He gestured to a towering pine at the edge of the clearing. "Watch. The process is the same for all casters, whether their power comes from the arcane, the divine, or the earth itself. It begins with a single point. An intent. The seed from which the spell will grow."
Hemlock closed his eyes for a second. In his mind, Alph could almost perceive a flicker of green energy, a single, pure concept: Shield.
"This is the heartwood of the spell," Hemlock explained, his voice a low murmur. "Now, we give it shape. We weave the logic, telling the magic what to do, where to go, how to be."
As he spoke, the bark on the nearby pine began to groan. "I tell it the shape: a shield, curved to deflect. I tell it the size: enough to cover my torso. I tell it the strength: layered and tough. I give it a boundary, a limit, so it does not grow wild."
With a sound of tearing fibers, several large plates of bark peeled away from the tree. They did not fall. They flew through the air, drawn to a point before Hemlock.
"Finally," the old druid said, his eyes opening, "you must ensure the shape is in harmony. All its parts must resonate together, a single, stable creation."
The plates of bark, which had been hovering chaotically, snapped into place. They interlocked with impossible precision, forming a rough, layered shield that hummed with a quiet, potent energy. It was the same shield he had used against Roric, but this one felt different. It felt… complete.
Alph watched the entire process, his focus absolute. He saw not just the physical manifestation, but the invisible steps that preceded it. The core intent, the layering of logic, the final act of stabilization—it was an architecture of thought, a geometric blueprint built within the mind. His own attempts had been crude, like trying to shape clay with bare hands instead of a potter's wheel. He had forced the elements into a shape using raw will, but without the underlying structure, the mental 'bow', his control was fragile, easily shattered by the slightest emotional tremor.
He fell into a deep, silent contemplation, the druid's lesson echoing in his mind. The path forward was clear. It was not about gathering more power, but about learning to build the vessel that could contain it.
With a renewed understanding, Alph closed his eyes. He pictured a simple form, not a complex sword, but a basic, oversized kitchen knife he remembered from his life on Earth. He started with the axiom, the core intent: Solidify. He then wove a second, oscillating plane through it: Sub-Zero.
Next, he built the logic. He pictured the shape, a long, thin plane with a sharpened edge. He defined its length, its thickness, its balance point. He wrapped the entire mental construct in a containing shell, a boundary to keep the magic from running wild.
Finally, he focused on the harmony of the shape. He mentally "tuned" the geometric form, ensuring every angle was true, every plane stable. The completed module was a clean, sharp, intricate blueprint in his mind.
He opened his eyes, took a breath, and extended his hand. He pulled a thread of mana from his core and pushed it through the spell module.
The snow at his feet swirled, but this time it was different. It moved with purpose, drawn into a precise form by the mental blueprint. It condensed, hardened, and in a matter of seconds, a knife of milky-white ice rested in his hand. It was heavier, colder, and far more solid than his previous creations.
He could feel the module humming in his mind, a stable, resonant structure. He knew, with an absolute certainty, that as long as he fed it a trickle of mana, this blade would remain. It would not shatter with a stray emotion. It was no longer a wild river, but a tool, shaped and controlled.
Hemlock's eyebrows shot up, his usual stoic composure cracking for a moment. To grasp the abstract concept of module construction was one thing; to successfully build one on the first attempt was something else entirely. It spoke of a frightening level of innate comprehension.
He looked at the weapon in Alph's hand, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. "A short saber, is it? Too long for a dagger, too short for a proper sword." The old druid gestured with his chin towards the bark shield, which still hovered in the air beside him. "Well? Don't just stand there admiring it. The proof of the craft is in its use. Test its properties. Strike the shield."
Alph nodded, gripping the solid ice saber. He took a breath, focused on the stable module in his mind, and plunged forward. He thrust the point of the blade directly at the center of the hovering bark shield. The tip hit the layered bark with a sharp crack and skittered off, the impact jarring his wrist but doing no real damage. He stumbled, catching his balance before he could fall.
Hemlock chuckled again, a dry, rasping sound. "That is a saber, boy, not a rapier. Its strength is in the cut, not the point. Use it as it was meant to be used."
A flush of embarrassment warmed Alph's cheeks. He got up, took a firmer stance, and tried again. This time, he swung the ice saber in a powerful, upward chopping motion. The blade bit into the wood with a satisfying CRUNCH. It lodged itself an inch deep into the shield, holding fast.
A visible web of white frost immediately began to spread from the point of contact, crawling across the dark bark. It did not freeze the entire shield, but the wood around the blade crackled audibly, turning brittle and pale.
Hemlock nodded in approval. "The chill itself is a weapon. Learn to control the spread of that frostbite effect, and you can disable an opponent's shield or armor without ever breaking it. A valuable tool for a thinking fighter."
He had Alph stop, recover his mana, and try again, conjuring different armaments—a gauntlet, a greave, a helmet. Each time Alph built the module, the process became faster, more intuitive. The morning flew by, and soon the high sun of afternoon beat down on the snowy clearing, signaling the end of their session.
"Your comprehension is remarkable, boy," Hemlock said, his tone grimly serious now. "There is little more I can teach you about the theory. You simply need practice." He paused, his gaze turning sharp. "Which brings us to a more pressing matter. Your Profession. What do you plan to do?"
Alph did not hesitate. "I will hide it. I will tell everyone I am an Arcane Squire. The abilities are similar enough at this Tier."
A slow, approving nod from the old druid. "A wise choice. But a lie must be believable. An Arcane Squire is still a squire. They learn to fight with steel, not just ice. I will speak with Borin. He will teach you how to handle a real blade."
A surge of gratitude welled up in Alph. "Thank you, Teacher!"
As the words left his mouth, a loud, gurgling rumble echoed in the quiet clearing. His stomach. A hot flush of embarrassment crept up his neck.
For the first time that day, Hemlock's stern face cracked into a wide, genuine smile. "Go home, boy. Fill your belly. A sharp mind requires a full stomach, and rest is as important a part of training as any lesson."
Alph thanked him again, gave a respectful bow, and left, heading back down the mountain path toward the smell of woodsmoke and the promise of a meal.