A/N : If you want to support me or early access to chapters, consider becoming a patreon: patreon.com/keetarp.
★TDG FF has Early Access till Chapter 106.
★WMW FF(rewrite ) has Early Access till Chapter 66.
★WMW DL has Early Access till Chapter 76.
Join my community, accessible to all readers, discuss ideas, get updates and share photos and comments—https://www.patreon.com/chats/f10f809d279243e9a68849812a04ff8e
You can also support me through PayPal —https://www.paypal.me/ppratyay
...
The interior of Dorotte's spell experiment room yawned vast and imposing, a hall twice the size of the acolytes' testing grounds.
The chamber was a battlefield of purpose—dozens of targets littered the center, from human-shaped dummies frozen in stoic poses to smaller, darting ones that skittered on enchanted tracks, their movements erratic as if alive. Larger targets loomed like silent sentinels, while a gleaming measuring section stood ready to gauge the raw force of any spell flung its way, its crystal panels glinting faintly under the cold light of sconces.
To the far right, a broad screen hung on the wall, its surface etched with runes that pulsed softly, waiting to record a Magus's power.
Below it, a slab of instructions offered curt guidance on its operation: strike a target, and the screen would capture the spell's might in stark, unyielding numbers.
Leylin stood in the room's heart, his boots scuffing the smooth marble floor, his bright brown eyes sweeping the space with a quiet, assessing hunger.
It was familiar to the one acolyte's room he visited before but in a grander form, the air here was heavier, saturated with better tools, more precise measuring, the security tighter.
Dorotte had once bragged, that when this room was in use, not even he could pierce its wards to sense the spells within. Leylin's lips twitched at the memory, a flicker of amusement beneath his cool exterior.
"It's good enough." he thought, no prying eyes for what comes next.
With a casual flick, he shed his grey hooded robe, letting it crumple to the ground in a heap, the fabric pooling like a discarded skin. Abigail hissed softly from her perch near the door, her scales shimmering as she watched, but Leylin paid her no mind.
He clenched his fists, his breath escaping in a slow, deliberate exhale, and reached inward, connecting the runes etched into his body.
Power surged, a wildfire igniting in his veins. The red runes across his skin blazed to life, their glow casting jagged shadows on the walls, and he felt it—strength swelling, etching deeper, filling him with a primal might that thrummed like a second heartbeat. His muscles tensed, his eyes glinting with a fierce, unspoken thrill, the rush of power a lover's whisper against his soul. (Image)
"Let's try with a physical attack first!" he said, his voice low but alive with a hungry edge, a spark of excitement cracking through his usual calm.
He strode to a power measuring unit, its target a slab of reinforced alloy, unyielding as a mountain. His right arm flexed, muscles bulging under rune-seared skin, and he moved—Bang!—like a bolt of lightning, a blur of speed and momentum that tore through the air.
His fist slammed into the target's center, the impact echoing like a thunderclap, leaving a faint dent in the metal's surface, a scar of his newfound might.
The screen flickered, runes pulsing as words materialized. "Classification: Physical Attack. Degree of power: 12. Damage to target: Moderate."
Leylin's gaze locked on the number—12—and a grin split his face, sharp and triumphant, a quiet satisfaction blooming in his chest.
As a Level 3 acolyte, his strongest spell had scraped 9, maybe 10 units at best. Now, a single punch outstripped it, raw and unadorned. His mind raced, calculating—with a weapon, maybe 16, enough to rival a fresh Magus's blow.
A newly minted official Magus could hit 20 with a magic spell, and here he was, closing the gap with flesh alone.
He exhaled slowly, his breath steadying, the thrill settling into a focused hunger. "Now," he murmured, his voice a soft growl of anticipation, "time to measure the spell."
He reached inward again, activating his innate spell, the Branded Swordsman's gift. A shiver ran through him as blood mist seeped from his pores, tiny droplets welling up like crimson tears, glistening under the room's cold light.
They swirled around him, merging into a dense, roiling fog that boiled like molten lava, its heat prickling his skin. Leylin clenched his fist, the mist tightening around him, a cocoon of raw, explosive power.
He was in the state of magical eruption, his own creation—a spell forged from his blood, the potency of runes, and relentless spellcraft.
"Incendio," he muttered, his voice a low, fervent chant, thick with intent. He thrust his hand forward, and the blood mist ignited, a blazing torrent of fire roaring through the room, slamming into a target with a deafening crack. The dummy erupted in flames, its surface charred black, the air thick with the acrid scent of scorched metal.
Leylin turned to the screen, his heart thudding with a quiet thrill. The runes shifted, revealing a new record: "Classification: Magical Attack. Degree of power: 25. Damage to target: Severe." His eyes widened, a flash of surprise cutting through his calm.
"25?" he whispered, his voice laced with a mix of awe and glee, a laugh bubbling up unbidden. That was no mere Rank 1 spell—it could shred a newly advanced Magus's defenses, burn through their pride with ease.
He deactivated the spell, the mist dissolving, but a faint weakness tugged at him, the side effect sinking its claws in. The spell burned his own blood cells, a sacrifice of vitality for power. A few casts were fine—his body could take it—but overuse would hollow him out.
He'd planned for this, though. With a steady hand, he pulled a small potion bottle from his belt, its green liquid glowing faintly, alive with promise. He tipped it back, the bitter tang flooding his mouth, and cast another spell, his voice low and resolute.
"Bone Marrow Regeneration," he intoned, the words a quiet command. Power stirred in his core, his long bones humming as marrow surged, churning out blood cells at a ferocious pace. They matured in seconds, a controlled neoplasm—unlike leukemia's useless flood, these cells were vital, potent, rushing to replenish what he'd lost.
Leylin felt the weakness ebb, his strength creeping back, but a faint dissatisfaction lingered. He was a Rank 1 entity now, his physical might a match for Magi, his spell a blazing hammer—yet against seasoned Magi with arsenals of spells, he was still wanting.
"I can only get more spells to overcome the deficit," he said, his voice a low, determined rumble, his eyes glinting with ambition. He drew a test tube from his pouch, its blood dark and viscous, pulsing with a latent menace.
"I guess I have to try it," he murmured, his tone thick with a reckless hunger, tempered by cold calculation. "My physical abilities are stronger now, even my spiritual force at 18, maybe 19, leagues above any acolyte. I can suppress the side effects of blood extraction."
He uncorked the tube—Dorotte's gift, the Rank 1 Beast Blood of a Shadow Wyvern, saved for a moment like this, to be twisted to his own ends.
The air grew heavy, a faint hum rising as he poured half the blood into his mouth, its taste bitter and electric, like swallowing a storm. The rest he splashed across his face, the liquid warm and slick, dripping down his jaw as he sank into his sea of consciousness.
A pulse of grey, corrupting energy erupted from nowhere the Cursed Bloodline Codex stirring, its malice a whisper in the air. Before him, a blood altar shimmered into being, its surface carved with writhing runes, glowing with an evil, crimson light that pulsed like a heartbeat.
Leylin stood unflinching, his voice rising in a rhyme, ancient and commanding. "Shadow Wyvern, lord of night's embrace," he chanted, his tone fervent, laced with a dark reverence, "whose wings of shadow veil the light's trace. By thy blood, thy essence deep, grant me thy spell, thy form to keep. Ancient powers, runes of shade, forge the path where night is made!"
The altar flared, grey energy coiling around him like a serpent, and the blood surged, merging with his spellcraft.
Pain lanced through him—a backlash, sharp and vicious. After a few minutes of excruciating pain, his left forearm twisted, black-grey scales sprouting, ugly and mortified, his hand morphing into a claw, jagged and cruel.
He coughed, blood flecking his lips, but a wicked smile curled his mouth, his eyes blazing with triumph.
"I did it," he rasped, his voice a raw, exultant growl. He could feel it—the Shadow Wyvern's innate spell, Shadow Form, pulsing in his veins like a second soul.
"Shadow Form," he muttered, his voice a reverent whisper. His body dissolved, melting into an intangible mass of shadows, as if birthed from the darkness itself. (Image)
The Shadow Wyvern was night's darling, and Leylin became its echo, claws glinting in his hands, a reaper-like scythe shimmering into being, its edge hungry for ruin.
He moved like a wraith, a flash of darkness streaking across the room, the scythe slashing a target with a scream of torn metal.
The screen flickered: "Classification: Physical Attack. Degree of power: 18. Damage to target: Severe."
Leylin's breath caught, surprise flickering in his gaze. "18?" he said, his voice thick with glee, a laugh rumbling up from his chest. Nearly a Rank 1 spell's strength, born from a physical strike—it was monstrous, a testament to the Shadow Wyvern's might, felled only by a Magus like Dorotte.
He returned to normal, his form solidifying, and glanced at his left forearm. The scales lingered, grotesque and mutated, a scar of the spell's cost. He didn't flinch, side effects were a price, one he'd treat later. Strength was all that mattered, and he had it now, a fire blazing in his core.
He stood there, chest heaving, the room's silence wrapping around him like a cloak. His strength thrilled him physical might to rival Magi, spells to burn through their ranks but he tempered it with caution. Exposure wasn't his game, not yet.
Gathering his robe, he draped it over his shoulders, the coarse fabric grounding him, and left the testing area, Abigail slithering close, her coils a quiet shadow at his side.
Back in his dorm room, the air was stale, the stone walls cold against his skin. He hadn't returned in days, consumed by the lab's feverish work, and the space felt alien now, too small for the power thrumming in him.
A letter lay on his desk, its wax seal gleaming—a Lilytell crest. Bosain's invitation, likely that excursion he'd dangled before.
Leylin's lips curled, a slow, calculating smile. "Now that my experiment is concluded." he murmured, his voice low and laced with a newfound confidence, "maybe I'll play along."