Now, the meeting had drawn to a close. Cloaked figures began to rise from their stone benches, murmurs cascading like distant winds through the cavernous hall. Yet Dan's gaze remained fixed, sharp with purpose. His curiosity was a taut string—drawn and ready. The Warnack Lord had yet to speak, and there was no doubt: this was no routine appearance.
A hush fell across the chamber as the Warnack Lord ascended the obsidian dais. Each step echoed with deliberate weight, like thunder trapped in stone. Shadows flickered unnaturally around him, as if the very air dared not touch his form. A presence both regal and unsettling cloaked him, woven from authority and something deeper—something ancient.
He surveyed the hall. Then he spoke.
"As the Warnack governing the South-East galaxies," his voice unfurled like rolling storms, "I present the next evolution of our dominion. A Glyph—not of ornament, but of truth. Of power."
His eyes gleamed faintly, and with a sudden motion, he raised his staff—an intricate length of blackened bone and gleaming crystal. The moment it struck the floor, the impact cracked not just the stone, but the silence of the room itself. A shockwave of raw, ancient energy rippled outward—a pulse that shimmered through air like heat over fire.
Dan staggered as a jolt of heat carved through his right arm. He gasped, gritting his teeth. When he looked down, a symbol had etched itself into his flesh: a perfect circle of shimmering black ink, alive and coiling. It pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat.
In that instant, knowledge unfurled inside his mind—not given, but forced into him. A chaotic surge of data, symbols, meanings. It seared, then clarified, until he could almost hear the language it whispered.
Around him, others clutched their arms with wide eyes—fascinated, unnerved.
The Warnack Lord's voice boomed once more, now colder, sharper.
"Every member of our order bears the Glyph of Warnack. This is no sigil—it is a living brand, an oath etched into soul and sinew."
He stepped forward, letting his cloak trail like flowing smoke. "The Glyph reflects your rank, your worth. The novice bears a whisper of ink. The elite—marks that shimmer with the pulse of the ancient forge."
Dan barely heard the rest. His gaze had turned inward, to the mark. It was different—denser. Too intricate for an initiate. It moved as though breathing, subtle glows shifting across its surface.
The Lord spoke again. "The Glyph is also our tongue—silent and secure. It transmits thought and warning, command and presence. Only the marked may understand its shifting light."
Dan slipped from the crowd, each step a careful retreat into the shadows. The noise of admiration behind him faded, replaced by the rising thrum of his own heartbeat.
Within the solitude of his chamber, he studied the mark. Images bloomed within his mind:
Shape: A perfect circle.
Core: A Hydra-Wyrm coiled like a sentinel.
Heads: Two. Elevated status. The Dread Lord bore five.
Wings: Folded—hidden strength, not yet unleashed.
Tail: Encircling—order, control.
Eyes: Luminous. All-seeing.
Function: Evolutionary. The Glyph would grow with him.
Command: High-rank glyphs could bind obedience. Even through pain.
Dan's breath caught. Two heads. That meant he was already beyond novice. He had entered a dangerous tier—and others would notice.
Then a whisper curled through his mind—smooth, ancient, tinged with dry wit.
"It is a sealing rune. Old magic. Twisted, as always, by ambition. Humans reshape what they barely understand."
It was the soul of the library—an old, cryptic voice that had been with him since the beginning.
Dan frowned. "Can it be controlled?"
"Why fear your own shadow? The Knowing Path governs the Glyph. It bends with your intent."
Relief brushed through him like a breeze—but it left behind the cold warning of exposure. The Warnack Lord felt the glyphs. He could track them. Monitor deviation. Misuse meant death.
No, Dan thought. This required subtlety.
He exhaled, then conjured the Art of Disguise. Mystic strands folded over him like silk. His features shifted, uniform morphed, and his aura dulled to mediocrity. In moments, he stood as just another faceless Warnack officer.
He rolled his sleeves down, straightened his posture, and moved toward the poison chamber.
None stopped him. None saw him.
The chamber reeked of iron and old magic. Bottles lined the shelves—etched in forbidden tongues, sealed with fire sigils. Dan moved with precise calm, selecting toxins with speed and care. Smoke swirled inside one vial—a breath of death waiting to escape.
He slipped into the kitchens next, masked as a caterer. Chaos ruled here—staff shouting, chopping, stirring. Flames danced in open pits. Dan's eyes scanned, then locked onto the tray for Blue Mount—the base's leader, still recovering.
He intercepted the cook with casual authority, sent him on a false errand, and in that moment alone, laced the dish with poison. The tray was sealed and carried with practiced ease.
Another illusion. Another disguise.
Dan stepped into the medical room. It was dim and humming with arcane containment. A vat of green fluid glowed in the center. Within it, Blue Mount floated—only his face above the surface, pale and tired. Tubes pulsed with life support. His eyes flicked toward Dan, vacant but aware.
Dan placed the tray beside him, watching as the leader began to eat—silently, perhaps ashamed. He had fallen in battle. He didn't know the full cost yet.
He would soon.
"What happened after I collapsed?" Blue Mount asked, voice hoarse.
Dan's reply was calm, rehearsed. But his eyes locked on the glyph carved into the man's shoulder.
Two heads.
Same as his.
So—they stood equal in the hierarchy now.
Blue Mount's head slumped forward. The poison was working. Dan caught him gently, cleaning his face, then pressed his palm against the glyph.
A pulse of light. A transfer of power.
A whisper ignited in Dan's mind:
[The Knowing Path has demoted Sealflow Requiem to Esoteric Art]
Dan's lips curled in quiet triumph. Sacred or not, the art was his now. And the glyph—his shield and key.
The officials had departed. The base returned to quiet operation. Blue Mount slept, suspended in forced silence. No one suspected.
Dan resumed his daily drills, each movement sharper than before. Strength bloomed within him like dawn beneath the skin.
That night, he couldn't wait any longer. He summoned the list—etched within his soul:
—Golden Break
—Art of Disguise
—Skydrift Mirage
—Thousandfold Grasp
—Heavenpierce Thread
—Voidpulse Rend
—Hollow Vitalis
—Sealflow Requiem (Sacred Art → Esoteric Art)
Eight techniques. One of them once sacred.
And this… this was only half a month.
Dan looked out his window, where the stars glimmered like watching eyes.
Now, he thought, let's see what I've really become.
The heavy wooden door to the training chamber creaked open—a slow, groaning sound that sliced through the quiet like a blade. Dan's ears twitched. At this hour, no one came here. The chamber was veiled in half-light, faint glows pulsing from runes etched into the stone walls—his only company during long, solitary sessions of discipline and self-abandonment. This was his sanctuary. His battlefield. The crucible of his becoming.
But now, someone had crossed the threshold.
Rose.
She stood framed in the doorway like a phantom from another life—except this was no ghost. Tight combat gear hugged her lithe frame, shaped for motion and power rather than modesty. Her sleeveless attire revealed defined muscle and readiness, her shadow stretching across the chamber like a challenge. A wide belt cinched her waist, and from it hung no firearm, no gadgetry—only a single, grim-looking axe slung across her back, its edge gleaming faintly like moonlight caught in steel.
She was no visitor. She was a warrior.
Dan's breath caught. He had never seen her like this.
His gaze lingered—not out of desire, but calculation. Curiosity. Wariness. And something unspoken, deeper, threading beneath his skin like the slow draw of steel from its sheath.
"So this is the infamous training demon," Rose said with a smirk, stepping into the chamber, boots echoing softly on the polished stone. Her voice curled with amusement and challenge. "You don't know how many stories I've heard. The obsession. The madness. Some say you beat Jordan once… though most think it's just base gossip."
Dan allowed a faint smile, his body lowering instinctively into a relaxed stance—the kind that concealed readiness beneath calm. "You've found the right place. But what brings you here? Looking to watch?"
She didn't answer.
With a flick of her wrist, the axe flew from her back—not in motion, but in manifestation. It shimmered into existence, called from some hidden plane of storage or magic, its weight bending the air around it.
Dan's eyes narrowed. The scent of ozone tingled on his skin.
"Looks like you didn't come here for stories."
Rose stepped forward, the runes in the walls briefly flaring as if sensing the shift in pressure. "I want to see if you live up to the myth."
Dan's aura surged to life with a low, electric hum, threads of spectral light coiling around him like the breath of something ancient. "Then come find out."
She didn't hesitate.
Her approach was swift and precise, the axe a blur as it descended with crushing force. Dan's shield flickered into place—an arcane hex woven of kinetic light—but the moment her blade struck, it shattered in a concussive blast that sent him sliding backward, his boots gouging shallow trenches into the stone.
The air trembled.
She's strong. Stronger than I expected.
Not like Jordan, who had pulled punches and masked intention. Rose fought with raw intent—an unfiltered edge that ignited Dan's pulse. His body responded without thought, surging forward with a martial rhythm born of relentless practice.
Iron Fist Barrage ignited his limbs, the air cracking with each strike as he flowed into Shadow Step Pulse, disappearing and reappearing between movements. His fists tore through space, the floor fracturing beneath his feet. Wind-Curved Dance followed—an elegant but deadly flurry that bent the air with every spiral.
But Rose met him blow for blow. Her axe moved not just with force, but purpose. Each arc sang through the air, meeting his strikes with precision honed in a hundred hidden battles. Her expression was calm—eyes alert, body shifting as though she'd studied every angle of his form before arriving.
She's not just strong. She's refined. An esoteric expert.
The thought hit like a pulse down his spine. Dan hesitated for a breath.
Then surrendered to the thrill.
He cast Soul Flare Needles—thin shafts of condensed light that spiraled toward her like serpents. In the same breath, he unfurled the Blaze Veil—a cloth forged from fire and silk, glowing red and pulsing with heat as it surged toward her like a living flame.
She dodged fast, but the veil brushed her skin—burning, binding. For a flicker of time, she struggled.
Then the veil dissolved in a flare of counter-magic, the needles blinking out with it. She emerged from the smoke unharmed, a smile tugging at her lips.
Dan inhaled deeply. No more testing.
He reached inward—into the spiral core of his esoteric well. Power gathered, dense and invisible, coiling into a single line: Heaven-Pierce Thread. From it, he conjured a compact orb of energy, dense enough to distort the space around it. Few ever learned to wield it. Fewer survived it.
He launched the orb.
It screeched across the chamber like a star unmoored, vibrating with deadly potential. Rose sensed it—her instincts snapping into play. She flipped away at the last instant, landing as the orb exploded in a brilliant, controlled detonation. The blast sent shockwaves across the room, flaring through the protective enchantments woven into the walls. Dust and shimmering debris rose like ash from an unseen battlefield.
Dan's breath slowed. Focus sharpened. Through the haze, he felt her—approaching fast, from above.
There. Upper right. An aerial arc.
He didn't flinch. Instead, he called upon Thousandfold Grasp, a focused burst of force from his palm. It detonated the air, blasting the dust aside in a thunderous wave.
Rose descended like a falcon, axe raised in a final arc.
Dan almost invoked SkyDrift Mirage, a devastating illusion-casting technique. But stopped. That belonged to Jordan. Too dangerous. Too personal.
He reached instead for Void Pulse Rained… and froze again. That art reduced matter to dust, unraveling existence at its seams. Not here. Not against someone he respected.
He stood his ground, letting her come.
At the final moment, her axe shimmered—and dissolved into mist.
She landed softly, just in front of him. Her breathing steady. Her presence serene.
"You're stronger than I thought," she said, voice quiet, almost reverent.
Dan said nothing.
"I'm not Blue Mount," she continued. "But I believe... you can defeat him."
Dan blinked. The name echoed like thunder behind his thoughts. "Blue Mount?"
"I leave with Jordan tomorrow," she said, already turning. Her silhouette framed by the glowing dust. "You have one day. Remember that."
She vanished, footsteps silent.
Dan remained alone. But the room no longer felt the same.
Something had shifted in the stillness—an unseen weight lifting, or perhaps settling into place. The pulse of his power had changed. The echo of the battle still vibrated in the walls.
He didn't need anyone to tell him.
He was stronger now.