"I'll take this news to the Lord of Balyon myself," Seraph murmured. "This mine is a goldmine for them—it's practically what keeps Arkflame's heart beating. The sooner they get the crews back in there, the better."
He paused, his gaze softening slightly. "Besides, the people in Balyon... they've been living in fear long enough. They deserve some peace of mind."
If a magis fails to report progress directly to the petitioner, the news from Sanctus might not reach them for another week or longer—a delay far too agonizing for a petitioner desperate for results.
Seraph retraced his steps toward the mine stairs. The staircase was massive, clearly forged from the most resilient stainless steel that the energia engineering of Arkflame could produce.
The mine stairs were expansive enough for four miners to traverse abreast, flanked by ramps designed for the ascent of ore-laden carts. The structure spiraled in a staggered pattern to negate the steepness, hugging the cliff face until it reached the summit—a testament to their echelons of energia engineering and sheer human resolve.
Yet, Seraph had no intention of utilizing the main ascent. He strode toward a smaller auxiliary staircase situated some distance away. Lacking a restrictive ceiling, this path offered an unobstructed climb, positioned near the makeshift cordage of vines he had previously woven.
Though the uppermost sections of both stairways had been sundered, rendering a conventional climb impossible, the young man harbored no doubt in his current state. With mageia-enhanced augmentation, he was certain he could sprint up the vertical rock face as if it were level ground.
Having purged over a hundred undead and vanquished their alphas, his mageia power had swelled significantly. Seraph could feel the surge within him; the man who had descended into Desden Cave that afternoon was fundamentally different from the one who stood there now.
"Ventus Aura!"
"Ventus Levitatis!"
"Ventus Windwalker!"
[Swoosh!]
Seraph cast the three spells in rapid succession. Instantly, his frame became as buoyant as a plume. He felt his leather boots lift marginally, no longer tethered to the stone. Had a gale surged at that moment, he might have been swept away by the current.
These were not spells of anti-gravity or fall-negation. Rather, they were a fusion of Ventus spells designed to facilitate fluid movement through the air—a specialized mageia suite favored by warlocks.
The fatal flaw of such a weave lay in the excessive consumption of mana required to sustain multiple simultaneous spells. Unless dire necessity dictated it, even a Magister or a Warlock would refrain from such a reckless expenditure.
Seraph felt akin to a bird granted flight, yet his mana reserves were hemorrhaging at a terrifying rate. Not even the grueling struggle against the undead alphas within Desden Cave had drained his mageia power with such rapacity.
"GO!" Seraph roared.
[Dash!]
The young man lunged onto the first rung of the auxiliary stairs. This ascent consisted of nothing more than iron rods hammered into the cliff face, entirely devoid of protective railings or outer cages.
The absence of a shroud allowed Seraph to scale the precipice with unfettered speed. He struck the rungs and vaulted upward, his hands never once grazing the stone or the iron. His gray cloak billowed in the rushing air like a pair of ashen wings.
With a single stride, the young man propelled himself several meters. Seraph traversed the vertical expanse like a spider—yet a bizarre one that relied solely on two feet to conquer the height.
The sight of Seraph's ascent was surreal. He appeared to be sprinting atop a sea of mist. Within mere seconds, he had surged over fifty meters high. At that elevation, he was swallowed by a white haze, the summit and the abyss below both rendered invisible by the shroud.
'This damn cliff... it's like a stairway to the heavens themselves,' Seraph grits his teeth, the spray of the falls stinging his eyes. 'It dwarfs even the Royal Castle. Please... just let my mana hold out until the top. Don't fail me now.'
Seconds later, the spray of the waterfall began to prickle against his skin. Yet, as he neared the peak, the winds grew increasingly violent, howling as if to hurl him into the void below.
His body became saturated once more. The waterfall here consisted of ice-cold mineral water, pure and heavy with the essence of the earth.
Seraph derived no solace from the embrace of pure mineral waters; instead, he felt the harrowing threat of being torn from the cliff face. Had those iron rungs not provided a precarious foothold, he would have long since been surrendered to the abyss.
Suddenly, the young man was seized by the most dire crisis of his existence. His visage turned a deathly pallor as the realization struck: his final drop of mana had been spent.
A magis's physique is no more resilient than that of a common burgher. Mana serves as both breath and the mageia vasculature that circulates power; a magis void of mana is a hollow vessel.
Seraph felt his strength hemorrhaging. The Ventus weaves sustaining him began to unravel, leaving his limbs heavy and leaden. His strides faltered. In a desperate gambit, he clawed at his cloak to retrieve a mana potion before he could transform into a living falling star.
In that heartbeat, a glint of reflected light struck his eyes. Seraph slammed his foot against a rung and vaulted with every ounce of his remaining vigor! He soared up the precipice like a young hawk breaching a vacuum. Moments later, the tail of the vine rope materialized before him. Though it dangled slightly askew, he lunged toward it, extending his palm to its absolute limit.
Seraph collided with the vine, seizing it just in time. He wrapped both arms around the cordage, cinching it with desperate strength! There he hung, suspended over the yawning gulch, swinging violently. Amidst the thundering roar of the waterfall, the silent scream of his soul rang louder. The brush with death had robbed him of his breath; only when he realized he had survived did he find his lungs utterly bereft of air.
He inhaled with a violent depth, akin to a whale swallowing the deep. The frigid air, saturated with the waterfall's mist, rushed into his lungs, rekindling the circulation of life through his weary frame. Only then did the constriction in his chest loosen, though the sheer exertion left him gasping for a long, arduous interval.
"Too... too close," he wheezed, his voice a fractured ghost of itself.
Once his grip on the vine stabilized and the crushing fatigue receded, he reached into his cloak to retrieve a mana potion. A trail of cerulean light cascaded down his throat, surging through his body before vanishing in a heartbeat.
Relief washed over him instantly. Within the realm of Laurasia, mana and life power are two sides of the same coin; every soul possesses it in varying measures. Those bereft of it entirely are cursed with fleeting lifespans, often perishing before they reach maturity. Consequently, herbal potions remain a staple within every apothecary and Healing Hall.
With his vigor partially restored, Seraph began the grueling ascent to the summit. The slick cordage and his sodden cloak made the climb above the falls feel as daunting as a trek to the heavens. Yet, through unrelenting resolve, he finally hauled himself over the edge.