Chapter 8: Of Daughters, Domains, and Dignity

From Raizel, I learned of this world's classification of techniques.

Though the names varied by culture and tradition, their essence was universal: each technique was ranked by rarity and difficulty—common, rare, epic, legendary, and mythic. Further still, every rank held its own internal tiers, from the crude First to the refined Fifth.

When I first arrived, the farmers in that small village—simple, unassuming folk—were all using a fifth-tier common technique.

Students of cultivation, as I came to learn, were taught third-tier common techniques on average.

Useful information, no doubt... yet I found it dull. Technique rank and categorization felt like political etiquette—important for maneuvering society, but irrelevant to true power. Still, I listened. Raizel insisted.

Our conversation soon wandered from ranking systems into spell theory and personal battle experience. We dissected our sparring match: each move, each counter, each layered intent. The deeper we went, the faster time seemed to slip by.

Then, the door burst open.

I turned my head slowly, more curious than alarmed.

She was young—barely in her twenties. A woman of slim build and pointed ears that hinted at elven blood. Human... no. Half-elf.

She stormed in with a voice like thunder.

"I don't care about your meetings! You've been locked in here for a week! What are you doing?!"

Raizel didn't respond. Instead, he sighed—a long, patient exhale.

The girl's eyes scanned the room.

And then she saw me.

Or rather—what I was.

She froze. Her mouth opened.

Then she screamed.

"AAAAAHHHHH—L-LICH! RAIZEL, KILL IT!"

She raised her hand. Flame gathered instantly.

I raised a finger and snapped it gently.

"Silentius."

Mana rippled. Her voice died mid-scream, her incantation stilled in her throat. The fire fizzled, impotent.

Raizel gave a deep nod.

"My apologies, Zagor. Meet... my stepdaughter. Sabrina."

Still silenced, she turned to him, then back to me—eyes wide, breath shallow.

A monster? Her thoughts were nearly audible, written across her expression.

I tilted my head slightly.

"No," I said calmly. "Not a monster."

She flinched. Her fingers reached to her throat, silently pleading.

I snapped again. The spell dissolved.

She inhaled sharply, then whispered, almost accusingly:

"You're not a monster...? Then what are you?"

Before I could respond, Raizel answered in my stead:

"A new teacher. He'll be instructing magic."

Sabrina stared at me for a long moment, then—perhaps sensing my silence would outlast her own—nodded once.

Then she took a deep breath—

I cast the silence spell again.

"Loud, isn't she?" I remarked, glancing at Raizel.

He chuckled quietly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. I looked down.

"Sebastian," I murmured into my shadow, "prepare tea. Three cups this time."

From the darkness beneath my chair, Sebastian emerged—tall, refined, composed.

"Of course, my lord. For our esteemed guests and yourself, as always."

Another snap—Silentius dispelled.

I shifted my voice, letting my mana resonate:

"Have you calmed?"

Sabrina nodded, though her eyes remained wary.

With a flick of my wrist, I conjured a floating circle of crimson energy. It twisted, formed, and hardened into an elegant, cushioned chair.

She watched the spell unfold—her panic slowly replaced by something else: curiosity. I could see her eyes following the lines of construction, analyzing the runic pattern, studying the structure of the conjuration like a young scholar peering through a magnifying glass.

"Would you like to attend my next lesson?" I asked.

She blinked. Then, shyly, she nodded.

Raizel cleared his throat.

"If you'd like accommodations, Zagor, I can prepare quarters within the academy."

I raised a hand politely.

"Thank you, but I'll be more comfortable in solitude. The forest beside the academy—does it belong to anyone?"

He hesitated. "No, but..."

"Then I'll take it."

He looked as if he wanted to protest, then relented.

"Very well. I'll issue a notice. No students shall enter your territory."

We finished our tea in relative quiet. Hours passed like minutes, until at last I rose and took my leave.

The forest was pleasant—tall trees, thick canopies, and ambient mana lingering in the roots like old wine.

"Yes," I murmured, "this will do nicely."

I snapped my fingers. A portal shimmered open—deep violet and rimmed with bone runes.

From it emerged several of my undead servants, each cloaked in ethereal shadow. They bowed silently, then began their work.

One summoned stone. Another conjured timber. A third channeled mana into structure and stability.

They worked as one mind—mine—and before long, a modest yet refined dwelling stood among the trees. Wooden walls, blackened steel trims, a circular room for meditation, a private sanctum for spellcraft, and even a hollow tower for observation.

At the center, I raised a sculpture: a skeletal hand cradling a burning sphere of mana—a warning and a beacon.

"I have no need for sleep," I whispered, "but still... comfort is a luxury even the dead may enjoy."

I conjured another portal—this time, to my true domain—and ordered several more constructs to deliver my personal artifacts, scrolls, and books.

When the last shadow faded, I stood within my home.

I breathed in the energy of the land.

Then, I sat cross-legged upon a cushion of summoned silk, and began my meditation.

So much had happened.

I reviewed every motion, every word.

And as my consciousness dipped into the rivers of mana and memory, a single thought echoed like distant thunder:

This world is more curious than I expected... and I intend to understand all of it.