Kael was kneeling before a cleared section of the floor. All the furniture—the table, stool, metal cot—had been pushed into one corner and outlined with a separate protective magic circle. On the table, sealed within that circle, lay crushed mana ore and chewed herbs from which he had extracted their juice.

  By now, Kael’s fingers were smeared with a gray-green, viscous paste—durable enough to serve as ink under these conditions.

  He worked quickly, almost frantically, drawing lines along the floor in short, abrupt strokes. The mixture went down unevenly—he had to correct the edges and adjust the thickness to keep every element precise. His hand grew tired and slipped, and a couple of times Kael briefly held his breath, forcing precision back into his fingers.

  The final fragment of the arc settled into place, and he immediately drew a transverse line to close the inner sector. For a moment, the mixture darkened—a faint sign that the element had been “accepted.”

  He wiped the sweat from his brow at once, feeling his heart pounding heavily in his chest, as if the very air were pressing down on his shoulders, urging him on and forcing him to hurry.

  “All right… seems correct…” he muttered, and sharply lifted his gaze.

  In the corners of the cell, near the ceiling and the floor, auxiliary glyphs had been drawn, from which lines stretched toward the main design beneath his knees. He checked each one: the lines hadn’t smeared, the connections hadn’t broken, not a single rune had gone out.

  He looked down again—at the broad circle before him. The outline looked rough, but the geometry held true.

  Breathing heavily, Kael leaned closer to the circle. His palms trembled slightly—too much mana had gone into the preparation itself. He forced his breathing to steady and once more cross-checked the patterns from memory: the order of the lines, the angles, the lengths, the auxiliary links.

  “I copied every pattern perfectly… it should work,” he whispered, as if reassuring himself.

  He reached out and touched the final element—a small connecting node at the edge of the circle. At that same instant, he fed mana into it.

  The reaction was immediate. The inscriptions flared with a soft light. A pulse ran along the lines, spreading from the main design in all directions—up the walls, down toward the corners of the cell.

  From each magic circle, waves of light spread outward, washing over the walls and merging together. Within seconds, the barrier closed. For a moment, it felt as though Kael were sealed inside a glowing cube.

  Then the inscriptions on the walls began to fade. They vanished completely: lines, runes, connections—all of it seemed to dissolve into the stone, becoming invisible. The barrier itself vanished as well.

  That was exactly how it was supposed to be.

  Kael let out a short breath—no longer as heavy as it had been a minute earlier.

  “It worked,” he said with relief, allowing himself one quick glance at the walls. “I hope such a simple barrier can suppress every sound…”

  The cell looked empty and calm, but now it was wrapped in an invisible layer of protection—exactly what he needed.

  Rising from his knees, Kael felt his legs tremble slightly from the strain. He ran the back of his hand across his forehead and muttered quietly, nervously:

  “Damn… I spent two hours on this… I need to break through and shut down the array before Elder Zeiran comes.”

  He glanced at the table in the corner—inside the protective circle everything lay exactly where he had left it. Kael moved to it quickly and began gathering the ingredients: mana ore, remnants of herbs, even small tools. Each item he brought to the back of his head and deftly slipped into the spatial ring. It still hung behind a lock of hair—concealed, unnoticed—and critically important to his plan.

  One motion—the item vanished. A second—the next followed. In ten seconds or so, the table was empty again, as though no one had ever touched it.

  When the last ingredient was stowed away, Kael allowed himself a brief breath and immediately drew seven mana elixirs from the ring. The vials clinked softly against each other in his hands.

  He uncorked the first. Then the second. Then the rest—his movements precise, without a single wasted pause. One after another, the thick, concentrated liquid flowed into the metal mug left behind after dinner.

  The herbal scent was sharp, almost burning, as if whispering to him, “You are not strong enough to take all of me.”

  When the last elixir was poured out, Kael swallowed, staring at the blue liquid.

  “Looks like I’m about to poison myself,” he muttered, the corner of his mouth twitching into a crooked, grim smile. “Though… that’s not far from the truth.”

  Normally, during a single training session, Kael allowed himself only a third of such an elixir. And it wasn’t about frugality—his body simply couldn’t endure larger doses. The mixture was too powerful: it pressed against the Mana Core, stretched the mana channels, and drove them to vibrate on the brink of rupture. At best, it would result in injuries and a forced break lasting several weeks.

  In the worst case—a slow, agonizing death.

  But now, staring at the mug filled with seven full doses, Kael clenched his teeth.

  “There’s no time for doubt,” he whispered, as if drawing a final boundary.

  The text surfaced in his memory on its own—the very one from which he had first learned of the Sacrificial Heart Rite.

  Like other rituals of its kind, it had been devised by the Cult of Sacrificial Hearts long ago. A cult that gathered young mages across its territory, broke them, and trained them using insane methods. Their trials were called “voluntary sacrifice,” though there was nothing voluntary about them.

  When advancing to the Channel Mage stage, they used the very ritual Kael intended to use. Those who endured it developed all their mana channels in record time.

  And those who failed…

  Simply became raw material. The bodies of mages never went to waste there—they were used in crafts best left unimagined.

  Repeating everything in his mind, Kael locked the key stages into place.

  “The pain will be unbearable. Just like the good old days…” he remarked with bitter irony, recalling how the God of Knowledge and Madness had punished him for his defiance.

  The Sacrificial Heart Rite began with an anomalous process in the Mana Core—a process no ordinary mage would ever consciously dare to provoke. The sequence of actions induced a peculiar “spasm” in the core. And since the core was directly linked to the mana channels, the same spasm rippled through the entire system.

  This spasm was not merely painful. It could literally collapse the core and the channels, as if a vacuum formed inside them. Kael knew all too well: if the spasm was not halted quickly, it led to horrific agony—and then death.

  But that was exactly what the Cult of Sacrificial Hearts exploited.

  If, at the moment of the spasm, one forced an overwhelming quantity of mana into the channels—many times the permissible limit—a natural counterbalance would form. Under normal conditions, such a dose would simply tear the channels apart from within, but against the backdrop of the spasm, it instead held the structure in a fragile equilibrium.

  That was how it became possible to absorb an amount of mana that would otherwise be lethal.

  Reality, however, was far harsher than the dry lines of any treatise. Understanding the ritual’s mechanics alone was not enough. The “spasm” had to be constantly maintained. That demanded not only perfect concentration, but endurance under a level of pain only a handful could withstand.

  At the same time, he had to continue using his Canon of Magic, absorbing incoming mana flows. Any deviation, any loss of control—even a momentary lapse in concentration—led to a single outcome.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  A slow, torturous death.

  Fully aware of what he was committing himself to, Kael slowly lowered himself onto the cold stone floor and placed the mug before him, filled to the brim with thick, blue mana elixir. The smell alone made his throat constrict reflexively.

  Clenching his teeth, he closed his eyes and muttered inwardly, forcing confidence into his thoughts:

  “The followers of the Cult of Sacrificial Hearts are prepared for the ritual. They are tortured, broken, and trained to grow accustomed to pain…”

  He exhaled briefly, recalling not books, but his own experience.

  “I endured the tortures of that damned God of Knowledge and Madness…”

  Something twitched in his chest, but he suppressed the tremor.

  “It will work,” he whispered. “It has to work. I’m ready.”

  Once those thoughts had settled, Kael allowed himself no further doubt. He simply shut everything extraneous out—rationality, fear, hesitation—as if slamming a door shut on emotion.

  “I am Void. Void has no emotions or fears. Nor does my soul.”

  He took a slow breath in. Then out.

  Then another breath—slightly shorter—as he began repeating the strange breathing technique.

  Gradually, the rhythm shifted. Inhales grew shorter, exhales longer. Then the opposite. Air rushed into his lungs in jerks and was expelled in bursts, as if he were trying to catch the right frequency. From the outside, it might have resembled a strange, halting melody.

  His head began to spin. The sound of his own breathing echoed dully in his ears. His heart slipped out of its steady rhythm, striking harder, then faster, then seeming to slow again.

  But inside, the true process was already underway.

  In time with his breathing, mana began to pulse. It adjusted to the imposed rhythm, rolling through his body in heavy, abrupt surges. The pressure gradually increased—first faint, then tangible, then painful. The mana seemed to seek its own path, pressing against the core, forcing it to respond with a tremor. The same pressure rolled through the mana channels, causing an unpleasant tingling, as though they were being drawn tight by an invisible thread.

  Kael kept breathing, holding the tempo. He felt each wave of breath push the core and the heart to the brink, then fling them back.

  And at one moment, Kael’s heart clenched painfully—as if an icy dagger had pierced his chest. A spasm tore through his body in a violent jolt, and in the same second the Mana Core jerked as though invisible hands had seized it from all sides.

  Pain crashed down on him instantly.

  “KRGAAAAAAH!” A feral, agonized roar tore from Kael’s throat. The whites of his eyes flooded with red at once, his body convulsed, and fragments of the past surged into his mind: himself suspended in midair, pierced by golden needles—the tortures of the God of Knowledge and Madness that had once seemed endless.

  But he did not allow those flashes to hold him for even a fraction of a second. The spasm of the core demanded precise action—and Kael instantly cast aside every extraneous thought.

  With a sharp motion, he grabbed the mug and, giving himself no time for doubt, downed the entire elixir in a single gulp.

  THU—DUUM!

  A violent pulse of mana erupted from his body—the impact rolled dully through the cell, making the walls vibrate. The air shuddered, as if someone had seized it and squeezed hard.

  In the corner, around the tightly stacked furniture, the protective circle flared. The pale shell barely held back part of the wave, reflecting it back. Even so, the furniture shuddered.

  Kael simply couldn’t create a stronger defense—he had neither the resources nor the time. But now it no longer mattered.

  Because at the very instant the core and channels were about to collapse completely, mana surged through them.

  An unnaturally vast amount of mana.

  The jolt was like a red-hot wedge driven into his body. A second wave of pain speared him from chest to fingertips—sharp, predatory, unbearable.

  “KRH-GRAAAAAH!” tore from him in a torn, broken scream.

  It felt as though two different forces had collided within him. The spasm constricting the core and the torrent of mana straining to tear the channels apart slammed into one another like colliding waves. They pressed, shoved, and gnawed at each other inside his body, as if trying to rip him apart.

  Every heartbeat sparked a flare of pain, followed by a second—harder still.

  Kael felt his whole body lurch forward, muscles locking, his fingers convulsively digging into the stone.

  “Damn it!” tore from him, his voice immediately breaking into a rasp. His throat burned, his breathing went ragged—but he could not stop.

  He knew it—his life now hung by a thread. Any second of delay, the slightest disruption—and everything would end.

  Kael cast aside everything that could interfere and forced himself back into the breathing rhythm. Short inhale. Ragged exhale. Another. The core’s spasm had to be maintained—it was the only thing allowing him to survive this torrent of mana.

  “Hold on, Kael! Keep the rhythm! Breathing… and the mana pulse!” he screamed at himself mentally, almost as an order.

  Mana flowed through him in dense streams, crushing and tearing, forcing the channels to vibrate on the brink of rupture. It felt as though everything inside his body was ripping and cracking, trying to burst outward.

  Yet that monstrous balance still held. Taut and dangerous, like a string drawn to the point of singing—but it held.

  And at one moment all that power reached the place where the mana channels had not yet been formed. Where Kael had not yet had time to grow them. The pressure slammed into emptiness—and he knew the next step had to be taken now.

  “Now!” he shouted inwardly.

  At that same instant his consciousness seemed to split in two.

  One part—torn apart by pain—continued to maintain the breathing rhythm and the spasm, desperately preventing the core from collapsing. Every contraction, every exhale held him on the edge of death.

  The other part—cold and detached—began to recite the Mantra of Primordial Void. It ignored everything—everything that could interrupt his absorption of mana.

  And the moment the mantra took shape in his mind, the flow of power changed its trajectory. It did not surge onward, did not spill through the entire body. Instead, mana began to nourish the ends of his channels.

  And they began to grow.

  Fast.

  Far too fast for a normal mage.

  But not fast enough to free him from the torment.

  The pain did not fade for even a moment. It merely changed its shade—growing deeper, more viscous, as though someone were drawing his nerves taut with a red-hot needle, intent on ripping them apart.

  In that moment, Kael allowed himself one final thought unrelated to the ritual: “If only I can endure until morning… If only I can make it before Zeiran comes…”

  Kael had put his fate on the line.

  And now he had a little less than a day to learn what the outcome would be.

  ? ? ?

  And at that very moment, while Kael’s torment continued and all his mental and physical strength was devoted to holding the rhythm and staying alive, the world outside went on with its own life.

  The sun climbed steadily higher. First toward its zenith, then past midday. Lasthold was slowly coming to its senses after the night of celebration. The townsfolk, having slept it off, began to emerge onto the streets. Some were clearing away trash, others sweeping the squares, still others helping neighbors set their homes in order after the festivities.

  A calm, friendly atmosphere hung over the city—one where everyone knew their neighbors well.

  Mira, Kael’s mother, was getting dressed in her room, adjusting her thick, warm clothing. She was planning to join the neighbors and help clean the street. Kasias was still asleep, snoring thunderously loud enough to carry through half the house—after the festival, that was hardly surprising.

  Mira straightened up, brushed her hands over her shoulders to smooth her clothes, and noted inwardly:

  “Kael usually helps me… But today, for the first time, he stayed out all night.”

  A light, warm smile appeared on her face. The thought that her son was growing up unexpectedly warmed her heart.

  Before going downstairs, she quietly went to his room. Her hand came to rest on the handle.

  “If he’s still asleep, I won’t wake him,” she thought.

  But the moment she cracked the door open, the smile vanished.

  The room was empty. The bed was made—neatly, carefully—as if Kael had never come home at all.

  A mother’s heart clenched painfully, as though something cold had settled beneath her ribs. Mira instinctively touched her chest, trying to steady the sudden surge of anxiety.

  “Maybe… he stayed with friends?” she murmured, closing the door.

  But her palms trembled unexpectedly. Just a little, but enough. She clenched her fingers, steadied her breathing, and forced herself to regain her composure.

  “My boy has grown up. I can’t watch over him all the time…” she reminded herself, trying to make the thought sound convincing.

  She looked away, as if ashamed of her own worry, and added:

  “Maybe he went straight to training. Lately he’s been disappearing into the training grounds all the time…”

  With those thoughts, she turned and began descending the stairs. The boards creaked softly under her feet, but for some reason that familiar morning calm brought no relief. The self-reassurance she had always relied on failed her this time.

  On the contrary, the anxiety only grew stronger, becoming more tangible with each step.

  Reaching the last stair, Mira slowed and stopped. A faint shadow of worry passed across her face again; she frowned and muttered, “If he doesn’t come back by evening… I’ll ask the Hall of Ancient Research for help.”

  She knew they valued Kael and his abilities. They certainly would not refuse to help search for him or check on him.

  With that decision made, she headed toward the restaurant’s exit, reassuring herself as she went:

  “Let them think I’m overreacting. In the worst case, Kael will be a little embarrassed because of me. At least I’ll know he’s safe.”

  She forced herself to smile and stepped outside, but the anxiety continued to trail her like a shadow.