Chapter 13: The Tea of Understanding

The lecture had ended long ago.Students filtered out of the grand hall like dust swept by wind, yet I remained, a shadow dancing between curiosity and resolve. With measured steps, I made my way to the tower where Raizel resided — a place humming with quiet authority, a sanctum rarely disturbed.

The ornate door to his study loomed before me. I did not knock. I simply entered.

Raizel stood by the window, arms folded, his silvery robe catching the dying rays of sun. His gaze turned toward me, calm yet unreadable.

"Zagor?" he asked, voice smooth but tinged with surprise. "Why are you here?"

I said nothing at first. I took a step forward, letting my presence settle like the weight of a storm. My hands remained behind my back, posture regal, but the air around me began to shift—ever so slightly.

"You didn't use mana," I said quietly. "Nor aura."

Raizel's eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"

"That day," I continued, tone unwavering, "when we fought. You didn't summon mana. You didn't release aura. No chant, no signal. And yet, you moved faster than light could follow, as if the very fabric of reality hesitated before your intent."

"I assumed you were a martial artist," I added, taking another step forward, "but I was wrong."

Raizel's brows furrowed.

"Had you merely looked into my eyes for a moment longer that day, you'd have perished."The room responded in kind. A brief pulse—a shimmer of death itself radiated outward from my body. The books on the far shelf shook. The flame of the single candle flickered violently, but Raizel didn't flinch. Not outwardly, at least.

"I'm not here to threaten," I said, allowing the deathly pressure to fade. "I'm here to learn."

Raizel finally turned fully toward me. "Learn?"

I nodded. "The path you tread... Cultivation. I want to understand it. I want to know how you suppressed your presence so entirely that even I was caught unaware."

There was silence, like the moment before thunder.But just as I expected him to speak, he lifted a hand gently.

"Before we get to that," he said softly, "there's something I must ask."

I tilted my head.

"That lecture you gave today—on how magic and science intertwine, how belief, will, and logic together create power... I want you to explain it again. In detail."

His voice no longer carried the weight of authority. It carried interest.

I let out a low hum. "You found it compelling?"

"More than compelling," he replied. "It's... unsettling. But in a way I cannot ignore."

Before I could respond, a rustle swept the room.

From the corner, Sebastian stepped forth—graceful, silent, and unbothered by the strange tension. As always, his suit immaculate, his presence respectful.

He held a silver tray in his gloved hands. Upon it, two porcelain cups, each releasing the subtle aroma of an unfamiliar tea. The steam swirled in unnatural ways, tracing sigils in the air before fading.

"Crafted from ancient leaves," Sebastian said, voice like velvet, "picked only under moonlight from the inner gardens of the spectral plane. It aids in clarity... and diplomacy."

Raizel raised an eyebrow, but accepted the cup with a nod. I took mine as well.

We sat—three figures bound by knowledge, power, and something deeper.

As I began explaining once more my theories on magic's convergence with science, I noticed Raizel's fingers twitching slightly, as if mapping my words into internal equations. His eyes never left mine.

Time passed, but the silence afterward spoke louder than any debate.

He leaned back, swirling the last drops of tea in his cup.

"Zagor," he said at last, "what you seek... is dangerous."

"I expected nothing less."

"But there is something you've overlooked."

I waited.

"In cultivation," he said slowly, "especially the kind I practice, you must first anchor yourself in flesh. The soul may transcend—but not without a vessel to hold it steady. A real, mortal body."

His words pierced deeper than I let on.

He placed the cup down with purpose.

"You, as you are now, are... formidable. Eternal, even. But incorporeal. Detached. The spiritual realm bends around you—but cultivation is a path through the body, not apart from it."

"I see."

He studied me for a moment longer.

"Perhaps," he murmured, "you could fashion one. A mortal shell, bound to your soul. It wouldn't need to be entirely human. But it must bleed. It must tire. It must feel."

His tone was not mocking—it was respectful. Even cautious.

"That," he added, "is where your journey begins. Not with technique or energy… but with existence."

I didn't reply. I didn't need to.

Because for the first time in centuries, something stirred in me.

A new challenge.