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Warmth pressed around Lance like a heavy cocoon. His eyelids fluttered, and the familiar ceiling of his bedroom slowly came into view. He didn't move at first. The weight of the blankets, the softness of the mattress—too detailed, too physical, too real for a dream.
He swallowed, throat dry and tight.
"…Was that… real?"
"Lance?"
His mother leaned forward from the chair beside him, relief washing over her face the moment his eyes focused. "You're awake."
"Mom… what happened?"
"You collapsed," she said softly, brushing a hand through his hair. "But you're safe. Don't stress yourself. Rest first—we'll talk later."
She smoothed the edge of his blanket with barely steady hands, trying to hide how badly she had been shaken. Then she stood.
"I'll get you something warm. Don't move too much."
The door closed behind her, and silence settled over the room.
Lance stared at the ceiling, his breathing slow but uneven. The memory of the white expanse flickered at him in sharp fragments—the crystal tree, the pulse traveling through its branches, the pink flower blooming at the tip, the flood of fragmented information stabbing into his mind.
He slowly turned his head.
There—on the table beside him—sat his grimoire, still resting inside its holder.
"The grimoire awakening ceremony… really happened," he whispered. "So that wasn't a dream."
His gaze lingered on the closed holder, but he didn't reach for it yet.
Something in him insisted on verifying something first.
He exhaled and closed his eyes.
Try to do magic.
He raised his palm and gathered mana the way he always did. It formed the usual colorless mass—calm, neutral, empty. Nothing unusual at first glance. But he could feel something else—something subtle but present—like a second layer beneath the familiar flow.
He concentrated, focusing on the feeling he had seen in the blooming pink flower.
This time—
Soft pink fumes drifted up from between his fingers, faint but unmistakably colored.
He froze.
He dispersed it and tried again.
Pink mist formed instantly, warm and reactive, swirling as if answering his intent the moment it was called.
A grin crept onto his face—sharp, breathless, a mixture of relief and adrenaline.
"So the information that appeared… it was real."
The fragmented data resurfaced in his mind—flashes of concepts, impressions, incomplete but undeniably tied to the change. Nothing spelled out, but enough for him to grasp the core idea.
"That translucent page… it used that others grimoire as a gateway" he murmured. "It analyzed the targets attribute through the translucent page … and copied its attribute."
His heartbeat intensified. His hands trembled, but not from fear—from excitement he could barely contain.
'he can gain attributes not spells but entire attributes everything now changed the thing he lacked the most for the past 5 years now will be abndant.'
After several seconds of absorbing the reality of it, his attention finally returned to his grimoire.
He reached for it. A faint pulse responded—soft, brief, like a heartbeat fading into silence.
He lifted the page. Nothing had changed to the eye. A single pristine sheet, smooth, blank, plain.
No spells written anywhere.
No visible sign of how it worked.
Then—
The lone page began to glow.
The light intensified rapidly, the outline of the sheet wavering like it was melting into brightness. The page folded inward without being touched, curling from both ends as if guided by unseen hands.
It tightened into a scroll.
Light cinched the rolled sheet in the middle, twisting its shape until—
With a soft metallic chime, the parchment collapsed into a slender silver rod, smooth and cool like tempered steel reflecting moonlight. At each end of the rod, a three-leaf clover symbol was engraved with clean precision.
Immediately afterward, seven rings materialized around the rod—each one perfect in shape, each one hovering in mid-air. They aligned themselves evenly along its length, floating like bracelets suspended around an unmoving wrist.
The rod gave a faint pulse.
Golden particles spilled from its surface, drifting outward in a steady stream. They gathered on one side, layering over each other, slowly forming a shape from nothing.
A page began to materialize—grain by grain, fiber by fiber.
Holes along the left edge formed next, seven of them, each one aligning perfectly with a floating ring.
When the sheet fully solidified, the rings passed cleanly through the holes, locking the single page in place like a spiral-bound notebook—except the rings were not touching anything but the page itself.
The rod emitted one last soft glow, as if confirming the transformation was complete.
Still only one page.
But this time—something was written on it.
The transformed grimoire settled into his hands. His shock at the physical change was enormous, but the text pulled his attention immediately.
His eyes widened when he realized the writing wasn't in the native script of this world.
It was English.
From his past life.
And the page read:
The mist released by this magic intertwines with the senses of those it touches, allowing the caster to influence how the world is experienced.
It does not change truth or form; it alters how truth is received.
Pain may feel soothing, heat may seem cold, fear may turn to calm.
By guiding what the mind accepts as real, the caster reshapes reaction and belief without ever touching reality itself.
The deeper the exposure, the stronger the conviction in the false — until the illusion becomes the only truth one can feel.
He stared, brows knitting.
That wasn't a spell.
He read it a second time.
A third.
A fourth.
Then it clicked.
"…This isn't a spell at all."
A slow realization spread through him.
The page wasn't listing an ability.
It was explaining the true nature of the attribute itself.
Not a spell.
not a story.
A definition.
A structural description of the magic at its origin.
He reread the line:
It does not change truth or form; it alters how truth is received…
And suddenly, Malfoy's strange magic became clear.
"That idiot…" Lance muttered, a sharp breath escaping him. "He thought it was illusion magic."
But it wasn't.
Illusion changes what someone sees.
Perception magic changes how someone interprets what they see.
It doesn't alter reality—it alters the mind's perception of reality.
"So that's what you were actually using," he murmured, recalling the pink mist, the flower, the flow of data forced into his mind.
Perception magic.
The attribute's true identity.
He leaned back slightly, releasing a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.
"Good," he said with a quiet, growing smile. "If this page shows the true nature of any attribute I acquire… I'll never misidentify any magic type I copy."
His grip tightened around the transformed grimoire.
And for the first time since the ceremony—
He genuinely felt lucky to have it.
"Guess I didn't get the worst grimoire after all."
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AITHORS NOTE:
Suggest some attributes of magic for Lance to collect.