The training ground is silent. The low, expectant buzz of the crowd has faded into a quiet hush. Every eye in the arena, from the newest recruit to the Library’s oldest leaders, is fixed on one unassuming figure.
Carter Cross steps forward.
He walks to the center of the field. His movements are calm and deliberate. He doesn’t have Akira’s arrogant swagger or Keyona’s explosive confidence.
He just walks.
His expression is a mask of quiet, focused intensity. He has spent the last six months training his body. He has tamed the angry, whispering ghosts bound to his hands.
He has learned to be their partner, not their master. Now, for the first time, he is ready to show the world what they can do together.
He takes his place before the last, clean training dummy. He raises his hands.
A wave of shocked, almost fearful murmurs ripples through the crowd.
On his left hand, the heavy Vastian Steel brass knuckle, Atlas, gleams with a dull bronze light.
On his right, the sleek, silvery gauntlet and chain dagger of Archer pulse with a faint, dark light.
The Mage Killers.
In the viewing stands, Miguel lets out a low whistle.
“Damn,” he says. His voice is a low, grim murmur. “He really got the Mage Killers. Well, it was nice knowing him.”
Freya has been watching Carter with a cold, analytical stare. She turns to Miguel. Her red eyes are sharp with real curiosity.
“Why do they call them that?” she asks. Her voice is a low, precise whisper.
Damien answers. His voice is a cold, clinical recitation of a sad, well-known history. “Because that is what they do,” he says.
Damien’s eyes fixed on the grimoires. “They kill their wielders. Atlas and Archer are famous. They are old, powerful, and unstable. The spells on them are a chaotic mix of English, Mandarin, and Mongolian magic.”
“The two foreign languages are a level five and a level six Dissonance for someone with an English affinity.”
“For a normal mage, using even the simplest of their Complex Spells would be suicide. The backlash would tear them apart from the inside.”
“But he’s a Resonant,” Freya notes.
“Fifty percent less than a lethal dose is still a lethal dose,” Damien replies.
His voice is flat and absolute.
“Many Resonants, far more experienced, have tried to master those grimoires. They are all dead.”
Killian has been listening with quiet, almost fatherly pride. He finally speaks. His voice is a low, confident growl. “Don’t count him out. The kid’s a survivor.”
He thinks back to that first night. To the burning car. To the boy who ran into a raging fire. Not once, but twice.
To save a stranger and her child. He knows what the others do not. He knows the steel under Carter’s quiet, unassuming front.
Down on the field, Carter seems not to hear the debate. He is in his own world.
A silent, focused bubble of calm in the storm of expectation. He holds out his left fist.
The one with the heavy, bronze weight of Atlas. He doesn’t speak a spell. He just reaches out with his mind.
Not to command his grimoire, but to ask a simple question.
Atlas. Are you ready?
The grimoire answers.
A wave of energy, visible as a shimmering distortion in the air, erupts from the Vastian steel knuckles.
It is not a spell. It is a passive, instinctual release of raw power.
The shockwave rips through the air. A powerful gust of wind blows back the hair of everyone in the front row of the viewing platform.
“By the founder’s ghost!” Gendric bellows. He shields his eyes with a massive forearm.
“The thing is bleeding power without him even casting a spell!”
Miguel just stares. His mouth is slightly open. “What in the HELL is that thing?”
Akira stands in the line of recruits. He feels the wind wash over him. His face shows shock and a little fear.
He looks at Carter. He sees the calm, focused look on his face.
He sees how casual he is with the raw, explosive power from his hand. A new, unsettling thought enters his mind.
What the hell kind of grimoire is that?
And how is he so comfortable holding it?
The hot, angry pressure behind Carter’s eyes. The voice that once roared with chaotic, mindless rage.
Atlas now answers his mental call. A single, clear, terrifyingly eager thought.
Always.
Carter lowers his fist. The passive aura of power around Atlas fades as quickly as it came. The whispers in his mind are no longer a chaotic storm.
They are a low, hungry hum of waiting. He is in control. He is their partner. It is time to begin.
He turns his attention to the training dummy fifty feet away. It is a simple object of straw and wood.
He does not raise his hand in a grand gesture. He does not speak a long, complex spell.
He simply points his left hand. The one with the heavy, steel weight of Atlas. He points it at the target.
He speaks the Spell Tag. His voice is quiet, calm, and utterly final. It cuts through the stunned silence of the crowd.
“ATLAS… EVISCERATE!”
- Spell Tag On Grimoire: Atlas + Eviscerate{Shatter my target into its smallest form + 散布剩余的颗粒}
- Phonetic: Atlas (Grimoire Name) + Shatter my target into its smallest form (base) + Sànbù shèngyú de kēlì (effect)
- English Base Spell Translation: “Shatter my target into its smallest form”
- Chinese Effect Spell Translation: “Spread the remaining particles”
He snaps his fingers.
The effect is instant, silent, and absolute. The training dummy does not explode. It does not burn. It simply… disappears.
For a fraction of a second, its shape seems to dissolve into a cloud of its own atoms. A swirling mist of pure matter.
Then it vanishes into nothing. There is no sound, no flash of light, no smoke left. There is only the empty space where the dummy once stood.
A sharp, collective intake of breath is the only sound in the vast, silent training ground. The recruits stare at the empty space.
Their minds struggle to understand what they just saw. Keyona’s magic destroyed matter. But it left a visible effect. This was different.
This was quiet, instant death.
In the viewing stands, the leaders are completely stunned.
“By the founder…” Damien whispers. His voice is a mix of pure, academic awe and deep disbelief.
“The Lexanomicon says English magic can break or shatter matter. But this… this is not shattering. This is complete molecular dissolution.”
“A Complex Spell with THAT much destructive power… how is that possible?”
“It is not,” Agamor says. His voice is a low, troubled rumble.
His eyes are fixed on the grimoire.
“That was a mixed spell of English and Mandarin. English is a language of creation, of simple constructs. Its destructive abilities should be simple too.”
“Also…”
“That grimoire… it does not just channel magic. The materials in it, twist it past the normal limits. A non Resonant would die casting that spell.”
Killian just smirks. Pure, unadulterated pride is on his face. He leans over to Miguel. “See? What did I tell you? Survivor.”
Miguel just shakes his head. His expression is one of pure, dumbfounded disbelief.
Carter stands in the center of the field. His hand is still outstretched. He feels the spell’s power.
A clean, sharp, and surprisingly light use of energy.
The whispers from Atlas are quiet now. A low hum in the back of his mind. He takes a deep, centering breath.
Carter takes a deep, centering breath. The low, satisfied hum of Atlas in the back of his mind is a reassuring presence.
The first spell is over. Now, for the second.
He raises his gaze to the empty sky. His expression is a mask of pure, focused concentration. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move. He just… thinks.
High above the training ground, in the clear, empty blue of the Sky Dimension, the air shimmers and warps. With a low, grinding sound that seems to come from reality itself.
A dozen massive, jagged pillars of solid, gray rock appear from thin air. Each one is the length of a car and as width of a mans torso. Their tips are honed to a sharp, deadly point. They hang there for a fraction of a second. A silent, menacing fleet of stone.
Then they begin to fall towards the ground.
A wave of shocked, panicked shouts erupts from the audience.
“Where did those come from?!”
“He didn’t cast a spell! He didn’t speak! I was watching his hands!”
“Look out! They’re falling!”
But the pillars do not fall in a straight line. As Carter begins to move, sprinting across the open field, the stone pillars follow him.
Their movements are a perfect, synchronized mirror of his own.
They are not just falling; they are hunting. A pack of loyal, stone wolves he summoned from the heavens with just a thought.
The recruits are speechless. “He… he didn’t say anything,” Paige whispers. Her voice is a mix of awe and pure, academic disbelief.
“There was no spell. No intent. He just… Made it appear.”
“Carter is not finished. He is just getting started.” Gabriel says like a proud father.
As the stone pillars descend, gaining speed, he raises his right hand.
The one with the sleek, silvery gauntlet of Archer. The whispers in his mind shift.
The hot, explosive roar of Atlas is replaced by the cold, sharp, hungry hiss of its partner. He speaks his next command.
His voice is a low, dangerous growl.
“ARCHER! DEVOUR!”
- Spell Tag On Grimoire: Archer + Devour{Цохих болгондоо байг минь залгидаг харанхуйн дөл}
- Phonetic: Archer (Grimoire Name) + Tsokhikh bolgondoo baig mini zalgidag kharankhuin döl (base)
- Mongolian Base Spell Translation: “Flames of darkness which devour my target with every strike”
He doesn’t wait for the pillars to reach him. He runs, charges headfirst into his own avalanche. He holds the chain. He begins to swing the dagger at the end.
The silver links blur. The blade glitters, like a deadly comet. As the first massive stone pillar descends, he lashes out.
The chain wraps around the pillar. With a grunt of effort, he pulls. He redirects the massive projectile. It crashes harmlessly into the stone floor beside him.
He becomes a whirlwind of controlled, deadly violence.
He sprints, dodges, and weaves through the rain of his own making. His chain dagger is a blur of silver.
With every strike, every parry, every block, Archer’s blade leaves behind a lick of dark, hungry flame.
It is not the bright, hot fire of Akira’s spells. It is a black, silent, and cold flame that does not burn, but eats.
It eats away at the stone, dissolving it into nothingness. There is no ash left.
One by one, the massive stone pillars are redirected, sliced, and unmade.
Their destructive power is turned into a silent, beautiful, and terrifying display of his new control.
Carter moves like a dancer in a storm he created. A whirlwind of silver chain and black fire.
He does not struggle against the falling pillars; he meets them. As the first massive stone spear descends, he lashes out with Archer.
The chain dagger slices through the solid rock as if it were butter. The cut is clean and effortless.
The two halves of the pillar fall harmlessly to either side. Their cut edges dissolve under the consuming touch of the dark flames.
He becomes a whirlwind of controlled, deadly violence. He destroys pillar after pillar with graceful, almost contemptuous ease.
But in the chaos, he makes a mistake. One massive pillar, hidden by the dust and smoke, slips past his guard.
It falls towards him. A jagged spear of solid rock.
The crowd gasps. The recruits cry out a warning. But it is too late.
Carter does not panic. He plants his feet. His eyes are fixed on the descending monolith. He pulls his left arm back. He speaks his final command. His voice is a sharp, clear, and utterly calm report.
“ATLAS! JUMP!”
- Spell Tag On Grimoire: Atlas + Jump{接触后，将我的目标移动到我想要的位置}
- Phonetic: Atlas (Grimoire Name) + Jiēchù hòu, jiāng wǒ de mùbiāo yídòng dào wǒ xiǎng yào de wèizhì (base)
- Chinese Base Spell Translation: “Upon contact, move my target to my desired location”
He throws the punch. The heavy, Vastian Steel knuckles connect squarely with the face of the falling stone pillar.
The sound is not the crack of stone, but the deep, resonant “BOOM” of a magical explosion.
The pillar vanishes. In a flicker of distorted space, it is gone. It reappears an instant later, fifty feet away. It slams directly into the final, untouched training dummy, obliterating it.
The demonstration is over. The training ground is a wreck. Carter stands in the center of it all. His chest is heaving. His body is slick with sweat, but his stance is unbroken.
In the viewing stands, a profound, stunned silence hangs in the air.
Gendric unconsciously rubs his jaw. A phantom ache echoes from their first spar. He remembers the feeling of that spell.
The sudden, violent dislocation of the bone jarring impact.
Killian leans over. A wide, mocking grin is on his face. “Brings back memories, old man? I heard the kid knocked you clean on your ass.”
“That he did,” Gabriel chimes in. His voice is serene, but his golden eyes sparkle with amusement. “I saw it all.”
“This year we’ve had two recruits leave you scratching your head?”
“I wonder if age is getting to you-“
“Nonsense, I’m the same as I always was. These new recruits, are just that talented.” Gendric replies.
The other leaders and combat agents nearby turn to look at Gendric. Their eyes are wide with disbelief. The legendary Berserker, floored by a new recruit?
Gendric’s gaze is fixed on Carter with a new, profound intensity.
The immense strain of the high dissonance spells, of channeling the raw, untamed power of both Atlas and Archer, finally hits Carter.
The adrenaline vanishes.
In its place, a wave of pure agony crashes over him. A searing, white hot pain erupts behind his eyes. The world tilts.
The faces of the crowd blur into a meaningless swirl of color. The whispers from his grimoires roar in his mind. A triumphant chorus at the price he has paid.
His vision tunnels. The bright, clear light of the Sky Dimension fades to a pinpoint of black.
He collapses to the ground. Unconscious.