Mal was inside a lonesome big room with walls that were destroyed by some force. His coat, umbrella, and T-shirt lay on the ground. He was sweaty and tired.
'7th rank.'
Those words rang in his ears again and again. It was a terrible finding. He had a plan in mind: get to the 4th rank, kill that moss abomination, and finally escape. It was going to be deadly and he wasn't sure if it could be done in his current state, but that plan was shattered along with his hope. He thought it might be possible for him to slowly work himself up to rank 4, but rank 7?
No one spoke that evening and they all went to sleep under the gaze of the dead white sky without a single word.
Mal's plan was shattered, but his will was not. He had survived a year in the hospital where he battled with his own blood trying to kill him. He survived where others did not. He would have fallen just a year ago, but not now. His will was still burning strong. There was a way to get out; he just had to find it. So when he woke up, he went to a neighboring building and started to work on new spells. He needed something stronger than what he had now. The fireball was strong and the rays of electricity were good at what they were intended for, but they took too long to cast and were too weak.
"Elektáta letrocomulis géhe irche Maledictus."
As he said those words, three small spheres of what looked like fire in the shape of electric current appeared in his hand. They didn't burn his flesh; they were hovering above it.
With the command "Méte!", they immediately and in short succession all shot toward the wall and made a hole 3 cm deep each.
This was his great creation. When he thought about what he needed to create, he recounted the multitudes of fantasy games where he played as a mage. His first playthrough of Skyrim stuck in his mind. He had played as a mage the whole time and, because he didn't find a good way to obtain any new spells, he played with a simple fire spell in one hand and electricity in the other, combining them together. Now he had made exactly that.
He then started to shorten the incantation. At first, he tried to use real words but then simply came to the conclusion that he didn't have to. The incantations were simply tools to help one project their will, and they were subjective in nature. Mal used this to his advantage. Words are words because people ascribed meaning to them—or that's what he thought. He somehow remembered there are some people who think that words have meaning on their own outside of human experience, but he decided to simply ignore them. Well, they weren't here. All he simply had to do was to ascribe the meaning he wanted to the words he created, and the incantation should work. And it did. This was the peak of what he could achieve with 1st circle.
He was so focused that Medea's arrival took him by surprise again. She came with the two sticks they had both prepared the day before. Mal was tired from his training, but he had made a promise.
He started with how to stand and with basic thrusts. He made her do them again and again and corrected her for the next two hours.
They were both sat on the ground and were breathing heavily. Mal was tired because his level of red blood cells wasn't as high as it should be, and Medea was tired because she was out of shape.
"Mal, tell me, do you think we will get out?" Medea asked after a while.
"No, probably not. I personally see myself dying to some monster in here."
"And you are okay with that?"
"Why, yes, of course. See, I spent the last year in the hospital. After that, I promised the world I would never spend another day there. Growing old and dying in a hospital is what I detest. But now? I am in some other reality, in the black City under the dead white skies where the abominable Moss King rules on his throne. I will die while fighting. As a warrior, instead of a malingerer. I will die, and I am calm and proud about that. Until then, I will get as strong as I can. And who knows? Maybe you will get out."