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...
Leylin understood that reasoning with the security system of a Magus base was futile—its protocols were rigid, its purpose singular. Without hesitation, he launched his assault.
"Attack!" he commanded, expending one point of spiritual force. From the depths of his soul space, the astral form of the Great Withering Mankestre materialized, its shadowy coils writhing into existence with a menacing hiss.
The giant snake surged forward, slamming into the villa's door where the petal-formed human face snarled in defiance, "Don't be so impulsive—what if you damage the experiment lab?"
"So be it," Leylin replied, dismissing the concern. The lab's secrets were worth the risk, and he had no patience for half-measures.
"Intruder! Die!" The floral face roared, its voice shifting erratically—from a deep male growl, to a shrill female screech—as the petals rearranged in a grotesque dance of fury.
Bang! Bang! Bang! The shadow snake lashed out relentlessly, its massive form smashing into the surrounding cave walls. Each strike left gaping holes in the stone, debris raining down in clouds of dust and grit.
Leylin, relying on his high Knight-level agility, darted and weaved through the chaos, evading falling rocks and snapping vines with fluid precision. His summon, unbound by such concerns, attacked with ruthless abandon, heedless of the damage it sustained.
Boom! A thunderous crash echoed as the snake reared back and struck again, its shadowy maw gaping wide.
The Great Withering Mankestre unleashed a venomous assault on the door, its spectral fangs dripping with corrosive essence that sizzled upon contact. The venomous spit splattered across the vines, eating through the blackish-green tendrils with a sharp hiss.
It followed with a barrage of strikes—coiling its tail to whip the door with bone-shattering force, then lunging forward to tear at the petal-face with its jaws. Amid the onslaught, the Bone Eating Flowers along the floor let out high-pitched wails, their jagged petals trembling as the snake's venom seeped into their roots.
The sounds grew fainter, dwindling into a pitiful whimper before fading entirely, replaced by the wet, decomposing squelch of rotting flora—a noise so visceral it could turn stomachs.
Five minutes later, the black smoke cleared, revealing the villa once more. Its surface was a ruin—scales of corroded wood and stone clinging precariously to the frame, threatening to collapse under their own weight.
The Devil Vines and Bone Eating Flowers were gone, eradicated by the snake's ferocity, leaving only scattered remnants of charred stems and wilted petals strewn across the ground.
Leylin nodded, satisfied with his summon's performance. Though its innate parasitic and withering abilities were diminished in this astral form, the Great Withering Mankestre proved a formidable vanguard.
At a mere cost of one spiritual force point, it was an economical tool—brutal, efficient, and obedient. He dismissed it back to his soul space with a thought, the shadowy form dissipating like mist.
The villa's layout unfolded in his mind, courtesy of the A.I. Chip's scan. Two storeys stood above ground: the upper floor housed a bedroom and bathroom, while the first floor served as a guestroom. The true prize—the experiment lab—lay hidden underground, its entrance concealed behind a wardrobe. The blueprint glowed faintly in his vision, a map to the secrets within.
Inside, Leylin found little of immediate value beyond a single diary. Its yellow parchment was brittle, edges frayed as though a stiff breeze might crumble it to dust.
The cover bore the name Norco Curadu Sfar—better known as the Great Magus Serholm, a Rank 4 Morning Star Magus. The weight of the name alone is enough to suffocate wisest of magi.
Norco Curadu Sfar was a titan of the south coast's history, a figure woven into its legends. A scholar of unparalleled erudition, he had risen to prominence through his mastery of the Magus path, leading the region's Magi in repelling invasions from subterranean tribes and marine beasts.
His name was a beacon, a lodestar for every south coast Magus aspiring to greatness. This diary, penned during his early years as a Rank 1 or 2 Magus, lacked earth-shattering revelations but brimmed with research logs—notes on alchemical processes, cryptic references to "Dylan Gardens," and scattered musings on spellcraft.
It was the inheritance from Dylan Gardens of Great Magus Serholm that had propelled Fang Ming to warlock status, but a glimpse into a nascent genius.
Leylin had scoured the villa once again, hoping for more—a spell tome, an artifact—but found nothing beyond this journal. Disappointing, yet not without value. Tucking the diary into his robes, he descended to the underground lab where the vengeful spirit likely lurked.
As he stepped into the chamber, a gust of wind stirred the dust, swirling into a whirlwind that thickened and grew. The cyclone twisted, coalescing into a translucent human figure—an elderly visage etched with bitterness and longing.
"How many years… How many years has it been? I've finally caught a whiff of a living human!" The spirit's voice rasped, its form shimmering faintly as it hovered before Leylin.
This was Roman, a Level 3 Acolyte turned vengeful spirit. Such entities were anomalies, born of rare confluences—sometimes a mere human could become an evil spirit, while even official Magi might never manifest as one.
The Abyssal Bone Forest Academy had studied them extensively yet grasped only fragments of their nature.
Roman had been lured here by Serholm's alchemical tome, only to perish under the Gnawing Slate's jaws. Trapped by the lab's spell formation, his soul had festered into this wrathful shade.
Leylin acted without hesitation, his mastery of soul magic surging to the fore. He chanted a low incantation, weaving a spell that birthed a shimmering force field around Roman.
"Pitrama Bandish!"
The barrier pulsed with a faint silver glow, its energy tuned to suppress spirit bodies, contracting slightly to pin the spirit in place.
"Im… Impossible! How can you imprison me?" Roman's face twisted in rage, his translucent form thrashing against the field as he howled in defiance.
"Spirit bodies may baffle most acolytes, but not me," Leylin said calmly, his expression serene. "Souls are my domain." He produced a black crystal ball, its surface smooth and unblemished, and activated the Confining Spirit Sphere. A radiant light flared from the orb, and a suction force erupted, dragging the shrieking spirit inward.
Chi! The crystal swallowed Roman whole, his form shrinking into a tiny, translucent figure trapped within. The ball now resembled amber encasing an insect, a dark trophy of Leylin's triumph. He pocketed it, the weight a satisfying reminder of his skill.
Spirit bodies fascinated him—their strength tied to the soul's potency, a mirror to the spiritual force Magi cultivated through meditation. Legends spoke of an official Magus who, upon becoming a spirit, retained his spellcasting prowess, ascending as a spectral Magus.
Roman was no such prize, but he was a specimen worth studying. Leylin planned to dissect his essence slowly, using the A.I. Chip to harvest data and refine his soul techniques.
He'd even requested prisoners from Viscount Jackson for further experiments—living subjects to test his theories.
Glancing at the massive black granite boulder sealing the lab's entrance, Leylin turned away. He mounted a steed waiting outside and spurred it into a gallop, the hoofbeats drumming a swift retreat.
Boom! Moments after his departure, the boulder erupted in a deafening explosion, reducing the lab to ash and rubble. The sound rolled across the withering woods, a final note of destruction.
"Only a year and a half remain before the academy recalls me," Leylin mused, the wind whipping past him. "I should craft the Fallen Star Pendant and consolidate my powers."
Half a month later, in his villa's experiment lab, Leylin closed the black diary after reading its final page. The chamber was a clutter of alchemical tools—vials of bubbling liquids, stacks of parchment, and the faint hum of magical energy. He'd spent weeks in a cycle of trial and error, observing reactions and cataloging results with the A.I. Chip's aid.
Prisoners from Jackson had arrived, their fates sealed as test subjects for his soul research. Roman's spirit, trapped in the crystal, had been prodded and probed, yielding incremental insights into spectral mechanics.
Leylin leaned back, the diary resting on the table. His path was set—power awaited, and he would seize it, one calculated step at a time.