Most of those magis had ascended to the rank of legendary high warlocks in eras long past, and nearly all had since departed from the world. The few who grasped the secret of the Origin Light Dust refrained from revealing it, leaving no written records behind.

  The phenomenon defied all empirical proof. The destruction of ancient trees or the consumption of potent herbal potions yielded no such dust. Nor did the natural passing of a living being at the end of its lifespan release these shimmering particles. Knowledge of the Origin Light Dust remained an ultimate secret, guarded by a handful of highmasters throughout thousands of years of mageia history.

  “I need more data,” Seraph murmured to himself, his eyes reflecting the flickering firelight. “If I slay a few more, I’ll know for sure if this is a fluke or a fundamental law.”

  With proof still elusive, he ventured deeper into the bowels of Desden Cave. The initial cluster had likely been prowling near the entrance, allowing them to detect his earlier struggle. Yet, despite his thunderous roar and subsequent assault, no further shrieks greeted his ears. The depths remained unnervingly still.

  He crept toward a bend in the tunnel. The interior of Desden was a vast expanse of mining shafts, the stone scarred by years of tireless excavation. Occasionally, he chanced upon abandoned carts, silent and frozen upon their rusted rails.

  Branching tunnels splintered the path, creating a subterranean maze as convoluted as a labyrinth. The darkness within was absolute; had it not been for The Sphera drifting beside him, he would have been unable to discern his own hand before his face.

  Seraph used his wooden staff to etch glowing sigils upon the walls—simple arrows to ward off disorientation. While these glyphs lacked the primordial power of ancient runes, they retained enough potency to shimmer in the gloom as long as his mageia lingered within the stone.

  ‘Wonderful,’ he mused, glancing at the branching shadows. ‘A labyrinth that hasn’t seen the sun in decades. If I get lost here, at least I’ll have a front-row seat to my own starvation. The stars really picked a charming tomb for me.’

  The young man ventured through several grand tunnels until, upon entering a wide shaft, he chanced upon three more undead miners. Seraph recoiled instantly, pressing his back against the stone corner of the tunnel to remain hidden.

  Fortunately, the undead had their backs turned, failing to perceive the interloper treading upon their domain. Yet, they began to lift their heads, sniffing the air as if catching a scent that did not belong to the rot.

  “Bulletrix is out of the question,” Seraph whispered to himself, his gaze fixed on the trio. “The noise alone would be like ringing a dinner bell for every ghoul in this labyrinth. I’ve had enough ‘warm welcomes’ for one day.”

  Though the spell’s destructive potency was impressive, the thunderous report from earlier still rang within his ears. The concern that such a cacophony would draw a sea of undead to his position simultaneously weighed heavily upon him; despite his capabilities, he harbored no desire to be swarmed by the horde.

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  “If that is the case...” the young man deliberated.

  He took a steady breath, his staff tracing a sharp, swift pattern in the air.

  “Ventus Cuttrix!”

  [Ssh-hkt!]

  Seven miniature blades of wind took flight, hurtling toward the trio of undead. The moment the mageia drew near, the three demons began to scan their surroundings frantically. Though the wind blades shimmered with a pale green hue in the gloom, the ambush was too swift for their senses to track or evade.

  The sound of shearing wind slicing through undead throats echoed in rapid succession. Heads and severed limbs struck the earth alongside their collapsing vessels. All three undead were neutralized in an instant. Some of the blades continued their flight, impacting the tunnel walls; however, as the stone was unyielding, they merely kicked up dust without compromising the integrity of the cavern.

  Seraph exhaled as he beheld the outcome of the strike. Most of his mageia arts were not inherently loud. Among the various forms of the ventus blade, this particular incantation stood as one of the sharpest in his repertoire at this current echelon.

  Various classifications of mageia might appear similar, yet each incantation possesses distinct attributes; the Cuttrix art, in particular, is prized for its jagged sharpness and its ability to inflict grievous wounds.

  However, it bears a severe flaw inherent to most ventus element mageia: such spells are notoriously difficult to govern and often lack precision. Consequently, magis must undergo rigorous training to hone their accuracy or unleash a deluge of spells to ensure a successful strike.

  Earlier, Seraph had aimed for the throats of the three undead to sever their heads, yet nearly half of his blades missed their mark. It was for this reason he had manifested a high volume of basic mageia—to compensate for the erratic nature of the wind with sheer numbers.

  As the young man drew near to inspect the fallen vessels, he noted that no blood seeped from their wounds. Within an undead frame, the life-fluid coagulates into dark, clotted masses; unless the body is detonated, this ichor remains trapped within the withered flesh.

  The countenances of the undead no longer resembled those of the folk. Each possessed abyssal eyes and brandished fangs and claws that had elongated into predatory tools. Their skin had turned a pallid grey, their veins pulsed with a violet hue, and their spines were warped into grotesque contortions. Some had even begun to sprout coarse hair, a departure from human physiology.

  The undead were caught in a state of transition, evolving from human carrion into true demons. As they ascended in power, they would continue to mutate until no vestige of their humanity remained.

  “The shimmering dust still drifts from every undead,” Seraph murmured, watching the light swirl around his fingers. “But if I stand too far, it dissipates into nothingness. Strange... it’s as if the essence is looking for a host.”

  It was common knowledge that a magis could grow in strength through duels and earnest combat; however, the young man had never heard that one could augment their mageia power through the slaughter of demons. This was, in essence, a hidden path to power.

  “In the annals of history, the magis community has often pondered: how did the weak ascend to become legendary Archwarlocks?” Seraph murmured to himself, his eyes alight with a cold, newfound fervor. “This might be it. If this path is real, then I can tread it too. Fascinating... truly fascinating.”

  It was common lore that every warrior and magis grew formidable through the crucible of combat. Yet, nearly every soul across Laurasia believed such growth was merely the byproduct of experience. None suspected that the act of slaying a demon bestowed a clandestine fragment of mageia power. To possess this secret versus remaining in ignorance was a chasm as wide as the world; a disparity that would only reveal its true scale once one reached the final threshold of their journey.

  Following the successful purge of the three undead, Seraph ventured deeper into the bowels of the cave. He maintained his tactical edge, launching ambushes from the shadows. By striking from the blind corners of the tunnels, he succeeded in unmaking dozens more of the miner husks, reaping their essence as he went.