Seraph made no attempt to explain every harrowing detail to Marina. In truth, he had spent much of his past life skirting the shadows, fleeing from the formal mageia duels that defined the Sanctum's hierarchy, for he was vastly inferior to the senior acomages and established magis.

  However, he had more often been coerced into those duels by sheer, brutal force. He had been exploited as a mere training puppet—a living punching bag—unable to offer even a shred of meaningful resistance.

  Though the senior acomages had not explicitly intended to slay him, they had shown not a flicker of mercy either. The trauma Seraph had endured stood as grim, physical evidence of their casual cruelty.

  The Sanctus Sanctum stood as a grand mageia association, a labyrinthine bastion of arcane knowledge. Yet, unlike the mundane schools of the outer world, it held no formal lecture classes. Within these ancient walls, there was no set duration for one's ascension; should a member desire to linger within the Sanctum's embrace, they could remain for a lifetime, provided they remained untainted by transgression or exile.

  Denizens of the outside world perceived the Sanctus Sanctum as a noble institution of higher learning. Naturally, the interior harboured its share of petty malice and constant friction, yet almost every member who passed through its gates eventually came to view the sprawling citadel as a stony, cold home.

  Being a magis under the Sanctum's banner offered manifold advantages. They could accept mission scrolls from external clients—desperate souls seeking the Sanctum's intervention—which served as the primary source of wealth and prestige for any ambitious magis.

  Departing the Sanctus Sanctum was not uncommon, yet unless an individual was an exceptionally prominent or distinguished figure, they would find securing high-ranking missions far more arduous than when they resided within this magical citadel.

  Consequently, a multitude of magis remained within Sanctus even into their twilight years. They might fall below the threshold when compared to their elite peers; however, to the magis of the outer world and a sixteen-year-old acomage like Seraph, they remained vastly more powerful—an immovable wall of experience.

  This was the core reason Seraph found himself a constant target of systemic torment. Every other soul within Sanctus possessed a higher echelon of power than his own. Originally, the young man had intended to hide within these walls until old age, harbouring the faint hope that he might one day ascend to a strength sufficient to end the bullying and rewrite the narrative of his life.

  But from this day forth, the young man resolved to alter the very trajectory of his existence. He sensed, with a newfound clarity, that he would soon be able to stride out of this place by the sheer force of his own will.

  Following the complete restoration of his fractured memories, Seraph's knowledge chart had widened immensely. Several bodies of conflicting information overlapped, while others presented vast, beckoning voids to be explored.

  This was especially true regarding the natural forces and the mageia macrocosmic. Certainly, a handful of sages upon Laurasia had utilised astronomy and mageia theory to calculate that the world was round—not the stagnant centre of the multiverse. Yet, almost all burghers remained indoctrinated with the archaic belief that the world was a flat plane, held firm at the universe's core.

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  Scarcely anyone dared pilot an airship to genuinely explore the forbidden corners of Laurasia, and venturing out into the deep blue was virtually unheard of. Most folk believed that sailing ever onward would lead them to simply tumble from the world's edge once they breached the horizon line.

  Thus, the outer continents languished in obscurity, shrouded by a permanent mist—so much so that they were dubbed the Dark Continents. Some cynics did not even believe any land existed beyond the shores of Laurasia.

  Naturally, Seraph was thrilled by the scale of this mageia macrocosmic!

  He yearned to venture out and investigate the mysteries that lay beyond the Sanctum's shadow.

  He craved the forbidden knowledge of how to dismantle the Demon Legion once and for all.

  He burned to know if other continents truly breathed across the salt water.

  His soul of adventure sent blood coursing like fire through his veins.

  Nonetheless, his primary task at this moment was simple: to ascend in power as swiftly as possible. Only then could he find the answers regarding the origin of the demonic beasts invading Laurasia and subsequently obliterate the Legion entirely.

  ? . ? . ? . ? . ?

  Seraph emerged from the Infirmary Hall during the pale, early hours, a time when golden light draped across the landscape, dissolving the lingering shadows of the night.

  The Sanctus Sanctum was a massive cluster of seven white citadels, an ancient basilica lined with high, piercing spires. These seven Sentry Towers were arranged in a giant, seven-pointed mageia circle, forming a geometry of perfect, arcane precision.

  Inside the basilica, seven buildings were connected by sweeping arched corridors, nearly every structure fashioned from weathered white stone. Furthermore, the entire complex was constructed through energia engineering; the beauty of this fortress was peerless, an architectural marvel unmatched by any palace in Arkflame.

  The Sanctus Citadel did not rest upon the earth but hovered slightly above the soil. Moreover, the basilica was encircled by mageia circles that rotated with the rhythmic movement of a celestial clock, a wondrous sight that defied logic. This miraculous phenomenon was a legacy of the Ancient Arcanus from millennia ago—a craft that had now vanished entirely from the world.

  The Sanctus Sanctum served as the official primary mageia association of the Arkflame Kingdom. The entire fortress was situated upon a high hill, a realm blessed with a pleasantly cool climate year-round. Yet, strangely, this hill and its ancient citadel remained frigid and enshrined in thick clouds, as if to sever the sanctuary within from the chaos without.

  This basilica was thus akin to an ancient mageia realm floating upon the clouds. Additionally, lightning frequently struck the perimeter of the Sanctus territory, earning the temple the dreaded name: 'Stormcloud Citadel.'

  Seraph walked along the silent corridors, heading toward the Mageia Training Hall. Although it was already late in the morning, hardly anyone was out walking.

  Since most magis hailed from wealthy dynasties and noble bloodlines, many were unable to shed their old habits even after taking their vows. Most did not care for the discipline of early mornings; one would rarely encounter them until noon, when they finally awoke to partake in their first meal of the day.

  Seraph was well-acquainted with this stagnant atmosphere. Ordinarily, the place remained tranquil, the air saturated with the essence of natural forces. In the past, since he lacked the mageia power for rigorous training, he would wake at dawn to enter the Labyrinthine Basilica of Tomes, consuming mageia scrolls to compensate for his deficit in raw capability.

  If one were to measure the results of a raw power examination, Seraph's scores were once appallingly low; yet, if the threshold of judgement were mageia theory and history, he stood peerless and alone.

  The young man once harboured the desperate hope that if he could not become a warlock, he would one day become a Rune Architect.

  The Rune Architect is the wielder of the blueprints of creation. They are the crafters of mageia golems, the ones who refine and fuse energia engineering to breathe life into massive war golems. A Rune Architect transforms harmless arts into ferocious engines of war—breathing soul into stone and metal.