Chapter 2

A pleased smile lifted Zhao Yu's lips.

Watching the shield's progress,

warmth filled his eyes as though he were watching a child grow.

"I can't let it train alone forever."

"It's time to see Master Kamidar."

After thinking for a moment, he made his decision.

Every morning, the apprentice mages gathered for training.

The Sorcerer Supreme's lineage

not only studied spells, but also placed importance on tempering the body.

Even without magic,

every one of them was still a skilled fighter.

Thus, morning lessons always began with fists and kicks.

The mages often said—

**The rhythm of ** could focus the mind and make it easier to touch the veins of magic.

When the morning bell rang,

Zhao Yu sweated alongside dozens of apprentices.

As soon as the break arrived,

he walked straight toward Kamidar, who stood quietly to one side.

"Master Kamidar."

He lowered his head in salute.

The mage turned toward him and smiled faintly.

"Zhao Yu. What is it?"

Kamidar's talent was not particularly outstanding.

Kamidar's fingers rubbed along the edge of the parchment, its texture as rough as dried bark.

He was nearly eighty this year. A faint rasp could be heard in his chest whenever he breathed, yet the emblem embroidered on his mage's robe was still only silver thread marking the senior rank.

He knew that he would probably never cross that threshold in his lifetime.

So he devoted all his time to teaching newcomers.

At Kamar-Taj, many apprentices who had only just begun learning spells were willing to seek him out.

He knew a great deal, able to speak of everything from runes on the northern ice fields to the prayers of southern island tribes.

Even the common language here came more fluently to him than to that young man named Zhao Yu—after all, every mage had to deal with words, and given enough time, even one's tongue would become tame.

"I want to learn new spells."

Lu Xuan did not beat around the bush.

The old man did not get angry. The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes made his smile look like old cotton warmed by sunlight. "Zhao Yu,"

his voice was not loud, yet it quieted the entire little room crammed with scrolls. "What do you think is the one thing spellcasting cannot do without?"

"Knowledge."

The young man answered quickly.

"That is certainly important."

Kamidar chuckled softly, his fingers unconsciously tracing a dark grain in the wooden table where ink had stained it deep. "But in my view, the foundation is what supports everything.

You must set every brick firmly in place, or the tower you build later will lean."

He paused, his graying beard trembling slightly with his breath. "On the path of magic, the greatest danger is keeping your eyes fixed only on the distance while losing your footing beneath you.

Do you understand what I mean?"

"I understand, Master."

Yes, this field was far too vast.

Spells, formation diagrams, elemental harmonization, astral guidance... How many people spent their whole lives only to pick up a few shells by the shore?

If one did not plant each step firmly at the beginning, trying to make up for it later would likely demand blood and sweat beyond measure.

Every word the old man spoke carried immense weight.

"Thank you for the reminder."

Zhao Yu lowered his head, the line of his neck looking especially earnest.

"Good."

Kamidar nodded, his gaze resting on the young man.

This child possessed a rare steadiness. Unlike some young apprentices, whose ears seemed stuffed with wind and could hold on to no advice at all.

This Zhao Yu truly was not bad.

Only the occasional soft crackle of the candlewick could be heard in the room.

Outside, the sky was slowly darkening. In the distance came the lingering echoes of a struck bronze bell, one peal after another, slowly seeping into the stone walls.

Kamidar's lips curved upward slightly.

The young man standing before him spoke, his voice carrying a certain urgency. "Master, I hope to gain access to more advanced magical knowledge."

The curve that had just appeared froze abruptly among the old man's wrinkles.

He had only just thought this was someone worth cultivating.

Reality answered him so quickly.

Even with Kamidar's usually gentle temperament,

a small flame rose in his chest at that moment.

He slowly drew in a breath of cool air and lowered his tone, every word seeming to—

"Don't you Easterners have an old saying? Even the tallest tower must be built from its foundation."

"The foundation you lay in the beginning will determine how far you can go on this path in the future."

"The reason you are repeatedly assigned that most basic shield spell—"

"Was never the shield itself, but to temper your fine control over spiritual power."

"You must pass this stage steadily and honestly."

"Only after that will the other doors open to you."

Although the displeasure in his heart had yet to fade, Kamidar held nothing back.

On the contrary, he explained it in greater detail than ever before.

Yes.

What young heart had never longed for those dazzling spells of light and shadow, those grand and powerful incantations?

Many years ago, had he not been the same?

His gaze had always been fixed on heights beyond reach.

This was a detour that nearly every generation of young people could not avoid.

His responsibility

was to ensure these seedlings planted their roots deep and firm enough.

He did not want to see an uncut gem that had just begun to shine shatter halfway through because its foundation was unstable.

Therefore, he patiently explained again and again, breaking down the importance of the basics in painstaking detail.

"I understand,"

the old man's voice echoed through the somewhat empty room, "that spells possessing destructive power hold great appeal for you."

"But before you can make the Basic Shield appear as naturally as breathing,"

"I will not teach you a single syllable of any other spell."

Kamidar's words were firm and decisive, leaving no room for negotiation.

After speaking, his fingers unconsciously stroked the short gray beard on his chin. His expression was more unyielding than ever.

The young man silently watched the elder.

A trace of sincere respect passed through his eyes.

This was what a true guide worth following looked like.

"However, Master,"

the young man paused, then said clearly, "I can already cast the Basic Shield you mentioned."

"...What did you say?"

The old man with the gray beard froze where he stood, his fingertips unconsciously twisting several broken hairs.

The sensation in his palm brought him back to himself.

Three days? The number crashed through his mind again and again.

Kaecilius had taken fifteen full days back then, and he had already been a genius unseen at Kamar-Taj for a century.

But this young man before him... at most, he had only had seventy-two hours.

"Say that again?"

His voice was pressed extremely low, as though he feared disturbing something.

The young man lowered his head in salute, his posture respectful. "I can already condense a protective magic shield."

"Hiss—"

A faint sting came from his fingertips.

Another beard hair drifted onto his sleeve, gray-white and marked by time.

The old man quickly clasped his hands behind his back, hiding the broken hairs deep within his robe's folds.

"It's nothing."

He forced out a smile, wrinkles piling at the corners of his eyes. "At my age, hair simply doesn't stay put very well."

After a pause, he added, "Teaching the younger generation is what truly matters."

The young man's expression changed.

That faint resentment—his regret at not receiving guidance from a higher-ranked mentor—dissolved beneath the old man's gentle gaze.

So even senior mages possessed such generosity of spirit.

But... did magical cultivation also fail to escape the troubles of hair loss?

The old man's fingers trembled faintly inside his sleeve.

Not from excitement, but from a kind of panic.

Condensing a shield in three days—such speed surpassed every record in all the texts.

He studied the young man's calm face and suddenly recalled how, at dusk yesterday, this man had still been repeatedly sketching basic runes in a corner of the courtyard.

At the time, the setting sun had stretched his shadow long, and every movement of his fingertips had stirred faint motes of light.

"Demonstrate it."

The old man heard himself say.

The young man raised his right hand.

The air began to warp—not with ripples like water, but with a denser kind of condensation.

A faint glow seeped from his palm, slowly weaving itself into a translucent arc.

There was no chanting during the process, no elaborate gestures. Only the sound of focused breathing stood out clearly in the silent room.

The arc gradually became whole, its edges shimmering with the luster of mother-of-pearl.

The old man stepped half a pace closer, the tip of his nose nearly touching the barrier.

He caught the unique scent of magic—like ozone before a storm, and like the faint astringency exuded by ancient books over countless years.

"How long have you maintained it?"

he asked.

"Since midnight last night."

The young man answered calmly. "At first, I could only sustain it for three breaths. Now... around half an incense stick."

The broken beard hairs inside the old man's sleeve were crushed into a ball.

Half an incense stick? When those so-called geniuses first condensed a shield, maintaining it for ten heartbeats was already worth celebrating.

He suddenly wanted to ask many things, such as whether Zhao Yu had used an external aid or inherited some secret lineage.

But every question was swallowed back the moment it touched the young man's open, honest gaze.

A bell rang outside.

It was the signal for morning lessons to begin.

The old man took a deep breath, flicked his sleeve, and imperceptibly sent the ball of broken hairs into the shadows of a corner.

"Passable."

He heard himself say in the blandest tone possible, "But it is only average talent. Do not grow complacent."

The young man bowed in acknowledgment.

At that moment, the barrier dissipated, turning into fine points of light that fell toward the ground, vanishing before they could touch it.

The old man turned toward the bookshelf and pretended to browse the books.

His fingertips brushed over the rough surface of parchment, but his mind was calculating something else: What excuse could he use to extend this child's daily practice time by two hours without alerting the other mentors?

Amid the sound of turning pages, he glimpsed the young man still standing where he was, his gaze fixed on the corner where Kamidar had just hidden his beard hairs.

His heart jolted.

"Is there something else?"

A trace of barely perceptible nervousness entered his tone.

"I was thinking..."

The young man paused. "Perhaps I should find you a remedy to strengthen your hair roots.

A family recipe, perhaps..."

"No need."

The old man interrupted a little too quickly, then softened his tone. "After being steeped in magic for so long, whether hair stays or goes is simply natural."

"Go. Today, copy out Basic Rune Variant three times."

The young man bowed and withdrew.

After the wooden door closed with a soft click, the old man slowly sank into his chair.

He spread open his palm and looked at the crescent-shaped marks his nails had left in it, then suddenly let out a low chuckle.

The laughter was faint, quickly swallowed by the scent of books filling the room.

Beyond the window lattice, morning light crept inch by inch across the stone steps, making the damp traces left by last night's rain gleam.

Several gray sparrows landed on the eaves, their chirps coming and going as though they were discussing some fresh piece of news.

The old man took a bronze mirror from the drawer.

Its surface reflected a deeply wrinkled face and the noticeably sparse beard on his chin.

He stroked that patch of skin and suddenly remembered how, many years ago, when he had still been an apprentice, he had mastered a spell overnight and provoked his mentor into smashing his favorite clay cup.

So the cycle had always existed. Only the roles had changed.

He set the bronze mirror facedown on the table and rose to open the window.

The wind rushed in, carrying the bitter fragrance of honeysuckle from the courtyard.

At the distant training grounds, newly inducted apprentices were practicing the most basic mana guidance. Their chants drifted over, childish yet earnest.

Three days to form a shield.

The old man silently repeated that number, as though chewing on some fruit that was far too sweet.

So sweet it was unsettling. So sweet that it had to be wrapped in the harshest words.

"Middling talent."

He repeated it to the empty room, as though saying it enough times would make it true.

The gray sparrows on the eaves suddenly took flight together, the beating of their wings shattering the morning stillness.

The old man watched them vanish beyond the roof ridge before finally withdrawing his gaze.

Somehow, the broken beard hairs in his sleeve had slipped out and now lay quietly on the dusty windowsill, gray-white and soft, like some insignificant piece of evidence.

He blew gently.

The broken hairs rose, spun once in the draft, and finally fell into the lush ferns below, never to be found again.

As his fingertips rolled that streaked gray beard hair, he suddenly noticed the emptiness of his palm.

That strand of beard, which had accompanied him for decades, had somehow drifted onto the floor like a dried pine needle.

He had not felt it at all.

The corridors of Kamar-Taj were always filled with the mingled scent of old parchment and sandalwood, but today it was especially strong.

Snow flurries drifting in through the window dampened the stone steps, and the cold crept through the cracks in the stones and into the folds of his cloth robes.

He had spent nearly ninety years in this courtyard. The marks time had carved into his skin ran far deeper than his appearance suggested—many new initiates always mistook him for a man barely past sixty.

Forty years.

Since the first time he had stood at the edge of the training grounds, watching those young faces awkwardly move their fingers.