In the cosmic hierarchy of the Star Worlds, lifeforms are classified into tiers of existential progression. Level zero through level four are collectively known as the Lesser Tiers—lifeforms that exist on the threshold of the mundane and the arcane. Many among them never awaken to any supernatural force and rely purely on physical prowess, instinct, or tools.
Often referred to as "mortal-class." These are beings who may possess some physical prowess or cleverness, but are incapable of touching true extraordinary power without artificial aid.
Even among the low-tiers, the aura of these humans was feeble. They lacked refinement in their spirit signatures, most of them barely coherent.
Just as I prepared to expand my mental field further and explore the surrounding terrain, I felt a jolt of disorientation—my consciousness flickering. At the same time, the mental energy I had painstakingly preserved was rapidly bleeding away into the ether.
Not good. Very not good.
I grimaced inwardly. The effort required to project my consciousness across dimensions was enormous. If I disintegrated now, right after waking, it would be a humiliating death.
"It's him."
My awareness immediately locked onto a dying boy slumped in a nearby carriage. Among the humans in this group, three stood out: the boy, a raven-haired beauty kneeling beside him, and a rotund man crouched nearby, panic written across his face. Their energies were... odd. Slightly discordant with the world around them. Different.
The boy, in particular, was ideal. No... not ideal. Fated. He was already dead—his life force barely a whisper in the void when I arrived.
Without hesitation, I launched the last remnants of my mental power across the dozens of meters separating us. The reverse scale pulsed as I channeled my will into the vessel of the boy's corpse.
The cost was immediate and devastating. My energy evaporated like morning dew under the desert sun—over ninety percent of my reserves vanished in the blink of an eye.
Upon entry, I immediately seized control of the boy's decaying body. My fading mental strength coalesced and isolated the residual toxins that still clung to his veins, compressing them into inert sludge and expelling them through his sweat glands.
I next manipulated his muscle fibers, forcibly knitting the ragged wound in his back closed. The arrow, I noticed, had already been removed by a physician.
The rest was crude biological manipulation—simple, for a dragon of my caliber.
By the time I finished, all of my spiritual power was drained. Only a flickering core of pure consciousness remained.
I drifted through the unfamiliar body, slipping deep into a hidden pocket of awareness. A strange, dark, sensory-deprived space revealed itself—a liminal realm that pulsed with potential and secrets.
"This place…" I studied it cautiously. It felt ancient, alien… but familiar in its structure. As the space responded to my presence, knowledge surged into my mind.
Spirit Cage.
A personal, spiritual dimension forged within the soul.
A prison, a conduit, a forge.
It served multiple purposes: imprisoning curse spirits, binding curse ones, siphoning their powers, and absorbing their essence. A cultivation tool. A weapon. A vault.
"This world… is far more interesting than I expected."
Before I could probe deeper, a ripple of emotion reached me from outside the vessel.
Claire, the reven-haired girl beside the boy—my vessel—gasped in surprise. Her brother, whose breath had all but vanished mere moments ago, suddenly exhaled. His heartbeat returned, steady and sure. Then, slowly, his eyes opened.
---
"Sid? Sid, are you okay?" Claire asked, her voice trembling between disbelief and hope.
'Sid'—now occupied by me, Barbatos—studied the young woman closely. From the fragmented remnants of the original boy's memories, I pieced together the truth: this girl was his older sister, Claire Cagueno. The boy had died with regret and confusion, yet a deep attachment to her.
"I'm… fine," I said softly, forcing a weak smile.
Claire's eyes shone with moisture as she turned and shouted for aid. "Doctor! Come quickly!"
The physician—previously dismissed in frustration—rushed back into the carriage. Even though Claire had manhandled him, he dared not complain. In this kingdom, nobles were born with divine rights, often possessing bloodlines tied to ancient spirits. No matter how skilled a doctor was, he remained a commoner before the authority of the noble blood.
The doctor performed his examination with practiced hands. Moments later, his brows furrowed in astonishment.
"The toxins… they're completely gone," he muttered, blinking. "No internal damage, either. Aside from slight weakness, the young lord appears fully recovered."
"No complications?" Claire sighed in relief. "Thank the stars…"
She didn't bother questioning the miraculous recovery. In her mind, her brother had survived—that was all that mattered.
"I'd like to rest alone for now," I said, leaning back on the velvet cushions of the lavish carriage.
"Of course. You should rest as much as you need." Claire nodded hurriedly, turning to instruct the manor servants to prepare nourishing food.
---
Three days later…
Behind the sprawling Cagueno estate, I stood silently in a secluded training ground. The morning air was brisk, filled with the scent of dew-kissed soil and the distant sound of birdsong.
I flexed the boy's—my—fingers. They responded perfectly now, strong and precise.
"This world truly is fascinating…"
I raised my hand and focused inward. My thoughts linked with the Spirit Cage within me. A surge of formless intent traveled through my soul, and then—
A flicker of gray light shimmered into existence.
A tiny flame, gray as smoke, danced at the tip of my finger. But it was not heat-based. Not elemental.
This was no spell. No arcane trick. This was a Curse Spirit, the essence of spiritual will transformed into spectral flame. A living embodiment of emotional residue, negative thought, and karmic force.
In this world, power did not stem from chanting incantations or drawing runes in the dirt. Here, the extraordinary was shackled to bloodlines and bound spirits.
Those born without the noble mark could never awaken to power. Only those with ancestral ties to ancient conjurers—noble families infused with spiritual resonance—could form Spirit Cages and begin cultivating Curse Spirits.
Sid, the original host of this body, had such a bloodline. However, his affinity was so faint that his Spirit Cage had never activated. The weak resonance had left him powerless and overlooked.
Until now.
The Spirit Cage was more than a mental space—it was a binding dimension that allowed a conjurer to:
Capture rogue spirits wandering the world
Imprison them within the cage
Devour their essence to gain strength
Control them for combat
Transform them into spiritual spells or familiars
This process created warriors known as Spellbinders, or Magicians in local terminology.
Each Spellbinder is classified by the tier of Curse Spirits they control:
Low-Level Conjurer – Controls minor curses and lingering spirits.
Low-tier Magicians: Fifth level to third level. Capable of basic spellcasting, with one or two bound spirits.
Low-tier Magicians: Fifth level to third level. Capable of basic spellcasting, with one or two bound spirits.
Special-Level Conjurer – Rare beings capable of binding catastrophe-class Curse Spirits or crafting new ones from scratch.
Spellcasters and spell spirits are divided according to their levels from low to high: low-level, fifth-level, fourth-level, third-level, second-level, first-level, and special level, a total of seven levels.
Each spellcaster's strength depended on:
1. Their bloodline compatibility with Spirit Cage awakening.
2. The quality of Curse Spirits they captured.
3. Their mastery over synchronization—using a spirit as if it were an extension of their own body.
Claire, the black-haired beauty who saved Sid, is a Fifth-Level Conjurer. Earlier, when I scanned the group's auras, she was the only one with a life signature comparable to a Level Two being in the Star World system.
However, it's important to note: spellcasters in this world do not rely on personal strength. Their physical bodies are often average, even frail unless they train. Their true power lies in the quality of their Curse Spirits and their mastery over their Spirit Cage.
This does not mean that Claire only has the strength of the second level of the star realms. The strength of a spellcaster mainly depends on the spells and the spell spirits that are controlled.
The stronger the spirit, the more devastating the spells and techniques a conjurer can manifest.
Sid, the boy whose body I now inhabited, had latent talent. But it was weak. Too diluted. He never managed to awaken his Spirit Cage.
But now, that limitation no longer mattered.
The weak flame spell danced and flickered at my fingertips, its dim light casting long shadows across the barren earth. Though it seemed unimpressive, this was not just fire—it was a low-level curse spirit imbued with the attribute of flame. Its ability was insidious, designed not for immediate destruction but for slow torment. It burned not flesh, but the very essence of blood and vitality. Those it touched would feel their strength gradually fade, their limbs grow heavy, their senses dull, until finally, they succumbed to weakness and exhaustion... and then, death.
I had tested this curse before. On an ordinary human, it would take days—agonizing, drawn-out days—to claim their life. Not very efficient, but effective in the right context.
"I've only just awakened to the Spirit Cage Space," I murmured aloud, watching the flickering curse spirit. "Right now, I can only imprison and control inferior-grade cirse spirits. According to the current classification system, that makes me an inferior spellcaster."
A weakling. A chicken that even ordinary people could slaughter.
It wasn't just bravado or modesty. The reality was harsh: the physical strength of a newly awakened spellcaster was barely above that of a normal human. If one wanted to strengthen their body, they would need to capture special curse spirits—ones with attributes like strength, endurance, or speed. Once devoured, the caster had a chance to inherit that attribute and transform their body.
I gazed at the flame spirit dancing at my fingertips. With a mere thought, I drew it back into the Spirit Cage Space—a vast, lightless prison in my soul where cursed entities could be held. Then, without hesitation, I activated the Devour function.
In that void of sensation, the flame curse spirit—a creature no longer than a finger—didn't even have time to react. Its form began to unravel, dissolving into spiritual fragments before being completely consumed by the Spirit Cage. The energy it had once contained was absorbed, refined, and transferred directly into me.
---
Outside world.
Suddenly, my face paled, turning a sickly shade of blue. My temples throbbed violently, and the world around me wavered like a fever dream. Dizziness overtook me, the edges of my vision tinged with crimson heat.
This was a side effect. One of many.
Devouring cursed spirits came with the chance of gaining their power, but the risk was immense. If one's consciousness faltered for even a moment during the process, the residual malice of the spirit could distort their soul. Their identity would erode, until they became something... else.
In this world, such twisted beings are called Cursors—individuals who have been tainted and reshaped by cursed spirits. They are neither truly human nor spirit, and almost all of them are dangerous, violent madmen. Cursors are hated and feared, second only to the curse spirits themselves. They spread chaos wherever they go, bringing death and destruction.
They are enemies of the noble Houses—the ruling spellcaster families who maintain order.
A long moment passed before I opened my eyes again. My breathing was shallow, and my face was still pale, but I felt no fear. No panic. I remained still, my mind deep in thought, quietly analyzing the results of this latest experiment.
Devouring a curse spirit is indeed extremely dangerous, I thought. If not for my powerful soul, I would have failed and become a cursor myself. A newly awakened spellcaster, or worse, an ordinary person, would have been obliterated.
Yet even though I succeeded, I did not acquire the flame spirit's special ability. The Devour skill only provided a chance to inherit powers. This time, luck was not on my side. Failure was expected. Even multiple successes often came without reward.
Despite my current appearance—frail, exhausted, barely standing—I was actually quite calm. This weakness was only surface-level. Internally, my spiritual structure had strengthened. Based on what I'd just experienced, I estimated that I could devour hundreds, perhaps even thousands, of low-level spirits in succession.
Of course, the physical body I now inhabited was still too fragile. If I overreached, my body would shatter under the strain, and I would die before I reached my soul's limit.
"If I want to grow stronger quickly," I muttered, clenching my fist, "I must increase my physical endurance."
This early exploration had yielded a valuable understanding of the spellbinder cultivation system. Unlike traditional systems built on mana or mental power, this world's spellcasters used a unique energy system.
Spellbinders here do not manipulate mana—they rely on pure will, or consciousness. The strength of one's consciousness governs how many and how powerful spirits they can control. It also determines whether one can safely devour those spirits without becoming a cursor. Meanwhile, the strength of the physical body determines how much spiritual energy it can absorb without collapsing.
Two pillars: consciousness and physique. Both must rise together.
In terms of consciousness intensity, this ray of consciousness of mine comes from the body of the legendary fifth-level Black Dragon King. Even if the apex of this world was a god, I was confident that my consciousness strength was already far beyond the limits of this realm.
But my current body—this young vessel—was still pitifully weak.
As I pondered my next steps, I walked toward the edge of the clearing, where a strange boulder stood silently, its dark gold surface glowing faintly beneath the twilight.
It was the virtual gold meteorite.
Embedded in its center was a golden vein—a trace of virtual gold. This mythical substance was prized even in the Star Realm. It was used in the forging of artifacts capable of annihilating worlds. When floating in the void, even a speck of virtual gold could distort space and tear rifts in dimensions.
Yet here... it was inert.
I reached out and gently brushed my fingers across its surface. Despite having seen it before, I couldn't help the awe that stirred within me.
"The rules of this world... are terrifying."
The artifact-grade virtual gold, a substance capable of shattering realms, had been forcibly suppressed by this world's laws—reduced to little more than cold stone. If even such terrifying materials were rendered harmless, what hope did foreign powers have?
It meant that even a legendary being—someone on the brink of half divinity—would gradually be stripped of their power in this world. Not dead, but rendered mortal. Worse yet, a mortal with only consciousness remaining.
Still staring at the boulder, I pressed my hand against its surface. A surge of will erupted from within me and flooded into the meteorite.
The tyrannical consciousness poured into it.
Deep within, hidden in the scales of the dragon's reverse scale—almost fused with the starry sky iron—was a single drop of blood.
Dragon essence.
My blood.
It had once been terrifying. Potent enough that even a lowly kobold could, with training, luck and food a lot of food, use it to ascend into a dragonkin warlock and eventually a true dragon. But here, even that blood had been suppressed. The once radiant energy had faded. Now it was dim, inert, seemingly no different from the blood of any mortal creature.
Even the virtual gold was forcibly suppressed by the rules of this world and turned into a mortal object, restraining all its power. It was naturally impossible to avoid my blood essence, and almost all extraordinary characteristics disappeared.
However, if one returns this to the star realm, this drop of essence and blood can still be considered 'vital', as can the virtual gold. They have not truly become mortal objects, but have been forcibly suppressed by the rules and have 'fallen' to mortal objects.
Even the divine properties of my dragon blood could not resist the laws of this world.
And yet... the void origin within remained.
I focused my will, drawing out the remnants of void power hidden within the blood. A faint energy trickled into my weak body, whispering to my cells, gently reshaping them.
A faint power from the void source slowly poured into the young body controlled by me, quietly transforming its essence.
In my estimation, the origin of the Void is no less than a supreme God-like force—perhaps even greater. Beings of divine or near-divine caliber are, in a sense, the very embodiment of universal principles. They are not bound by the rules—they are the rules, the anchors of reality. As such, it's only natural that they cannot be suppressed by the frameworks they themselves uphold. At least for now, from what I can perceive... the origin of the Void exists in complete defiance of the Starry Sky laws.
The world resists many things. It rejects foreign energies, punishes anomalies, and suppresses foreign influences with brutal precision. But not the Void. It flows freely here, unbound and undeterred. That in itself proves its terrifying scale.
"Sid, what are you doing?"
A sharp, clear voice echoed from behind me, ringing with authority and a hint of scolding.
It was Claire—this body's sister.