The party had ended. What once brimmed with laughter, light, and the subtle orchestration of political manoeuvring now stood silent in memory.
Vancroft returned home—not alongside his family, for they had chosen to ride in separate carriages, as though the shared blood between them had thinned to vapour.
He did not speak to them.
Neither did they acknowledge him. It was, he thought, rather fitting.
Though the night had been awkward in parts, it had not been without reward.
The duel, the silence that ensued, and Lena's spontaneous donation of money all came together to form one unifying fact: he had, in spite of himself, benefitted from this night.
An experience rather than just money.
However, something did not feel right. There was a slight tug on the edge of his mind, barely noticeable, but there.
He thought it would be better to address it later, once he had returned to the comforts of his lab.
Or so he believed.
He waited outside, his eyes scanning the road. Time passed. Still, no carriage arrived.
Perplexed, Vancroft approached one of the guards idling nearby.
"Pardon me," he began, tone clipped yet polite, "did you perchance see a carriage bearing the Lovecraft sigil?"
The guard nodded.
"Aye, milord. Saw it head off some time ago, right after the party concluded. Left with your family, I believe. The second one—meant for the younger master—was taken by a noble lady they'd invited."
For a moment, Vancroft did not speak.
The words struck like cold water. His own family had prioritised a stranger above him. Flesh of their flesh. Blood of their blood.
His fists clenched. The shadow of rage stirred deep within.
[Breathe]
[Unnecessary action leads to unnecessary consequences.]
And so, with slow exhalation, Vancroft reined himself back.
He had, it seemed, allowed himself to forget—if only briefly—his place within that illustrious lineage.
One day, he thought. One day, I'll make them regret this.
He took a step back, eyes narrowing as he pondered his next move.
That was when he heard footsteps. Light, assured, and unmistakable.
Arista.
She regarded him with her usual impassivity, one brow faintly raised.
"You're still here?" she asked.
Vancroft, resigned, relayed the situation with as little embellishment as possible.
Arista gave a soft hum, her gloved hand rising to gently cradle her chin.
"Do you live near the Lovecraft estate?"
"Yes," he answered. "A stone's throw away."
"Then there's no need for you to waste time on the gates," she said.
With that, her fingers moved to the hilt of her blade.
The instant the sword left its sheath, the very air around them shifted.
A blue radiance erupted from the steel, bathing the world in its chilling light. The ground trembled.
The wind howled. And all who stood nearby were driven to their knees—not by force, but by sheer presence.
Even Vancroft, who had faced spirits and duellists, found his breath caught in his throat.
What kind of monster is she?
Damian, in contrast, spun his internal systems with fevered analysis.
[Pressure output exceeds calibrated threshold. Mana density—impossible to measure.]
She raised her sword high and, in one clean motion, slashed downward.
Reality—order itself—split.
In front of them, a sharp crack split open, exposing the Lovecraft estate beyond.
Confused guards reached for their weapons, startled at the tear in space that now shimmered like broken glass.
Arista returned her blade to its sheath with a soft click.
"That should do," she said simply.
"Try not to dawdle."
Vancroft could scarcely believe his eyes. She had torn through space—as casually as one might cut a ribbon.
What kind of deranged thoughts did the author have to create this? Don't tell me it's one of those world-ending novel characters.
But there was no time for complaint. Rising to his feet, he offered her a low, genuine nod.
"Thank you," he said.
And with that, he stepped into the rift.
The guards on the other side gasped as he appeared—no carriage, no escort, just a single man stepping through a tear in space.
Before they could speak, the portal behind him sealed itself, vanishing without a trace.
Home.
At long last.
And though his limbs ached and his mind still reeled, Vancroft felt something close to peace.
He was back.
And soon, it would be time to begin again.
***
Vancroft sat stooped at his desk in the dim solitude of his lab, the room filled with a kaleidoscope of subdued reds and blues as the dusk shadows filtered through the stained-glass windows.
Shelves filled with lab results, grimoires, and vials of strange-coloured liquid.
The air hung heavy with the scent of iron, ink, and papers.
There, under the flicker of an old candelabra, he at last named the discomfort that was gnawing at the periphery of his consciousness.
A bottleneck.
That was what it was.
No matter how skilfully he arranged his enchantments or how carefully he carved his magic circles, his spellwork's potency could not increase any further.
The efficacy of a 6th-circle mage was the plateau he had reached, but it also appeared to be the ceiling.
There was no inch beyond. No breath of further sky.
He slumped back into the worn leather of his chair with a sigh steeped in disappointment.
He had long known this moment would come.
He had even prepared himself for it. But preparation did little to dull the sting of reality when it finally arrived.
Damian, perched quietly beside an open schematic of sigils and spell threads, finally spoke.
[Analysis complete. Mana throughput efficiency has reached optimal thresholds.]
[Output matches standard measurements for a 6th-circle practitioner. However—limitations of the vessel prevent further evolution.]
Vancroft's crimson eyes narrowed.
"Elaborate."
Damian's mechanical voice remained cold, clinical.
[The biological transformation of a mage's body starts at the sixth rank. Mana no longer operates only as matter; it completely integrates into every part of the body to become a part of it.]
[The body itself is strengthened and refined by it. As a result of this change, muscles, organs, and even neural pathways adjust to handle the increased flow.]
[However, you remain a 4th-circle mage. The vessel is insufficient. Further augmentation would lead to internal collapse.
"So no matter how much I improve my speed... no matter how efficient my runes become..." Vancroft muttered, fingers drumming against the table.
"It means nothing if the body cannot evolve any further."
He looked at his hands. Steady. Sharp. But not strong enough.
He had already attempted numerous workarounds.
Utilising dead languages—obscure dialects from his old world, even modern English—had only slowed the casting process.
It added flair, mystique, and perhaps a tactical edge in the form of unpredictability, but it changed little in essence.
All of it had led to the same wall.
Damian's head rotated slightly, the lenses glowing brighter.
[Alternative proposal: integrate contract function into the core of your magic circle system.]
Vancroft blinked. Then froze.
As though struck by divine thunder, he stood abruptly, eyes wide in sudden revelation.
"Why didn't I think of that...?"
Contract functions—those eerie, insidious spells employed by demons and higher beings alike—operated under a singular principle: imposed terms.
A contract, once accepted, bound both parties irrevocably.
Unlike equivalent exchange, which required proportionate value, contract magic cared little for balance—it merely demanded adherence, and there was no restriction of what the party was.
If he could graft such restrictions onto his existing runes... if he offered limitations upon himself, then perhaps—just perhaps—he could bypass the limitations of his vessel.
He could extract more power not by brute force but by tactful sacrifice.
A tremor of excitement coursed through him.
Without hesitation, he pulled forth his journal and unfurled a blank scroll. Inkwell, quill, and rune guide—all drawn within moments.
He began to write, scribbling furiously across the page as the idea bloomed into form.
"Restriction: Three spells per day. Bonus: Temporary increase in mana tolerance."
"Restriction: rune circle collapses after five minutes. Bonus: Double spell output."
"Restriction: Physical strain doubles post-casting. Bonus: Enhance casting tier by one level."
His mind raced. His quill flew.
Damian, ever observant, gave a rare nod of approval.
[Proposal viable. High innovation potential.]
And so, into the silent night, the lab became a forge anew.
Where others saw ceilings, Vancroft saw thresholds. And he was ready to breach them.
As Vancroft tilted his head, eyes glinting with restrained fervour, his quill slowed across the paper.
The frantic scribble of ideas started to form neat lines; theories became blueprints, and schemes became plans.
The glow from the mana lamp above his desk painted his pale face with a subtle luminescence, casting long shadows that danced across the cluttered workbench.
He leaned back into the high-backed chair, the ancient leather creaking in complaint beneath him.
Fingers steepled, he stared at the freshly inked page, his thoughts now taking on sharper focus.
"Damian", he murmured, voice low yet edged with anticipation. "If I restrict myself to fire and water elements… sealing off wind and earth—how much of an increase can I expect in the remaining elements' performance?"
The familiar whir of gears and ticking echoed before Damian responded.
[Estimated enhancement: 14.8% increase in elemental resonance for fire.]
[17.1% for water—due to existing affinity. Mana flow becomes more concentrated. Circles will respond with greater precision.]
Vancroft nodded slowly, thoughtful.
Focus enhances force.
That was a truth known well in theory but seldom practised.
Mages often expanded their range to demonstrate versatility.
But what if one simply became sharper instead of broader?
"And what if I added further restrictions?" He said aloud, more to himself than to Damian.
[Temporal limitations, reduced casting frequency… or conditional activation.]
[Confirmed]
[Stacking restrictions can increase effectiveness, but your vessel permits no more than four restrictions simultaneously.]
[Breaching that threshold risks neurological collapse and mana backlash.]
"Of course," Vancroft muttered. "No such thing as a free miracle."
The principle behind demon contracts was clear—even if value didn't need to be equal, structure still had to be viable.
There were laws at work beneath the layers of arcane mechanics.
A mage couldn't simply wish for infinite mana or absolute defence.
The power granted had to be enforceable, and the limitations had to be real—genuine bindings of the self.
He flipped to a clean page and began to draft a prototype array.
[Restriction I: Elemental Focus — Only Fire and Water may be invoked.]
[Restriction II: Casting Frequency — Three activations per day.]
[Restriction III: Duration Cap — Maximum of five minutes per enhancement.]
[Restriction IV: Cost Feedback — Physical exhaustion post-activation increases by 50%.]
Each restriction gleamed faintly in the mind's eye.
He leaned back once more, a smile creeping across his face, half triumph, half madness.
The weight of the ceiling above him—once so stifling—had lightened.
He was still confined by his own biology and tethered to a 4th circle.
Nevertheless, he had created a key to force open the walls using his intelligence and selflessness.
"I'll test it tomorrow," he murmured, already picturing the results.
"We'll see just how far this can take me."
Damian's lenses whirred as he nodded in approval. "The path diverges."
And so, in the quiet heart of the Lovecraft mansion, under candlelight and ink,
Vancroft laid the groundwork for a new school of runecraft—one born not of heritage nor divine blessing but of cunning, resolve, and rebellion.