The obsidian orb rested heavy in Elijah's palm, a cold, unblinking eye into the true cosmos. It was real. Undeniably, terrifyingly real. But it was also inert, unyielding, a window he couldn't open or close, a truth he couldn't wield. He was a prisoner offered a glimpse of freedom, only to find the bars still firmly in place. The system had blundered, revealing a crack in its facade, but it was a crack too high to reach.
The cold certainty of his helplessness settled deep within him. He was trapped. But then, a different thought took root, cold and pragmatic: if he couldn't manipulate the truth, perhaps he could master the lie. Phelena had spoken of the Arcana Pool, of manifesting will, of sculpting reality. The system's programs might be fake, its constructs illusions, but if the power to manipulate them was genuine, if he could truly grow stronger within this reality, then that was his only possible leverage. It was the only thing that felt within his control, even if that control was ultimately contained.
With a grim, determined set to his jaw, Elijah began to train. He spent the next four days immersed in the teachings Phelena's fleeting projection had provided, focusing on the abstract concept of the aether. His original life of relative ease and introspection, punctuated by quiet rebellion, had ill-prepared him for such sustained, rigorous application. Yet, the desperation of his predicament, coupled with the profound sense of isolation the glitches had imposed, forged a new kind of discipline within him. He was no longer simply observing; he was actively, almost savagely, seeking to dominate.
He sought out places where the humming resonance was strongest, often returning to the glade where he had first encountered Kael and Elder Lyra, or venturing to the edges of the Whisperwind Peaks where the system's hum felt particularly potent. He experimented with subtle visualizations of energy flowing through his limbs, through his very being. He closed his eyes, focusing on the internal feeling of the Arcana, imagining it as a warm, viscous fluid filling every cell, then pushing it outwards, willing it to interact with the simulated world around him. He'd sit for hours, cross-legged, until his muscles ached, only to rise and try again, driven by a singular, obsessive purpose.
His initial attempts were clumsy, almost imperceptible. He tried to shift a single, small pebble with his mind, focusing every ounce of his will on the task. For minutes, nothing. Then, a barely perceptible tremor. Eventually, a pebble did shift, an inch or two, a tiny victory that felt monumental. He moved on to other, similarly small feats: attempting to coax a stronger glow from the luminous flora, or to quiet the persistent chirping of the simulated birds. The luminescence of a bell-shaped flower did brighten momentarily under his focus, its internal light flaring with surprising intensity before dimming. The birdsong, for a fleeting second, did falter, a momentary hush falling over the glade before the avian loops restarted.
These were not grand feats of magic, but they were responses. Tangible, measurable effects within the system's own parameters. Each small success, each confirmation that the Arcana Pool wasn't merely another facet of the illusion but a functional mechanism, drove him harder. He noted the subtle changes within himself too. His mind, once prone to philosophical drifts, was now sharp, intensely focused. The abstract concept of the aether slowly, painstakingly, began to feel like a physical extension of his will. His senses, already heightened by his initial awakening, seemed to grow even more acute, as if his connection to the very fabric of this world was deepening.
During these four days, he saw no more obvious glitches in the world around him. The trees remained solid, the faces he occasionally glimpsed in the distance held their form, the sounds were consistently natural. It was as if the system, having revealed its unintentional truth, now worked flawlessly to re-entrench him, convincing him of the Arcana's validity through consistent, if subtle, positive reinforcement. The lack of further errors, ironically, served to further convince him that the functional aspects of this world, particularly the Arcana, were robust enough to be truly leveraged.
Elijah wasn't happy. He wasn't free. But he was fighting, on the only battlefield he perceived as open to him. He was burrowing deeper into the heart of the system, becoming a more potent gear within its vast, grinding mechanism. He ate sparingly, slept only when exhaustion forced him, and woke with a renewed drive. The black orb, still clutched tightly in his pocket or held for quiet contemplation during rare breaks, remained his silent confidant. It was a cold, constant reminder of what lay beyond, and a powerful, relentless driver for his intense, solitary pursuit of power within the illusion. He had given himself over, for now, to the training, convinced that this path, however constrained by the system, was his only way forward.