Chapter 8: Suffering (2)

Every mage knew the truth: one could only ascend a maximum of three realms from their birthright rings—and that was only for those with exceptional talent. For someone born with white rings, the most they could ever hope to achieve was Orange.

Michael hadn’t just been born with white rings—he’d had the dimmest possible shade. He was a footnote. An afterthought. No one had ever believed in him.

No one but her.

So when he thought he was dying, he didn’t resist. He simply let go—allowing the radiant version of himself to carry him peacefully into the afterlife.

Time lost all meaning.

Perhaps hours passed. Or maybe it was only seconds. Michael couldn’t tell. His thoughts drifted like leaves on a gentle stream, free from hate, free from sorrow, free from longing.

Then, as his soul breached the surface of that abyss, the glowing figure that had lifted him shattered into radiant motes of light. They hovered before him like stars set against the midnight sky, twinkling softly in the void.

He stared, transfixed.

But before he could make sense of what he was seeing, the lights surged toward him.

Startled, Michael gasped as the motes of light coalesced and plunged into the center of his forehead—right into his inner palace.

The peace vanished.

In its place came everything he thought he’d left behind—pain, confusion, rage, grief. It hit him like a tidal wave.

“BLUERGH!”

Michael’s vision jolted. He found himself doubled over, eyes locked on the dirt beneath him, as his body convulsed.

A thick, tar-like sludge spewed from his mouth.

It reeked.

The stench hit him like a slap, burning his nose and turning his stomach further. Each retch sent another wave of foul, black liquid pouring out of him. His arms shook. His chest heaved. His mind reeled.

When it was finally over, Michael collapsed, crawling a few feet away before falling onto his back.

He lay there, panting, eyes wide, staring up at the sky.

What… happened to me?

Wasn’t I dead?

His arm rose shakily toward the heavens, his hand trembling as he reached upward.

Then he noticed it.

“…Huh?”

“…HUH?!”

He blinked.

Rubbed his eyes.

Looked again.

Three orange rings now glowed softly on his left wrist.

They shimmered in the sunlight—calm, almost ancient in their presence—as if they had always belonged there.

“What is happening…? How did I get these?” he whispered, his voice thick with disbelief.

It hadn’t been long since he left the Aurelius Estate.

In that short time, he had ascended two major and two minor realms. He had survived a mana storm, endured chaotic mana, and somehow purified the corrupt will of a Violet Mage.

And he was still alive.

More than alive—he was stronger.

“I… don’t understand…” Michael murmured, slowly climbing to his feet.

His limbs ached. His mouth still tasted foul—coated in an oily residue from the tar-like substance he’d expelled. He had no idea what it was… only that it felt wrong.

As he staggered upright, something caught his eye.

The dead Violet Mage.

The very one who had nearly killed him.

But now… it looked entirely different.

The violet mage’s robes were in tatters, frayed and dirtied as if time itself had eroded them. What remained clung loosely to a frame no longer human. Where once there had been fair skin, now there was only bone—pale, dry, and cracked.

“…Wait—”

Michael’s thoughts stumbled as his knees buckled slightly beneath him. A wave of exhaustion crashed over his body, and the scorching sun bore down with cruel intensity. Whatever strength he had left was quickly being drained.

Despite his newfound power, his body was still battered and weak—starved, dehydrated, and pushed far past its limit. He had no idea how much time had passed. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d eaten.

Scanning the landscape, he spotted a patch of shade beside a large sandstone boulder. It wasn’t far, but every step toward it made his muscles seize and cramp—a clear sign of dehydration.

Gritting his teeth, Michael forced himself forward. Somehow, he managed to reach the shade and collapsed with his back against the rock, panting. He raised a trembling hand and cast the low-tier water spell.

A thin stream trickled from his fingertip. Not elegant, but effective. He brought it to his lips and drank greedily, not caring about the taste.

The cool liquid coated his throat, quenching a thirst that had felt eternal. He drank until his breathing slowed, then used the spell to rinse his mouth and soak his head, letting the water run down his face and neck.

Only then did his mind begin to clear.

Memories returned—sharp and brutal. He remembered the moment his soul made contact with the violet mana, and the scream that tore from his throat. He shivered reflexively.

I should be dead, he thought. My soul should’ve been destroyed.

But instead of death, he had survived. More than that—he had grown stronger. Somehow, impossibly, he had ascended to the rank of an Orange Mage, with three rings no less.

Even without that, what he had seen… what he had felt—it defied logic.

That bright figure… what was it?

Was that… me?

He remembered it vividly. The radiant version of himself pulling him from the abyss. The light. The motes of energy. And how they had flown straight into the center of his forehead—into his inner palace.

That shouldn’t have been possible.

Unless… that figure really was my soul.

He closed his eyes and focused inward, using his mind’s eye to gaze into his inner palace.

There, in the heart of his spiritual space, sat his soul—cross-legged in the lotus position, glowing white and unblemished.

Michael’s eyes snapped open. He stared up at the sky in disbelief, then scratched his head.

“That doesn’t make sense…” he muttered. It was tainted—corrupted. I saw it turning dark. So how…?

His hand dropped to his lap—and he froze.

“Ah…”

He held up his right hand.

“The storage ring…”

There it was—snug on his finger. A ring, unassuming at a glance… but it pulsed faintly with residual energy.

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