「Luminate.」
The spark lasted two seconds this time—a fractional improvement over his previous attempt. Emrys recorded the result in his journal with methodical precision, ink smudging slightly under his trembling fingers.
[Attempt #152: Limited success] --> [Duration: 2.3 seconds] --> [Fatigue: Moderate] --> [Note: Copper taste in mouth intensified]
The silver tracery on his wrist pulsed faintly in the pre-dawn darkness, visible only when he angled it toward the portal''s blue glow. Three days had seemed like a reasonable preparation time yesterday. Now, with one day gone and pitiful progress to show for it, the countdown felt like a death sentence.
One hundred and fifty-two attempts. One hundred and fifty failures. Two barely-qualified successes.
"This is fine," he muttered to his reflection in the apartment''s small mirror. Dark circles underlined his eyes like bruises. "Absolutely perfect preparation for a magical death tournament. Maybe I should''ve spent my time writing a will instead."
Emrys rolled his shoulders, working out the stiffness from hours of repeated casting attempts. The prototype device sat warm against his palm, its runes shifting in patterns that seemed almost responsive to his touch. Not for the first time, he wondered what it had been designed for—and why it responded to him when no other magical tool ever had.
[Objective: Master basic magic before tournament begins] --> [Time Remaining: 47:18:43] --> [Current Skill Level: Pathetic]
Another five attempts before sunrise, bringing him to 157 total. Then classes—the perfect cover for a condemned man. Who would suspect the human fool of practicing for a competition he couldn''t possibly survive?
<>
"There he is," someone whispered as Emrys entered the Advanced Theoretical Physics lecture hall. "The dead man walking."
Emrys kept his expression neutral as he took his usual seat in the back row. Word traveled fast in Nexoria—especially news this absurd. The human who dared enter the Crucible of Fates. The mortal with delusions of magical adequacy.
The seats beside him remained conspicuously empty. Even the other human students kept their distance, as if his impending doom might be contagious. He couldn''t blame them. Association with him had become a liability overnight.
Professor Thorn entered the lecture hall, his eyes flicking briefly to Emrys before he began distributing the day''s materials. The only human professor at Nexoria, Thorn occupied a precarious position—respected for his brilliant mind but forever an outsider. Much like Emrys himself.
"Today we''ll be discussing the intersectionality of magical fields and quantum probability," Thorn announced, activating the lecture hall''s projection crystal. "Particularly how observer effects influence spell stability in complex casting environments."
Emrys took notes mechanically, his mind elsewhere. The lecture''s content held unusual relevance today—examining how observation altered magical outcomes was precisely what he''d been documenting in his journal. But the exhaustion from his morning practice made concentration difficult.
An elven student deliberately bumped his desk while walking past.
"Enjoy your funeral, mortal," he whispered, just loud enough for nearby students to snicker.
Emrys looked up with a bland smile. "I requested an open casket, so I''ll see you there."
The elf''s perfectly symmetrical features twisted with surprise, then disgust. He moved away without further comment.
Point to the human. Small victories count when you''re accumulating a losing record.
<>
That night, Emrys returned to his systematic experimentation. His journal now contained detailed observations of 157 attempts, with only two marginal successes. There had to be a pattern he was missing.
[Hypothesis #8: Hand position requires greater precision] --> [Test Results: Failure across 12 variations]
[Hypothesis #9: Verbal command requires tonal adjustment] --> [Test Results: Failure across 7 variations]
[Hypothesis #10: Emotional state influences mana flow] --> [Test Results: Inconclusive - anger produced stronger but unstable effect]
Frustrated, he hurled his pen across the room. Two days left, and he still couldn''t reliably produce even the simplest spell. The stolen research papers mocked him from his desk - instructions so clear that "even first-year students mastered this spell within days."
"What am I missing?" he muttered, retrieving his pen and flipping through his notes again. "Either I''m missing something obvious, or magical academia has the worst instructional design in history."
His mana core—if he even had one—felt like a locked door without a keyhole. Each attempt to channel energy left him with a sensation like trying to breathe through wet cloth. Something was fundamentally wrong with his approach, but the textbooks offered no alternatives.
After four more failed attempts with increasingly desperate variations, he leaned back with exhaustion clouding his vision. His hand cramped from holding the same position for hours. A thin trickle of blood ran from his nose, the metallic taste matching the strange copper scent that filled the room after each attempt.
"Fine. If orthodox methods won''t work..." He flexed his fingers, considering the problem from another angle. "When everything fails, do the opposite. That''s worked for exactly zero historical figures, but hey, I''ll be pioneering new ground in catastrophic failure."
More out of desperation than insight, Emrys tried random variations - fingers positioned awkwardly, palm facing different directions. Failure after failure after failure. His mana channels—whatever pitiful excuses for channels he possessed—burned with each attempt, like muscles strained beyond their capacity.
On his eleventh variation, something unexpected happened when he accidentally pressed his thumb against his ring finger instead of his index while holding his palm inward rather than outward.
「Luminate.」
A tiny spark - barely visible even in his dim apartment - flickered above his hand for a fraction of a second. The sensation was entirely different—not pushing outward as the texts described, but pulling inward first, like drawing breath before speaking.
[Attempt #169: Minimal response] --> [Duration: 0.3 seconds] --> [Unusual hand position: Noted] --> [Mana flow pattern: Inverted? Requires verification]
His heart raced as he tried again immediately, attempting to replicate the exact position. Nothing.
Three more attempts. Nothing.
The momentary success receded like a mirage in the desert, leaving him more frustrated than before. The prototype device in his pocket had warmed briefly during that successful moment, then cooled again with his failures.
"What did I do differently?" he wondered, fighting against mounting frustration. "Something about the circulation pattern..."
It took seven more attempts, each with slight modifications, before he produced another spark. His concentration was absolute—he''d positioned his fingers precisely, angled his wrist at exactly 37 degrees, and most importantly, reversed the mental visualization of mana flow. Instead of pushing energy outward from his core to his hand, he imagined drawing ambient energy inward through his fingers before releasing it.
By the twenty-third variation, he finally achieved something substantial. Not because of brilliant deduction, but through brute-force trial and error.
「Luminate.」
Light bloomed above his palm—not a weak spark but a steady orb of blue-white illumination that bathed his apartment in cool radiance. It held for five seconds before flickering out as his concentration wavered. The moment it disappeared, a wave of exhaustion hit him like a physical blow. His legs buckled, forcing him to catch himself against the desk as black spots danced in his vision.
[Attempt #183: Success] --> [Spell Duration: 5 seconds] --> [Control: Minimal] --> [Fatigue: Severe - verging on mana depletion] --> [Note: Position inverts standard approach] [Warning: Current efficiency unsustainable]
His hands trembled as he documented the success, his normally neat handwriting barely legible. The fatigue was bone-deep, like he''d run for miles without rest. His mana channels—whatever strange, malformed versions he possessed—burned with the unfamiliar activity.
So this is what mana depletion feels like. Delightful. Like being hit by a carriage while simultaneously coming down with influenza.
Still, exhilaration coursed through him, so intense it bordered on painful. The prototype device had grown warm against his skin, its runes pulsing faintly. Something about this inverted channeling method seemed to connect better with whatever anomaly he possessed.
Not brilliant insight. Just stubborn persistence. The strategy of fools and madmen everywhere.
He forced himself to wait until the worst of the fatigue passed before attempting another cast. Thirty minutes later, he tried again with the inverted position, focusing intensely on the reversed mana flow.
If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.
「Luminate.」
Another success—this time lasting nearly seven seconds before the spell collapsed and another wave of exhaustion washed over him. Progress, however incremental, was still progress.
By midnight, after dozens more attempts with rests between each casting, he could maintain the light spell for nearly fifteen seconds and had even managed rudimentary color shifts—from blue to a pale green that died quickly. Each success came through grinding repetition rather than elegant mastery, leaving him drenched in sweat and trembling with fatigue.
His journal filled with observations:
[Theory: Conventional magical approaches fundamentally incompatible] --> [Inverted positions yield 38% improved response] --> [Energy cost: Excessive - approximately 4x normal requirement] --> [Recovery time between casts: 15-20 minutes for basic manifestation] --> [Mana depletion symptoms: Dizziness, nausea, temporary vision impairment] --> [Consistent limiter: Core capacity insufficient for sustained casting]
When exhaustion finally claimed him, Emrys collapsed across his narrow bed, the prototype device still clutched in his hand. His dreams were fragments of light and shadow, of repeated failures punctuated by rare, fleeting victories.
<>
Day two of preparation brought new challenges. His morning classes felt surreal—sitting through lectures on mundane subjects while the silver tracery on his wrist counted down to the tournament. Fellow students now openly stared, their whispers no longer bothering with subtlety.
"They say the human actually accepted Moonshadow''s medallion." "How long do you think he''ll last in the first trial?" "The betting pool in Elementals has him at ninety seconds. Generous, if you ask me."
Emrys absorbed it all with practiced indifference. Their mockery was merely background noise to the calculations running through his mind—mana conversion ratios, spell duration improvements, control technique refinements. Last night''s breakthrough had opened new avenues of experimentation.
He spent lunch in an unused classroom, practicing smaller, more controlled manifestations of the light spell. Creating a tiny pinpoint of illumination required more precision than the standard orb but consumed less energy—a critical consideration given his pitiful mana capacity.
[Spell Variation: Pinpoint Light] --> [Energy Efficiency: Theoretical improvement] --> [Control Difficulty: Extreme] --> [Combat Utility: Unknown but potentially useful] --> [Hypothesis: Smaller manifestation = extended duration]
The results were discouraging. For every successful cast, he suffered through eight failures. His control remained inconsistent at best, catastrophically unreliable at worst. The smallest distraction—a distant conversation, a sudden noise—shattered his concentration and collapsed the spell.
If a butterfly flaps its wings during the tournament, I''m probably dead.
By mid-afternoon, his mana channels felt raw, like rope burns inside his veins. Each attempt left him more drained than the last. The prototype device seemed to be helping somewhat, warming during his casting attempts and somehow stabilizing the flow, but even with its assistance, his progress remained frustratingly slow.
He managed to maintain a pinpoint light for nearly twenty seconds—his best duration yet—but the achievement came at a cost. The moment the spell ended, a splitting headache bloomed behind his eyes, and his nose began to bleed freely. His control over the color and intensity remained virtually non-existent.
[Mana Depletion Warning: Recovery period required] --> [Recommended rest time: 3+ hours] --> [Risk of channel damage if ignored: Moderate to high]
Ignoring his own warning, he attempted one more cast. The result was predictable but still frustrating—complete failure, followed by intensified headache and dizziness so severe he had to sit with his head between his knees until it passed.
Turns out inventing your own magical methodology has downsides. Namely, the very real possibility of giving yourself an aneurysm.
As he was returning to his apartment from the library, a familiar voice froze him mid-step.
"You surprised me, human. I didn''t think you''d actually accept."
Varek Moonshadow leaned against the corridor wall, alone this time—no audience, no witnesses. His violet eyes glowed faintly in the dimly lit hallway, revealing the passive mana circulation that elite mages maintained even at rest. The casual display of magical control was simultaneously impressive and infuriating.
Emrys calculated his options, finding none particularly advantageous. "Your medallion was too generous an offer to refuse."
Varek pushed off from the wall with fluid grace, closing half the distance between them. Without his usual coterie of admirers, his demeanor seemed different—less performatively cruel, more clinically curious.
"The Crucible''s preliminary round has a forty percent elimination rate," he said, watching Emrys''s face carefully. "For qualified mages."
[Information: Valuable] --> [Delivery Method: Psychological warfare] --> [Best Response: Projected confidence] --> [Internal Status: Completely screwed]
"I appreciate the statistics," Emrys replied evenly. "Though I wonder why you''re sharing them."
Varek''s smile didn''t reach his eyes. "Professional courtesy. The truly interesting part is what happens to those who fail unusually... spectacularly."
The careful word choice hung between them. Elimination. Not death. Something else entirely.
"The Arcanum collects data from every Crucible," Varek continued, circling Emrys with predatory attention. "Magical anomalies are particularly valuable to their research division. I''ve heard they maintain extensive facilities beneath the tournament grounds."
"Sounds efficient," Emrys commented, refusing to show the unease crawling up his spine. "Dual-purpose event. Entertainment plus research. No wonder it''s so popular."
Varek stopped directly before him, close enough that Emrys could smell the expensive enchanted cologne that elite mages favored. His mana presence was palpable—a background hum of power that made the air feel heavy.
"Do try to survive the first round. I''d hate to lose my entertainment so quickly."
He departed with a mocking bow, leaving Emrys alone in the corridor with new questions and deepened resolve.
Forty percent elimination rate. For qualified mages.
The implication was clear. For unqualified participants—for humans—the odds were significantly worse.
So the choices are death, dissection, or victory. Excellent menu options.
<>
The final day before the tournament passed in a blur of intensive practice. Emrys skipped all but his mandatory classes, dedicating every spare moment to refining his control. The prototype device had become slightly more responsive, though still wildly inconsistent. Its runes glowed intermittently, sometimes seeming to sync with his successful casts.
He focused primarily on two variations of the light spell: a sustained orb and a concentrated beam. The orb required less precision but more overall power, while the beam demanded exact focus but could potentially be weaponized if necessary. Both left him trembling and nauseated after each attempt.
His makeshift practice area—the small bathroom connected to his apartment—now bore scorch marks on the walls from failed attempts. Twice, he''d nearly set his own clothing on fire when his control slipped. Once, he passed out entirely, waking on the floor with dried blood crusted beneath his nose and no memory of falling.
By nightfall, his progress remained frustratingly incremental:
[Luminate Spell Variations Attempted: 6] --> [Successfully Executed: 2] --> [Standard Orb: Maximum Sustained 34 seconds] --> [Directed Beam: Attempted 17 times, 2 partial successes] --> [Side Effects: Significant fatigue, nosebleeds, occasional unconsciousness] --> [Problem Areas: Initiation consistency (47%), control maintenance (33%), mana capacity (severely limited)]
He stood before the mirror, watching the small light struggle between his fingers before guttering out prematurely. For the first time since accepting the medallion, he allowed himself a grim smile.
"Almost certainly doomed, but slightly less pathetic than yesterday. My obituary can now read ''maintained magical light for half a minute before being obliterated'' instead of ''died immediately and embarrassingly.''"
The portal in his room pulsed in response, as if laughing at his newfound confidence.
Sleep came fitfully that night, interrupted by dreams of crystalline mazes and watching eyes. The prototype device grew unusually warm against his chest, its runes shifting in patterns that seemed almost deliberate, though he couldn''t interpret their meaning.
Morning arrived with cold certainty. The portal flared to brilliant life as Emrys completed his preparations, its edges stabilizing into a perfect oval that hummed with power. The sound vibrated through his bones, making his teeth ache and the hairs on his arms stand on end.
[CRUCIBLE OF FATES: TRANSPORTATION SEQUENCE INITIATED]
His apartment—the concrete box that had been his home for two years—suddenly seemed precious in its familiarity. The desk covered in notes. The bed with its thin mattress. The bookshelf filled with borrowed texts. All potentially lost to him depending on the coming days'' outcomes.
His final preparations were methodical: journal securely packed, prototype device concealed in an inner pocket, worn but clean clothes selected for maximum mobility. He''d filled a small flask with water and tucked it into his boot—a pitiful preparation for what was to come, but better than nothing.
He took one last look around, mentally saying goodbye to the space. If things went badly, someone else would be assigned this room within days, all evidence of his existence efficiently removed.
Just another failed human. Nothing to see here. Move along.
Emrys approached the portal, the prototype device warm against his chest, its runes pulsing in time with the doorway''s fluctuations. The moment stretched like glass under heat—malleable, significant.
I''m either about to discover the truth or die trying. Or both, in the wrong order.
He stepped through with eyes wide open.
The sensation defied description—being unmade and remade atom by atom, consciousness stretched across dimensions never meant for human perception. Colors that didn''t exist. Sounds that couldn''t be heard. The feeling of falling upward through liquid fire.
His mana channels, such as they were, screamed in protest at the magical forces surging through them. The prototype device grew scorching hot against his chest, its runes blazing through his shirt with enough intensity to cast shadows even in the maelstrom of transportation magic.
Then solidity returned with jarring abruptness. Emrys gasped, lungs refilling with air that tasted like ozone and possibilities. His vision cleared to reveal a space that shouldn''t exist—a vast chamber of impossible architecture, where crystal spires grew from ceilings and floors simultaneously, where gravity seemed optional rather than mandatory.
All around him, other contestants materialized through similar portals—elves with their willowy grace, dwarves solid as the stone they favored, elementals in their various manifestations, and beings he couldn''t classify at first glance. Some appeared completely unfazed by the transportation, while others staggered slightly before regaining their composure.
The air hummed with power, thick enough that it made his skin tingle and the hairs on his arms stand on end. The ambient mana density here had to be at least ten times that of Nexoria''s campus, saturating everything like invisible fog.
Contestants naturally segregated by race and magical affinity, forming islands of familiarity in the alien environment. Elven light mages gathered near a crystalline fountain. Dwarven earth manipulators clustered around a column of living stone. Water elementals pooled near a cascading liquid staircase that flowed upward instead of down.
And then there was Emrys. Alone. The only human in sight.
Across the chamber, Varek stood with the elven elite, his silver-white hair immediately recognizable amid the gathering. Their eyes met briefly, Varek''s expression shifting from surprise to smug satisfaction. He hadn''t truly expected Emrys to appear.
Sorry to disappoint. I''ll try to die more spectacularly to make up for it.
Tournament officials moved efficiently through the crowd, checking registrations against glowing tablets. Their uniforms—silver with blue trim—marked them as Arcanum staff rather than Nexoria faculty. More experienced. More powerful. Far more dangerous. Each moved with the absolute confidence of someone who could end any contestant without breaking a sweat.
A bell tolled, impossibly loud, silencing all conversation. The sound reverberated through the crystal architecture, creating harmonics that made Emrys''s teeth ache and the prototype device vibrate against his chest.
A voice that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere spoke:
"Preliminary trial begins in sixty seconds. Participants will now be tested for basic magical aptitude."
Massive doors slid open at the chamber''s far end, revealing a swirling vortex of magical energy—colors shifting and blending in patterns that hurt the eyes if observed too directly. The crowd surged forward, anticipation replacing apprehension as trained mages prepared to demonstrate their abilities.
Emrys clutched the prototype in his pocket, its warmth the only comfort in this alien environment. Three days of practice against lifetimes of training. A single spell variation barely mastered against arsenals of magical techniques.
Well, this is going to be embarrassing for someone. Possibly me. Almost certainly me.
He straightened his shoulders and stepped forward with the others. His mana channels already felt different here—less constricted, more responsive in the magic-saturated environment. The prototype device pulsed against his chest like a second heartbeat.
The countdown reached zero. The vortex pulsed once, then expanded rapidly to engulf the entire gathering. The last thing Emrys saw before magical energy consumed his vision was Varek''s satisfied smirk from across the chamber.
If I''m going to fail, might as well fail spectacularly.
The tournament had begun.