The sun hadn't risen yet, but the air was already trembling. Not from fear. From anticipation.
The Training Grounds of Icehollow—a vast frozen plain carved by centuries of duels—lay silent. At the center stood a giant sword, embedded in the earth like a monument to a war that hadn't ended. On top of it, casually balancing on the edge, was Vericane—the Cold Edge, Champion of the Frostflow Technique, wielder of the Cryo Blade, and Ian's chosen mentor.
Snow whispered like secrets around him as the wind coiled beneath his coat.
> "What happened in the Free Abyss, huh…?"
"Did yo girl bounce again?"
Vericane didn't turn around, but his voice cut through the cold like steel across silk.
---
Ian approached, his own coat fluttering behind him like a shadow with a grudge. His blade, Chrona-Cleave, hung on his back—silent, but listening.
> "Eh… she's starting to annoy me," Ian replied, resting a hand on the sword hilt.
"I wanted to save Eve Maid… but now she says I'm the one who needs saving."
---
Vericane finally turned, his ice-blue eyes sharpening like daggers.
> "You should've slashed that lie."
> "But I couldn't risk it," Ian replied flatly.
"It's a breach I couldn't cut without bleeding too much."
Vericane smirked.
> "Then come up here, Bladeheart. Spar with me."
"No Slash Manipulation. No Avia. No tricks."
"Just sword against sword."
"Let's see if your soul has been training, or just your ego."
---
Ian didn't respond.
He stepped onto the sword platform.
And drew his blade.
---
⚔️ Duel Begins: "Soulsteel Collision"
Their blades clashed with the sound of lightning frozen in time.
Each swing wasn't just muscle—it was memory.
Every block held a regret, every parry a belief.
Vericane's movements were like falling icicles: precision, grace, and inevitable death.
Ian's were jagged, emotional, rebellious—his sword roared instead of whispered.
> "You're hesitating!" Vericane barked mid-swing.
"Is it her voice? Or your father's? Or the one in your head that still thinks you're not enough?!"
Ian growled, sidestepped a crescent slash, and retaliated with a spiral strike.
> "It's none of them!"
"I just haven't figured out if I'm a sword meant to slash… or a shield that cuts anyway."
They locked blades.
Vericane leaned in, their faces inches apart, breath fogging.
> "Then stop talking—and show me what that confusion cuts like."
---
🧠 Flashback Strike: Ian's Inner Doubt
Suddenly, during a blade-lock, Vericane twisted the blade into a faint—striking Ian not with steel, but with memory.
A burst of Avia laced into the strike—not breaking the no-manipulation rule, but unlocking a vision.
Ian stood face to face with himself, the version that submitted to Eve Maid's twisted freedom—a version unbound by consequence, slashing wildly, grinning like a mad dog.
> "You think you're choosing your path?" the doppelganger hissed.
"You're just cutting what's convenient. You haven't earned the blade. Not really."
---
Back in reality—Vericane's blade halted an inch from Ian's throat.
> "That was a strike you didn't see coming," he said.
"Because your eyes are on your past, not your opponent."
Ian was breathing heavy. Sweat and steam.
But his grip didn't loosen.
His eyes... sharpened.
---
> "Again," he said.
"And this time… I'll swing like I mean it."
---
Vericane smirked.
> "That's what I wanted to hear."
"Now prove that your blade belongs to you… not the people who tried to break it."
And they clashed again.
Two battles.
One fought in the real world — where Vericane's blade danced like a freezing comet.
One fought in Ian's mind — where the blade of truth tried to cut through lies that wore his face.
And Ian?
Caught in the eye of both storms.
---
The winds around Icehollow grew sharper. The frost hissed with each step Vericane made across the giant sword's surface.
> CLANG!
Sparks leapt as Ian's sword met Vericane's.
His eyes weren't fully here.
His soul? Elsewhere.
---
Inside Ian's mind:
A realm cracked by uncertainty, glowing with flickers of crimson and blue—the Free Abyss within his own psyche.
There stood the other Ian.
Hair a little wilder. Smile a little darker. Blade made of chaos-stained steel.
> "Why fight it, brother?"
"Eve Maid offered us something no one else did. Freedom."
The twisted Ian spun his blade like a symphony conductor gone rogue.
> "Not this rigid path. Not Centron's prophecy. Not Dad's disappointment."
"She let us be… us."
---
Back in reality, Vericane lunged forward.
He noticed Ian's staggered footwork.
> "He's split," Vericane muttered.
"His Avia's flickering between truths. That's dangerous…"
Vericane slid in under Ian's delayed parry—then slammed his hilt into Ian's ribs.
> "WAKE UP!" he barked.
Ian stumbled, blood on his lip.
> "You're still in control, Ian. But not for long. If you stay in that trance too deep...
The Corruption won't ask for permission. It'll just take."
---
Inside the mind again:
Ian clashed blades with the Twisted Self.
The version of him who laughed in chaos. Who wore freedom like a noose made of gold.
> "You hesitate, because you want both lives," the doppelgänger sneered.
"The blade of the dutiful son… and the sword of the wild rebel."
A kick to Ian's chest. He fell into a floor of glass. Beneath it: memories.
His dad yelling.
Eve Maid smiling.
The cold void in his chest.
> "You think swordplay alone can solve this?"
"That's cute," the twisted self mocked.
"Then cut me down. But every inch of this blade… is YOU."
---
Back in reality:
Vericane took a deep breath. His blade slowed down—not out of mercy, but purpose.
He began speaking between slashes.
> "When I trained… I too got trapped in my mind."
"The sword isn't just steel—it's anchor."
Another clash.
> "Use it, Ian. Anchor your soul. Focus."
"Because right now… you're not sparring me."
"You're dancing with madness."
---
Suddenly Ian's eyes twitched.
He exhaled.
Something shifted.
---
Inside his mind—
He stopped swinging wildly.
He slowed down. Focused. Centered.
The ground beneath him began to shimmer.
The chaotic self struck—but Ian now moved with clarity. Not fury. Not guilt.
> "You think I have to be you to understand you?" Ian asked, parrying precisely.
"I don't. I just need to be… me."
---
In the real world:
Ian started matching Vericane's rhythm.
Not just reacting—reading.
His movements were raw, but grounded.
No flashy Avia. No Horizon Slash.
Just grit. Sword. Self.
Vericane narrowed his eyes.
> "He's coming back…"
He smirked.
> "Good. Then I don't have to go easy anymore."
---
But then…
A flicker.
Ian staggered mid-swing—just a breath of doubt—
And in his mind… the twisted self whispered:
> "You still want to save her… don't you?"
"Then let me help."
The ground cracked.
Black mist coiled at the edges of Ian's subconscious.
---
Vericane saw it.
> "No...!"
He rushed in—full speed—intent to end the duel immediately.
> "Ian—this isn't just a trance anymore…"
> "It's a gateway."
---
But Ian roared. A primal, grounding sound.
Not a war cry. A self-declaration.
His eyes flared—not with power, but presence.
He caught Vericane's blade with his own—mid-air.
A power within him spiked. Not Avia. Not Slash Manipulation. Just—
Conviction.
---
And the corruption mist faded.
In his mind—the twisted self stepped back, eyes wide.
> "So… you're not ready to kill me…"
"But you're not giving in either..."
> "Fine."
The mirrored Ian vanished into smoke.
---
Back in the real world—Vericane stepped back.
They both panted.
Silence.
Snow fell.
Vericane raised his blade in salute.
> "You didn't learn a new move…"
> "But you fought the hardest battle."
> "The one where the sword isn't against your enemy…
But against the version of you… who believes in nothing."
---
Ian wiped the sweat from his brow.
Then smiled—just barely.
> "I didn't win."
"But I didn't fold."
---
Vericane smirked.
> "That's what it means to be a swordsman."
> "Not cutting others… but cutting through yourself."
After the frost-fueled clash, they sat upon the hilt of the great frozen blade—its edge buried in the soul of the mountain, humming like a silent bell.
The wind was calmer now.
As if it, too, wanted to listen.
---
Ian broke the silence first.
> "You were right."
"I've been holding back. Still trying to save someone... who might not want saving."
His voice didn't crack.
It clarified.
---
Vericane didn't say anything immediately.
He rubbed his chin like he was sculpting a thought.
> "What do you think your mother would say to you right now?"
Ian's smirk curled up slowly. Then deflated into a nostalgic sigh.
> "She'd say… 'You are enough, Ian.'
'Not because you're perfect, not because you're strong, but because you never stopped being you.'"
He looked up at the cloudy sky.
Eyes not full of answers. But no longer flooded with questions.
> "My father… he wanted strength."
"But you—" (he looked at Vericane) "—you showed me that real strength isn't in validation... it's in vulnerability."
Vericane gave a small nod, like a sword being sheathed in agreement.
---
> "And Eve Maid?" he asked.
Ian didn't flinch.
> "I won't give up on her..."
"But I won't let that cage me anymore."
"If she doesn't want to be saved…"
A breath. Then resolve.
> "Then I can't force it."
---
As those words left his lips—his Avia pulsed.
Not violently. Not flashily.
Just… truthfully.
Like a lantern finally lit in a long hallway.
---
Vericane stood, stretching.
> "Are you ready to go again?"
He smiled—and that smile had respect in it.
> "This time… catch me."
He bolted across the iced-over street, his boots tapping like rhythmic war drums.
> "Try to hit me with a Slash. C'mon! Don't be shy—I can take it!"
---
Ian chased, blades clashing again beneath the winter-blue sky.
Vertical slashes.
Horizontal swipes.
Even spiral arcs.
All dodged with Flash Instincts. Vericane became a blur, bending around strikes like water in fast-forward.
---
Ian growled, ran uphill, then rained slashes from above like a furious storm god.
But none connected.
Then it hit him.
---
This wasn't just sparring.
This was a lesson in disguise.
Vericane wasn't just dodging.
He was revealing a gap—a blind spot not in skill, but in perspective.
And Ian whispered to himself:
> "Instead of slashing the way I see...
…what if I slash the way I imagine?"
---
Vericane raised an eyebrow mid-run.
> "Huh? Speak up, I didn't catch that."
But it was already too late.
---
A slash materialized from below.
It wasn't aimed from where Ian was,
but from where Vericane would have dodged to.
He hollow-stepped instinctively—but as he blinked—
> SHOOM!
A second slash met him from an impossible, non-linear angle.
A blade birthed not from location... but from intention.
It didn't strike him fully—just skimmed across his shoulder pauldron.
But it was enough to make him stop.
---
Ian landed calmly, sword pointed slightly upward.
His breath steady.
> "I call it… the Horizon Slash."
Vericane looked down at his grazed armor.
Then back at Ian.
> "You used the idea of the horizon."
"Not where things are—but where they're going."
A laugh escaped him.
> "Damn. That's genius. You really saw the edge... and sliced beyond it."
---
They stood, snow falling again.
Vericane crossed his arms, clearly impressed.
> "That kind of Slash... it can't be taught."
"It comes from breakthroughs."
He smiled.
> "You're not just becoming a better swordsman, Ian…"
> "You're becoming unpredictable. And that's the kind of warrior this war needs."
So, after the "Horizon Slash Incident" (as Vericane later called it while smugly icing his shoulder),
they had to test it.
Not against warriors.
Not against Ghouls.
No, sir.
Against fish.
---
Welcome to Icius — Vericane's home world.
Where the weather is allergic to warmth,
the wind slaps you like you owe it money,
and the frozen lakes stretch wider than a god's regret.
At the heart of this icy sprawl lies the Crystal Basin —
A sacred spot, at least to Vericane,
because it's where the Glacier Scales swim.
---
Glacier Scales:
Ancient, armored, and armed with enough ice-breath to turn your soul into a popsicle.
But also...
> "Delicious as divine regret with a dash of redemption,"
— Vericane, unlicensed fish critic
---
Vericane smirked as they stood by the lake.
> "Alright, Ian. Let's see if your Horizon Slash can do surgical sushi work.
These fish are fast.
They dive between dimensions of water.
Miss one, and it might eat your foot."
Ian grinned, cracking his neck.
> "So we're fighting deadly aquatic beasts... for brunch?"
> "Exactly."
---
They waited in silence.
The lake shimmered.
Then a Glacier Scale broke the surface like an icy torpedo, leaping into the air with a high-pitched scream that sounded suspiciously like a saxophone solo.
> WHOOSH!
Ian dashed forward—eyes glowing.
He didn't aim at the fish…
He aimed where the fish was about to doubt its life choices.
> HORIZON SLASH!
A clean cut.
The fish landed, filleted mid-flight, in a perfect spiral onto a nearby rock. Still steaming.
Vericane let out a dramatic gasp.
> "That... that was a perfect sashimi spiral."
"Do you know what you've done?! That's... Michelin Meteor-level cuisine!"
---
Then he jumped in too.
And what followed…
Was a symphony of swordsmanship and seafood.
Spins. Slashes. Swipes.
The Glacier Scales never knew what hit them.
They tried to escape through dimensional ripples.
But Ian and Vericane?
They were dicing reality and serving it cold.
---
One fish was cubed.
Another spiral-carved like frozen cinnamon.
One unfortunate biggie was sliced into a sculpture of King Centron doing yoga.
Even the lake spirit popped up for a second like:
> "Yo chill—these were endangered!"
Then dipped before catching a clean cut.
---
Hours passed.
Mountains of perfectly sliced fish lay around them.
They stood there, proud, full of adrenaline... and hunger.
Vericane sat down, breathing hard.
> "We just invented a new martial art."
"Sashimi Slash Technique."
Ian chuckled.
> "Icius Iron Chef style."
They fist-bumped, blades still warm with ambition.
[Scene: The Magical Province of Reginorth – An endless labyrinth of floating streets, bending towers, and symphonic wind trails humming with raw magic.]
Charles stood in the middle of a winding street made of translucent crystal tiles. Arcane sigils floated through the air like glowing butterflies. His brows furrowed. His eyes were hollow—not out of sadness, but from being utterly, mystically, spectacularly lost.
Charles (softly, to the sky):
"Is this… a test?"
A long pause. No wind. No breeze. Just quiet hums from enchanted windows.
???:
"Yes."
Charles (snaps around):
"Huh?! Who said that?"
A nearby lamp post unfurled a pair of glowing golden eyes. The post's metal twisted and transformed like wax, and standing there was none other than the flamboyant, caped, and slightly-too-theatrical Champion—Aminator—leaning casually with one foot perched on floating glyphs.
Aminator:
"Oh, just kidding... or am I?"
—he winks, his voice echoing with mirth and a pinch of mischief.
Charles (rubbing his temple):
"...You turned into a lamppost?"
Aminator:
"Welcome to Reginorth, scholar. Reality's a suggestion here."
He spreads his arms.
"This is part of your test. You want knowledge? Find it.
You want power? Decode it.
You want guidance? Then trace the untraceable.
Now... where am I really?"
Charles:
"But you're right here—"
Aminator:
"Am I? That might be just an Echo Inscription. A phantom spell.
Maybe I'm ten districts away sipping molten tea with Hyrag himself.
Or maybe I'm inside your own affinity, watching you think."
Charles blinked. His mind raced.
Charles:
"...So this is a magical hide-and-seek? A riddle wrapped in deception?"
Aminator:
"Wrong.
This is a lesson wrapped in chaos."
Charles:
"What lesson?"
Aminator: (smirking)
"Use what you've got. Inscription Manipulation isn't just fancy writing.
Every spell, every footstep, every spoken word in Reginorth leaves behind a magical syntax.
Follow the syntax of reality, and you'll find what's real beneath the illusions.
Use your Affinity to read this world like a sentence."
Charles:
"So you're saying...
Magic is language.
And the world is my page?"
Aminator: (eyes glowing)
"Now you're thinking like a Champion."
Suddenly, Charles closed his eyes. He bent down and touched the street.
Runes whispered to him—softly, like forgotten lullabies. He began tracing patterns into the air. Each symbol glowed as he recited them aloud:
Charles:
"Seek the bearer of shimmering energy,
Where thought folds space and laughter leaves legacy…"
A sigil blinked into existence. A trail of light shot forward through the twisting streets.
Charles (grinning now):
"Got you."
Aminator's voice, from everywhere and nowhere:
"Or maybe we got you, clever one.
Follow the light... and bring your questions."
---
[Fade Out as Charles follows the sigil trail… the symbols bending like rivers of light across floating books, upside-down bridges, and talking ravens reciting spells.]
---
[Scene: Rooftops of Reginorth – Twisting spires, levitating bridges, arcane wind dancing over ever-shifting architecture. The sky pulses like a heartbeat of color.]
Charles balanced himself on a curved rooftop tile shaped like a phoenix feather, the winds around him humming with raw information. He flipped open his rune book and scribbled mid-air with two fingers:
Charles:
"Flight Rune: 'Aeris Glyph Zhen'..."
—a soft glow beneath his shoes, and he hovered, soaring gently onto a high perch overlooking the magical chaos.
Once stable, he inscribed a small spiral near his eye.
Charles:
"Observation Rune: 'Loci Thread Prime.'"
—his irises flickered silver as magical data spilled into his mind, like soundless whispers forming a panorama of microchanges across the district.
Charles (murmuring):
"Mmm... This place is so... needlessly complicated. Magical traffic laws? Floating chickens? Library-sized potions? Good thing I've got this rune book. What would I do without—"
—Poof.
The book vanished.
Charles:
"...What."
Charles:
"Wait no no no... WHAT."
He spun in place like someone just deleted his brain.
Charles (pointing to the sky):
"Aminator.
This is you, isn't it?
C'mon, man. That book was practically my baby. We had bonding moments."
Silence. Except for a nearby pigeon mage flapping in disapproval.
Charles (sighing, composing himself):
"...Right. I get it. No cheat codes. No rune crutches.
Just my mind."
He grinned slyly.
"But joke's on him…
He forgot—I have photographic memory.
I remember most of the rune patterns that do the tricks.
Now I just have to… you know… test them mid-air while dangling over an anti-gravity bazaar. No pressure."
He began muttering and sketching glowing glyphs midair. Trial and error.
Charles:
"Okay… Priority is scanning the hotspots.
Aminator and Hyrag aren't gonna be chilling in a bakery.
Well… Aminator might… but that's besides the point."
He summoned a floating glyph map, pulsing softly with known landmarks. His finger hovered over:
The Spiral Library – endless knowledge, and also maybe endless stairs.
The Coliseum of Echo Spells – where mages duel using sound as their weapon.
The Chrono-Museum – where time is a collectible and history literally walks around.
The Floating Gardens of Reala Bloom – known to reveal secrets to those who stop searching.
The Mirror Maze Market – where every shopper might be a shapeshifter.
Charles (grinning):
"They've got to be in one of these arcane hotspots...
Time to bring out the Sherlock Sigils."
He carved three detection runes and began rotating them around his body like a radar dish.
Charles:
"Aminator might've taken my book...
But he didn't take my mind.
He just gave me a reason to use it."
[Scene: Spiral Library]
A cathedral of shelves coiling endlessly into the sky. Tomes whisper to themselves. Lanterns float on knowledge fumes.
Charles:
"I've read everything here... except the silence."
Then came the voice—disembodied, ancient, neither echo nor whisper:
???:
"I am all and nothing..."
A sentient Quotation hovered in mid-air, glowing like molten punctuation. This was no ordinary statement—this was Ceros, the god of Knowledge, Ego Death, and That Feeling When You Let Go and Suddenly Understand Everything.
Ceros:
"Ask your question, scribe."
Charles:
"Where are my mentors?"
Ceros:
"…The answer is too obvious. I will not insult your intellect.
Ask not the world—ask yourself what you're not seeing."
Charles:
"…Helpful. Not helpful. Ugh. Okay."
---
[Scene: Coliseum of Echo Spells]
Spells bounced like ricocheting symphonies. Charles tried to tune his mind to the arena, but again—only echoes of the same advice.
Stranger Mage:
"They could be anywhere... but where do you think they are?"
Charles (gritting his teeth):
"Bro. It's like every building in this city is a cryptic fortune cookie!"
---
[Scene: A Rooftop – Again]
Above the pulse of Reginorth, Charles sat cross-legged, wind tugging at his coat. His eyes softened.
Charles (to himself):
"…Is there something I'm missing?
They're not hiding... they're teaching.
But not with answers… with questions.*"
He closed his eyes. And then he said it:
Charles:
"I've spent my whole life chasing wisdom...
From now on,
Let wisdom chase me."
---
[Scene: Charles' Mind – Trance Mode Initiated]
His Affinity surged like a supernova within a scroll. In his mind's eye, glowing inscriptions appeared midair—snippets of thought, truth, and paradox.
> "Inscription isn't just about what's written…
It's about remembering what's never been thought yet."
Charles (internally):
"…Wait. That one. That's not just a line. That's a door."
He focused on it. The rune unfurled like a scroll turning inside out—no longer a glyph, but a gateway to the absurd idea that knowledge might be hiding in the quiet beach of nothingness.
BOOM.
A ripple across space-time.
---
[Scene: A Beach – Somewhere Else in Reginorth]
Waves whispered secrets to the shore. A fish leapt mid-air and exploded into sparkles. There, by a charcoal-lit barbecue, stood Aminator, tongs in one hand, fire spell in the other, grilling what looked suspiciously like a magical crab.
Aminator (smirking without turning):
"Took you long enough. Want some spicy starfish ribs?"
Next to him, leaning against a sun-warmed rock like a passive-aggressive oracle, was Hyrag—the Airienpedia, casually flipping through a book made of wind.
Charles (still stunned):
"You were… here? The whole time?"
Aminator:
"Yup."
Hyrag:
"You needed to stop chasing us.
We're not mentors to find.
We're wisdom to become."
Charles (still processing):
"…You let me run around the whole city… like a maniac…"
Aminator:
"Yup. Character development tastes better when you earn it. Just like this glazed hydra leg—try it, spicy with a hint of humility."
---
[Long Dialogue – Mentor Mode Unlocked]
Charles (sitting cross-legged in the sand):
"I realized I was trying to remember the world like a scholar…
But I needed to remember myself like a creator.
I didn't find you in the world...
I found you in my inscription of becoming."
Aminator (nodding):
"You're getting it.
Runes aren't just commands.
They're intentions.
You don't write them for what is.
You write them for what could be."
Hyrag (adding calmly):
"The Airien way isn't about memorization—it's about manifestation.
We don't pass tests by recalling answers…
We pass by becoming the kind of person who doesn't need them."
Charles:
"So... what now?"
Aminator:
"Now? Now we train.
You've proven you can unlock knowledge.
Let's see if you can wield it.
The Barbecue Arc is over.
Time for the Runebreaker Arc."
🐺Scene: "The Inscripted Beast"
The beach fell silent. Even the seagulls forgot to squawk.
From the thick fog of the treeline, a giant werewolf stalked out—
claws like butchered moons, muscles like tree trunks wrapped in tension.
Its fur shimmered like ink in oil.
Its eyes? Hollow galaxies.
And its growl was existence-disrespecting.
---
Charles (blinking):
"…So uh, is this part of the barbecue or—?"
Aminator (casually sipping magic soda):
"Nope."
Hyrag (arms folded):
"Skill level 70. Strength level 80. Speed... 50.
IQ of a spoon with abandonment issues."
Charles:
"…and y'all just gonna sit there?!"
Aminator (smirking):
"You're more than capable.
Besides... this is part of the plan."
Charles (widening eyes):
"What plan?!"
Hyrag:
"The one where you stop relying on us... and start becoming you."
---
The werewolf didn't wait for feelings.
It blitzed.
A flash.
A roar.
A crescent of claws arcing toward Charles' head.
But Charles ducked low—Flash Instincts kicking in like old jazz.
He pivoted, side-kicked the beast in the ribs, sending it skidding like a massive furry hockey puck across the beach.
---
Charles (panting):
"Okay… okay! Shadow clone time!"
He scribbled Multiplication Runes in the air, spawning copies of himself like script children—dancing in different directions.
But the beast? It wasn't fooled.
It sniffed once, and like a furry missile, speed-blitzed the real Charles, slamming him into the sand.
Charles barely Hollow-Stepped away, heart pounding.
He teleported into the woods.
Sweating. Breathing. Thinking.
Then… silence.
---
He dropped to one knee.
The trees whispered.
The world bent.
Charles (softly):
"All this time…
I've been carving inscriptions from things already made.
Trying to understand what's been written…"
He placed his hand to the ground.
The dirt glowed.
Charles:
"…but now—it's time I write the words.
Time for the world to understand me."
---
🌲💡🔥 SIGIL SURGE: INITIATED.
A white glyph flared from his palm—then rippled outward.
Every rock.
Every tree.
Every root, breeze, whisper, and leaf...
Turned into inscription ink.
The forest awoke.
---
The werewolf came tearing through, a meteor of rage.
But vines inscribed with kinetic glyphs lashed its legs.
The ground pulsed with repulsion runes.
Branches etched with binding logic wrapped around its limbs.
Charles' voice echoed:
> "I don't just read the language of reality anymore.
I am the quill.
I am the verse.
This world bends to the will of those who stop chasing wisdom... and make wisdom chase them."
---
The werewolf growled and resisted—
but the inscriptions grew stronger with its struggle.
More glyphs.
More logic.
More Charles.
He stood up, eyes glowing with calm fury.
> "This forest... this moment... this story...
It belongs to me now."
---
The wolf was finally bound—
strangled by sigils,
encased in logic,
tamed by unwritten intellect.
---
Aminator (watching from the beach):
"…That's my boy."
Hyrag (nodding):
"He didn't just use power.
He authored it."
---
Charles (breathing steady, touching the air like parchment):
"From now on… I don't cast inscriptions.
I become them."