King Alastor Creighton

Alastor Creighton, a name that carried the weight of legends, stood before me, exuding an air of casual authority that only came from absolute power. This was a man who wielded nine-circle magic as effortlessly as one might flick a wrist, a man whose very presence was a reminder that the Creighton family wasn't merely a lineage of powerful mages—it was a dynasty that had shaped the course of magical history.

To the world, he was one of three living nine-circle Archmages. To the Creighton family, he was its cornerstone, its shield against external threats. To humanity, he was one of its greatest defenders against the ever-looming menace of the Shadow Seekers. And to Rachel, he was simply "Father."

For a man who had ascended to Radiant-rank in his thirties—an age where most mages were still fumbling with five-circle spells—he carried himself with the quiet confidence of someone who had already seen every possible outcome of a conversation before it had even begun. There was no wasted movement, no unnecessary words. Just pure, efficient control.

And somehow, he was personally teaching me magic.

"Aren't you a bit... busy for this, Father?" Rachel asked, mirroring my astonishment.

Alastor chuckled, a deep, rich sound that carried no small amount of amusement. "Consider it a lesson for both of you. After all, reaching White-rank is only a matter of time."

He wasn't wrong. Both Rachel and I were nearing White-rank, although I was going to reach it before her despite being behind her right now, the point where magic began to shift from mere structured spellcasting into something closer to true artistry. Reaching that rank meant unlocking five-circle magic, spells so potent they could reshape battlefields.

And here was a man who could teach me how to wield them properly.

"Please," I said, bowing slightly. An Archmage's lesson wasn't something you turned down.

Alastor wasted no time. With a flick of his wrist, a vibrant blue flame appeared in his palm. It didn't flicker like a normal flame—it burned with a dense, concentrated heat that made the air around it shimmer.

"A basic five-circle fire spell," he said, as if he were demonstrating a minor parlor trick. "At this level, mana is compressed to such an extent that the flame's temperature rises dramatically, changing its color. You'll notice the lack of waste—no stray embers, no excess energy bleeding out."

His gaze flickered between me and Rachel, a hint of challenge in his eyes. "Let's delve into the mechanics."

And then he did exactly that.

He broke the spell apart, piece by piece, deconstructing the layers of mana manipulation that went into shaping it. He explained the principles of spell compression, the way circles interlocked, how mana flowed through invisible conduits to create stability. It was meticulous, precise, and frankly overwhelming—like watching a grandmaster dissect a technique that lesser mages spent lifetimes failing to understand.

"Of course," Alastor mused, "the standard approach requires precise calculations—spatial coordinates, velocity estimations, elemental ratios."

He paused, watching as I absorbed the information, then smiled slightly.

"But there's a more elegant way to bypass all of that. A technique we call Laplace."

Rachel's head tilted. "Laplace?"

Alastor nodded. "A refined method of spellcasting that eliminates the need for manual calculations by reading ambient mana flow in real time and allowing the spell to shape itself accordingly."

His expression turned mildly conspiratorial. "Theoretically, it allows for instantaneous spell adaptation and reaction speed beyond conventional limits. It's not something just anyone can learn—only those with high mana sensitivity."

His gaze lingered on me for a moment longer than I liked. "It's possible for you, Arthur, though it's not exactly aligned with your focus, is it?"

Rachel gave me an inquisitive look. I answered truthfully. "I'm more interested in magic that complements my swordsmanship rather than becoming my main focus."

Alastor chuckled. "Ah. A swordsman who wants magic as a tool rather than a foundation. A rare breed these days." His eyes twinkled with interest. "I can't exactly give you a crash course in magic-for-swordsmen, but I can refine what you already know."

Hearing that from him? It was like having an astrophysicist tell you they had time to tutor you in basic equations.

Rachel, however, looked like someone had just told her to sit out of a competition. "Wait, what about me?" she demanded.

"You're already following the proper path," Alastor said smoothly. "Mastering Laplace and these five-circle spells is your priority. You're at a plateau, but this will push you past it."

Rachel crossed her arms, looking mildly betrayed but not entirely unwilling.

Alastor turned back to me. "Now, Arthur," he said, his gaze sharp. "Show me your strongest spell."

I hesitated for a fraction of a second. Then, taking a breath, I summoned fire.

It wasn't elegant, wasn't refined—it was just the four-circle spell I was most familiar with. Flame Lance. A concentrated spear of fire crackled to life in my palm, its heat distorting the air slightly.

I could feel Alastor assessing it, breaking it down in real-time, analyzing every flaw before I even cast it.

"Launch it," he said.

I obeyed.

The lance streaked forward, a burning projectile slicing through the air—

And disintegrated before it ever reached him.

Alastor hadn't even moved.

There had been no counterspell, no visible defense—just an application of ambient mana that unraveled my attack before it could complete. A flick of his wrist, and my best spell had been rendered utterly useless.

Not going to lie. That stung a little.

"Not bad," he said, which somehow made it worse. "Your mana is pure and your technique isn't sloppy. But there's inefficiency. Gaps in the way your spell is constructed."

He stepped forward, raising his hand.

Then, with the exact same mana output, he cast the same spell I had.

Except his Flame Lance was clean, precise, lethal.

And when he fired it?

The sheer force of the impact obliterated a boulder into nothing but glowing embers.

I stared. Not because of the raw power—he had used the same amount of mana as I had. But his control, his spell construction, his efficiency had turned that same energy into something infinitely more refined.

"This," Alastor said, turning back to me, "is what separates mages. Power means nothing if you can't wield it properly."

I swallowed, forcing my thoughts back into focus. "So what am I doing wrong?"

Alastor smiled. "Let's find out."

What followed was an hour of relentless, brutal refinement.

He dissected my form, forced me to recast Flame Lance over and over, correcting every mistake with ruthless precision.

He adjusted my stance, my incantations, my mana control. Every repetition trimmed inefficiencies, shaved away wasted energy, and tightened my control.

And slowly, painfully, it started to click.

By the end, my Flame Lance wasn't just a spell.

It was sharper, faster, stronger.

It wasn't perfect.

But it was the first step toward mastery.

Alastor clapped his hands together, breaking the silence. "Enough for today."

I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding.

"You've absorbed enough for now," he said. "Get some rest. We'll continue tomorrow."

Rachel and I turned to leave, but just before I stepped through the doorway, Alastor's voice stopped me.

"Arthur."

I turned.

He met my gaze, his eyes unreadable.

"Don't underestimate the power of a well-placed spell in battle. A swordsman who commands magic is a force to be reckoned with."

I nodded. "I'll remember that."

As Rachel and I walked back toward the estate, I could feel it—a shift.

A realization.

Magic wasn't just a tool.

It was a weapon.

And I had every intention of mastering it.