What felt like hours had passed as Riven stared at the flickering torchlight, the flames dancing against the cold stone walls like restless spirits.
I should've bought a mana watch, he thought, lips tightening in irritation. Yeah, they were expensive, but surely I could've found a used older model for a few gold coins.
He sighed, the sound dry and hollow in the small cell, and let his gaze drift once more around the cramped space. He analyzed every inch—cracks in the mortar, rust along the bars, the pattern of grime on the floor—but no spark of inspiration came to him. No hidden exit, no loose stone. Just stillness and stale air, thick with the scent of damp mold and old sweat.
With nothing else to do, his mind turned to yesterday. He retraced each moment, turning them over in his head like puzzle pieces, hoping one might snap into place. Halfway through the memory, his eyes widened—he remembered it clearly now: the sharp crack of a glass vial hitting the wooden boards, followed by the surge of magic that erupted from Roman. It hadn't felt human. Not entirely.
That energy—wild, controlled, and devastating—had been more like a beast's.
Riven knew the signs. Ever since he was a boy, his parents had bought him the publicly available diaries of Van Helsing. At least, the ones the common folk could get their hands on. He was certain those versions had been edited, probably scrubbed of the more dangerous or controversial insights. Still, they were valuable—fragments of real knowledge passed down through cautious ink.
Most readers skimmed over the details on beast behavior, eager to devour the sections on how to hunt, bind, and weaponize them. Not Riven. He'd latched onto the forgotten pages—the passages where Van Helsing described how beasts used mana, how their relationship with it differed from humans.
Riven smirked faintly at the memory. It wasn't highly detailed—not like he could ask a beast directly—but Van Helsing had been bonded to a creature of the highest bloodline purity. That alone lent credibility to his words.
He closed his eyes briefly, pulling at the threads of the memory, focusing on Roman's aura—dark red, pulsing, more felt than seen. There was a texture to it, a weight in the air, like pressure before a storm. It was potent, yes, but it was feral. Untamed. Not something a potion should have been able to produce.
What was in that vial? he wondered, brow creasing. I've never heard of any potion that could do that.
He thought back to the times he watched his mother work, carefully layering ingredients, infusing each with measured amounts of mana. Brewing wasn't just about knowledge—it was art, intuition, control. And what he saw in Roman… it wasn't produced by just any potion; it must have been a powerful and rare one.
The crease in his forehead deepened as he thought it over. No… there's no potion that can do that. At least, not on its own.
He mulled it over harder, replaying the scene in his mind. Whatever Roman had taken, it wasn't something ordinary. He couldn't even begin to fathom how to create something like that. Sure, he wasn't an expert in potion-making—but after watching his mother brew concoctions throughout his childhood, he figured he had more insight than most.
Even so, this? He couldn't make sense of it at all.
Letting out a long breath, Riven allowed his body to relax. The cold from the stone floor seeped into his skin as he tilted his head back and rested it against the wall. The ceiling above—just slabs of dull stone—offered no answers.
I won't learn anything by sitting here, he thought bitterly.
With nothing left but the dragging quiet of the cell, he shut his eyes and let sleep take him.
A while later, Riven awoke once more to the dim torchlight that clung stubbornly to the stone walls.
How much time has passed? he wondered groggily.
The dryness in his mouth was unbearable, his tongue clinging to the roof of it like parchment. His stomach grumbled, twisting painfully. He hadn't eaten or drunk anything in a long time—even before arriving at Roman's tavern.
Frustration boiled inside him. Riven gripped his hair and tugged. "Damn it," he muttered under his breath. Why didn't I just leave when Roman told me to?
Agitated, he shot to his feet. He stalked to the iron bars of the cell door and peered through the narrow gaps. Still no one. Good.
Clenching his fists, he drew a breath and reached inward, letting his awareness slip into the quiet sanctum of his soul space.
Two glowing cores pulsed there, rhythmic and steady—one amber, one pink. Both thrummed with power, each burst of light flaring like a heartbeat made of magic. Full. That brought a small smirk to his lips.
I'm not wasting away in some noble's basement, he told himself.
He drew in a shaky breath, a desperate idea forming in the chaos of his mind.
What if he could channel everything—all his amber mana—into one single strike?
The thought alone sent a chill through him, but he didn't have any other options. His mind drifted back to the memory of Zephyr—one of the Twelve Swords of the Velorian Kingdom. During their spar, when Riven had recklessly let the amber mana flood through his entire body, something inside it had awakened. A strange, primal will had stirred within the energy—something ancient, aware, and frighteningly powerful. It had overridden his control, seizing his body as though testing him. Yet, in that moment, he had felt stronger than he ever had before.
Now, sitting in this cell, Riven's lips pressed into a thin line. If that same force could be tapped again—just for an instant—it might be enough to break through.
He swallowed hard, trying to steady his racing pulse. The noble doesn't see me as a threat, he reasoned. He wouldn't waste rare materials to build a cell that could restrain a high-ranker.
That thought was the only comfort he had as he began to channel his mana.
First, he drew on his pink mana, letting it surge through his veins. Sixty percent of his total reserves—any more, and it simply refused to flow. His skin prickled, muscles tightening under the strain. Then, at his right shoulder, he did something new—something risky. Using what little control he had over his internal flow, Riven began to seal off the circulation points along his arm, forming a kind of dam from the pink mana itself. It wasn't perfect, but he didn't need mastery—just enough pressure.
Once the flow was contained, he started forcing amber mana into his right arm. The dam held, trapping the storm inside.
His body trembled. Veins flared with orange light, the glow spreading from his shoulder to his fingertips as the energy built, compressed, and fought to break free. It was reckless, suicidal even—but Riven was far past caution.
He let the emotions take over—the rage, the frustration, the humiliation of being powerless—and honed them into a single, cutting edge of will. His mind locked on one image: the noble's smug face behind those cold bars.
If this doesn't break the metal, then I'll break myself trying.
The mana surged past eighty percent, the power slipping from his grasp, but he refused to stop. At ninety, his breath hitched. At a hundred, his right arm blazed like molten glass, the orange glow lighting up the cell walls. The air thickened with pressure, warping around his clenched fist.
And with that, he roared—and threw the punch.
The metal began to glow before contact, heat warping its edges, softening the metal. When his fist struck, it didn't meet resistance—it turned the metal into molten slag.
A thunderous boom echoed as a shockwave rippled out from the point of impact, forming a circular pulse of force that blew backward through the tunnel.
Molten shrapnel sprayed across the stone walls, hissing as it sizzled on contact. Dust billowed from the impact, the dry taste of it rushing into Riven's mouth as swirling drafts spread the haze through the cell.
For a moment, everything was still.
The glow faded. His body sagged, strength draining. The bulk of his mana was spent, a few remaining wisps crawling back toward the cores within his soul space.
And then, the pain hit.
White-hot. Searing. It clawed up his right arm like fire licking through nerves, and his knees buckled under the sudden weight of agony.