire store of knowledge within days.

When that happened, where would Wong put his old face?

After considering it for a moment, he decided to teach Zhao Yu the spell that borrowed divine power.

That kind of power could not be controlled merely by understanding the structure of an incantation.

It required a more fundamental touch.

Wong caught the urgent gleam in the young man's eyes, and an imperceptible smile crossed his heart.

Just wait, kid. You would soon taste defeat.

"The construction of the Ring of Raggadorr is entirely different from other spells."

His voice was steady and emotionless. "You must chant the correct prayer to obtain permission—permission from a higher existence.

It is normal not to sense a response during your first few attempts.

Try a few more times. Do not give up so easily."

Keeping a straight face, he began explaining the obscure essentials.

Zhao Yu listened with complete concentration, unwilling to miss even a single word.

Just then, a crisp notification sounded deep within his mind.

The knowledge concerning the "Ring"

actually began circulating and deepening on its own as Wong explained, the proficiency gauge advancing by one notch.

Feeling the subtle changes in the spell model within his mind, Zhao Yu clicked his tongue inwardly.

Anything involving deities was indeed complicated.

Even with Wong personally instructing him, it would take him nearly half an hour to fully grasp it.

That was already incredible enough.

Fortunately, the old man sitting across from him had no way of knowing what he was thinking.

Otherwise, that staff would probably crack against his head without hesitation.

Half an hour? Countless mages had spent their entire lives without even glimpsing the threshold of this spell.

Wong's gaze swept across the training ground. Those apprentices incapable of gathering their spiritual power had long since retreated to the corners.

The air carried the mingled scent of old parchment and sandalwood. His fingers unconsciously rubbed the frayed thread along the edge of his robe.

To construct that barrier, one's magic had to be as unfathomably deep as an underground river.

The mind, meanwhile, had to become a vessel capable of receiving the torrent pouring through dimensional cracks.

Then there was that threshold—the marks left behind by the gods. Though they demanded no kneeling prayers, they were harder to cross than any altar.

Otherwise, why had only the old man in the crimson cloak and a few of his colleagues been able to summon that dazzling halo in moments of crisis over the past centuries? Even the purple-skinned Titan's fist had once halted before the light shield, while that Titan had used only three heavy blows to leave the green beast curled up in a depression in the deck, unable to move.

Wong gathered his thoughts and looked at the newly arrived young man.

Zhao Yu's fingertips were moving slowly through the air, as if probing an invisible spiderweb.

That was more like it, Wong thought.

Every beginner should endure weeks or even months of futile tracing. Sparks did not bloom so easily for anyone.

When the Ancient One returned from Kamar-Taj's library, he could hand this responsibility back to her—the thought made his tense shoulders sink slightly, and even tugged the corner of his mouth into the beginnings of a smile.

But in the next second, his expression froze.

The hand moving through the air suddenly accelerated, its afterimages dragging dark red trails behind them.

They were not sparks, but continuous threads of light, like molten copper writing runes across the night sky.

The light threads tangled, overlapped, and wove themselves into a honeycomb-like network.

A hum seeped out of the void, as if countless thin metal sheets were trembling somewhere unimaginably far away.

A complete round shield, its edges flowing with blazing patterns, suddenly hovered before the young man's chest without warning.

The shield's surface reflected Wong's own face, stiff with shock.

Wong's gaze froze in the air.

The ring-like construct shedding blue sparks from its edges made his throat tighten.

His fingertips unconsciously dug into his palm, and the pain crawled up his nerves.

There was no mistake—even if its form was still unstable, even if the falling firelight looked like melting glass, this was indeed the creation denoted by that name.

How was that possible?

He heard the rhythm of his breathing break apart.

Something churned within his chest.

He clearly knew that the young man named Zhao Yu had long surpassed ordinary apprentices, whether in spiritual resilience or control over magical energy, and had even touched the realm of seasoned practitioners.

At Kamar-Taj, practicing basic spells was itself a process of tempering. The accumulation of power ought to proceed step by step.

But the scene before him crushed every "ought to be."

His teeth lightly bit into the soft flesh inside his mouth.

The salty tang of blood spread through it.

He wanted to speak, wanted to force out a few words befitting his status, but the base of his tongue seemed frozen.

In the end, he could only taste the bitterness rising from deep in his throat.

—Don't continue.

The words slammed about repeatedly in his mind, nearly breaking free from his lips.

At this rate, the foundation this ancient hall had accumulated over centuries would likely be overturned completely.

But he could not.

The weight of the title on his shoulders and the robes on his body suppressed every impulse to lose his composure.

As a guardian, he had to maintain the last of his calm.

At the edge of his vision, Zhao Yu turned around.

Hesitation showed on the young man's face, uncertainty mixed into his voice. "You do not look very well... Did I do something wrong?"

Wong took a deep breath.

The air passing through his nose carried the scent of training-ground dust and old parchment.

He slowly forced out the words. "Nothing is wrong.

You did... very well."

Every syllable seemed pried from between cracks in stone.

So well it made one's heart tremble.

So well it shattered common sense.

But none of that could be spoken aloud.

Once more, he silently repeated that identity—guardian of Kamar-Taj, bearer of ancient oaths.

He had to preserve his dignity, even if a tsunami had already risen within his heart.

He closed his eyes and let darkness cover his vision.

When he opened them again, the turbulence in his pupils had been flattened.

This was hope.

He repeated it to himself.

It was the dawn this land had waited for far too long.

Wong finally steadied his breathing.

His fingertips lingered in the air for a moment before slowly withdrawing into his sleeve.

As a spellcaster who had experienced countless mystical rituals, he had long been accustomed to pressing his emotions into his bones—it was only that some apprentice had mastered a god-given incantation in half an hour. It truly was not worth letting his heart skip an extra beat.

Yet his gaze remained glued to the young man.

It was absurd.

Even the Ancient One, who had carved this rune formation inside an ice cave in the Himalayas, had likely not forged a connection with the beings beyond so quickly.

Was such speed truly attainable by a human? And that god who had answered the summons—why had it handed over its authority so easily? Wong remembered sitting in the scripture chamber for two years before barely touching the edge of that golden halo.

Could gods also favor contract holders with exceptional looks?

He nearly crushed the sandalwood prayer beads inside his sleeve.

If not for the mark of Kamar-Taj still branded upon the young man's brow, he might truly have considered taking him into the underground analysis chamber and using an astrolabe and soul prism to dissect every inch of his flesh, to see what kind of structure was hidden inside.

Zhao Yu did not notice the turmoil in that gaze.

He was focused on the energy pathways gradually solidifying in his palm.

Golden threads moved beneath his skin like living vines, weaving together and forming a ring.

Every breath made the halo a little clearer.

But with such a ready guide standing before him, he naturally could not let the opportunity go to waste.

"Mage,"

he raised his eyes, his voice carrying just the right degree of humility, "I am still somewhat confused about the third turning point in the energy circuit."

Like a puppet pulled by strings, Wong replied hoarsely, "What do you not understand?"

His experience truly was vast—in countless battles over dimensional rifts, that radiant halo had bloomed from his wrist again and again, shredding scarlet tentacles and ghostly blue phantoms.

As he explained the structure of the incantation, his tone remained as steady as if he were reciting morning lessons, and only the occasional twitch at the corner of his mouth revealed a calmness on the verge of collapse.

Zhao Yu watched the numbers constantly jumping across the panel.

Those values, which had originally risen slowly, were now climbing at an astonishing pace, nearly spilling over the edge of his vision.

He raised his eyes and looked at the figure before him, still speaking at length.

Wong's explanation continued. Every syllable was clear and forceful, as though carrying a unique rhythm that directly struck the listener's senses.

"Ding."

Another soft chime rippled through the depths of his mind.

"Your 'Ring of Raggadorr' has entered a state of deep comprehension after hearing an essential explanation."

"Your mastery of this spell has significantly increased."

The corners of Zhao Yu's mouth curved upward despite himself.

He adjusted his posture to make himself look more attentive, though his gaze remained fixed on the hem of Wong's robe as it swayed faintly with his explanation.

This man respectfully addressed as a master was, in Zhao Yu's eyes, no different from a spring constantly gushing forth precious experience. Every time he spoke, it brought abundant gains.

Wong seemed to sense that overly scorching stare.

His words paused briefly. He sighed so quietly it was almost imperceptible, then sped up his explanation and delved even deeper into his analysis, as if trying to answer—or conceal some invisible pressure—with a denser flood of knowledge.

Wong no longer remembered how time had passed.

He only remembered that when he returned to his quarters, his steps were unsteady and his consciousness seemed to float outside his body.

The candle flames flickering along the corridor walls reflected in his eyes as nothing more than blurred, swaying spots of light.

Being in the same room as someone with such terrifying comprehension had filled the entire process with a suffocating sense of defeat.

Zhao Yu's nearly instinctive speed of understanding was like an incomparably clear mirror, constantly reflecting Wong's own limitations.

Every time he presented an abstruse concept, the instant realization that flashed through the other man's eyes was like a tiny needle piercing the confidence that had long ceased to be so solid.

Even years ago, when he had been severely reprimanded by the Sorcerer Supreme for his recklessness, the gloom weighing on his heart had been nowhere near as heavy as it was now.

After stepping into his room, he closed the door behind him and leaned his back against the cold panel, barely managing to steady himself.

The calm expression he had maintained all day finally collapsed completely. His muscles slackened uncontrollably, revealing the exhaustion and confusion hidden deep within.

Several colleagues passing by happened to catch sight of his distraught appearance.

They exchanged puzzled looks, their footsteps slowing.

One of them lowered his voice and muttered to a companion, "Master Wong... what happened to him? He looks like his soul has been sucked out."

Another glanced at the tightly shut door, shook his head, and replied in an even softer breath, "Probably worse than that.

Look at his eyes. They are empty, as if... well, as if the most important thing in his heart suddenly had nowhere to settle."

They guessed at all kinds of reasons, but in the end, none dared disturb him. Full of sympathy and curiosity, they quietly left.

The door remained tightly shut.

He sat there.

The books of incantations he had once read countless times lay spread across the table, their pages yellowed.

The faint sound of chanting drifted in from the training ground outside the window. The tune was familiar, yet it felt as if his ears were stuffed with cotton.

Everything had lost its flavor.

Knock, knock, knock.

The sound of knuckles tapping on wood, neither hurried nor slow, entered the room.

He did not move.

His gaze remained fixed upward as the grain in the ceiling wood twisted into a blurred web.

If there truly were people in this world—born standing at heights others could never reach even in a lifetime—then what had all the days and nights he had spent on rune arrays and meditation over the years amounted to?

Boom!

The door was slammed open.

A gaunt figure stumbled into the light, carrying with them the dusty scent of the corridor.

The newcomer spotted him sitting in the chair at a glance.

"Your Majesty!"