Will, the Third Pillar of Magic
There are three elements that make up magic. It was a story Ojo had told me back on the island.
"If you have sufficient mana and the knowledge to match it, you can use any magic."
He closed his eyes for a moment, organizing his thoughts, then added, "So why do spells differ in power? One person's flame incinerates a mountain, while another's can't even singe paper. It's not something you can simply chalk up to talent."
At those words, I conjured a simple spell. A tiny flame flickered to life above my fingertip. Ojo glanced at it and continued.
"You lack talent for offensive magic. It's a matter of will. When your intent and purpose in casting are clear, the spell takes on greater potency."
He raised a finger and traced a magic circle. A gentle breeze flowed from it, smothering my little flame. It went out without the slightest resistance.
"You lack the will to kill others. Whether it's from your past life or the nature of your soul, I can't say—but it's what defines your talent."
Without will, magic weakens. That was the lesson from my childhood.
Ever since, I'd avoided fights unless absolutely necessary—even during the university exams.
Over time, my offensive spells grew even more pathetic. Maybe that's why I kept failing.
I'd always blamed it on talent, but perhaps, as Ojo said, it was a lack of will.
This issue of will applied to the self I was trying to create, too.
I'd started researching shadows because of the one Professor Heisen gave me. It copied my movements and even borrowed my talent to animate puppets.
I thought it had mimicked me so perfectly that it gained my talents, too. That's why I'd tried grafting shadows onto puppets.
But after countless failed attempts, I realized I'd been wrong.
The shadow copying me was just forming a single connection point. What truly linked to me wasn't the shadow as a whole.
It was the tiny stars embedded within it.
From the moment they connected, they could borrow everything I had. They just lacked the capacity to control it without a solid form.
I'd misunderstood the sequence all along.
The shadow itself didn't matter. Struggling to give it shape was pointless without that core—it would always slip away.
That's why Professor Heisen's shadow was special. No one could easily create such a core.
Even a mighty mage like Bound was attending lectures for it.
And I was challenging myself to do the same.
Other mages would laugh if they heard. A first-floor mage, barely at Seedling stage, copying a professor's creation?
But I felt wronged. I hadn't started with such grand ambitions. I'd just been trying to optimize mana efficiency, and research had snowballed from there.
Now it was too late to quit. I had to see it through.
That's how I'd spent the last month.
Imbuing a shadow with self was a grand magic in itself.
From prior attempts, I knew roughly how much mana it required and the steps to follow. I had the knowledge.
That should have been enough for the spell.
But this self-creation magic always failed.
Probably due to a lack of will.
Not my will—I'd endured this agony, so how could it be lacking?
It was the will to embed in the shadow that fell short.
I recalled the first time my shadow connected.
It was faint, barely perceptible.
But it persistently signaled its presence through our link. It rejoiced whenever I acknowledged it.
Eventually, it shaped itself in my image.
That exchange wove into the magic that birthed its current form.
So, I needed to use the shadow as a conduit to implant a core into the puppet—one that could commune with me.
It had to absorb my mana and blend seamlessly with the puppet.
I'd experimented tirelessly to find the perfect fit.
And finally, I had it.
I looked inward, to my chest. There stood a tree, grown massive from my body, filling the space completely—no room left to grow.
My Seedling.
It was back in the slums. Junkies were everywhere, and they didn't hesitate to hack off their own trees for drug money. Mage reagents fetched high prices; in the slums, those trunks even served as currency.
I'd done it once myself, when starting my shop and desperate for cash.
I knew the pain of severing it.
I'd sworn never again.
But this Seedling was the perfect core for the shadow. No alternatives.
I took a deep breath. Preparations were complete. No need to hesitate.
I gripped it with mana and wrenched it free, teeth gritted.
A shock slammed through me. Mana scattered; something deeper than flesh tore from my soul.
My body shook, vision blurred. Pain choked my breath, but I couldn't stop.
I dragged it out.
"Gahk!"
A spurt of blood and a small sapling burst from my mouth.
My waiting shadow caught it, planting it into a prepared shadow space, then gently lowering it into the pseudo-shadow realm.
Amid the strange mana there, my sapling took root in the pre-made Mana Heart.
A faint tickle stirred my mind. A tiny signal connected to me.
In that moment, I knew a new being linked to me had been born.
Its intelligence was nothing compared to my shadow's—fragile, on the verge of snapping, with only the faintest will.
Blame my meager Seedling.
But it was enough.
I poured strong will into the shadow. Our minds touched; my soul flooded it.
Through the reinforced link, I sensed its presence. Rooted now, it looked utterly transformed—half-real, half-illusory, emanating mana like mine but subtly its own.
Instinctively, it cast a spell using that mana.
Not one I'd learned or made.
It was magic etched into my soul—the sole spell born with my tree: Magical Breathing.
It sought to breathe through it. The breath was faint, unstable within the shadow.
I kept channeling my will. It trembled on the brink of death.
Yet it breathed relentlessly. Gradually, it stabilized.
The shadow faded; only the Mana Heart remained vivid, pulsing mana.
Success?
I swallowed. Watching it felt uncanny—separate from me, yet connected.
It kept breathing.
But until it linked to a puppet, I couldn't call it true success.
I placed a puppet in the shadow's pseudo-space.
Even with my sapling planted, the shadow wasn't the master—the puppet was.
Sensing it, the shadow slithered over and tentatively fused with the puppet.
It has to work.
I watched tensely.
Time lost meaning. The puppet stood still. No rejection, no change.
The shadow, scattering its eerie mana, stayed linked.
Relief hit like exhaustion; I squeezed my eyes shut.
Success so far. A first.
But I steeled myself. Not over yet.
Carefully, I extracted it. The shadow wove into the puppet like a pattern.
Suddenly exposed, it thrashed wildly—expanding, contracting like it might burst.
I watched anxiously. Nothing I could do; it was adapting to the world.
All I could offer was unyielding will through our link.
The sapling in the Mana Heart resumed Magical Breathing. The heart began to beat, steadying the shadow.
Stabilized, the shadow poured to the ground, mimicking the puppet's feet.
Then, the puppet moved.
It shuffled awkwardly, stumbling sometimes.
Not me moving it, not my shadow—it moved itself, powered solely by the shadow's mana.
Shadow drove the puppet; puppet guided the shadow. Together, they became self-sustaining.
"Ahahaha!"
I collapsed, pounding the ground in laughter.
My chest tore with pain, but I didn't care. I rolled, vomiting blood.
Success. Success.
A faint self emanated from the completed puppet—linked to me, yet independent.
Immense fulfillment filled me, drowning the pain.
I laughed until tears poured.
How long? Suddenly, clarity struck. I bolted up.
Can't stop here. More puppets, more selves, more shadows to weave.
My instincts screamed it.
With success assured, I pulled out the students' puppets.
First: Kasian's Bear Doll—the most delicate, perfect of them all.
If I could shadow it, the rest would be easier.
Biting my lip, I tore another sapling free. Soul-rending pain returned.
Clutching my trembling mind, I offered it to my shadow.
Having perfected the process, it planted the sapling. The new shadow writhed in shadow-space.
Another success? I poured my mind into the faint link.
It began to breathe. Placed in the puppet, it fused.
Even outside, it held—Magical Breathing stabilizing puppet and shadow.
"Haha, ahaha!"
I couldn't contain the laughter. Agony wracked me, but joy too.
My tree shrank, weakened. Yet it sacrificed willingly, even slicing itself when I faltered.
In this, I realized: I'd force-fed my Seedling mana, bloating it to its limit after entering university.
But no leap to the next stage. I'd despaired, thinking it my limit.
Now, carving it away, I saw: This tree was my talent, my will crystallized.
Severing chunks for shadows was like carving myself.
But true magic demanded that.
My prior spells were mere mana techniques. Real magic transcended them.
Reaching higher required sacrifices greater than the goal itself.
Through my saplings, I linked to shadows and puppets—losing myself to share with others.
In that flow, I grasped magic's essence: defining the bond between self and spell.
Will resided there.
Thus, all two hundred-plus puppets stirred, shambling awkwardly through the workshop.
I smiled hazily at them. Too drained to move.
My tree's roots were gone—barely anything left.
Yet I felt countless connections.
These myriad shadow-selves lifted my frail tree.
Shadows were no longer mere marionettes obeying me. They held my will and theirs—true lives.
That collective will resonated in my chest, shattering my walls.
They advanced, demolished, devoured—what I could never do alone.
The towering barrier crumbled like sand.
Exhaustion flooded me. No reconstruction, no recovery—my tree still pathetic, teetering.
But its shadow rooted deeply—beyond its old size, past the original roots, into my flesh and out.
The shadow grew endlessly into a massive tree, dotted with puppet wills twinkling like stars in its canopy.
This was my new tree—transcending Seedling into Young Tree.
Now I understood my prior instability. Mana wasn't mere fuel; it carried my will, scattering the shadow-tree everywhere.
Why "Young Tree"? I'd wondered. Now clear: You must expand ceaselessly, building your domain.
I examined it. Vast shadow, but core still puny. Time to regrow.
As my tree shrank, my near-complete unique spell vanished—swept into advancement.
No sorrow. A new magic filled it.
Not Magical Breathing anymore—perhaps Fake Soul now.
Infusing my tree's shadow into puppets' shadows, birthing new wills like those sparkling ones.
Half-selves, hence "fake." Deeper mastery might make them real.
I'd grasped too much, clutching it all in agony.
Only by discarding it could I advance.
Exhaustion and fulfillment soaked me. Mind fading, I closed my eyes.
"Good. Now I can exploit you for another five hundred years."
I could've sworn I heard the professor's voice in my ear.