Demon Hand Reveals Its Power (Part One)

"Once a Mage reaches level three, he can make a pact with a demon and summon it from the Abyss into our world. But my aptitude is limited, and Blue Town has few resources." Sanderson shook his head. "So I'm only a level-two Mage."

Dean nodded, though he only half understood.

"So, Little Dean, if you want to grow stronger, you can't stay in this impoverished place. You have to venture out. The world beyond is more wondrous than you can imagine."

"But it's dangerous out there!" Dean hesitated. He knew the wider world held all kinds of magic, races of every shape and size, and perhaps even a glimpse of more exalted beings.

But danger would multiply along the way. One careless moment could cost him his life. Dean didn't think he was some chosen one, nor was he particularly lucky.

For all he knew, he might leave Blue Town, run into a few magical beasts, and die on the spot. No one would ever know that a young Mage had been killed there.

Dean had no desire to quietly become fertilizer.

"Of course, you need the skills to stay alive before you can soar through those wondrous worlds. The Demon Abyss Great World is a place full of treasures. Countless powerful people want to enter it, and countless demons want to get out," Sanderson said wistfully.

"Now I'll show you what a demon looks like." As he spoke, cracks spread across the ice egg in his hand, just as they had when Sanderson had modeled the Swallowing Sky Little Snake during class.

"Of course, this is only a lowly flame demon. It's also the most common kind I've seen in a spellbook." As soon as he finished speaking, the ice egg shattered, revealing a fierce-looking figure inside the remaining half of the shell.

"Hiss!" Dean drew in a sharp breath—and with it, the chill released by the broken egg. The demon figure was only the size of his palm, but it looked nothing like the humans, other races, or animals he usually saw.

It had a humanoid shape, yet fine scales covered its entire body. Strange protrusions rose from its arms, torso, legs, and even its head. Most striking of all was the faint aura of savagery it gave off.

That's it—the aura of savagery! Dean suddenly understood. Sanderson had even recreated the savage presence that suffused a demon. The figure was still only a sculpture, though; it couldn't make even the simplest movement.

"Huff... huff... There, Little Dean. Now you know what a demon is, don't you?" Sanderson asked between breaths. Creating a miniature sculpture of a lifelike demon had clearly taken immense effort. Even as a level-two Mage, he couldn't keep it up for long.

But the effect was undeniable. If the sculpture were any bigger, it would make a perfect scare tactic—one that would send ninety-nine percent of people running!

"Mentor Sanderson, I... think I understand." There was no deeper meaning to it: demons embodied brutality. They represented fear. That meant the Demon Hand Dean created would have to be terrifying!

"Good! As long as you've gained some insight, your bargain of a mentor hasn't wasted his effort." The moment Sanderson cried out "Good," he straightened as though decades had fallen from his shoulders.

To take on a talented disciple at his age—Sanderson felt his life held no regrets.

The first attempt at shaping a form spell was crucial. In the worst cases, the caster might never be able to alter what he had made. Once the form took root in his mind, changing it became incredibly difficult.

It was like trying to break a habit that had stayed with someone for most of his life. Willpower alone was rarely enough.

Sanderson's solution was to shape clay. Yes, the same mud children played with. Under Sanderson's instructions, though, Dean had to take it very seriously.

"Start digging, Little Dean!" Sanderson said with a smile.

"Well... all right. For the Demon Hand, I'll be a child again."

Dean crouched down, his young face reddening. He wasn't sure whether he ought to follow his mentor's instructions and happily dig in the dirt.

In the end, he lowered his head with a wry smile and began digging up mud.

If Kana and the others found out that he was playing with mud in his mentor's yard at fifteen, Dean might as well skip the team mission the day after tomorrow. He could never live it down.

Sanderson seemed to remember something. His own mentor had scolded him countless times back then, only grudgingly approving when Sanderson had worked the clay until it was fine enough.

And the first time, it had taken Sanderson two days to shape a little animal. How long would Little Dean take?

A playful mood struck Sanderson. He rolled up his sleeves and started digging too.

Dean had just scooped up a handful of earth when he saw his mentor join in. It revealed a side of his new mentor he had never known existed.

So master and apprentice dug up handful after handful of earth. Before long, they had piled it into two mounds more than half a person's height.

"Use these tools. We need to pick out the finest clay so the shapes you make will be more detailed." At some point, Sanderson had brought over a heap of tools.

Only now did Dean realize his mentor truly was an expert at playing with mud. He even had a complete set of tools. Sanderson probably had more clay-working tools than a shop that sold them.

The afternoon soon passed. Dean was itching to try the Demon Hand and kept imagining what it would look like—not one made from the clay before him, but one formed with his own magic. How powerful would it be?

Of course, the price of letting his mind wander was failure. He made more than twenty hands of different shapes, but not one matched the satisfying Demon Hand described in Magic Hand.

Mentor Sanderson rejected every last one. He would not let his only disciple form such a shoddy hand.

Beside Sanderson, two or three dozen little animals stood in a circle: mice, tabby cats, lions, falcons, and more. Every one looked lifelike.

"Little Dean, it's getting late. That's enough for today. Go home and think about what an immensely powerful Demon Hand should look like, instead of making more rejects like those on the ground." Sanderson wasn't angry about the failed attempts.

(End of chapter)