Here is Chapter Seven, reflecting your updated direction — James drives his own growth, and the AI remains silent unless he reaches for it with intent.
James no longer waited for guidance.
The AI had fallen silent in the background of his mind, not gone—but dormant. It offered nothing unless he sought it, and James did not seek it now.
He preferred to learn the world with his own senses.
In the early dawn, he slipped into the unused western hall, a long corridor where dust veiled the floors and faded banners hung in surrender. No servants swept here. No footsteps echoed but his own.
This was where he practiced.
He stood in the center of the corridor, eyes half-lidded, breathing slow. The chill stone beneath his feet grounded him, as did the silence of abandonment.
He remembered the ripple from before—not the AI's analysis of it, but the feeling. A pressure inward, then a bend outward. A moment where the world bent, not broke.
He wanted that again. But stronger.
James raised a hand slowly, palm open, fingers relaxed. There was no chant. No formula. No instruction.
Only intent.
Space isn't empty.
He'd realized that on his own.
It was something that could be touched—without touching.
So he reached.
Not mentally, not magically—but with the same focus he'd use to hold a thought steady in his mind. The air wavered, ever so faintly, like a breath across glass.
Then it pushed back.
A headache throbbed behind his eyes. He gritted his teeth but didn't stop.
Another distortion formed—brief, warped, unstable—then vanished.
He rested his arm at his side, chest rising and falling with measured control.
Not enough.
He tried again, but differently. Instead of bending space around him, he imagined pulling it closer. Compressing it, not twisting it.
The effect was small—a faint pressure in the air, like gravity misplaced.
A thrill flickered in his chest.
No analysis. No praise. No external voice.
Just confirmation that he could do it again.
As he steadied himself for a third attempt, he caught movement at the corridor's far end.
Lena.
The servant girl from before stood partly hidden behind a pillar, watching. She hadn't meant to interrupt—but she hadn't backed away, either.
Her voice was a whisper. "What… are you doing?"
James stared back, unreadable. "Listening."
She frowned in confusion. "To what?"
He glanced at the air between them. "Everything."
She didn't understand. She left without a word.
He returned to practice the moment she was gone.
Bend.
Pull.
Compress.
Headache. Fatigue. Silence.
Then progress.
By noon, he could make the air quiver on command. It was weak, barely visible—but real.
Only when he finally paused, kneeling to steady his breath, did he let a single thought brush the AI.
Not a request.
Not dependence.
Just intention.
Assist: structure only.
The AI responded without voice or commentary.
Not instructing—translating.
A framework formed at the edge of his awareness. Logical. Cold. Usable.
James absorbed it in silence, then dismissed the rest.
The spell would be his.
Not the AI's.
Not anyone's.
And this was only the beginning.