Chapter 25

The light refracted strangely as it passed through it, as though he were viewing the world through a layer of scorching air.

Kaecilius's breathing stopped for a beat.

He recognized that shape.

No, he knew it all too well—it was a technique he had painstakingly honed over countless days and nights, a secret art that no one else could possibly replicate so easily.

Fragments of space were forcibly folded, compressed, and fixed in place, becoming the sharpest invisible blades.

This was impossible.

He spun around, using his broad back to hide the expression that had slipped out of control for an instant.

Shock surged from the soles of his feet to the top of his head like an icy tide.

His knuckles turned faintly white as he pressed them against the cold stone windowsill.

How could this be?

That was no simple imitation.

The frequency of the energy fluctuations, the stability of the structure, even that distinctive, almost imperceptible spatial tremor... every detail screamed, "Real."

.

But how was this possible? Those complex theories, those dangerous practical steps, those countless paths hidden beneath simple incantations that could lead to failure...

He heard his own heartbeat pounding against his eardrums, heavy and frantic.

(

That was not wind, but a transparent blade formed by space itself being folded.

Kaecilius felt his breathing catch.

He remembered the tearing sensation at his fingertips when he first attempted to shape it—not pain in flesh, but the searing agony of his mental pathways being ravaged by spatial backlash.

An apprentice needed at least three years just to barely stabilize its form, and five before daring to let it remain in their palm for three seconds.

Yet this person had spent less than a tenth of the sand in an hourglass since first encountering the incantation.

The blades danced through the air.

Like fireflies on a summer night, yet carrying a chill that could cut through light.

"Your method was very effective."

The young voice came from behind him, calm as if they were discussing which tea to have for breakfast.

Kaecilius did not turn around.

He stared at his shadow on the wall, his nails digging into the creases of his palm.

The dizziness he had felt years ago when facing a dimensional rift, when it had seemed as though the entire world were collapsing beneath his feet, now rose in his throat once more.

"Stop."

He finally spoke, his voice drawn tight like an overstrained string.

The transparent blade-light vanished at his command, as though it had never existed.

Only the smell of old parchment and dust remained in the room.

Kaecilius slowly turned around, his gaze sweeping over the hand hanging at the other person's side—there were no bloodstains, no trembling, and even the curve of the relaxed fingers looked utterly natural.

"Have you encountered the laws of space before?"

"Today was my first time."

Silence flooded the stone chamber like a rising tide.

From somewhere far away came the dull crash of something breaking in a practice room, followed by a suppressed cry of pain.

Kaecilius suddenly thought of the students who had followed him for seven years—just yesterday, one of them had burned his forearm because of energy backlash.

He walked to the window.

Night was swallowing the buildings of New York, and the glass reflected a face desperately maintaining its composure.

"Demonstrate the entire shaping process once."

He said, "Start from gathering the energy, and describe the interval between every breath."

The young man nodded.

The air began to tremble again.

This time, Kaecilius watched with absolute care.

He saw that the power of space was not being "pulled."

Instead, it gathered naturally like mercury; he saw the tendrils of mental power pulse in a rhythm that defied common sense, each vibration precisely canceling the energy's recoil.

There was no struggle, no resistance, as though the blade had always been meant to grow there.

When the third blade-light bloomed at his fingertips, Kaecilius closed his eyes.

He recalled the ancient tales about talent recorded in old texts—some people were born able to understand the language of the wind, while others could grasp fire the moment they reached for it.

He had once thought such words were poetic exaggeration.

Now he knew.

Some metaphors were merely pale descriptions of reality.

"That's enough."

His voice was drier than he had expected.

He opened his eyes. The young man had already dispersed all the energy and was quietly waiting for his next instruction.

That effortless proficiency was more shocking than any display of arrogance could have been.

"Starting tomorrow, you will learn rift folding."

Kaecilius heard himself say, "For now, go to the library and copy Spatial Geometry Paradox three times."

He needed time.

He needed to figure out whether this was a miracle or the beginning of something even more unsettling.

The young man bowed and left, his footsteps fading down the stone corridor.

At last, Kaecilius allowed a crack to appear in his expression.

He braced himself against the edge of the stone table, his knuckles turning white.

Outside the window, a night bird swept past the eaves, its wings cutting through the moonlight.

So light. So natural.

A silent roar churned within Kaecilius's chest.

His fingertips still tingled faintly.

This was impossible.

He stared at the young man's hand—no, he was practically still a boy.

Those hands were terrifyingly steady, their knuckles sharply defined, without even the slightest sign of trembling.

A transparent outline hung in the air, its edges twisting the light like a mirage shimmering in summer heat.

It rested there quietly, as obediently as part of one's breath.

This was not a realm a beginner should have been able to touch.

The power of space had never been a gentle sheep.

It was more like a beast lurking in the dark, ready to bite back at its master with sharp fangs at the slightest mistake.

Cutting, separating, reorganizing... every movement required the precision of threadlike mental force, restraining violent energy within an invisible cage.

It had taken him well into his second year before he could finally shape that dangerous outline in his palm without slicing open his own flesh.

But now?

From the start of the explanation until now, not even half the sand in the hourglass had likely fallen.

And this young man named Zhao Yu had already made that deadly arc of light hover in the air.

It was not a clumsy prototype, nor an unstable phantom, but a solid, stable entity whose edges were clear enough to make one's heart race.

Kaecilius felt the muscles in his jaw tighten.

He had to exert himself just to maintain the calm mask on his face.

A mixture of shock and disbelief was trying to break through the embankment built by years of training.

He even felt an absurd urge to walk forward and look closely into the young man's eyes, to see what kind of mind lay behind them.

In the end, he forced down every turbulent thought.

Experience and status were like a heavy cloak, wrapping his near-overflowing loss of composure back inside.

He turned around, deliberately making his movements slow and composed.

The transparent blade rippled almost imperceptibly in the slanting light.

"Passable."

He heard his own voice, dry and steady, betraying not the slightest ripple. "Your control has only just crossed the threshold."

Only he knew that the heart in his chest was beating to an entirely different rhythm.

With an apprentice present, he could not reveal the slightest flaw.

He could not.

Absolutely not.

"Thank you for your guidance, Master Kaecilius."

Zhao Yu kept his voice low, his posture exceedingly respectful.

He was not pretending—his gratitude was genuine.

Kaecilius was a good man.

A truly good man.

He handed over his signature magic without hesitation and personally explained it piece by piece, without any intention of holding anything back.

Not to mention the War Aura hanging over him, which clung to his attack magic like a magnet and sent his experience bar soaring.

He glanced at the system interface.

The progress bar for magic proficiency had risen by at least half a segment.

If—he was only saying if—Kaecilius were not the sort to betray his master, Zhao Yu might really have considered following him.

Unfortunately.

What a pity.

This guy had stabbed the Sorcerer Supreme in the back. What future could there be in following him? Not to mention that thing called Dormammu. Zhao Yu had no desire to be swallowed by a mass of black sludge and become some kind of "alternative immortality."

It sounded horrifying.

Still, appearances had to be maintained.

Zhao Yu raised his head, the light in his eyes reflecting gratitude in just the right measure—sincere, burning gratitude.

Looking into those eyes, Kaecilius finally felt the breath stuck in his chest ease a little.

But that uncomfortable feeling still had not gone away.

What the hell was this?

How could someone learn magic this fast?

He had always borne the title of "Kamar-Taj's greatest genius," and his learning speed had already been among the best of his peers.

Ever since becoming the Sorcerer Supreme's disciple, he had become the strongest mystic arts master—even his teacher could find no fault with his work.

But now?

Now he stood here, looking at the monster before him.

One hour.

Just one hour.

His most treasured magic had been swallowed by this person as easily as drinking water, without even chewing.

Kaecilius suddenly felt that the halo of genius around him had probably shattered long ago.

When Zhao Yu left, his steps were light, as though he were walking on clouds.

The airflow stirred by his robes made the candles on both sides of the corridor flicker, casting dancing shadows across the stone walls.

He was still savoring what had just happened—Kaecilius forcing out a smile with a twitching mouth, as though he had swallowed a live fly.

"What a good man."

Zhao Yu murmured softly, his fingertips rubbing the lingering warmth from his magic practice inside his sleeve.

Meanwhile, Kaecilius stood alone in the practice room.

The fingers hanging at his sides trembled slightly, his nails digging into his palms.

That brat—that greenhorn who had arrived less than three months ago—had actually created a variant form of his proudest Spatial Folding Art right in front of him, one he had failed to break through even after five years of research.

Kaecilius closed his eyes and took three deep breaths before suppressing the bitterness surging in his throat.

He turned toward the wall, where the magical markings still retained the traces Zhao Yu had left behind.

The lines were far too smooth, as though that complicated spell, which required precise calculations and countless failures, were merely a doodle casually drawn by a child.

"Even the Sorcerer Supreme can't do it."

He repeated the words in his mind, as though chewing on a bitter fruit pit.

But he could not reveal a thing.

He was a master.

He was Kamar-Taj's genius.

He was the benchmark countless young mages looked up to.

So he had to smile.

He had to pat that boy on the shoulder and say in the tone of an elder, "You're very good." He had to force out encouragement that even he found hypocritical.

The footsteps outside the door gradually faded away.

Only then did Kaecilius loosen his clenched fist, leaving four crescent-shaped blood marks in his palm.

He lowered his head to look at the wounds and suddenly found it laughable—after so many years, this was the first time he had experienced what it felt like to be utterly crushed.

It was not that he had been surpassed, but that he had been skipped over entirely, his very thought of catching up strangled in the cradle.

"With talent like that, don't let it go to waste."

He repeated what he had just said, his voice carrying a trace of bitterness he himself had not noticed.

Outside the window, the wind swept up dead leaves and sent them fluttering against the glass.

The slanting light of dusk cut into the room, stretching his shadow across the wall.

Zhao Yu had already reached the end of the corridor.

He stopped and glanced back at the tightly shut wooden door.

"If he doesn't become a traitor."

Zhao Yu rubbed his chin, tucking away that thought along with the smile at the corner of his mouth before turning and vanishing around the corner.

Only the echo of footsteps remained in the corridor, one after another, gradually fading into silence.

The noon sunlight streamed through the window lattice, casting glaring patches of light across the floor.

Kaecilius stared at that blinding whiteness, his fingers tightening over his knee.

Something had shattered.

Not a cup, not a mirror, but the benchmark that had always stood firmly in his heart—himself.

Just moments ago, he had watched Zhao Yu learn his Spatial Blade in less time than it took an incense stick to burn.

How long had he practiced that move? Three months? Five? He could no longer be bothered to count.

But that person—within two hours, just two hours—had traced the same curved rift with his fingertips.

Before he had even reacted, Zhao Yu had already mastered opening and closing that rift at will.

Kaecilius raised a hand and wiped his face. When his fingertips brushed his brow bone, they touched a thin layer of sweat.

The room was not hot. The sweat was cold.

"That face looks so ordinary,"

he muttered, his voice circling through the empty room. "How could that be..."

He could not bring himself to finish the sentence.