Chapter Seventy-Nine: Suppression

Wave after wave of stabbing pain assailed him, so intense that all color drained from Weir’s face, leaving it deathly pale. He gritted his teeth so hard that he bit through his lip, blood seeping into his mouth. Gasping for breath, Weir struggled to force his bent body upright, but even such a simple action proved impossible no matter how desperately he tried. It was as if all strength had been siphoned from him; his limbs were limp, his body swaying unsteadily, and even standing upright was a tremendous effort. In that moment, Weir realized the gravity of his situation and immediately ceased the fluctuations of magic, willing his senses to retreat into the sea of consciousness. But just then, a violent tremor surged through his mind—a pain so excruciating it felt as if every nerve in his body were being torn apart by brute force. His body convulsed uncontrollably, his facial muscles twisted into a hideous mask, and his hands gripped his wand so tightly that his fingernails dug deep into his flesh. With a sudden, guttural roar, Weir snapped his wand in two.

The werewolf, evidently oblivious to what was happening to Weir, grew curious and approached, reaching out to grab him for a closer look. Yet just as the creature’s claws were about to touch Weir, a huge hand clamped down on the werewolf’s arm. The werewolf turned, confusion written on his face.

“Sana?”

There was no answer. The beastman merely held the werewolf’s arm and shook his head lightly. For the record, Sana was the name of this beastman, who bore Behemoth blood in his veins.

In truth, Sana could have intervened before Darken—that was the werewolf’s name—ever laid a hand on Weir. But he had not. His caution would never allow him to bring an unknown element back to the tribe, not even if that person was the student of that woman.

At this point, Weir was teetering on the edge of disaster. His vast sea of consciousness was utterly devoid of magic, a vacuum collapsing inward. Mere perception was powerless to halt the crushing force this collapse produced. If this continued, his entire sea of consciousness would shatter, and even if he survived, he would be left hopelessly crippled.

“Magic... magic... magic...” Weir clenched his teeth, enduring the agony as he frantically searched for a solution. Suddenly, an idea struck him. He bit down hard, reached into his robes, and retrieved a fragment of leaf no bigger than a third of a pinky nail. He shoved it into his mouth.

Perhaps the sliver was so small that Sana, standing right beside Weir, failed to notice what he had just swallowed. But moments later, Sana sensed a faint heat radiating from Weir. In the blink of an eye, that feeble warmth became a searing wave, erupting from Weir’s body.

“Hm?” Sana uttered a puzzled grunt in the beast-tongue, watching as flickers of crimson firelight began to gleam from Weir’s body. As the flames intensified, the surrounding temperature soared, filling the air with an acrid, charred scent. Though curiosity tugged at him, Sana’s thick skin and flesh made him unafraid of the heat, but caution won out; he took several steps back, observing Weir from a safe distance.

...

By now, Weir was already regretting that he had consumed too much of the Goldenflame Grass. Though the fragment was only a third the size of a fingernail, this was no ordinary fire-aligned magical herb—it was Goldenflame Grass, and not just any, but a two-hundred-year-old specimen.

It was said that a fifty-year-old Goldenflame Grass could be used to create a scroll of forbidden spell potency. Imagine, then, what a two-hundred-year-old plant could do.

Within moments, Weir felt strands of crimson fire-attributed magic gathering in his once-empty sea of consciousness. Not only that, but the magic was accumulating at an astonishing rate. What shocked Weir even more was that, perhaps thanks to the Goldenflame Grass, his entire being seemed fused with fire magic itself. Without any conscious effort, every fire element in the vicinity surged toward him. Even though his sea of consciousness had been utterly depleted, at this rate, it would soon be completely filled with fire magic.

But the sea of consciousness, no matter how vast, has its limits. Once it was brimming with such immense magical energy, the only possible outcome would be rupture and destruction.

The heat continued to rise, turning Weir’s skin an eerie purplish red. The pain contorted his face into a grotesque mask. Within, his sea of consciousness tossed and heaved like a storm-lashed ocean, wild surges of fire magic battering its boundaries. The nearly saturated sea could barely withstand such convulsions; every collision sent sparks dancing before Weir’s eyes. Blood trickled from his mouth and nose, making his twisted features all the more terrifying.

At last, when the sea of consciousness reached full saturation, all the fire elements within coalesced at once, generating a force beyond imagining—like a volcano straining to burst its confines and shatter Weir’s mind completely. But at that critical instant, a vast, overwhelming power swept in from all directions, enveloping Weir entirely. In a blink, the rampaging force within him was utterly suppressed.

The fire element in Weir’s body had reached a threshold, and for the first time, he fell under the strange, suppressive force of the Mist Zone—a force that, at this most critical moment, saved his life. Taking advantage of this brief reprieve, Weir quickly plunged his awareness into his sea of consciousness. With the raging fire magic forcibly stilled by that mysterious power, Weir at last managed a breath of relief. Regaining his focus, he resolved to refine the excess fire element into his own power before anything else.