Lucy's mind began to churn, and at the same time, he kept a wary eye on Vorn, refusing to let another sneak attack land.
'I don't know why Vorn insists on helping me, or if I can even trust him, but that's genius. If I constantly circulated my mana through my body, it would always be where I need it. The faster I circulate it, the more my whole body gets enhanced. And theoretically, I could receive infinite power with my endless flow of mana.'
He kept his sword pointed at the relaxed old man, who seemed to be waiting for an answer. But Vorn could already see from the fire in Lucy's eyes that he'd figured it out.
So instead of wasting time with words, the elf moved. In a blink, he vanished, his speed nearly equal to Fenara's.
'The best way to learn is through pain,' Vorn thought as he reappeared behind Lucy.
Lucy, surrounded by the faint wind field he had maintained, instantly felt the incoming strike. But instead of using it to react, he dismissed the wind entirely.
'I won't learn mana circulation by relying on abilities I already know.'
Exposed and vulnerable, Lucy dived inward. He reached deep into his chest, to the core nestled beside his heart—a coin-sized sphere holding an infinite storm of divine white mana. He willed it to flow, to surge into every part of him like a river.
But it didn't. It obeyed only halfway, moving to the targeted areas but halting like water hitting a dam.
Vorn's fist slammed into the back of Lucy's head.
The blow cracked through bone and thought. His vision exploded in white as pain lit up his skull like a sun. His knees buckled. He stumbled forward on the obsidian, hands barely catching his fall.
'Too slow.'
Then another strike to the ribs. Then another to the jaw. Lucy barely registered them—his body jerked backward like a puppet caught in a storm.
Time blurred. Sounds twisted—roaring magic in the distance warped into dull echoes, and the obsidian ground looked pulsing.
Blood poured freely from his nose, hot and metallic in his mouth. He tasted it and almost gagged. Vorn didn't relent. A jab to the sternum knocked the wind out of him. A hook sent him spinning.
He lost track of which way was up.
He tried again, eyes shut tight against the disorienting pain, forcing his mana to move like a torrent through muscle, skin, and bone. But it refused. It circled once, then recoiled, draining back into his core like it feared the rest of his body.
Another punch. This one sent him skidding across the black field, his armor scraping loudly against the stone.
He coughed. Something felt wrong in his ribs. Everything sounded distant now. The battlefield gone, the sky flickering, and his limbs trembled.
'Where am I?'
He couldn't tell if he was lying on his back or still on his feet.
And yet, through that haze, through the thick curtain of blood and confusion, he focused. He forced the white mana out again. It didn't flow. But he pushed it harder. Again and again.
Another strike snapped his head sideways. His ears rang violently. His thoughts fractured—memories from Earth, the war, and Seraphine flashed out of place.
His knees hit the floor.
Then, just before everything could fade, a spark.
A flicker in his mind.
A glowing, golden manuscript opened within his consciousness.
Page 1 / 100 — Mana Circulation
Several hundred feet away from the human lying bloodied and dazed on the obsidian floor, and far from the old warrior Vorn, a different battle raged with apocalyptic force.
Two titans clashed in a whirlwind of power: Adgrun, the Crimson-scaled Dragonkin, faced off against a golden counterpart whose presence radiated divine might. Both stood amidst a battlefield scorched black, the obsidian ground spiderwebbed with cracks and stained with blood. The air shimmered with residual heat and raw mana, thick enough to choke lesser beings.
Adgrun stood firm atop a slick of shattered glass and ash, gripping a monstrous two-handed axe. The weapon was a work of terrifying beauty. Its hilt was a dark, arterial red like fresh blood, and the blades themselves were forged from pure black metal that seemed to absorb the light around them.
The golden-scaled general faced him, every inch of his body glistening like a statue cast in sunlight. He held a long, radiant sword with perfect poise, gleaming gold etched with ancient runes that pulsed faintly, hungry for battle.
The golden general smiled. "Adgrun, why don't we stop playing?"
Then, without waiting for a reply, his body began to transform. A blinding white light ignited from within him, leaking from every pore. It burst from his eyes and mouth, enveloping his form in a halo of radiance. His armor shimmered like starlight, and each breath he took expelled wisps of glowing energy that warped the air around him. His silhouette became divine—an avenging spirit clad in light.
Adgrun, unimpressed, narrowed his eyes.
"If you insist, Izzox," he muttered under his breath. His voice was low and rushed, almost inaudible due to his fast speech.
And then the flames came.
Orange fire erupted from inside him, as if his very soul had ignited. It poured from his eyes and mouth, spilled across his limbs, and climbed the ridges of his crimson scales like a living thing. The air howled as the heat intensified, rising in waves that bent the battlefield around him. The obsidian under his feet began to melt and crack, glowing red in his wake.
His aura didn't flicker; it roared. Fire clung to him like a second skin, whipping around his axe as if hungry for blood. The flames moved in time with his heartbeat—furious, primal, unrelenting.
The battlefield held its breath as two ancient powers prepared to collide, light against flame, gold against crimson.
The two collided in a catastrophic burst of fire and light, shaking the sky.
When their weapons met, the impact cracked the air like a thunderclap. Shockwaves rippled across the obsidian battlefield, kicking up molten shards and clouds of ash.
Adgrun's flames roared around him like a living inferno, his strength rooted deep in raw, explosive power. Each swing of his massive axe carved furrows into the Earth and filled the air with searing heat. In contrast, Izzox's radiant light flashed like lightning—graceful, swift, and elusive.
Adgrun pressed forward, his steps cratering the ground, his strikes hammering with terrifying weight. Izzox slid backward under the pressure, his golden boots skimming the glassy floor, sparks flying with each step. For a moment, Adgrun seemed to have the upper hand.
But then, in a blink, Izzox vanished.
Adgrun stumbled as his strike met only air, the momentum carrying him forward a step. "Tch," he hissed through gritted teeth.
A bright golden blur suddenly orbited him—light moving at dizzying speed, circling with such intensity that it distorted the air around it. The battlefield dimmed in comparison to the blinding trail Izzox left behind.
The blur struck from behind.
CLANG! Adgrun's flaming axe met the golden sword just in time.
Another flash of light—CLANG!—a strike from the front. Then again, from the side. Over and over, Izzox danced around him like a celestial storm, each blow perfectly timed to strike from a new blind spot. But Adgrun's burning eyes followed with practiced fury, his axe a blazing wall against the shimmering assault.
'This is why I hate fighting this golden lizard!' Adgrun growled inwardly, his grip tightening on the axe. Every battle with Izzox was the same—a dance of flame against light, of stubborn might against elusive speed. The golden Dragonkin never stood still long enough to fight head-on.
Another strike, another perfect parry, but Adgrun could feel the fatigue setting in, not in his muscles, but in his patience.
'I've had enough!'
Izzox circled him again, faster than ever, light blurring into a glowing ring of motion.
Adgrun's eyes narrowed.
Then—BOOM.
He erupted.
A tidal wave of fire exploded from his body, spiraling outward in a towering inferno. The flames screamed to the sky, split the clouds overhead, and charred the obsidian battlefield for fifty feet in every direction. The heat was unbearable, warping the air, igniting corpses, and forcing the non-battling distant warriors to turn away.
The world was fire.
But when the flames cleared, a silhouette stood untouched just outside the scorched radius.
Izzox.
Still glowing. Still radiant. Still smiling.
Light bled from his mouth, eyes, chest—every pore an open floodgate of divine brilliance. His golden armor shimmered like polished sunstone, and the smirk tugging at his lips held no malice, just the unshakable confidence of a warrior who always stayed one step ahead.