After studying the kingdom and recalling the events of The Chosen Path, my thoughts inevitably returned to this body. The illness it had suffered—the symptoms—felt vaguely familiar.

  Then it struck me: one of the sub-heroines in The Chosen Path had suffered the exact same condition.

  Transcendence Syndrome, also called the Archmage Disease.

  Archmage Disease. As the name suggests, it’s a simple illness. People who

  have it become Archmages

  So then, did history really have that many

  Archmages?

  No, if there had been that many, the title of Archmage wouldn’t carry the same weight.

  The body was the anchor, holding the soul in place. The soul was the vessel, containing the raw, unbridled mana. Alone, each had limits. Together, they maintained balance.

  But when all three—the body, the soul, and the mana—merged into an indivisible unity, transcending their individual forms and boundaries…

  then only one could emerge as an Archmage.

  At that moment, the distinctions of vessel, anchor, and force vanished. They became a singular existence, a perfect harmony of flesh, spirit, and magic. Only one could achieve such a state, and only then could unimaginable power flow safely through the mortal frame.

  Transcendence Syndrome occurred when that balance failed. Magic expanded faster than the soul could stabilize, causing the soul to fracture—literally. The body could no longer anchor it, the soul dispersed, and magic returned to the world, unbound.

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  People didn’t die in a conventional sense. They disappeared, as if melting into the world, leaving not even ashes behind. Matter itself seemed to claim them, dissolving their existence. It was an image that looked like someone transcending the mortal realm, brushing against the domain of gods. Hence the name.

  Those who survived became Archmages, revered and praised. The rest… vanished.

  And then it hit me.

  This had been suffering from the same condition. Transcendence Syndrome. Archmage Disease.

  Was it because of father? Head of the Magic Tower, is an Archmage himself. Maybe this body had inherited more potential than most, and the disease had manifested early. That would explain why I had been on the brink, why my body had barely managed to anchor my soul.

  But now… after transmigrating here, after recovering in the mansion, I felt… normal. Strong. Healthy. Free of pain.

  So… by all logic, I should be an Archmage now. Right?

  I frowned. No. It didn’t seem like it.

  After thinking it through, it all fit into place.

  The disease hadn’t truly stopped. The mana hadn’t disappeared—it had simply found a new vessel: my soul. Slowly, inexorably, it was filling me from the inside. If nothing changed, eventually I would meet the same fate.

  Perhaps it would take two to three years.

  The simplest solution seemed obvious: emerge as an Archmage within that time. Master the magic, stabilize the soul, survive.

  But if it were that easy, the title of Archmage wouldn’t carry so much weight.

  In all of recorded history, the youngest individual to emerge as an Archmage was twenty-three.

  Not to brag, but he was one of my ancestors—the Archmage who created spatial gates.

  It wasn’t just a milestone—it was a filter, a trial, a test of survival.

  Was this a death sentence?

  Or was it… some strange, free trial of this world, a three-year period to see if I could adapt and survive before the real danger arrived?

  That meant the next three years would decide everything. By the time I turned fifteen, I would be ready to enter the academy, the place where magic, skill, and politics collided. But until then, my only priority was clear: find a way to cure—or at least control—this condition.

  If I failed, I wouldn’t make it to the academy. Or worse… I wouldn’t make it at all.

  The countdown begins