The Twisted Path of Magic
"You're late."
"It's just one minute."
"One whole minute."
Yoahim shook the sweat from his damp hair as he stepped through the door. Jeron let out a heavy sigh at the sweat droplets flying everywhere.
"Just train harder to make up for it, right?"
Yoahim grinned. It had been two months since he started learning magic from Jeron in the Jenahe Tower. Though he hadn't found a swordsmanship master and had paused his blade training, he never slacked on physical conditioning. Every morning, as usual, he headed to the training grounds for stamina drills and sword practice. He used to spar after training, but without that option now, he'd doubled the intensity instead. To outsiders, it looked downright brutal—mindless, even—but Yoahim never skipped a day. He knew better than anyone that endless repetition was the foundation of perfection.
Leon and Sasha have gotten noticeably stronger, too.
After Yoahim left Kelcia's tutelage, Leon and Sasha received her focused training. As ordinary dark elves—not apostles of Kallagon—they couldn't handle Yoahim's regimen, so the intensity was dialed back. Still, it was grueling. Lately, their faces had grown visibly gaunt, but in contrast, their bodies were hardening into impressive displays of physical prowess.
And their levels went up.
Levels required experience points, and those came from experience itself. Training was a form of combat in its own way. Enduring such harsh drills had pushed Leon and Sasha up a bit—now at 58 and 57, respectively, a full five levels higher than before.
Yoahim had leveled once through training alone, but reaching level 70 had ballooned the EXP requirements. Without real combat, he couldn't fill the gap.
But my Black Magic skill leveled up instead.
Two months was short if short, long if long. Efficiency depended on how one used the time. Yoahim divided his days into three eight-hour blocks: sword training, Black Magic practice, and eating/sleeping. Pouring nearly eight hours a day into Black Magic for two months naturally yielded results.
His Black Magic skill was now level 4. Considering max level was 10, jumping two levels in two months was a solid gain.
That's why it sucks even more.
His mana control, learning speed, and application were all exceptional. Even without skills, Yoahim was objectively a talented mage. The problem? His class was Dark Knight, not mage.
This world was built on game rules. And in the game, Dark Knights had level caps on Black Magic skills.
Level 5 is my ceiling.
Necromancy was the same. Kallagon's relic bumped his Necromancy cap by 2, but he could never hit 10. Some game restrictions had vanished when the world became real, but others clung stubbornly.
I'm almost at 5 already.
With his talent, a bit more practice would push another level. But then? Nowhere to go. Without something special like Kallagon's relic for Black Magic, he'd stall at 5.
"Apostle, your mana is scattering. Focus."
Yoahim shook off the distraction at the stern voice, channeling his mana intently. His Black Magic might cap at 5, but the effort wasn't wasted. A level 4 mage was valuable anywhere, especially at his young age—a genius, really. In any other tower, he'd be fawned over.
Even Jeron, who's trained Black Magic forever, is only at 8.
Jeron looked young, but dark elves aged slowly. He was far older than Yoahim, with decades under his belt. Yoahim wasn't delusional enough to call a 4-level gap "minor." Still, Jeron acknowledged his genius. On equal footing, Jeron would lag behind.
"Enough."
Flames of mana danced freely through the workshop, writhing like fiery serpents hunting prey. The hissing as they scorched the air was no illusion. The serpent lunged at a bookshelf, jaws wide—then,
"That's far enough."
Tick. A limp pop, and the flames vanished. Not crumbling gradually—just gone. The only proof was a fleeting ember on the floor, snuffed out instantly.
"I was focused."
"No dangerous stunts."
"I know it's got protection spells."
"Nothing's perfect."
"More perfect than me, though?"
Jeron sighed at his cheeky student. If not for being Kallagon's apostle, he'd smack him. As a devout believer, he couldn't.
He cleared his throat. "That's it for today."
"Huh? Class over already? Then why chew me out for one minute late if you planned to end early?"
"Promises exist to be kept. Anyway, that's not the point. Come with me, Apostle."
"Dinner together?"
The underground Jenahe Tower hid the outside time, but mirror-like artifacts on the walls showed it was evening.
"Not that. Just something to discuss. Basement level 10?"
What? Why level 10 all of a sudden? Yoahim followed curiously.
Jeron said nothing on the elevator down.
"This way."
The unfamiliar level 10 was a vast open space, scarred with scorch marks and gouges—more training ground than workshop. A lone scarecrow stood in the center, amplifying the vibe.
What's that? Stress relief for burned-out black mages?
Yoahim had no clue why Jeron brought him here. As he waited for explanation, Jeron rolled up his robe sleeves.
"Let's see your progress. Hit that scarecrow with any spell, Apostle."
"That thing?"
It was a plain wooden, straw-stuffed scarecrow—would snap from a basic spell. No idea what Jeron intended, but Yoahim gathered mana at his fingertips.
Not too weak. Dark Flame?
The green flames that burned foes. He shaped the mana and launched. It struck with a boom, smoke billowing.
Yoahim blew it away with a wind spell. Then he blurted, "What? It's fine?"
The scarecrow stood unscathed, just lightly singed despite a direct hit. Impossible.
Yoahim gaped at Jeron.
"You held back too much."
"No, why's it intact? I pulled the punch, sure, but this is ridiculous."
Jeron motioned him back instead of answering. Once Yoahim stepped aside, he extended a hand toward the scarecrow.
"Haellagos made that. Tough protection spells—won't break from ordinary hits. It's a sandbag for the tower's black mages."
Hummm. Mana vibrated, condensing at his fingertips. Even mid-cast, the pressure was chilling.
"Watch closely, Apostle. From start to finish—don't blink."
The dense mana tore through the air, barreling forward like it would obliterate all in its path. It slammed the scarecrow's head with a thunderous roar, whipping up fierce winds. Yoahim flinched at the power.
"Whoa..."
Pure awe escaped him. First time seeing Jeron's magic live, but it drilled home his mastery. The beam pulverized the indestructible scarecrow. It began sluggishly regenerating—Haellagos's work—but the destruction proved Jeron's skill.
"See that?"
Yoahim snapped to at the low voice. Jeron lowered his sleeve.
"My spell—from start to finish, all of it?"
"Uh? Yeah, saw it. Impressive."
Showing off? Nah, not Jeron's style. Proud, sure, but not petty.
"Your thoughts? That was about 80% of my power. Think you could replicate it?"
80% of level 8 Black Magic—maybe level 6 equivalent? Yoahim hummed.
"That? Right now? No way..."
No genius skipped steps. Couldn't jump from 5 to 6.
Jeron shook his head. "Not now. In the future? Weeks, months, years—ever?"
Hmm. Yoahim doubted it. Honestly, impossible. He hadn't seen the spell formula, mana twist, principles—nothing. Time wouldn't change that. He knew why, so no real disappointment.
"As expected... My hunch was right. Bluntly put, Apostle."
Jeron sighed, voice firm.
"Your magic is twisted. Blocked solid. No—hopeless."
...Damn, that's harsh even for him.