The transition from Tier 2 to Tier 3 was not a step; it was a plunge into an abyss.
Inside the secluded cave, the air was freezing, but sweat ran in thick streams down Nard's face, stinging his eyes. Beru stood before him, his amber eyes glowing with an unyielding intensity that matched the harshness of the training.
"You are still thinking like a conventional mage, Nard," Beru's voice was a low, resonant rumble that echoed off the cold stone. "A conventional mage draws mana, shapes it, and releases it. That process is loud. It leaves a scent, a ripple in the ambient energy that any experienced combatant can sense from miles away. But a Weaver of the Void does not cast into the world. You must cast through the void."
Beru raised a single finger. "You must create a localized vacuum—a pocket of absolute nothingness—around your hand. Inside that pocket, you will construct your spell. Because there is no ambient mana within the vacuum, there is no friction. No ripple. No warning. The world will only know you have struck when the spell exits the vacuum and hits the target."
"How do I hold the spell inside nothingness?" Nard gasped, his breath misting in the cold air. His pathways were burning, the dual-core around his heart spinning at a frantic pace.
"With absolute willpower," Beru replied coldly. "If your focus wavers even a fraction, the vacuum will collapse, and the compressed mana will detonate in your palm. Begin."
Nard took a deep breath. He held out his right hand, his fingers trembling slightly. He reached into his chest, tapping into the dual-nature core. Instead of releasing the emerald-white light, he did the opposite. He used his mana pathways to suck in the ambient energy around his palm, pulling it into his body and compressing it, creating a spherical pocket of absolute emptiness—a localized void—around his hand.
The air grew heavy. The space around his fingers seemed to warp and blur, light bending as if trying to avoid the empty patch.
"Now, construct the needle of light," Beru commanded.
Nard channeled a tiny thread of his white-hot light mana, trying to shape it into a needle inside the pocket of nothingness. But the moment the raw, volatile light touched the edge of the vacuum, the delicate balance shattered.
Boom!
A sharp, deafening pop echoed through the cave. The vacuum collapsed, unleashing a miniature shockwave of heat and light. Nard was thrown backward, his boots skidding on the gravel as he hit the cave wall. He groaned, clutching his hand. The skin of his palm was blackened, singed by the sudden flare of his own magic.
"Again," Beru said, his voice completely devoid of pity. "Your mother did not complain when her lifeforce was consumed to save others. You have a dual-nature core; use the emerald nature mana to coat the inner wall of the vacuum, stabilizing the boundary before you introduce the white light."
Nard ground his teeth, ignoring the stinging pain in his hand. He stood up, shook out his arm, and held his hand out once more.
Once again, he pulled the ambient energy inward, creating the localized void. This time, he carefully lined the boundary of the vacuum with a cool, soothing layer of emerald nature magic. It acted as an insulating shield, keeping the void stable.
Then, he slowly introduced the white light. He shaped it, compressing it into a tiny, solid needle of white-hot energy. Inside the void, the needle sat silently, not a single spark escaping, not a single ripple felt in the surrounding air.
"Release it," Beru whispered.
Nard flicked his wrist. The localized vacuum dissolved, and the needle of light shot forward like a bolt of lightning. It struck a massive boulder at the back of the cave, punching a clean, silent hole through the solid rock. There had been no warning, no whistle of air, and no magical fluctuation before the impact.
Beru watched the dust settle from the punctured boulder, a rare, subtle nod of approval gracing his features. "You are learning. But a single needle is not enough. You must be able to cast a storm of them, and you must do it while under pressure."
The physical and mental toll of the training was exhausting. By the time Nard dragged his feet back to Zaqor Manor under the cover of the midnight stars, his body felt like lead. Every muscle ached, and his mana pathways throbbed with a dull, burning heat.
But the manor offered no sanctuary.
As Nard stepped into the dim service corridor near the kitchens, a heavy boot stepped out from the shadows, deliberately tripping him.
Nard's enhanced reflexes flared, but he suppressed them instantly, allowing himself to stumble and fall clumsily onto the cold stone floor, the wooden bucket of dirty water he was carrying splashing over his legs.
A harsh, arrogant laugh echoed in the corridor.
Nard looked up to see Ralph standing over him, his white and gold robes slightly disheveled, a half-empty bottle of expensive wine in his hand. Ralph's eyes were bloodshot, filled with a bitter, toxic rage. Ever since his public rejection by Marquis Vance, Ralph had been a ticking time bomb, his fragile ego shattered.
"Still a pathetic, stumbling cockroach," Ralph sneered, kicking the empty wooden bucket aside. "You represent the trash of this house, Nard. Do you know what Father said today? He said he wishes you had died in that incident instead of your mother. He said you are nothing but a parasite sucking the Zaqor name dry."
Nard kept his head bowed, his hair casting a shadow over his face. He forced his hands to tremble, playing the terrified servant. But beneath his tattered sleeves, his knuckles were white as he clenched his fists. The emerald-white core around his heart pulsed silently, a sleeping dragon waiting to be unleashed.
"I am sorry, Master Ralph," Nard muttered, his voice flat and perfectly submissive. "I will clean this up immediately."
"You're damn right you will," Ralph spat, deliberately pouring the remainder of his wine onto the floor right in front of Nard. "Clean it with your hands, hollow shell. And don't let me see your pathetic face in the main manor again."
Ralph turned and swaggered away, his heavy footsteps fading down the hall.
Nard sat in the dark corridor, staring at the spilled wine. Slowly, he raised his head. His eyes were no longer dull and vacant; they burned with a cold, terrifying clarity.
He held his hand over the puddle of spilled wine. Without making a sound, he created a localized vacuum, drawing the moisture and the stains directly into the void, leaving the stone floor perfectly dry and clean within seconds.
The Zaqors believed they were walking in light while Nard was trapped in the dark. But as Nard stood up and adjusted his worn tunic, he knew the truth.
The dark was his domain now, and the silent storm was almost ready.