Merin hears the conversation of the group entering his dream domain as scheduled. This time, however, Omar is absent. Merin doesn't mind—he can still sense Omar's spiritual world tethered to the dream domain, which means Omar is fine. There must be a good reason for his absence, likely something that kept him from falling asleep.
After listening to the group's conversation, Merin returns to his spiritual world to continue comprehending the Magic Missile spell. Only two runes remain. In the process, he realises his understanding of the Magic Shield spell has deepened significantly. Except for the magic shaping rune, every other rune used in the Magic Shield spell also appears in the Magic Missile spell. Once he fully comprehends Magic Missile, he'll be able to grasp the Magic Shield spell with much less effort, even though he hasn't practised it often and can't train it now. Still, with nearly 90% rune overlap between the two spells, mastery of one greatly accelerates comprehension of the other.
He has also reached a minor accomplishment in the Blood Bull Boxing Technique, but he hasn't included it in the reward list for the six. He considers himself a great being—how could he offer a mere mortal-level technique, not even half-mastered, as a reward? Even though it's an intermediate boxing technique, it holds no weight in his eyes. From the perspective of the six, someone like him would only need a glance to fully master such a technique.
Merin's growth is steady and promising, and through his guidance, the six will advance quickly. Yet there is no joy in his progress. The black energy within him still drains his power. Although the rate of absorption now matches his energy production, even the slightest increase would lead to collapse. Until the black energy is resolved, he cannot relax—not even for a moment. Worse, he can no longer practice new spells if Ivy obtains them.
He has tried to understand the black energy, hoping to influence it through comprehension. But he can't sense it—not truly. His mind energy passes through it as if the black energy exists in another dimension. Even though he can see it with his mind's eye, he feels no resistance, no substance. If it weren't for the constant drain, he might believe it's all an illusion.
With nothing more he can do about the black energy for now, Merin turns his focus back to comprehending the Magic Missile spell.
Omar
Night falls under a sky dimly lit by a pale half-crescent moon, its light casting long shadows across the quiet forest road. Along this secluded path, a convoy of carriages rests in a loose circle, their wheels sunk slightly into the soft earth. Lanterns hang low, their glow barely pushing back the darkness that presses in from the trees.
Guards move in steady patrols around the perimeter, armour muted under thick cloaks. They glance often toward the forest, hands never far from the hilts of their weapons, ears sharp for every rustle of leaves or snap of a twig. Tension clings to the air like mist, unspoken but understood by all.
From one of the tents pitched beside a carriage, the flap shifts. A man steps out into the chill night, raising his arms in a slow stretch. He exhales, breath fogging briefly in the cold, and scans the dim camp. Then, without hurry, he walks toward one of the patrolling guards, his boots crunching lightly on the gravel path.
Omar, patrolling the edge of the resting convoy, notices Jamal walking toward him through the dim moonlight. He halts, waiting calmly as Jamal approaches. When the man is close enough, Omar asks, "Is there anything you need from me?"
Jamal shakes his head. "Nothing. I came to replace you."
Omar raises an eyebrow. "Only a couple of hours have passed since I started. I can stay awake for a few more."
"I know," Jamal says, "but this is your first time patrolling at night. The commander ordered you to do only a short shift tonight. Get some rest."
Omar nods, offering no resistance. He walks back toward his tent and steps inside, settling down cross-legged in a meditation posture. Jamal told him to sleep, but Omar knows better. If he falls asleep, he'll enter the dream domain—and while he could wake if danger arises, it would take too long for his full awareness to return to his body. Meditation is safer.
He closes his eyes and starts his breathing routine, drawing in the spiritual energy in the air. Two exercises begin running within him in tandem: the Evergreen Pine and the War Wolf Technique. Both flow differently through his body.
The Evergreen Pine nourishes his internal organs. Its energy carries a gentle, healing trait that helps his body recover quickly from injury and even strengthens the cells along its path. In contrast, the War Wolf Technique flows through his muscles and bones. Its energy is aggressive—destructive in nature. While simply circulating it now only refines his physical strength, in combat, activating it fully requires tripling its circulation speed. That force, while giving him explosive power, causes micro-injuries to his body.
Normally, these injuries heal quickly under the Evergreen Pine's influence. But if he fights again before they recover, the damage lingers. With time, such accumulated injuries hinder cultivation and trap warriors at bottlenecks.
Omar has seen it. Many in the city once broke through the first realm quickly using the War Wolf Technique, only to remain stuck there for years, even decades. So that fate does not befall him, he once tried to switch his exercise from the War Wolf Technique to the Bull Body Refining Technique. While he could perform the movements easily, forming internal energy with the new technique proved difficult. That failure taught him an important truth: internal energies, though they may look similar, are inherently different. Each technique produces its own unique type.
This realization drove him to investigate the internal energies of both the Evergreen Pine and the War Wolf Technique. It was during this process that he discovered their distinct traits—one nurturing and restorative, the other violent and destructive.
Now, to avoid the fate of stagnation, Omar sees only two paths forward: either take healing pills after every fight or find a way to make the Evergreen Pine's healing energy mend the damage caused by the War Wolf Technique as it happens. For that, he needs to combine the two exercises into one seamless flow.
The War Wolf Technique has only two chapters and is only meant to carry someone up to the second realm. Meanwhile, the Evergreen Pine is far more advanced, with the potential to be practised into the fourth realm of the Mortal Path. Omar knows that the first step is to merge the first chapters. Once that's done, merging the latter ones will come naturally as his mastery deepens.
So now, as he runs both techniques consecutively—first one, then the other—he focuses entirely on sensing a common point, a shared thread that can be the foundation of their fusion. If he can grasp even a flicker of overlap, he can begin weaving them together.
He had thought, once, that using his dream domain body might make the process easier. If the body inside the dream felt identical to his real one, perhaps the sensitivity would help. But though the dream domain body doesn't feel fake, it still lacks the same depth—it is always as if a thin veil separates the two. Real sensation can't pass through it completely.
Still, that won't be an issue for the next week. The journey to Bhangandar will take at least that long, and with such a long road ahead, he will hardly sleep at all.
Omar ends his thoughts there and turns his full attention to sensing the internal energy of the two exercises. Through the night, he continues circulating the energies—first the Evergreen Pine, then the War Wolf—trying to feel for the thread that could tie them together.
Time passes unnoticed until a distant voice calls his name. He doesn't respond immediately, keeping his focus steady, but when the call comes again, closer this time, he exhales softly and opens his eyes. Light filters into the tent. It's already dawn.
Despite not sleeping all night, Omar feels no fatigue. His body remains clear, as if hours of meditation had replaced rest. He hears his name again, this time right outside the tent. He quickly pulls open the flap and sees Kaol standing there.
Kaol is one of the trusted guards assigned to protect the city lord's children on this journey. Omar hadn't seen the lord's son or daughter since they set out—either obscured by their closed carriage or too far for a good look during camp.
He never cared to know what the son looked like, but the daughter… rumours say she's the most beautiful woman not only in their city but also in many surrounding ones. He could check the truth of that later. Right now, he wants to know what Kaol needs.
Omar steps out and asks, "Do you need anything?"
Kaol nods slightly. "I heard you're a hunter."
Omar replies, "Do you want me to hunt something for the morning meal?"
"A spotted deer," Kaol says.
Omar nods again. "I can, if they've come to graze near the edge of the Red Forest. If not, I won't be able to reach them."
Kaol frowns at the reply. He knows the dangers of going deeper into the forest. Omar's strength, while respectable, isn't enough to brave the inner regions safely. But how is he supposed to explain that to the young lord?
Then, Kaol spots someone nearby—a young woman. He recognises her instantly: the little lady's maid.
"Fatima! Fatima!" he calls.
The maid turns toward him, alert but not alarmed.
He gestures for her to come over and begins walking toward her, speaking to Omar without looking back, "Follow me."
Omar follows, and as they near the girl, she bows slightly and says, "Sir, do you need anything?"
She's one of the lady's maids, but not her personal attendant.
Omar answers, "The little lord wants spotted deer for breakfast, but they live and graze deeper inside the Red Forest. Only the commander or deputy commander can hunt them safely. We can't ask them, so can you inform the lady and help appease the little lord?"
The girl bows again. "Can you speak to the lady yourself? She's already awake. I may not explain it clearly."
Kaol nods. "Alright."
The girl leads them toward the lady's tent. They already know its location—easily recognisable from the cluster of four carriages and the four female guards surrounding it. But even knowing, getting close is another matter.
As they arrive, the maid speaks softly to one of the guards, then slips between two of the carriages and enters the guarded perimeter.
Moments later, a soft, calm voice floats out from within, "Mr. Kaol, there's no need to hunt a spotted deer for my brother. Send the hunter to bring back any deer, and tell him it's spotted deer meat. If he finds out, I'll handle it."
Kaol responds, "Understood, Miss Seira."
He turns away, and Omar walks behind him in silence.
After some distance, Kaol says, "You heard her. Go and hunt."
Omar nods and returns to his tent to prepare. He equips his sword at his waist, slings a bow over his shoulder, and secures a quiver of arrows to his back.
With quiet steps, he enters the forest. He studies the animal tracks on the ground, following the ones leading toward a water source. Searching aimlessly would waste time—where there's water, there are animals.
The first and second water sites yield nothing. But at the third, luck turns. A herd of white-foot deer drinks quietly from a stream ahead.
Omar crouches behind a thick tree, drawing an arrow. He carefully nocks it, eyeing a deer standing slightly apart from the others. His focus locks onto the exposed jugular.
He waits, feeling the breeze against his cheek, adjusting his aim for the wind and angle. When everything aligns, he releases.
The arrow strikes with a muted thud, burying itself in the deer's neck. The animal jerks once, legs crumpling beneath it, and collapses beside the stream with a soft splash.
The herd panics. Their heads snap up, ears twitching, and in an instant, they scatter, crying out in sharp, high-pitched bleats as they crash through the shallow stream. Water splashes high, droplets catching the morning light as they vanish into the trees. From the branches above, a flurry of wings explodes into the air. Birds shriek and scatter, fleeing in all directions.
Omar steps out from behind the tree and approaches the fallen deer. Its eyes are already glazing, breath gone. He grips the arrow and yanks it free in one smooth motion, then grabs the deer's hind legs and drags it closer to the stream's edge.
Kneeling, he positions the body so the neck hangs slightly over the water, letting the blood spill freely into the flowing stream. Red swirls bloom in the clear current, twisting downstream before fading into the flow.
He waits in silence, eyes scanning the forest, listening to the rustle of leaves and the faint, retreating cries of the herd. The blood slows to a trickle, then stops. He wipes the arrow on the grass, slings the deer across his right shoulder, and rises to his feet.
The forest is quiet again as he turns and walks back toward the camp, the weight of the kill firm and steady on his shoulder.
As Omar walks back toward camp, the forest air slowly shifts. The usual rhythm of chirping birds and buzzing insects vanishes. He frowns and halts, instantly alert. His eyes scan the trees, the underbrush, the branches overhead—nothing. No movement, no sound. Just silence thick enough to press against his ears.
He waits a few seconds longer, then resumes walking, more cautious now. His grip tightens slightly on the deer slung over his shoulder.
A faint whistle cuts through the stillness.
He leaps sideways on instinct. A sharp wind blade slices through the space he just vacated, crashing into a tree behind him with a heavy thwack, splitting bark and sending splinters flying.
The deer falls from his shoulder as Omar lands and rolls. He springs to his feet just in time to see a shadow lunging at him—a large wolf, fur matted, eyes gleaming with feral hunger.
He doesn't flinch.
The wolf swipes at him mid-leap, but Omar catches the paw with both hands, bracing himself as its weight crashes into him. The beast's strength confirms his suspicion—this isn't an ordinary wolf. It's a low-level demon, and an old one. Its skin hangs loose around its ribs, and its movements, while powerful, are a touch slower than they should be.
Gritting his teeth, Omar drives his knee into its underside and follows with a hard kick to the belly, forcing the creature back with a yelp. It stumbles, skidding across the forest floor, confused that its prey resisted.
He doesn't give it time to regroup.
Sword drawn in one smooth motion, Omar closes the distance, his blade flashing in quick arcs. The wolf tries to retaliate with another wind blade, but he ducks beneath it and slashes its flank. Blood spills. The demon growls, limping now, swiping wildly.
Omar stays focused—his blade meets flesh again and again, drawing crimson lines across the creature's body. The old wolf's strength wanes with every second.
With a final sidestep, Omar drives his sword across its throat. A wet gurgle escapes the beast as it collapses, twitching once before stilling. Blood pools beneath it, soaking into the roots and fallen leaves.
Omar exhales slowly, eyes steady. Then he wipes his sword clean on the wolf's fur. But before he can resheath it, a low growl rolls through the air behind him.
He spins around.
From behind a thicket, a sleek head emerges—black as shadow, eyes gleaming like twin embers. A leopard. His breath catches, and his mind clicks into sharp focus.
A black leopard. There's only one species that matches—Evil Leopard.
Among beasts, they are feared. When they reach adulthood, they rival third-realm warriors of the Mortal Realm. Agile, brutal, and masters of stealth. If the one before him is an adult, then—
He squints, gauging its size.
The creature stalks forward, muscles coiled under its dark fur, but its frame is smaller than expected. Leaner. Less filled out. He lets out a slow breath of relief.
It can't be more than two years old.
Which means unless it's mutated, it's still a low-level demon.
His grip tightens around his sword again, the deer still lying a few feet away. His body tenses—not with fear, but readiness. Even young, an Evil Leopard is no easy kill.
The Evil Leopard paces in a wide circle, purple energy pulsing from its body like heat off scorched stone. Omar adjusts his grip on the sword, his stance lowering. He breathes slowly and deep, eyes locked onto the beast's.
Then, with a hiss, the leopard vanishes in a blur.
Omar turns, just in time to block another swipe. The claws rake across his sword, purple energy shrieking against metal. He staggers but doesn't fall. The leopard spins mid-air and lands behind him, attacking again. Omar dives forward, rolls, and slashes upward to catch the creature's underbelly—but the energy shield absorbs most of the cut.
They clash again.
The fight becomes a storm of motion. The leopard darts in and out of the shadows, using trees and underbrush for cover. Omar counters with precision, sometimes ducking under claws, sometimes parrying with sparks flying. He uses footwork to keep the creature from circling behind. Each of his sword strikes is followed by a quick shift of stance—evasion, guard, attack.
The leopard feints low, then strikes high. Its claws scrape across Omar's ribs, tearing cloth and drawing blood. He doesn't grunt, just slashes in return, forcing the beast to retreat with a shallow cut along its side.
Purple energy flares again. This time, the leopard releases a burst of it mid-charge, forcing Omar to leap aside. The ground where he stood cracked from the pressure of the blow.
The battle continues.
Ten minutes. Then fifteen. Each clash leaves a fresh cut, each dodge a narrow escape. Omar's left arm trembles now, his breath ragged. Blood soaks his waist and sleeve, though none of the wounds are deep enough to slow him fully, yet.
The Evil Leopard limps slightly now, one hind leg dragging faintly. Its aura is dimmer, flickering with every breath, its claws now less sharp than before. One eye drips blood.
Still, it snarls.
Still, it attacks.
Omar meets it once more in a flurry of steel and shadow. He spins under a wide swipe, slams the pommel of his sword into the beast's jaw, then steps back to avoid a retaliatory claw aimed at his throat.
The leopard hisses but backs away, panting.
Finally—distance again.
They stand apart, chests rising and falling heavily. Omar's sword droops in his hand, his back damp with sweat. The Evil Leopard crouches low, tail twitching, mouth open in a silent snarl.
The wind rustles the leaves overhead.
They say nothing. Just two predators watching each other through tired eyes. Blood stains the earth between them, but neither blinks, neither turns away. The fight is not over yet.
And then, as if reading each other's thoughts, they move.
The Evil Leopard roars, purple energy flaring around its lean frame. It leaps with a savage force, claws stretched wide, the aura extending its reach like spectral blades. Omar meets the charge head-on. He doesn't retreat, doesn't sidestep—he steps in.
Their clash is brief and explosive.
Steel meets claw, aura crashes into aura. The force of the impact sends a shockwave through the nearby trees. Dust kicks up. Blood flicks through the air in a fine red mist. The forest trembles.
Some minutes ago, back at the camp.
A boy's shout pierces the morning air.
"Where is my spotted deer?!"
Koal's voice responds quickly, firm but not scolding, "I already sent a hunter to get one for you, Master. The deer will be here any minute."
The young lord stamps his foot, red-faced. "I want it now!"
Koal scans the crowd, looking desperately for the young lady. Her presence is the only thing that might soothe her brother's tantrum. But before she appears, another voice rings out—sharp, commanding.
"What is going on here?"
All eyes turn as a woman strides into view, clad in full body armour. Her presence alone calms several onlookers. She walks like one used to war, her expression hard.
The young lord's face brightens. He runs up to her, arms wide. "Aunty! I want to eat the meat of a spotted deer!"
Philia, the deputy commander, lowers her gaze to him, then lifts it toward Koal. "If it was arranged, why is it not already being cooked?"
Koal bows slightly, nervous. "Deputy Commander, I sent a hunter... but I don't know why it's taking so long."
Philia frowns. "You only sent one man? Why didn't you send a proper squad?"
Before he can respond, a heavier voice cuts through the tension. "Because the rest of our men are packing the camp. We need to move out right after breakfast."
A tall man steps forward—muscular, sharp-eyed. His armour bears the crest of the city lord. All eyes settle on him. He looks at Philia without blinking.
"Philia," he says, "we're not here for a picnic. We're headed to Bhangandar for a reason."
Her tone softens only slightly. "And you know what will happen when we arrive there. You know what's waiting for him."
The man doesn't flinch. "That's exactly why he needs to grow up before we get there."
He turns toward Koal again. "Who did you send?"
"Omar," Koal replies quickly. "One of Jamal's men. He has hunting experience."
The commander narrows his eyes. "Omar... he's barely reached the warrior realm. How's he supposed to take down a spotted deer? They live deep in the inner region."
Koal's voice weakens. "He… he was going to bring back whatever deer he found."
Philia snaps, "Then you're planning to deceive your superior. Who gave you that courage?"
Another voice answers calmly, "Me."
A silence falls.
The crowd parts as the young lady approaches. A soft veil covers her face, but her mesmerising blue eyes shine through, halting everyone's breath. Even the wind seems to hush. Her figure, her grace, holds the gaze of every man and woman alike.
"I told him to do it, Aunt Philia," she says gently.
Philia opens her mouth to respond—but then a roar tears through the morning silence.
A deep, savage sound, rolling from the direction of the forest.
Birds shriek and explode from the trees. The camp stirs. Hands move to weapons. Eyes scan the treeline.
Something is happening.
Back to Omar.
The Evil Leopard charges again, its claws laced with violet light, eyes burning with a cruel intelligence. Omar knows the next few moments will decide everything. He draws in a sharp breath and does something he swore he wouldn't attempt recklessly.
He activates both the War Wolf Technique and the Evergreen Pine Refining Art at once.
A roar of internal energy floods his meridians—one wild and fierce like a rampaging beast, the other deep and steady like ancient roots burrowing through the earth. They clash inside him, their opposing natures threatening to tear his body apart. But he endures, gritting his teeth, forcing both streams into balance with sheer willpower.
His muscles surge with unnatural strength. His senses sharpen. Even his fatigue dulls under the pressure of overlapping energy.
He meets the leopard's next charge head-on, sword singing as it dances with brutal precision. Each strike is heavier now. Faster. The Evil Leopard is pushed back, surprised at the sudden surge in his strength.
But the toll comes swiftly.
Omar's hands begin to tremble. His breath shortens. His vision blurs at the edges. The dual exercise drains not just his energy, but his very will to remain upright.
The leopard senses it too.
It snarls, leaping high with a vicious spin, purple claws tearing through the air, seeking his throat.
Omar feigns weakness, staggers just enough, and lets his blade drop an inch too low.
The leopard thinks victory is in its claws.
That's when he drives his sword forward—not at its chest, but straight through its eye.
The beast freezes mid-leap. Its weight crashes against him, its body limp before it even hits the ground.
Omar exhales a long, ragged breath. He drops to one knee, chest heaving, and immediately stops circulating both exercises. The energies retreat, like wild rivers forced back into their beds. His limbs feel hollow, his insides burned out.
But he's alive.
And he has no time to rest.
Another beast might have heard the battle. He stands, wiping blood from his brow. He slings the deer onto one shoulder, the Evil Leopard onto the other. The old wolf lies forgotten, its value not worth the risk of waiting any longer.
With weary steps and a blade stained in fresh blood, Omar walks back toward the camp.
Before Omar returns to the camp, he meets two guards patrolling the outer perimeter. They freeze for a moment upon seeing his bloodied figure carrying two beasts. One of them rushes forward and offers his shoulder to support Omar, while the other silently takes both the deer and the Evil Leopard from his back. With their help, Omar returns to the camp.
At first, most people give only a passing glance, used to seeing returning hunters. But when someone recognises the black-spotted corpse draped across the guard's shoulder, whispers ripple through the crowd. An Evil Leopard—even a young one—is still a demon beast. And average humans, even cultivators, often struggle against demons of the same realm. To kill one alone is not just skill—it's talent. Genius, even.
The commander steps forward, face stern but thoughtful. He'd heard from Jamal that Omar had once killed a half-step demon bear even before becoming a proper warrior. That had been enough for the commander to allow Jamal to bring the young man. He wanted to see for himself.
Now, even Jamal seems unsure of how far Omar's talent might reach.
The commander inspects Omar briefly. The boy's body is bloody, his clothes torn, but the wounds aren't deep—more fatigue and bruises than real damage.
"Go and take care of him," the commander orders calmly. Then, to Omar, he adds, "Good work."
A few camp hands led Omar toward the back of a carriage. There, a healer applies a thick green herbal paste to his wounds, bandages his arms and chest, then hands him a small bottle.
"These pills will close the wounds fully by morning. Rest and let the energy settle," the healer says before walking away.
Omar nods silently, swallows a pill, then closes his eyes and begins circulating the Evergreen Pine Exercise. The pill dissolves like warm wine, its essence seeping through his veins as the ancient technique guides the healing process.
Some time later, a voice rings across the camp, calling everyone to come for food.
Omar opens his eyes and prepares to jump down from the carriage when Jamal appears nearby.
"You stay. I'll bring your food," Jamal says before disappearing into the crowd.
A few minutes later, Jamal returns with two plates, handing one to Omar. They sit and eat together quietly, the warm food grounding them after the chaos of the morning.
When they finish, Omar asks, "Where will I ride? Front, middle, or back?"
"Commander ordered you to rest in this carriage today," Jamal replies. "When we set camp tonight, he wants to see you in his tent."
Omar nods and washes his hands, then returns to the carriage and sits cross-legged, taking another pill and resuming the Evergreen Pine Exercise. As the convoy begins moving again, he gazes out the window, watching the forest blur by as the wheels roll forward.
After some time, the carriages turn onto a narrow road running between two thick forest lines. The sun disappears fully behind the trees, and just before the sky turns black, they reach the foot of the Red Hills. On one side of the path stands a crumbling temple, its roof half-collapsed and moss devouring its stone face.
The convoy halts.
Omar climbs down. Most of his injuries are partially healed now. He helps with the camp preparations, lifting supplies, tying ropes, and moving crates.
When night falls and the cooks begin preparing food, he walks to the commander's tent and stops just outside. The tent is enormous—easily twice the size of Omar's entire home.
He clears his throat and says, "Commander."
A moment later, the commander's deep voice calls from within, "Come in."
Inside, the commander sits behind a low table, reviewing papers. He raises his head when Omar enters, studying him with cool, thoughtful eyes. Then, without a word, he hands over a scroll.
Omar receives it with both hands.
"Intermediate sword technique—Fierce Fire Sword," the commander says. "Make good use of it."
Omar bows and turns to leave.
Behind him, a soft female voice rises, "I thought you were going to say more to him."
From the shadows within the tent, a woman steps forward. Her veil hides her face, but her glowing blue eyes, tinged faintly with purple, draw attention like a magnet. She is poised, calm, yet intense.
"Miss," the commander replies, "you want him to stay with you at Bhangandar."
She nods. "Yes. If he stays, he'll be an immense help to us. And our city needs to show the other powers that even our new generation carries the blood of genius. When the older ones fall, no one should doubt our future."
The commander leans back. "The blade is sharp only because there is no edge to meet it. But when it clashes against another of equal sharpness or greater, then we'll see whether it breaks or cuts deeper."
She smiles under the veil. "Then Bhangandar is the perfect place. Let's see if this blade breaks or becomes sharper."
Outside, Omar sits cross-legged in front of his tent, unrolling the scroll. His eyes scan the intricate diagrams and flowing script of the Fierce Fire Sword Technique, the flickering torchlight dancing across his calm face as the night deepens.
The scroll opens with detailed diagrams and firm strokes of calligraphy, but the first part focuses not on sword swings, but on an internal exercise. Before Omar can even attempt the Fierce Fire Sword Technique, he must train his core to produce and endure the specialised energy known as Fierce Fire.
This energy must be cultivated through a specific breathing pattern and movement flow, taught within the scroll. Only after consistent practice of this inner technique can he convert his regular internal energy into Fierce Fire energy. Without it, he could imitate the form of the technique—but never unleash its true power.
However, the scroll carries a clear warning: the Fierce Fire energy is volatile. Even within the body, it burns. Until his meridians and organs adapt, the very act of cultivation will wound him from the inside. Pain, heat, and strain will accompany every step until he gains control.
As Omar closes the scroll, brows drawn in thought, Jamal drops beside him with a weary sigh, his clothes stained with dust and sweat. Omar glances at him and asks, "What were you doing?"
Jamal wipes his brow. "Cleaning the temple. The Miss and the Young Lord will rest inside tonight."
Omar looks toward the broken temple, its worn pillars barely standing, shadows flickering across its cracked walls. "Which god was worshipped here?"
Jamal shrugs. "No idea. The statue inside is completely destroyed."
Omar nods, then frowns, noticing the grime and streaks on Jamal's arms and face. "You should wash up. You look worse than me."
Jamal chuckles. "There's a pond behind the temple, but the women are using it right now. We'll get our turn after."
His eyes then fall on the scroll in Omar's hands. "What technique did the commander give you?"
"Fierce Fire Sword Technique. Intermediate level," Omar answers.
Jamal's brows lift in approval. "That's a strong one. But be careful. People have ended up bedridden for weeks trying to force it. It's not a forgiving method."
Omar nods, gaze falling on the fire between them. He then glances around, ensuring no one else is near, and leans slightly closer. "I don't think we're headed to Bhangandar for trade."
He speaks low, seriously.
Jamal doesn't reply immediately, eyes thoughtful. "You noticed too. This convoy has too many guards, too much supply, and barely any real trade goods. And bringing the Young Lord along? That's never done for regular business."
"Then why are we going?" Omar asks.
"I don't know," Jamal admits. "But it's not trade, that much is clear."
Omar's eyes narrow. "We'll find out when we get there."
"Yeah," Jamal murmurs.
They both fall silent, staring at the flames flickering in the night breeze, their faces lit by firelight and shadowed by uncertainty.
----
Merin feels a wave of relief as he completes the final step of mastering the Magic Shield spell. It is not the Magic Missile spell—he had already finished that hours earlier, shortly after Ivy left his dream domain.
After comprehending the Magic Missile spell, he immediately turned to the shaping runes of the shield spell. Though the shapes differed from those in the missile spell, their essence felt similar, familiar, and thus, easier to comprehend.
Now, seated within the calm of his dream domain, Merin observes the two spell models—Magic Missile and Magic Shield—hovering in his spiritual world. With a silent thought, he watches the rune structures unravel and separate, then recombine, interlocking seamlessly into a new formation. A single spell model is born from the fusion.
Understanding dawns. Ivy's teachers had instructed her to master both these spells, not for versatility alone, but for fusion. By combining the two spells into one, a mage could cast both functions from a single model, freeing up mental space to engrave a third spell. It's a clever strategy—one that offers three distinct magical options while still remaining a low-level mage apprentice. A crucial advantage when entering the broken realm for a trial.
Feeling the strain of prolonged focus, Merin begins to meditate, calming the exhaustion that clings to his spiritual consciousness. Once rested, he emerges from meditation with renewed clarity and shifts his full attention to the Blood Bull Boxing Technique. He ignores the idle conversations floating within his dream domain, a rare occurrence, as he usually listens while he works.
Eventually, he stops to scan the domain—no one is present. Yet Omar's absence nags at him. Reaching out through the link, Merin checks the connection to Omar's spiritual space. Vitality pulses steadily through it. No sign of injury or disturbance. With a quiet breath, Merin returns his focus to training.
He dives into the Blood Bull Boxing Technique now with full dedication. Unlike spells, martial arts techniques can be mastered through repetition. Once internalised, they can be adjusted to fit one's body. The original form, after all, had been developed for someone else's build and rhythm.
Today marks the twenty-ninth day since Merin first opened his dream domain. Tomorrow, the thirtieth, he plans to finalise two things: a complete entry of the Blood Bull Technique and the combined spell model into the reward list. The fusion of Magic Missile and Shield needs a name. After some thought, he decides:
Magic Control Spell.
The name fits. Mastering it will sharpen a mage's grasp over their magic energy manipulation—a critical trait for any advancement.
Resolved, Merin returns to the endless repetitions of the Blood Bull Boxing Technique, every strike a step closer to mastery, every breath preparing him for tomorrow.