A month had passed since Luo Taran's departure. Twenty slaves and several large crates of magical materials had already been delivered to the White Tower. However, no apprentices had been recruited yet. Punk's requirements were simply too stringent. While many apprentice spellcasters longed for an official-level mentor, those skilled in alchemy were far rarer.
Despite the lack of assistants, Punk's experiment progressed smoothly.
After countless attempts, the flesh-and-blood golem—constructed primarily from the severed limbs and flesh of a Fascination Demon—was nearly complete. However, Punk ultimately confirmed that at his current level, he had no means to control the soul of such an inherently chaotic and evil being. Although a demon's own soul could theoretically best manifest the power and traits of its flesh, the deep-seated chaos within it was impossible to purge.
Standing beside the experiment table, Punk casually pinched a small black gemstone. Within it churned fragmented souls from his past experiments on demonic essences. Even shattered and incomplete, these remnants still writhed and struggled with relentless, mindless madness—an embodiment of the very nature of demonkind.
Tossing the gem onto the table without a second thought, Punk retrieved another—this one a translucent blue sapphire. A faint mist swirled within, encasing a hazy, humanoid soul. Unlike the fractured demonic remnants, this was a soul in the process of transformation.
As a species with high intelligence, human souls naturally retained their form if not devoured by the River of Fate. This particular soul had already begun its transformation.
Beyond the most basic technique—synthesizing and restructuring mundane souls using an artificial construct to barely reach formal-level strength—Punk had also erased its original memories and emotions. He had even employed two rare spells to alter its instincts. These advanced techniques were, in large part, thanks to Menezi. As a seasoned official mage, he had meticulously collected obscure magical knowledge, all of which Punk had inherited.
Yet knowledge alone did not guarantee mastery. The gap between theory and execution required repeated failures and refinement.
In just a month, Punk had conducted over twenty such transformations. Even using resilient demon souls as practice materials, he had proceeded with extreme caution. Still, aside from the one in his hand, every other soul had failed—some disintegrating under the impact of energy, others driven mad by the sheer emptiness of the external world as soon as they left their original bodies.
These failures had been nothing more than ordinary mortals—powerless slaves. Their weak, low-grade souls simply could not endure the crude and unpolished process.
Fortunately, this last soul had survived. Enduring the transformation was proof of its high quality and durability. Now, within the sapphire, it was entirely obedient to Punk, even retaining a degree of rare intelligence. It could comprehend complex commands—unlike mindless summoned creatures that followed orders with the wit of trained circus animals.
With a flick of his hand, Punk tossed the shattered demon remains and the discarded human corpse into a corner. The final step now lay before him—implanting the soul into the golem's core.
At the center of an intricate magic circle, woven with geometric runes and inscribed across the stone floor, lay the nearly completed flesh golem. Punk stood beside it, the soul-filled gemstone in hand, his blue eyes glimmering with arcane light as mana surged around him.
The incantation began, soft as a whisper. As the chanting intensified, scarlet points of light flickered across the magic circle. Growing brighter, they soon coalesced into a complex, dark-red sigil that spread across the floor. At its heart lay the golem's grotesque form. The sigil spun slowly around it, runes shifting like spirits dancing in the glow of a bonfire.
Punk had no time to admire the pattern—his focus had to remain razor-sharp. This process required absolute precision.
With each word of the spell, the soul within the sapphire unraveled into fine, blue threads. Like streams of silk, they flowed into the golem's core, weaving into its very being.
The moment the soul merged, the golem's body convulsed violently. Every muscle twitched and contracted. Blood-red runes erupted across its skin, searing deep into its flesh, embedding themselves in its very structure. The flesh-and-blood golem was now complete.
Yet, one final refinement remained.
To further reinforce the golem's strength and unwavering obedience, Punk planned to use an ancient incantation in the lost language of the Primordial Elves.
Throughout the vast multiverse, magic tongues such as Primordial Elvish and Draconic—also known as the Language of Spirits—held immense power. These languages could alter reality, manipulate fundamental concepts, and even unleash devastation akin to the legendary Doomsday Mantras, where a mere whisper could annihilate entire planes.
The defining traits of such languages were their immense energy cost, their reliance on the caster's soul strength, their cryptic and near-impossible pronunciation, and most notably—unlike traditional magic—they required no structured spellcasting. A single utterance, a mere phrase, was enough to reshape reality.
As a half-elf, Punk had inherited fragmented knowledge of Primordial Elvish through bloodline memory. His ancestors had warned that only an official-level mage should dare attempt its use. Now, the time had come to test its power.
Fixing his gaze on the golem's magic core, he aligned his mind with the magic circle, ensuring an uninterrupted connection.
The moment the thought of using the incantation truly formed, an oppressive force descended upon the chamber. The air vibrated, magic energies clashing in resistance.
Punk's pupils were instantly flooded with searing blue light. His eyes now gleamed with an eerie brilliance, glowing like cold flames.
His lips, which usually moved with ease, now felt as though bound by invisible chains. Each movement, each attempt to speak, required immense effort—as if prying open a gate sealed by the weight of worlds.
Deep within his soul, a vast surge of mana drained away in an instant. What had been a reservoir brimming with power was now an empty void.
Enduring the strain, he finally forced out the words—an ancient phrase spoken in the primordial tongue. The very essence of the utterance rippled through the room, shaking his body and soul under its sheer weight.
This voice, profound and unfathomable, was incomprehensible to any creature other than the speaker. Any being below the official level, should they hear it, would have their souls shattered instantly, perishing in agony.
And yet, when translated, this grand invocation carried a simple decree:
"My loyal servant, embrace your new life."