The roar of the Thunder-Crag Peaks had become the metronome of Lencar Abarame's secret life. As he materialized on the jagged black shelf of rock, the chaotic mana of the Grand Magic Zone lashed out at him like an old rival. Lightning arced across the purple-black sky, illuminating the desolate landscape in strobing flashes of violet and white. The gravity fluctuated with a sickening rhythm, trying to flatten him into the stone one moment and toss him into the howling abyss the next.
He didn't waste a second. He stripped to the waist, the freezing wind biting into his skin, and began his four-hour physical conditioning.
"Mana-Forging: Maximum Compression."
His muscles felt different today. Denser. More responsive. Ever since the soul harvest from Garrick's crew had pushed him to the peak of Stage 4 and elevated his mana control to Stage 3, Lencar felt like he was piloting a finely tuned racing machine instead of a heavy tractor. His soul was a stronger anchor now, and as he performed agonizingly slow push-ups under the crushing weight of magical gravity, he could feel the micro-tears in his muscles being repaired almost as fast as they formed by the residual energy of the Breath of Yggdrasil.
He moved into a set of weighted lunges, his feet cracking the obsidian rock beneath him. Every movement was a struggle against the environment and his own internal pressure. He wasn't just building muscle; he was building a biological battery capable of sustaining the friction of high-output spells.
After the four-hour mark of raw physical labor, he sat in a lotus position, drenched in sweat that steamed in the sub-zero air. He channeled the refined natural mana through the valve in his ring, letting the green light of the Yggdrasil crystal scrub away the metabolic waste and systemic fatigue.
"Time for the blade," he whispered, standing up and pulling the heavy iron slab of a sword from the [Void Vault].
He took a basic high guard, the iron cold against his calloused palms. Today, the sword didn't feel like a dumb piece of metal. It felt like a lever, a tool for manipulating the physics of a fight. He began his two-hour practice, moving through the forms he had memorized from the Hage scrolls—styles of the old border guards who fought without the grace of royals but with the lethality of cornered wolves.
Slash. Parry. Thrust. Reset.
He was visibly better. He could feel it in the way the wind whistled over the iron edge. Because his soul was strengthened, his cognitive processing had reached a new level. In his past life, Kenji Tanaka could spot a single-digit error in a spreadsheet of millions; now, Lencar could "see" the error in his own body's geometry. When his elbow flared too wide on a horizontal cut, he felt the inefficiency instantly. He corrected it on the next swing and, more importantly, he knew he would never make that mistake again. The muscle memory was being etched into his nervous system with permanent ink.
If I had an actual opponent, Lencar thought, his eyes tracking a falling snowflake as he cleaved it in two with a vertical snap, I could improve ten times faster. But for now, I am my own ghost. I have to be my own harshest critic.
By the time he finished, his body was vibrating with a terrifying metabolic heat. He healed his blistered hands, donned his work tunic, and teleported back to his room in Nairn. He collapsed into bed and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep for the few hours remaining before dawn.
The next day in Nairn was a blur of steam, grease, and routine. Lencar worked at the restaurant alongside Rebecca, his movements so fluid and fast that Gorn actually stopped to watch him for a moment while holding a crate of ale.
"You're like a machine today, lad," Gorn grunted, his eyebrows disappearing into his hairline. "I haven't seen anyone peel a potato that fast without magic. You sure you aren't cheating?"
Lencar offered a humble, tired smile, though his mind was miles away, calculating the timing of the midnight meet. "Just a lot of practice, boss. Routine makes the hands move on their own."
I'm not a machine, Gorn. I'm just optimized, he thought privately.
After work, the evening played out in its usual, heart-warming colors. The contrast between the violent peaks and the cozy kitchen was the only thing keeping him sane. He played a simplified game of "The Floor is Lava" with the kids, letting Pem climb on his back like a mountain goat. He ate a hearty dinner with the Scarlet family, savoring the taste of real food after hours of ozone and cold.
By 10:00 PM, the house was silent. Lencar sat on the edge of his bed, listening to the rhythmic, peaceful breathing of the household. It was a sound he would do anything to protect. He lay down, but he didn't intend to stay there long.
"[Plant Magic]: [Morning Glory Alarm]."
He wove a tiny, invisible vine of mana into the cartilage of his own ear. He set the "timer." At 11:40 PM, the vine would vibrate at a specific frequency, waking him up before the midnight appointment without making a sound that could alert the others. He closed his eyes and drifted into a light, tactical nap, his brain partitioning itself to remain partially alert.
Buzz.
The vibration was sharp and insistent. Lencar's eyes snapped open. He was instantly alert—no grogginess, no lingering fatigue. The Breath of Yggdrasil had done its job; his recovery was nearly perfect. He stood up, the room dark around him.
He dressed with practiced silence. He reached into the Void Vault and pulled out his "Heretic" gear. The black cloak that seemed to swallow the dim starlight, the sturdy leather boots reinforced with magic-conductive thread, and the wooden mask.
He checked the silver ring on his finger. The vault was stable. The artifacts he'd siphoned were ready. He stepped to the window, opening it just enough to let the cool night air in.
"[Spatial Magic]: [Coordinate Shift]."
The bedroom vanished.
He appeared on the roof of a collapsed shed near the old watermill on the outskirts of Nairn. The mill was a skeletal ruin, its wooden wheel rotted away and choked with river weeds, the water of the Tero rushing past it with a low, mournful roar.
Lencar didn't move. He remained perfectly still, a silhouette against the dark rafters.
"[Concealment Magic]: [Haze of the Unseen]."
He wrapped the wind and light around his body, bending the ambient mana to become a ghost. He crouched on the roof, blending into the shadows. He had twenty minutes. In the world of data analysis, early was on time, and on time was late.
He activated his detection net, the roots of his magic sinking into the environment.
"[Composite Magic]: [Sensory Domain: The Whispering Roots]."
He pushed his mana into the damp earth around the mill. He felt the worms crawling through the soil, the vibration of the rushing water against the wooden piles, the rustle of grass in the wind. He waited, his breathing slow and shallow, his heart rate lowered through conscious effort.
Exactly at midnight, he felt a disturbance.
Footsteps. Light, hesitant, and carrying the scent of strange oils, metallic shavings, and a distinct, sharp mana signature.
A figure emerged from the brush. It was a woman in a heavy traveling cloak, her orange hair visible in the moonlight where her hood had slipped. She wore a mask, but her eyes—a striking, sharp purple—were darting around nervously, scanning every shadow.
Dominante Code, Lencar analyzed. She's terrified. Her mana is fluctuating; she's ready to bolt at the first sign of a Diamond Kingdom hit squad.
But there was something else. A variable he had predicted.
His roots felt a second presence. To the north, behind a cluster of birch trees, another person was stationed. This one didn't move. The mana signature was colder, sharper, more focused.
Ice magic, Lencar noted, the mana signature reading like frozen needles. Mariella. She brought her 'student' for protection. It's the logical play—a former Diamond assassin is the perfect insurance policy for an illicit deal with a stranger.
Lencar watched Dominante for a moment. She was fidgeting with her sleeves, her hands hovering near hidden pockets. He knew from his knowledge of her character that she likely had a dozen different explosive or binding artifacts ready to be deployed. He didn't want to startle her into blowing up the mill.
He decided to make a controlled entrance—one that showed power but lacked aggression.
He dropped his concealment. He didn't jump down or make a sound; he simply allowed his form to become visible atop the shed.
"You're punctual," Lencar said, his voice modulated by a subtle wind filter to sound deeper, older, and more resonant.
Dominante let out a sharp, muffled yelp. She blurred backward with surprising speed, her hand flying into her sleeve and pulling out a strange, brass-colored tube. She leveled it at Lencar's chest, her purple eyes wide with panic behind her mask.
"Stay back!" she hissed, her voice trembling. "One more step and I'll turn this whole clearing into a crater! I mean it! I've got enough explosive mana in this tube to level a village!"
Lencar didn't move a muscle. He kept his hands visible and away from his belt, palms open. "No need to be so scared. It's me—the one who placed the order. We had a deal, remember? I believe the password we agreed upon was 'The sky is falling in Kiten'."
Dominante froze. She squinted at him, her breathing ragged, the brass tube still pointed at his heart. She recognized the mask, the cloak, and more importantly, the specific, calm mana signature. She slowly lowered the tube, though her thumb stayed firmly on the trigger mechanism.
"You..." she breathed, her heart hammering against her ribs. "You nearly gave me a heart attack. Don't do that. Never do that to a witch, or you'll find yourself turned into a toad before you can apologize."
"My apologies," Lencar said, his tone sounding genuinely human despite the mask. He hopped down from the roof, landing as light as a feather thanks to his Mana Control. "But in my line of work, standing in the open before the area is scouted is a very bad habit. It tends to lead to a short lifespan."
He looked past her, toward the birch trees, and raised his voice slightly.
"And you can tell your friend with the ice magic to stand down. I'm not here for a fight, and I'd hate for her to catch a cold in the night air while waiting for a signal that isn't coming."
Dominante stiffened, her eyes darting toward the trees. From the shadows of the birches, a girl with short, black hair stepped out, her hand hovering over a grimoire that pulsed with a freezing blue light. Mariella looked at Lencar with a gaze that was entirely devoid of warmth—the look of a weapon waiting to be fired.
"He felt you, Mariella," Dominante sighed, waving her hand dismissively. "He's... he's the client. Stand down. If he wanted to kill us, he probably could have done it while I was jumping at shadows."
Mariella didn't relax her posture, but she closed her book, the blue light fading into the darkness. She stayed in the shadows, a silent, lethal insurance policy.
Dominante turned back to Lencar, her fear slowly being replaced by the defensive irritability of a professional who had been out-scouted.
"You're a strange one," she muttered, adjusting her cloak. "Usually, people who want the kind of gear I make are loud, arrogant nobles who want to show off or desperate thugs who need a miracle. You... you feel like a scholar who just happens to be a ghost."
"I value efficiency," Lencar replied, stepping closer. "And I believe you have something that will improve mine."
Dominante reached into the voluminous folds of her cloak. She pulled out a bundle wrapped in heavy, oil-stained leather. She held it for a moment, looking at Lencar with a mix of pride and caution.
"I've never made anything like this before," she admitted, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Most mages can only handle one or two attributes at most. To ask for something that handles... whatever it is you do... it was a challenge. It required a unique dampening alloy."
She threw the bundle toward him.
Lencar caught it mid-air with one hand. He unwrapped the leather with a single, practiced motion.