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...
The dark corridors of the Abyssal Bone Forest Academy stretched before Leylin like a labyrinth of shadows, their stone walls damp with the chill of underground air.
His boots echoed softly against the worn floor as he made his way back to his dorm room, the faint flicker of wall-mounted lanterns casting jagged patterns across his path.
The academy's halls, once bustling with acolytes, now lay quiet, their emptiness a stark reminder of the war's toll.
As he neared his dorm, a figure emerged from the gloom—a Grand Knight, clad in the same weathered armor.
The knight stood rigid before Leylin's door, his gauntleted hand clutching a leather bag that clinked faintly with the promise of wealth. Beside him, Abigail slithered across the floor, her scales glinting like polished obsidian in the dim light. Leylin has left Abigail with him before going to meet Dorotte.
"Lord Leylin," the knight intoned, his voice gruff yet respectful. He bowed slightly, extending the bag. "Your reward for completing the mission in Extreme Night City—magic crystals, I have submitted your mission and received it in your stead."
Leylin took the bag, feeling the satisfying heft of the crystals within, their energy humming faintly against his palm. Before he could respond, Abigail darted forward, her sleek form coiling up his leg with practiced ease until she settled across his shoulders. Her tongue flickered near his ear, and a soft hiss carried her whispered words in Parseltongue, too faint for the knight to hear.
Leylin's lips quirked into a faint smile as he nodded. "I know you're scared," he murmured, his voice low and soothing. "I would be too. Such is the aura of Magi."
His bright brown eyes gleamed with a yearning intensity, a hunger that had grown sharper with every step toward his goal. "Don't worry, Abigail. I'll soon be a Magus too."
The knight shifted uncomfortably, perhaps sensing the weight of Leylin's ambition, but said nothing as he stepped aside. Leylin brushed past him, the bag of crystals tucked under his arm, and approached his door.
Ka-cha! Creak! The bronze key grated in the lock, its mechanism yielding with a reluctant groan as he turned it. The door swung open, revealing a room bathed in the warm glow of a single enchanted lantern, its light steadfast despite the years of neglect. Leylin stepped inside, his gaze sweeping over the familiar space.
Dust had settled thickly on the wooden table, the chair, the narrow bed, mute evidence of his long absence but beneath the grime, everything remained as he'd left it, frozen in time. (Image)
"Amansi!" he said sharply, snapping his fingers. A faint shimmer rippled through the air, and a green whirlwind erupted from the room's center. The spiraling gust tugged at the bedsheets and tablecloths, lifting them briefly before whisking away the accumulated dust.
Grey particles swirled into the vortex, darkening its hue to a murky green as it danced around the room. Within moments, the whirlwind completed its circuit, depositing its burden into the bin with a soft thud before dissipating into nothingness.
Leylin exhaled, satisfied, and settled into the chair at his desk, the wood creaking faintly under his weight. He set the bag of crystals aside and retrieved the parchment detailing the Branded Swordsman, its edges brittle from age.
The text was a labyrinth of ancient Byron and Mariell script, the latter a dialect derived from an outer-dimensional tongue, alien and convoluted. Dorotte's spidery notes scrawled in the margins offered some clarity, but the sections on runes and spellcasting remained dauntingly complex. Leylin traced a finger along the faded lines, his brow furrowing as he assessed the challenge ahead.
Branded Swordsmen are a specialized class of warriors who have undergone significant enhancement through the application of alchemical potions and the inscription of magical runes onto their bodies. This process involves branding a magic spell formation directly onto their flesh, granting them extraordinary physical prowess.
The transformation into a Branded Swordsman begins with a Grand Knight who has already activated their inner life energy.
Through the use of alchemical potions and the meticulous engraving of magic runes, a spell formation is permanently branded onto their body. This branding is irreversible and penetrates deep into the spirit, establishing a profound link that allows the Swordsman to harness and store natural energy particles from the environment. These particles can be unleashed explosively during critical moments, resulting in formidable attacks.
Branded Swordsmen possess physical defense and offensive abilities that far surpass those of ordinary humans and even rival those of Magi. Their continuous transformation through stored energy particles elevates their physical attributes to incomprehensible levels.
The magic runes and arrays serve as channels to absorb and store natural energy particles. In pivotal moments, these energies can be fully unleashed to execute devastating attacks, making Branded Swordsmen formidable opponents on the battlefield.
An official Branded Swordsman can match or even surpass a Rank 1 Magus in power, highlighting their significant combat capabilities
While Branded Swordsmen primarily focus on physical strength and combat techniques, the energy stored within their branded runes allows them to perform powerful bursts of energy-based attacks. However, they do not typically engage in traditional spellcasting like Magi. Their abilities are more centered around enhancing physical combat through the strategic release of stored energy.
"This won't be quick," he muttered to himself, reading through the introduction and the complex inscriptions, his voice barely above a whisper. "Even with Dorotte's guidance and my talent, it'll take months of study." He leaned back, his mind sifting through the requirements.
"The prerequisite is peak Grand Knight strength, already achieved, thanks to my training. But the rituals, rune crafting, spell model customization all needs to be tailored to optimize the Branded Swordsman path for me, that's the hurdle. And resources…" He glanced at the bag of crystals, then at the Shadow Wyrm blood tucked in his robe. "The Greed Wand and that blood from Dorotte drained me. I'm running low."
His hand drifted to a small wooden box on the desk, flipping it open to reveal a collection of rune plates and single-use magic artifacts—his own creations, each pulsing faintly with stored power.
"I'll need Grand Knight slaves for experiments," he mused, his tone clinical.
"That'll cost a fortune. But the market's ripe—alchemy creations are in high demand now, prices soaring above normal rates. If I sell these, I can amass the funds I need."
Leylin's confidence steadied him. As a peak Level 3 acolyte with Grand Knight prowess, armed with the Greed Wand, Magic ring, a few personal artifacts, and a stockpile of rune plates, he felt little fear of the secret realm's bloodbath.
"Worst case, I avoid the strongest foes, hide, and pick off weaker targets for contribution points," he reasoned. "I'll come out ahead."
He tapped the desk thoughtfully. "First, I should register as a Level 3 acolyte, gain access to the hidden library, as Dorotte suggested. There's bound to be something valuable there."
His thoughts turned to the Branded Swordsman's trickiest aspect: branding slaves to prevent rebellion.
Their strength, once augmented, could rival a Level 1 Magus dangerous if turned against a weaker master. But Leylin dismissed the concern with a cold smirk. "I don't need loyal subjects. I'll kill any slave who succeeds before they can revolt. The project is for myself, it just needs to work.
"Abigail," he said, turning to the snake draped across his shoulders, "things are getting interesting." He retrieved the dark vial of Shadow Wyrm blood from his robe, its silvery flecks shimmering in the lantern's light.
"Five vials, not enough to risk bloodline extraction now. Without the Branded Swordsman foundation, the backlash would cripple me. My spiritual force already exceeds the Magus threshold; pushing further without balance is reckless."
He tilted the vial, watching the liquid swirl. "I'll use four of them for blood assimilation, boost my strength for the bloodbath. The fifth, I'll save for extraction later. A slight edge is still an edge."
Abigail hissed softly, and Leylin chuckled. "Better than nothing, right?"
....
Time slipped by, the day of the bloodbath drawing nearer with each passing sunrise. The academy buzzed with activity—competitions in alchemy, spellcraft, and combat sprang up, designed to bolster the acolytes' strength with generous rewards.
Yet Leylin abstained, retreating instead to his dorm or the library, his focus unwavering. As a registered Level 3 acolyte, he leveraged his new privileges, purchasing vast quantities of magical resources herbs, crystals, rare inks and hoarding texts on advanced subjects, their pages thick with the promise of hidden knowledge.
One afternoon, he sat in the hidden library section, a cavernous chamber lined with towering shelves that groaned under the weight of ancient tomes. Dust motes danced in the slanted light filtering through high, narrow windows, and the air carried the dry, leathery scent of old parchment. (Image)
Leylin hunched over a thick volume bound in cracked leather, his eyes scanning the faded script with fierce concentration. The text was a treatise on Magus lineages, its prose dense and cryptic, but something snagged his attention, an inconsistency that prickled at the edges of his mind.
He paused, his finger resting on a passage detailing ancient Magus families. "Fifteen points of spiritual force, a rank 1 spell model, Grine Water—that's the standard path to Magus," he murmured, his voice a low hum in the stillness. "But these families…" He flipped back a page, then forward again, cross-referencing with a mental catalog of his studies.
"Some lost their heritage, spell models vanished, legacies buried yet centuries later, they rise again, wielding the same models as before. How?"
His brow furrowed, the gears of his mind turning. "Did they recreate them from scratch? Possible, but unlikely spell models are tied to personal aptitude, elemental attributes. Even among kin, such consistency is rare unless…" He trailed off, his gaze drifting to a nearby shelf where a tome on meditation techniques caught his eye. He rose, retrieving it with a swift motion, and returned to his seat, flipping through its yellowed pages.
"Meditation techniques," he whispered, his pulse quickening. "The standard one I use, it propelled me to Level 3, but it's useless now, too weak to push further." He traced a line in the text, a vague reference to ancient practices. "What if there's a more potent form? An advanced technique, tailored to specific attributes, passed down through families and legacies? That could explain it families encoding spell models into meditation, preserving them across generations."
He leaned back, the chair creaking under him, and stared at the ceiling, lost in thought. "Dorotte hinted at regret, warned me off the standard path. Could this be it? Revelation of an advanced meditation technique hinted in these texts?" His lips curved into a determined line. "If it exists, I'll find it. For now, I'll stick to my plans Branded Swordsman, the bloodbath, the library. One way or another, I'll uncover the truth."
Abigail shifted on his shoulder, her hiss a quiet echo of his resolve. Leylin closed the book, his mind alight with possibilities, the weight of his ambitions settling comfortably around him like a cloak.