Chapter 7: A Sip of Understanding

The moment I stepped through the trace left behind by his teleportation, the world shifted.

I expected grandeur—perhaps an arcane dimension or a draconic chamber etched into a forgotten mountain.

Instead, I found wood.

Wooden walls. Wooden floor. The scent of aged timber and ancient parchment wafted in the air like a memory long preserved. Shelves towered along every surface, filled not just with grimoires but volumes of philosophy, history, lost sciences, and even fiction. This was no mere chamber. It was an archive of someone who had lived many lives.

He sat behind a broad oaken desk, one clawed hand resting gently over an open tome. His draconic eyes—amber and unblinking—studied me with unsettling calm.

I studied him back.

The room exuded warmth, a strange counterpoint to our recent clash in the sky. It resembled the office of an academy headmaster, yet every object, every book, every carving whispered power. Silent power. Controlled. Layered. Waiting.

Without a word, I raised a hand and snapped my fingers.

A swirl of soft purple mana coalesced beside me, weaving into the elegant shape of an armchair—formed not with harsh precision, but with relaxed grace. Cushioned, low-backed, and radiating comfort.

I sank into it, one leg crossed over the other. Then, I glanced down.

To my shadow.

"Sebastian," I said smoothly. "Tea time. And... did you complete your last task?"

A murmur echoed from the ground, as my shadow rippled and lifted like dark water shaped into man.

"I did, my lord," came the voice—firm, courteous. "The graves were arranged. I ensured the villagers' final rest was untouched. And the tea is prepared... as always."

As the cup appeared in his hand and he bowed to offer it, I reached forward and accepted. The draconic mage—Raizel, though I did not yet know his name—blinked. Subtle confusion danced in his eyes, his tail twitching once beneath his robes.

He was watching. Analyzing.

Good.

As the first sip touched my lips, I gently lifted the mask over my skeletal face, just enough to allow access. From the corner of my vision, I saw his brow rise, ever so slightly.

I turned my head toward him.

"Is there a problem?" I asked.

He hesitated, then offered a half-smile. "Forgive me... but how does a lich even drink tea?"

I chuckled—not mockingly, but with genuine amusement.

"Mana," I said, swirling a finger in the air. "I shape it into a mouth—taste buds and all. Just enough to sense flavor. I even construct a temporary throat. The tea's warmth... texture... all of it registers. And as for what happens afterward—"

I pointed downward.

"A small portal disposes of it. It exits existence neatly."

Raizel blinked.

Then he laughed.

It wasn't forced or mocking—it was delighted. He leaned back slightly, clearly impressed.

"You manipulate the arcane with such... intimacy," he said. "It's beautiful, in a strange way."

I nodded. "To be undead is not to be void of experience. It is to cherish sensation, when and if you choose to."

Silence stretched between us as we drank.

Eventually, I looked up, my gaze level.

"Your name?" I asked.

He didn't answer immediately.

Then: "Raizel."

"Are you a dragon?"

The question landed like a whisper, but its weight was undeniable.

He stilled—just for a heartbeat.

Then he smiled, faint and wry. "How did you know?"

I tilted my head. "The scales on your cheekbones. They shimmer through the illusion."

Raizel lifted a hand, touched his face, and gave a soft sigh. "That spell should have hidden them. You're observant."

"No," I said. "You're sloppy."

He laughed again—freer this time.

The tension softened. Two ancient beings, sipping tea in a wood-wrapped office, veiled in candlelight and the musky scent of ink.

Then he asked: "Were you serious? About coming through a portal?"

I gave a small nod.

"I've wandered through more worlds than most stars will ever see. I've witnessed arcane wars, divine collapses, and empires built on blood. But this place... your people... speak of something different. Qi. It isn't magic. It's not aura, either. It touches the soul."

Raizel's eyes gleamed, thoughtful.

"Yes," he murmured. "It does."

I set my cup down, and with a flick of my fingers, summoned a tome into the air between us.

Its cover was obsidian leather, etched in precise golden script: Grimoire Elementalis: Volumen I — Fundamenta Scientia.

As it opened midair, pages turned to reveal diagrams—elemental circles, arcane formulae reinterpreted through logic and anatomy, flame spells reimagined as combustion vectors, lightning described as ionic acceleration.

"This," I said, "is yours. My translation of first-tier spells through the lens of science. For every spark and splash of magic, a rational frame."

He reached for it—reverently.

Our hands met, clasping across the table.

"I want to teach here," I said softly. "In your academy."

Raizel stared, but not with disbelief.

With consideration.

"And in return?" he asked.

"You will ensure I learn cultivation... properly."

The book pulsed between us, as if reacting to our intent.

Raizel smiled again—but this time, it was different.

"I accept."