Kaelan's consciousness sinks fully inward.
This time, he does not resist the truth any longer.
A singular path is never truly singular.
To give form, it must borrow structure.
He fixes the Dark Path as the absolute anchor, unchanging, dominant, unquestioned.
Then, with deliberate restraint, he allows three auxiliary principles to connect:
Path of Flow, to grant motion without intent.
Path of Distortion, not to twist space, but to bend continuity just enough to allow rotation without collapse.
Path of Gravity, not attraction, but inevitability.
None of them override the Dark Path.
They serve it.
He begins constructing the spell.
Not as energy first,
, but as law.
A framework appears in his mind: a hollow centre defined by absence, surrounded by layered rotational channels. Darkness does not rush in. It settles, like dust falling into a pit that has always existed.
Kaelan refines the structure again and again.
Flow governs direction.
Gravity governs convergence.
Distortion governs curvature.
Darkness governs ownership.
Only when the framework is perfect does he allow energy to enter.
The spell model takes shape.
For the first time, he engraves it, not into a grimoire, not into runes, but directly into his understanding. The model is vast, far larger than any previous spell, yet it fits naturally, as if it had always belonged there.
Then,
The Dark Vortex forms.
Not violently.
Not explosively.
A slow, silent spiral of dark elemental energy appears, devouring light, sound, and resistance without urgency. It does not tear, it accepts.
At the instant of completion,
Inside Kaelan's spiritual space, something stirs.
The Holy Spirit Form manifests.
The Storm Crow-Man lets out a piercing cry.
Its form darkens, feathers swallowing light as storm and shadow fuse. The cry shakes the spiritual space itself, radiating outward, pressing against its boundaries.
The walls of the spiritual space strain,
Then expand.
The space widens.
Stretches.
Stabilizes.
As it settles, a vast surge of spirit power flows back into Kaelan's core, cascading through every layer of his being.
The boundary breaks.
Mid–Spiritual Wizard Realm collapses,
, and he steps cleanly into the Late–Spiritual Wizard Realm.
Kaelan exhales slowly.
He immediately notices the change.
His mana refinement drops, sliding just below twenty per cent.
Not a loss.
A redistribution.
Mana floods through newly strengthened magic circuits, reinforcing flesh, bone, and meridians. His physical body responds, the elementalization increasing by several more per cent, deeper and more stable than before.
Balance is restored, on a higher level.
Kaelan opens his eyes.
The night is quiet.
He is alone on the raft.
The river drifts gently beneath him, moonlight rippling across the water.
The bed is empty.
She leaves in the deepest hours of the night, long after his consciousness sinks into exhaustion, when every thread of energy in his body is drained dry. For an entire week, they do not stop. Not rest. Not separate. When it ends, Kaelan is hollowed out, not wounded, not weakened, but spent.
She does not wake him.
By the time dawn brushes the river, the raft is silent.
Only later, after exchanging memories with the third clone, does the final piece fall into place. The spell completes not because of discipline alone, but because everything aligns at once: clarity, exhaustion, instinct, and law.
The Dark Vortex is born.
The third clone, meanwhile, never attends the auction.
For seven days, he remains sealed inside the room in the Divine Tower, seated motionless as inspiration floods him in relentless waves. Each moment builds on the last, each realisation stacking perfectly atop the previous one. He senses it instinctively; if he breaks this flow, the spell will shatter before completion.
The auction can wait.
The spell cannot.
When the Dark Vortex is finally complete, the clone does not celebrate. He only exhales once, long and steady, as if afraid that even relief might disturb the structure he has just forged.
Now, Kaelan rises from the bed.
A robe of pure black mana forms over his body, seamless and silent, and he steps off the raft without touching the water. As he ascends into the sky, a single thought takes shape in his mind.
A storage item.
By the time the sun fully rises, Kaelan is already gone.
He returns to the Chen Kingdom capital without fanfare, slips into the depths beneath the city, and enters deep retreat once more. This time, there are no experiments, no constructions, no distractions.
Only comprehension.
Only the Dark Path.
---
In Silver City, the third clone lifts into the sky.
From the highest towers, hidden gazes follow him.
Within a sealed chamber, representatives of the Qi Refining sects sit scattered across the room, their physical bodies unmoving as their spirits intertwine, forming a private network of thought.
"He's leaving, " one voice says sharply.
"Let's go and kill him."
Another responds instantly.
"Useless. That's a clone."
"How do you know?" the first demands.
"Someone told me."
Silence.
Then a colder voice cuts in.
"You have contact with the Divine Puppet Sect."
"When did I say that?" the second snaps back.
"Then where is his main body?" a fourth asks.
"Chen Kingdom, " the second replies.
"Most likely."
"Are you sure?"
"Did you forget?" the second continues.
"My sect is backing the nobles waging war against the Chen Kingdom."
A fifth voice interjects.
"How is the war going?"
A pause.
"Bad, " the second admits.
"They deployed new weapons. Our offence stalled completely."
The spiritual chamber grows heavy.
At last, a consensus forms.
"We support the Shadow Wind Sect, " one voice declares.
"All resources. All pressure."
Their goal is simple.
Force Kong Wuya to the frontline.
Draw him out.
Besiege him.
Kill him.
Erase the Wizard Way before it roots itself any deeper into the world.
---
Days later, the third clone leaves the continent entirely.
Silver Treasure House territory offers nothing; every spiritual node is occupied, regulated, or watched too closely. There is no room to build freely here.
So he flies east.
Over endless blue.
The sea stretches beneath him, vast and ancient, hiding secrets no land empire can fully claim. Storms churn in the distance. Islands appear and vanish like mirages.
He searches patiently.
Not for civilisation.
Not for trade routes.
But for power.
A large island.
Untouched.
Unclaimed.
With a node deep enough to support a Wizard Academy,
, and far enough from politics to let the Wizard Way grow without restraint.
High above the waves, the third clone narrows his eyes and continues the search, while elsewhere the world shifts under quieter, heavier hands.
---
In the depths beneath the Tang Kingdom capital, the main body sits unmoving, consciousness sinking layer by layer into the Dark Path. Thought after thought peels away, leaving only structure and inevitability. He no longer shapes spells with energy, but with expectation, imagining the outline of a seventh-tier Dark spell, vast and absolute, even if its name has not yet formed.
Above him, life goes on.
And beneath it, something rises.
---
Every night, after lessons end at the Wizard Academy and students return to their dormitories, the first and second clones descend into the underground cavern where the magic node pulses steadily.
The second clone stands at the centre of a shallow pit filled with black, glittering sand.
Iron Sand.
He raises a hand.
Mana pours downward, compressing, aligning, and forcing impurities out. Grain by grain, the sand fuses, not melting, not burning, but locking together through pure structural will. The result is a dense, matte-black brick, heavy enough that a mortal could not lift it.
He forms them endlessly.
Brick after brick.
Perfectly identical.
Each one floats aside, stacking itself into neat, silent rows.
The first clone waits nearby.
As soon as a brick finishes forming, it glides into his reach. With a finger traced in mana, he engraves runes directly into the surface, not decorative, not symbolic, but functional. Load-bearing runes. Energy-conducting veins. Stability matrices that bind the material to mana rather than gravity.
Every brick becomes a component.
Every component becomes a promise.
---
Construction begins underground.
At first, nothing changes on the surface.
Deep within the cavern, the bricks arrange themselves into a circular foundation around the magic node, leaving space at the centre for the core conduit. Walls rise slowly, layer by layer, spiralling upward rather than stacking straight, an intentional design to reduce energy turbulence.
Two floors take shape below ground.
The lowest floor houses the magic pool chamber, sealed and reinforced, its walls thick with absorption and regulation arrays. Above it, the second underground floor forms a control and research level, designed for long-term spellcasting and experimentation.
When the structure reaches the cavern ceiling, the stone above begins to tremble.
Not violently.
Carefully.
Mana threads lace through the rock, disassembling it grain by grain, lifting it upward and expelling it harmlessly into pre-engraved disposal arrays.
Then,
The tower breaks the surface.
Behind the Palace Complex, a circular platform of black stone emerges from the ground like the back of some ancient beast. At first, only a few guards notice. Then servants. Then, officials glance from the windows.
The tower keeps rising.
Floor by floor.
A second above-ground level forms, then a third, each ring locking into place with a low, resonant hum that carries across the city. The fourth floor emerges at dusk, visible from rooftops and balconies. By the time the fifth floor is completed, the sun has already set.
The Wizard Tower stands finished.
Two floors below ground.
Five floors above.
Smooth, dark, seamless, no seams between bricks, no visible joints, as if it were grown rather than built.
---
That night, the first clone stands beside the magic pool, hands steady.
He activates the final array.
A pulse spreads outward.
Mana flows from the node, diverted upward through the tower's spine. One by one, the runes carved into every brick ignite, soft at first, then brighter, until the entire tower glows with a deep, regal purple light.
From the poorest district to the highest noble estate, people look up.
The tower shines.
Not like fire.
Not like lightning.
But like a beacon, steady and undeniable.
The magic energy circulating through the capital stabilises, deepens, and aligns. Wizards feel their mana grow more responsive. Apprentices feel their spells become smoother. Even ordinary citizens feel a subtle pressure lift, replaced by clarity.
That night, no one sleeps easily.
Because the Wizard Tower stands as a symbol that The Wizard Way is no longer an idea.