After a long conversation with the two—and for once, a rare moment of peace—I finally sat down at the creaky desk in my so-called "office." The wood groaned under the weight of my elbows and unresolved problems.
"Alright... time to stop surviving and start adapting," I muttered, drumming my fingers against the splintering edge.
"I need to learn spells. Real spells. The kind that can keep me alive when things start exploding—or worse, when people start praying. Assuming that's not the only prerequisite to not dying. Asren did mention martial arts, which—yay—means I'll need to learn how to actually fight too. Punching demons in the face. Fantastic."
I leaned back, exhaled slowly, then rolled my eyes at the cracked ceiling.
"The spell part should be doable. Viktor—original Viktor—was apparently some treasured prodigy of a mage. Shame his Grimoire decided to ghost me, like everyone else in my life."
A beat.
"...Too dark? Eh, I'll fix it later."
I stood, staring at the leaning shelf stuffed with secondhand books and forbidden knowledge that smelled like old parchment and regret.
"I don't even know the basics. No beginner curriculum. No tutor. Just me and a stack of questionable manuals, probably written by people who died proving their own theories wrong."
Sigh.
"Let's start with the theory book. Something about the elements... and maybe later figure out how the hell Grimoires actually work."
Apparently, the theory books on the elements weren't just chapters in a single manual—they were each their own personal encyclopedias. One element per volume. Great. A whole forest died so mages could overcomplicate the obvious.
Since my first spell had been a fire spell—mediocre at best, but still technically my first—I figured it wasn't worth doubling down on. Fire looked flashy, but flash doesn't save lives. So, let's try something else. Something a little more... subtle. Ruthless.
I reached for the volume on Dark Elemental Theory.
Because, really—if I'm going to fake being a mage, might as well pick the element that screams "definitely not a good guy."
Chapter I – What Is Dark?
Darkness is not a substance. It is not a color, nor a shadow. It is absence—the place where light has not reached, where sound has not echoed, where motion has not stirred.
In the fundamental structure of Nova Terra, Dark is not the enemy of Light—it is its container. Without Dark, Light has no canvas to reveal itself upon. Thus, the Dark Element is not evil, but empty. And from emptiness, all potential is born.
The first chapter was... an enlightenment.
Even with all my scientific background from Earth, this was new. Here, darkness wasn't treated like some evil force to be warded off, but more like the stage before the act—the canvas before the art. A space of stillness, not malice. It wasn't bad. It was foundational.
Honestly? It made sense. You can't paint without a canvas. You can't discover light unless there's darkness to define it.
I kept reading for about half an hour, letting the strange, poetic logic of the book sink in. At some point, Syllia walked in—quiet as a shadow—and handed me a cup of coffee before leaving again. No words. Just a nod. Thoughtful.
Even though we barely knew each other, it was... comfortable. Like people thrown together by fate but oddly in sync. Familiar strangers. Weird, but I wasn't complaining.
Eventually, I closed the book, feeling like I'd digested enough philosophy for the moment. I leaned back, letting my thoughts simmer.
"Alright… let's break this down," I muttered.
"Chapter II's Three Laws—Separation (distance is defense), Absorption (darkness devours light, sound, even Essentia), and Null Reflection (what falls into the void never returns)—are basically the universe's ultimate 'do not disturb' sign. Chapters III and IV then go full philosopher mode, preaching that non-space and patient stillness are deadlier than any blade. Chapter V trots out Void Veils, Space-Stretch bubbles, and Oblivion Lances like sinister party favors—sweet, silent, and utterly lethal. Fantastic: darkness isn't some boogeyman, it's the Swiss Army knife of survival, and now I've got to master cosmic nihilism just to stay alive."
Then a thought sparked in my head—sharp, sudden, stupidly ambitious.
What if I made a spell that made it so the enemy just... couldn't touch me?
Not like a basic shield or barrier—no, something deeper. Something woven into space itself. Whether it's a punch, a blade, or a fireball, the moment they try to connect, it just... doesn't. Like the space between us says, "Nope, not today."
The idea wouldn't leave.
Zeno's damn paradox. Achilles and the tortoise. The race where the guy with the six-pack never wins because, mathematically, he's always closing the distance but never arriving. Each step is half the last, and infinity plays keep-away forever.
Now, what if that wasn't just a headache from a philosophy class—but a spell?
A spatial principle baked into magic. Not a barrier. Not a shield. But a rule. A law. Something woven into reality around me.
Nothing ever reaches me.
Not because I dodge. Not because I block. Because the closer it gets—the more distance it still has left to cross. Like a digital illusion stuttering in a loop. A punch coming at me? Still traveling. A sword aimed at my neck? Still has half the distance to close. Always has half. Always will.
Zeno's paradox wasn't a bug—it was the feature.
I leaned forward, heart ticking in time with my thought. A spell that doesn't create a wall, but a space that disobeys pursuit. A shell of endless approach. Everything comes close. Nothing connects.
A smirk tugged at my mouth.
"Not a shield... an almost."
It wouldn't look like anything. No flash. No noise. Just frustration on the enemy's face as their every attack slows, hesitates, fails to land.
They wouldn't even realize what was happening.
They'd just miss.
Over, and over, and over again.
And me?
I'd just stand there.
Untouched.
After a few villainous giggles—because, come on, if you're not at least mildly unhinged while crafting reality-warping spells, are you even doing it right?—I dove headfirst into study mode.
Three hours. No breaks. Just me, a growing pile of notes, and a brain high on theoretical magic.
I focused on two elements: Air and Dark. Not because I liked them, but because I needed them. Dark was obvious—absence, space, the void. But Air? Air was underrated. Everyone thinks it's just wind and tornadoes, but it's not. It's flow. It's motion. It's everything that moves without being seen.
So, I figured—what if I use Air to shape how things move around me, and Dark to define what isn't allowed to exist within that space?
Not a wall. Not a barrier. Just a space in front of me where the rules of movement are... different. Subtly warped. Infinitely divided. Like a silent, invisible distortion—where every inch is halved, again and again, forever.
Not physical. Not tangible. Just... unreachable.
Like Zeno's paradox baked into the air itself.
A shield that wasn't a shield.
Just a spell that quietly says, "You can try—really—but you're never getting closer."
I grabbed a book on spell theory—thick, dusty, and probably older than most countries. It focused on the core aspects of spellcraft and how spells are actually made. Not just cast. Created.
Because let's be honest—when it comes to magic, you've got two choices: copy someone else's work... or make your own.
And as the guy who cracked the code on the first successful nuclear fusion back on Earth, I wasn't about to start playing magical karaoke now.
"I'm not here to be a sheep," I muttered, extending my hand like some dramatic army commander rallying ghost troops. "I'm here to lead the damn herd into the future."
This was going to be my first defensive spell. And honestly? Probably the only one I'd need. Pair it with a few solid combat moves and—boom—I'm basically untouchable. Even if I knew nothing else, I'd be fine. Probably. Hopefully. (Okay, maybe.)
After a good while nose-deep in spell theory, I came to an uncomfortable realization:
You can create a spell… but depending on what you're trying to create? It's a nightmare. And I mean, let's be real—I'm trying to break space.Space. So yeah. I knew what I was signing up for: magical masochism.
Turns out, you need a solid grasp of the elemental foundations and any external variables your spell depends on. In my case? Science. Real science. Not just waving my hands and shouting Latin until something explodes.
On top of that, your Essentia flow—the internal magical river of "please don't kill me"—has to be rock solid. At first, I skimmed past that part like it was fine print in a sketchy contract. Now? Now I realize I might need to spend days just stabilizing my internal flow before I can even start casting this spell.
Unless...
I gave it a thought—my first spell had been Ignite, a Tier One flicker of fire.
And being honest? Back then I didn't even consider Essentia flow or elemental alignment or whatever the hell else the manuals screamed about. I just cast it. On instinct. Like a kid lighting a match.
So now, standing on the edge of this ridiculous spell—theory-heavy, borderline heretical—I figured, why not?
I'd already broken the rules once. I could try my luck again.
The science wasn't going to be the problem. The framework, the math, the layered logic—I had that.
No, the problem would be Essentia. Flow. Alignment. Intent.
Things I had barely touched when I first started.
But now?
Now I just needed to refine it.
After hours of madness, I shoved my chair back and stared at the chaos on my desk—ancient codices, half-burned candles, and parchment scrawled with enough equations to make a scholar cry. Hours of caffeine-fueled writing and fevered theorizing had led me here.
"All right, Eisenberg," I muttered, rubbing the hollow under my eyes. "Let's see if this idiocy actually folds physics."
I redrew the core equation, hand twitching with exhaustion:
d₁ = d / 2 d₂ = d / 4 … → 0
The idea: a projectile would never actually reach me. Every step forward, halved. Limit approaching zero. Achilles chasing the tortoise, round infinity's bend.
On the margins, I wrote, theorized, and structured sentence upon sentence—building the framework of the spell like a thesis no one asked for:
Darkness → Law of Separation.Air → Law of Flow and Motion.
Not a shield. Not a wall. Something worse.A domain—responsive and mathematical.A personal event horizon, roughly an arm and a half around me, where nothing could complete the act of arriving.
Motion denied.Proximity rejected.Physics folded politely out of the way.
"Zeno meets quantum Zeno," I whispered. "Observe it enough and it stays frozen. Multiply by directional flow, subtract distance, apply elemental axioms—"
My voice died in my throat.
I stood. The world stayed still.
I crossed my index finger—ritual? Habit? It didn't matter.
Then, quietly, almost like an afterthought, I spoke:
"Zeno's Domain, senseless."
No flash.No wind.No dramatic swell of energy.
The room didn't blink.
But I did.
Something in the air twisted—like a rubber band pulled taut around reality itself. A pressure. A hum. Not loud. Not visual. But there. A boundary.
I moved. Breathed. Lifted my hand. Nothing resisted me. I could act just fine.
But I didn't test it. I didn't dare.
Not yet.
I just stood there, frozen in the hush of candlelight and ink fumes. The world quiet. Still. Watching.
A faint tightness clung to the space around me, invisible and absolute. It didn't ask permission.
It just was.
My chest ached. Not from pain. From knowing.
I had cast it.
Without my Grimoire.
Hands trembling, I looked down at my fingers—still crossed. Still human.
No channel. No runes. No spellbook holding my hand.
Just theory. Laws. Math. Me.
And it had worked.
A spell cast without permission from the system.
A domain born of logic and spite.
Slowly, cautiously, I uncrossed my fingers.
Nothing happened.
The pressure didn't vanish.
It lingered—silent, constant, like an eye that never blinked.
My breath caught. My thoughts spiraled. This wasn't how it was supposed to work.Books told you spells required Grimoire pages, Essentia syncing, vocal structure, glyph alignment—rules.
This was wrong.This was impossible.This was me doing something I shouldn't even be able to attempt.
I felt my knees go weak.
The room twisted, tilted—tilted again—and then fell sideways.
The candles blurred. The ink spun.
My mind, caught between awe and terror, cracked open under the weight of what I'd just done.
What have I done?What else is possible?What am I becoming?
Then—Darkness.