The Creator of Magic, Mage Arcbuilders
He had left behind relics and artifacts, to be sure. But there were no books penned by his own hand.
The theories of Mage Arcbuilders had been passed down through the ages because his disciples wrote books based on his teachings and trained their own students in turn. In short, the book in my hands was priceless—even if it contained not a single useful line inside.
"Just keep storing the drawings here in the warehouse as usual, and I'll take all these books for now."
I swept Mage Arcbuilders's book—along with the others—into my subspace. Then I was escorted straight to my lodgings.
It was the bedroom once used by successive family heads. All I wanted was to dive into that book right away.
Once inside the lodgings, I dismissed the attendants and pulled out the book, devouring it feverishly.
This was something like Mage Arcbuilders's autobiography—similar to My Records.
It detailed where and how he was born, how he grew up, and the process by which he came to wield the power called magic. Drakan's story was in there too.
Drakan had said Mage Arcbuilders died young, but he'd lived to 88—a ripe old age by human standards. To Drakan, it must have seemed like the blink of an eye.
Mage Arcbuilders taught the magic he'd discovered to humans and Drakan. But Drakan transformed it into incantation magic, while for humans, he adapted it into the easier-to-use form we know today.
The magic Mage Arcbuilders himself used wasn't the mana-based variety we have now. It was far closer to harnessing natural energy via the Ether Heart Method.
When his disciples couldn't grasp it, he reworked it into the modern magical form to teach them.
The method Mage Arcbuilders used shared striking similarities with the Soul Heart Method, an evolution of the Ether Heart Method that I employed. His approach excelled in some areas, mine in others. Combining the strengths of both could yield something even superior.
By the time I'd finished reading Mage Arcbuilders's autobiography cover to cover, a week had passed.
The greatest genius in human history? A once-in-a-millennium hero? No words could capture the footprints of this giant, leaving a profound lingering impression on me.
I also read the books penned by past family heads that I'd gathered. Most were worthless trivia, but the diary of the head two generations back mentioned a grimoire.
By my guess, it was clearly related to Mage Arcbuilders's book. The previous head didn't realize it was his autobiography but was convinced it was an extraordinary grimoire. He shelled out a fortune—enough to uproot the family's foundations—only to suspect he'd been swindled.
The Akasha count's finances shook as a result, operations began to creak, and rival lords pounced on the weakness. By the time of the next head, House Akasha was on the road to ruin.
It was a stroke of luck for me, but Mage Arcbuilders's autobiography had unwittingly doomed the Akasha count's house.
With our unexpectedly extended stay finally over, we returned to our home in Akasha—home to the living record book.
For the foreseeable future, unless something urgent arose, I planned to stay within the territory, multiplying my clones and catching up on postponed research.
Mage Arcbuilders's autobiography was an artifact brimming with research potential beyond its vital contents.
For starters, the book looked thick enough, but it shouldn't have taken me a full week to read something of that volume. In other words, its visible form was a disguise; the true page count was far greater.
My hunch was that it used a variant of subspace magic, but in a way I'd never seen.
What if I applied this to My Records? I'd already written a considerable amount, and if I kept at it for another century, the sheer bulk of paper would be astronomical.
And so, like a hermit in secluded cultivation, I immersed myself in multiplying clones and research.
I handled basic lordly duties and issued occasional orders, of course, but I rarely stepped outside the mansion.
My first task was refining the Soul Heart Method.
Mage Arcbuilders's natural energy techniques were pure fundamentals—exactly what I needed, having relied on shortcuts without a solid base.
It took nearly two years, thanks to steadily increasing clones for better research efficiency and a few breakthroughs along the way.
Next came studying the autobiography's storage method. Extremes meet, as they say; it shared much with Inclonius's subspace magic—overlapping spaces within spaces and syncing them back to reality. It demanded incredibly complex incantations.
With countless clones computing in parallel, I managed it, but how had Mage Arcbuilders pulled this off? I couldn't fathom it. Perhaps he too had been touched by divine hands. Nothing else made sense.
This research also took nearly two years.
Clone multiplication was accelerating too. More clones meant shorter adaptation periods.
Finally, I tackled Drakan's auto-writing artifact. This required physical work—etching new incantations onto an artifact.
Drakan's ring was huge, with ample space, but it wasn't practical for everyday carry. So I settled on a belt again.
I forged it thin from metal, designed to double as a flexible sword in emergencies. I headed to the smithy myself for this.
Everyone freaked out seeing the lord and saint pumping bellows and hammering hot iron, but they shut up once I demonstrated expert skill.
I'd spent over a decade stealing techniques from the continent's finest forges. This was child's play.
The belt was solid mithril—tricky to work but lightweight and springy. Perfect for the job.
Here was my chance to use the mithril from Drakan's warehouse.
Breaking my seclusion to haunt the smithy and craft a solid mithril belt that writes automatically? My retainers' gazes turned icy, but I didn't care.
I created my own record book like Mage Arcbuilders's, using top-tier materials that would give anyone in the know a fit. I even layered on preservation magic from Baron Frizer's house. To me, it was a perfect artifact.
Just like that, five years flew by, and I was now a twenty-year-old youth.
My clones numbered over seventy, evenly spread across the continent for vastly improved intel.
Nothing in this world could escape my sight—not quite omnipotence, falling short of Kutula or Juno, but among non-divine beings, I was closest to omniscience.
My broadened view and influx of info brought endless insights—from an ordinary fisherman's life to lessons from a tyrant's cruelty.
"You've changed a lot lately, my lord," Jayke said one day.
"How so?"
"Hard to pin down exactly, but you have. Before, your actions occasionally stood out as unusual. Now it's your whole presence."
He was right. Long soul existence had distanced me from humanity; now I felt closer again.
"How's Jayke faring?"
"Well, still scouting talent effectively."
Through souls scattered continent-wide, I was gathering exceptional talents like the Guardian's children. Unable to move myself, I left recruitment to Jayke's Sword Mountain mercenary band.
Sword Mountain had grown explosively, regressor Wider-style. Over two thousand mercenaries now lived in their village in my territory alone—making it the continent's largest by numbers.
Many of the talents I ordered fetched ended up as young mercenaries, swelling their elite ranks.
With their size, they monopolized big commissions ordinary bands couldn't touch. Branches dotted western keyholds, with strong eastern footholds.
Amusingly, Abel Tristan—the founder from Wider's past life—had become a mercenary and Jayke's disciple instead of a knight. He'd likely inherit the band someday. History shifts, but the currents endure.
"How's the territorial army?"
"Packed with standouts. In ten years, it'll be the continent's strongest knight order."
Akasha originally had no standing army; Sword Mountain mercs and church guards sufficed. But as the city boomed, we formed one three years back.
Incomers trained as squires, then knights upon proving skill.
Thankfully, no major incidents in five years. Another fragment would've stolen precious time.
No sooner had the thought crossed my mind than my western Ether Empire clone spotted something odd.
"What the fuck."
The curse slipped out unbidden.
"My lord?"
"Sir Jayke, tell Argin and Joseph to prepare at once. This could be a brutal fight."
"Understood."
Jayke bolted without question.
I stared at the clone's view awhile.
What it saw: a massive island cleaving the sea, rising. No—island-like colossal beast.
A deep-sea leviathan from distant waters was surfacing onto land.
Me, Jayke, Argin, Joseph—we were our core force. Ordinary knights couldn't scratch it.
We might repel it alone, but I had to plan for failure.
"Time to call a friend."
I teleported to summon my oldest pal.
I'd found him two years back. So well-hidden, even my roaming clones missed him late.
Deep in seclusion then, but thrilled, I'd snuck off to meet him alone. Revealing myself, he was overjoyed; we shared Drakan's lair booze, catching up.
I'd visit secretly now and then for epic drinking sessions and old tales. A recluse from the world, but he'd help with this.
He beamed at my sudden arrival—a sturdy, handsome middle-aged man, but a friend nonetheless.
"Another round? I don't drink much, but your stuff's divine."
"Dragon-brewed, of course. But help me out first."
"Needs my help?"
I nodded; he gaped in shock.
"You shouldn't need me. Warring the whole continent?"
"Nah, wouldn't call you for that."
"Then count me in."
He nodded, and I whisked him away via teleport.