Chapter 26: A New Dawn, A Dark Plot

Driven personally by Archmage Horace, ‘The Principles of Calculus’ manuscript ignited a fervent stir among the royal capital’s high-ranking mages, akin to a single drop of water sizzling into boiling oil.

Initially, it existed merely as a handwritten copy, passed discreetly among a select few members of the theoretical review council.

However, it wasn’t long before replicated copies started appearing in the offices of prominent mage academies and gracing the desks of ambitious, emerging mages.

Within a brightly lit study at the School of Sorcery.

Young Ivan, a Fourth-Ring Mage, fixated his gaze upon the parchment laid before him.

Sweat beaded on his brow, his mental energy intensely focused as he meticulously constructed a spell model within his mind.

‘Elemental Fireball.’

It was a fundamental spell, yet one that severely tested a mage’s control.

In times past, he had relied on countless repetitions, honing his intuition to discern the optimal magic injection point and estimate the peak of energy release.

Now, however, a completely novel formula graced the parchment before him.

It was an example calculation, extracted directly from the appendix of ‘The Principles of Calculus.’

‘Using the rate of thrust change as the variable, find its derivative… when the derivative is zero, that point represents the extremum of the instantaneous rate of change… which, in turn, is the peak of energy release…’

Ivan’s quill flew across the paper, furiously performing calculations.

He meticulously input his own mental energy parameters and total mana reserves into the function.

A number, precise to three decimal places, materialized on the page.

Following this precise result, he meticulously recalibrated the mana output curve within his spell model.

A soft hum resonated.

A fist-sized fireball coalesced in his palm, no longer flickering erratically as in the past, but instead glowing with a perfect, unwavering orange-red.

It was stable.

It was efficient.

Ivan could distinctly feel that the energy contained within this fireball surpassed that of any equivalent spell he had previously cast by at least thirty percent, all while consuming the same amount of mana.

‘The language of the gods…’ Ivan murmured to himself, his gaze fixed on the replicated manuscript, his face alight with an almost feverish adoration. ‘This is what true magic feels like!’

This fervent wave of study rapidly swept through the ranks of the royal capital’s younger mages.

They devoured the unfamiliar symbols and definitions with tireless zeal, sacrificing sleep and meals, revering them as a divine oracle capable of precisely calculating and optimizing every aspect of magic.

A completely new era, it seemed, was beckoning to them.

Yet, for every voice that cheered, there was another that cursed.

***

At the Violet Club in the royal capital.

Within a private booth, shrouded by the highest-grade silencing barrier, cigar smoke curled lazily.

Marcus, a Seventh-Ring Sorcerer, slammed his wine glass onto the table with such force that crimson liquid sloshed over the rim.

‘Heretical sorcery!’

His voice seethed with barely suppressed fury.

Seated around him were several other mages, all advanced in years, their faces etched with a shared gloom and unease.

‘Marcus, lower your voice,’ advised a corpulent alchemist seated beside him. ‘Though this place is secured, it’s best not to utter that word so openly.’

‘Why shouldn’t I say it?’ Marcus rose, pacing the confines of the room. ‘That accursed ‘Principles of Calculus’ has become the holy writ for those whelps! They brandish that nonsense, invalidating decades of our accumulated experience as utterly worthless!’

He halted, turning his gaze upon the assembled company.

‘Old Hal, your renowned Flame Sculpting method has now been mathematically proven to possess seventeen redundant mana nodes.’

‘And you, Green, your Wind Whisper Blessing—they claim its mana curve fluctuates excessively, squandering over forty percent of its energy.’

The two mages, thus singled out, found their expressions growing even more grim.

Marcus’s own predicament, however, was direst of all.

His family, for generations, had safeguarded a secret art known as Starfall Prophecy.

It was an exceptionally intricate spell, predicting the trajectory of significant future events by observing celestial paths, merging vast empirical formulas with flashes of intuition.

It was this very arcane method that had allowed his family to endure within the kingdom for centuries, enjoying the unwavering trust of the royal house.

Now, however, calculus had emerged.

This cold, mathematical instrument, like a merciless scalpel, meticulously dissected his family’s cherished art of mystical prophecy, piece by painstaking piece.

Already, young mages were asserting that the so-called ‘star trajectories’ could be precisely calculated using calculus.

They contended that prophecy itself was merely the complex, yet ultimately predictable, motion of celestial bodies.

This, to Marcus, was tantamount to severing his family’s very roots.

‘We cannot simply sit idly by and await our demise!’ Marcus roared, slamming a fist onto the table. ‘This theory is systematically dismantling everything we hold dear! Our standing, our legacy, the very bedrock of our existence!’

A profound silence descended upon the private booth.

Every mage present knew Marcus spoke an undeniable truth.

They, the staunch traditionalists who relied on experience, intuition, and inherited arcane arts to weave their spells, were being mercilessly battered by the relentless tides of a new era.

‘So what can be done?’ Old Hal sighed, a weary sound. ‘The theory’s logic is self-consistent; Master Horace himself has endorsed it, and that madman Klein is staunchly backing it. We cannot simply oppose the theory itself.’

‘Who said anything about opposing the theory?’ A glint of chilling ruthlessness flickered across Marcus’s features.

He leaned forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially, drawing closer to the others.

‘Theories are inert, but people are very much alive.’

‘I’ve conducted my own investigation. The true genesis of this theory lies not with Horace, nor even with Klein. It originated with Lia, a newly accepted apprentice of Klein’s.’

‘A mere slip of a girl, barely in her teens.’

The air in the booth grew palpably thick, freezing in place.

‘Are you suggesting…’

‘Precisely.’ Marcus cut him off, his voice utterly devoid of emotion.

‘Should this source be extinguished, all these so-called ‘new theories’ will become water without a spring, a tree without roots.’

‘A deceased individual cannot possibly generate anything novel. Without further development, this insidious trend will inevitably dissipate within a few years.’

‘At that point, we need only declare it a fragmented text unearthed from some ancient ruin, impossible to further study due to missing core components. Then, everything will revert to its original course.’

It was a vicious, meticulously crafted scheme.

A collective chill snaked down the spines of the mages present.

To assassinate an apprentice mentored by Klein? The very thought was sheer madness.

‘Klein…’ Green managed to utter, his voice strained. ‘He will not let this stand.’

‘Therefore, no trace must be left behind.’ Marcus settled back into his chair, his composure unnervingly restored. ‘A physical assassination would be utterly foolish; Klein’s Mage Tower is an impregnable fortress.’

‘But what if we consider a mental assault instead?’

‘I have expended a considerable fortune, utilizing certain clandestine channels, to establish contact with the Silent Shadow.’

At the mention of that name, several sharp intakes of breath echoed through the private booth.

The Silent Shadow.

The most infamous shadow assassin of the royal capital’s underworld.

No one knew his true name, nor had anyone ever glimpsed his face.

It was only known that they specialized in an exceptionally rare form of magic, capable of silently circumventing most physical and elemental wards to infiltrate a target’s mental world directly.

Once inside, they would, like a phantom, extinguish the target’s very soul-fire.

The deceased would bear no physical wounds, appearing as though they had simply drifted peacefully away in their sleep.

‘Once Lia is gone, Klein could turn the entire royal capital upside down, and he would still find no murderer.’ Marcus raised his wine glass, draining it in a single gulp.

‘Gentlemen, to our future,’ he declared, ‘cheers.’