Richard's eyes opened slowly, the fog of the soul realm retreating like a tide.
He was back in his body. In the world of men once more.
The silence of his house welcomed him again.
It was deep, hollow, and familiar. But it lacked substantial warmth.
Just the way he was used to...
He remained on his back, staring at the ceiling, arms folded behind his head.
'Those guys are definitely up to no good. I'll handle them later.'
He could still feel the distant, ever-present attachment of the demons bound to him. It was always there, constantly reminding him of their presence. Granted, it was just a small inconvenience.
A constant reminder of the sins he would have to bear on his path to heaven and hell.
As far as he was considered, all members of the Bane family were considered damned from their moment of birth.
The unique aspect of the Abyssal Palaces was tied to their bloodline.
The Bane family bloodline was what most would consider a blessing and a curse.
Bloodlines in the world of sorcerers was usually referred to inheritance according to genealogy.
Some time in the past, a long, long time ago...
An ancestor of the Bane family was said to have stumbled across a temple belonging to a Demon.
A Dark God class Demon. One of the only five known to mankind.
Azazel.
The Demon of Sorcery.
According to the history books, the ancestor had gambled with the Demon of Sorcery itself.
And he had won.
However, the price of winning was one that would follow him for generations to come.
And in such manner, the Bane family became one of the founding members of the Circle of Magi, one of the greatest societies of Magicians and Sorcerers, existing for over five thousand years.
Richard sighed.
He remembered the old tale.
About the garden and the apple.
That woeful tale of eternity and damnation.
Although was probably just a myth, he was certain the story about his ancestor was very real.
After all, it was a fact that the moment he died, his soul was going to be dragged right into the depths of the abyss...
And the four shadows in the depths of his soul, watching, whispering, waiting... Would be culprits responsible for pulling him into hell.
He sat up.
It was late. The darkness outside had thickened, pressing against the window panes. But his mind was still too alert to sleep just yet.
He turned to the desk and reached into the small satchel by the leg of the chair. Four cores, faintly glowing with that sickly, translucent light, motes of crimson dancing within, were tucked safely inside.
He retrieved one, holding it up between two fingers.
It pulsed. A faint echo of magic within.
Creatures of the abyss possessed this organ as a means to store raw magical power, also called mana. It was not an object that was meant to exist in their world, and yet it did.
When denizens of the abyss like devils, demons, wraiths, and malevolent spirits crossed over to their world, the source of their mana would manifest in this physical form.
Sorcerrrs would then make use of special techniques to absorb it after defeating them, increasing the depth and vastness of their own mana pools.
He placed the others aside and held the first core between his palms.
Each one was rather precious so he could not afford to waste a single one.
Closing his eyes, he began chanting in a low hum.
Mana from origin essence cores could not be absorbed just like that. Doing so ran the risk of falling into insanity and corruption as the mana within them originates from abyssal creatures.
To safely absorb them, sorcerers had to make use of special magic spells and chants, which were most of the time just strange amalgamations of holy scripture and abyssal tongue.
He slowly drew the mana into himself.
The process was not painful, but it did demand focus and willpower.
Threads of arcane energy unwound from the core, seeking his own. They tangled, fought, then melted into the flow.
His body warmed.
His mana core—deep within his solar plexus, shuddered before stretching slightly, greedily drinking the essence.
He was already used to this...
Although he had come from such a family, he usually has to procure origin essence cores for himself.
That meant searching for unholy enclaves and wiping out scourges to get cores for himself.
And so, he knew what every single drop of mana was worth.
He ensured it was all put to good use.
By the time the third core dissolved, a soft sheen of sweat coated his forehead. His breathing had grown shallow, but his mana had grown denser, heavier, more stable.
Richard exhaled deeply, eyes opening to the quiet stillness of his home.
Not bad.
He wiped his face, then dragged himself to his feet.
He decided not to absorb it all tonight. Origin Essence Cores were not only good for increasing one's mana pool after all.
'I could use another shower.'
The process of absorbing mana from the origin essence cores took a slight toll on the body so taking another bath was not too bad.
He stepped into the bathroom. The cold tiles bit at his soles, but the water that followed was warm and soothing. Steam curled up around his shoulders as he washed the day away.
There was some things only a hot bath could get rid of...
By the time he stumbled into bed, his body was clean and his thoughts just barely manageable.
Sleep took him without a fight.
***
The morning came in shades of pale gray. Thin, scattered sunlight filtered through drawn curtains.
"Cold..."
Richard blinked against the quiet light, slowly sitting up.
No nightmares. That was rare.
He stretched with a low groan and stood. His body ached pleasantly... proof of the work of a good night's rest.
He glanced at his bedside.
There, hanging from one of the posts was a small magic ward. It was still intact meaning nothing had tried to attack him whilst he slept.
'Good.'
He slipped into a T-shirt and sweatpants, heading to the kitchen. The electric kettle clicked on with a familiar hum. Eggs. Toast. Tea. His hands moved mechanically.
The silence in the house wasn't as heavy this morning.
In fact, it had an odd rhythm to it.
He ate in peace, the occasional creak of the old house his only company.
Afterwards, he moved into his workout room. A plain rug lay across the floor. He cleared it with a gesture and lowered himself into a set of slow stretches. Then push-ups. Crunches. Planks. Old habits, drilled into him for as long as he could remember.
Maybe before he even learned to cast his first spell.
Magic was cool, but what really mattered was stamina and dexterity. The body was still a vessel, no matter how mighty the soul...
Plus... Both could help in running away when in a pinch or terrible situation.
He knew this because he had been in one too many himself.
So skipping leg day was an absolute no-no.
He was halfway through a set of squats when he heard it.
A soft flutter. A scratch of claws against the balcony rail.
He was currently on the down floor, but his senses reached every part of the house. A boon that came with being master of the mansion, apparently...
He froze, then stood, wiping his hands. Slipping the sliding door open, he stepped out.
A raven sat on the rail, head cocked unnaturally to the side. In its beak, it held a narrow, sealed scroll.
A message from the Circle.
Richard raised a brow. "Really? This early?"
The bird dropped the scroll into his hand, gave a single caw, and flapped off into the sky.
He turned the scroll over in his hand. The seal was an intricate eye—an ancient sigil of the Circle of Magi. He broke it open.
Inside, elegant script danced across the aged parchment. It read:
To Richard Bane, Watcher of the South,
You have been granted a pass to the Halls of Solomon. Please keep your windows open tonight. Someone will come to get you...
The signature below was faintly glowing, written in some silver ink that shifted like mercury.
Richard exhaled slowly.
"Must be that old man."
Recalling Baxter, Richard couldn't help but shake his head.
He looked back toward the city skyline, where the sun was rising between towers. The glow did little to chase the shadows from the corners of his mind.
The Halls of Solomon.
A Library containing all of the knowledge desired by every Sorcerer, Mage, Witch, Diviner and even creatures of the abyss.
If Baxter was behind this, then it was definitely a down payment.
Although he was suspicious, it was impossible for him to resist such ungodly temptation.
Suppressing the expression of greed on his face, he folded the scroll carefully and turned back inside with a yawn.