Alastor Creighton, a na that carried the weight of legends, stood before , exuding an air of casual authority that only ca from absolute power. This was a man who wielded nine-circle magic as effortlessly as one might flick a wrist, a man whose very presence was a reminder that the Creighton family wasn't rely a lineage of powerful mages—it was a dynasty that had shaped the course of magical history.
To the world, he was one of three living nine-circle Archmages. To the Creighton family, he was its cornerstone, its shield against external threats. To humanity, he was one of its greatest defenders against the ever-looming nace of the Shadow Seekers. And to Rachel, he was simply "Father."
For a man who had ascended to Radiant-rank in his thirties—an age where most mages were still fumbling with five-circle spells—he carried himself with the quiet confidence of soone who had already seen every possible outco of a conversation before it had even begun. There was no wasted movent, no unnecessary words. Just pure, efficient control.
And sohow, he was personally teaching magic.
"Aren't you a bit... busy for this, Father?" Rachel asked, mirroring my astonishnt.
Alastor chuckled, a deep, rich sound that carried no small amount of amusent. "Consider it a lesson for both of you. After all, reaching White-rank is only a matter of ti."
He wasn't wrong. Both Rachel and I were nearing White-rank, although I was going to reach it before her despite being behind her right now, the point where magic began to shift from re structured spellcasting into sothing closer to true artistry. Reaching that rank ant unlocking five-circle magic, spells so potent they could reshape battlefields.
And here was a man who could teach how to wield them properly.
"Please," I said, bowing slightly. An Archmage's lesson wasn't sothing you turned down.
Alastor wasted no ti. With a flick of his wrist, a vibrant blue fla appeared in his palm. It didn't flicker like a normal fla—it burned with a dense, concentrated heat that made the air around it shimr.
"A basic five-circle fire spell," he said, as if he were demonstrating a minor parlor trick. "At this level, mana is compressed to such an extent that the fla's temperature rises dramatically, changing its color. You'll notice the lack of waste—no stray embers, no excess energy bleeding out."
His gaze flickered between and Rachel, a hint of challenge in his eyes. "Let's delve into the chanics."
And then he did exactly that.
He broke the spell apart, piece by piece, deconstructing the layers of mana manipulation that went into shaping it. He explained the principles of spell compression, the way circles interlocked, how mana flowed through invisible conduits to create stability. It was ticulous, precise, and frankly overwhelming—like watching a grandmaster dissect a technique that lesser mages spent lifetis failing to understand.
"Of course," Alastor mused, "the standard approach requires precise calculations—spatial coordinates, velocity estimations, elental ratios."
He paused, watching as I absorbed the information, then smiled slightly.
"But there's a more elegant way to bypass all of that. A technique we call Laplace."
Rachel's head tilted. "Laplace?"
Alastor nodded. "A refined thod of spellcasting that eliminates the need for manual calculations by reading ambient mana flow in real ti and allowing the spell to shape itself accordingly."
His expression turned mildly conspiratorial. "Theoretically, it allows for instantaneous spell adaptation and reaction speed beyond conventional limits. It's not sothing just anyone can learn—only those with high mana sensitivity."
His gaze lingered on for a mont longer than I liked. "It's possible for you, Arthur, though it's not exactly aligned with your focus, is it?"
Rachel gave an inquisitive look. I answered truthfully. "I'm more interested in magic that complents my swordsmanship rather than becoming my main focus."
Alastor chuckled. "Ah. A swordsman who wants magic as a tool rather than a foundation. A rare breed these days." His eyes twinkled with interest. "I can't exactly give you a crash course in magic-for-swordsn, but I can refine what you already know."
Hearing that from him? It was like having an astrophysicist tell you they had ti to tutor you in basic equations.
Rachel, however, looked like soone had just told her to sit out of a competition. "Wait, what about ?" she demanded.
"You're already following the proper path," Alastor said smoothly. "Mastering Laplace and these five-circle spells is your priority. You're at a plateau, but this will push you past it."
Rachel crossed her arms, looking mildly betrayed but not entirely unwilling.
Alastor turned back to . "Now, Arthur," he said, his gaze sharp. "Show your strongest spell."
I hesitated for a fraction of a second. Then, taking a breath, I summoned fire.
It wasn't elegant, wasn't refined—it was just the four-circle spell I was most familiar with. Fla Lance. A concentrated spear of fire crackled to life in my palm, its heat distorting the air slightly.
I could feel Alastor assessing it, breaking it down in real-ti, analyzing every flaw before I even cast it.
"Launch it," he said.
I obeyed.
The lance streaked forward, a burning projectile slicing through the air—
And disintegrated before it ever reached him.
Alastor hadn't even moved.
There had been no counterspell, no visible defense—just an application of ambient mana that unraveled my attack before it could complete. A flick of his wrist, and my best spell had been rendered utterly useless.
Not going to lie. That stung a little.
"Not bad," he said, which sohow made it worse. "Your mana is pure and your technique isn't sloppy. But there's inefficiency. Gaps in the way your spell is constructed."
He stepped forward, raising his hand.
Then, with the exact sa mana output, he cast the sa spell I had.
Except his Fla Lance was clean, precise, lethal.
And when he fired it?
The sheer force of the impact obliterated a boulder into nothing but glowing embers.
I stared. Not because of the raw power—he had used the sa amount of mana as I had. But his control, his spell construction, his efficiency had turned that sa energy into sothing infinitely more refined.
"This," Alastor said, turning back to , "is what separates mages. Power ans nothing if you can't wield it properly."
I swallowed, forcing my thoughts back into focus. "So what am I doing wrong?"
Alastor smiled. "Let's find out."
What followed was an hour of relentless, brutal refinent.
He dissected my form, forced to recast Fla Lance over and over, correcting every mistake with ruthless precision.
He adjusted my stance, my incantations, my mana control. Every repetition trimd inefficiencies, shaved away wasted energy, and tightened my control.
And slowly, painfully, it started to click.
By the end, my Fla Lance wasn't just a spell.
It was sharper, faster, stronger.
It wasn't perfect.
But it was the first step toward mastery.
Alastor clapped his hands together, breaking the silence. "Enough for today."
I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding.
"You've absorbed enough for now," he said. "Get so rest. We'll continue tomorrow."
Rachel and I turned to leave, but just before I stepped through the doorway, Alastor's voice stopped .
"Arthur."
I turned.
He t my gaze, his eyes unreadable.
"Don't underestimate the power of a well-placed spell in battle. A swordsman who commands magic is a force to be reckoned with."
I nodded. "I'll rember that."
As Rachel and I walked back toward the estate, I could feel it—a shift.
A realization.
Magic wasn't just a tool.
It was a weapon.
And I had every intention of mastering it.
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