The moonlight crept through the tall windows like liquid silver, washing Adam's room in a pale, holy glow. No fire flickered in the hearth. No candle dared disturb the silence. The night was deep—cradled in that quiet hour between midnight and dawn—and yet, sleep had refused him.
Not when mana stirred in his veins like a second heart. Not when power hummed beneath his skin, restless, hungry, waiting.
Adam sat cross-legged on the polished wooden floor, shirtless, sweat dried to a salty sheen after his final workout. His lean torso rose and fell in controlled rhythm, the body of a young man who had begun to shed the fat of sloth for the sculpted tension of discipline. He had grown firmer. Harder. Faster. His reflection in the mirror didn't show nobility or power, not yet—but it did show resolve.
He inhaled.
Focused.
And whispered, "Color Magic… manifest."
The response was immediate.
From his core, where the opened mana gates pulsed faintly with blue fire, three strands of raw color burst into the open air. They spiraled slowly above his hands, drifting like celestial ribbons—Red, crackling with warlike energy; Yellow, sharp and jittery with speed; and Blue, calm and heavy, the weight of still waters and control.
He marveled at them, three distinct forces dancing around him in harmony—beautiful, alive, but still barely tame.
His mana ticked down quickly. A glance at his status window confirmed it:
[Mana: 300 / 500]
His lips twitched. "That much already?"
Three colors was too much.
He dismissed Yellow and Blue with a soft exhale, letting their essences dissolve into sparks. Only Red remained.
Instantly, the drain slowed to a gentle drip.
"Much better," he murmured, watching the red mist coil lazily around his arm like a living flame that knew not heat but fury. He shaped it with his thoughts—first a claw, then a gauntlet, then a tendril—and though sluggish, the magic obeyed.
Red.
The color of Strength. Of force. Of destruction. It was the magic of warriors, of firebrands, of brutes and champions. He breathed it in. Drew it into his chest. Let it wrap around his muscles and fuse with his bones.
And with a soft chime, his status shifted:
[Strength: 40]
His heart skipped.
Forty.
He was on par now with an elite woman knight—warriors who had trained for years, blooded themselves on monsters and men alike. To think he could match their raw strength with a single color…
A grin tugged at the corner of his lips.
But then came the drag.
A hitch in the flow of Red. His limbs grew stiff, the mist slowed. It wasn't his mana.
No.
It was the Curse.
That damnable, parasitic legacy his father had left him—leeching at his strength, draining him the moment he pushed past his limits. He'd felt it during workouts too. The sluggishness. The cap. His growth would be stunted here, until he found a way to sever it.
"Cap's forty, huh?" he muttered. "Fine. I'll rip through it later."
He rose, eyes gleaming.
Time for another test.
He crossed the room to the old wooden chest tucked under his bed. Childhood memories spilled from its cracked edges—memories of scribbled wolves, of pretend battles, of playing knight to his sisters' mage queens.
He pulled out the practice sword hidden beneath. It was blunt, worn, more stick than blade. Perfect.
He fed Red into it slowly, carefully. The weapon shook, then stabilized—glowing faintly with a sheen like burning oil. It held.
Adam grinned.
He grabbed an empty crate from the corner and set it down. A light swing. A test.
CRACK.
The crate split like paper under his strike.
"Legit," he whispered.
Then came a knock.
"Young master? Is everything alright?"
It was his butler's voice, feminine and firm.
Adam straightened. "Yes! Just—dropped something. I'm changing. Don't come in!"
A pause.
"…Very well. Please call if you need anything."
Footsteps receded.
He exhaled.
One more test.
This time, he infused both his body and the sword with Red. His skin lit up like molten steel, and the sword began to sing—a low hum of energy. His mana drained in chunks:
[Mana: 150 / 500]
Fast.
But powerful.
He grabbed a second crate—reinforced, gilded, solid. He raised the sword. Exhaled.
And swung.
BOOM.
The chest shattered. Splinters flew. The sword drove through wood, and even the floor beneath, tearing into the foundation like a red comet. A shallow crater remained.
He stared.
He smiled.
Then he giggled, breathless with awe. "This… this is power."
"Young master?!"
His butler again, urgent.
"Just dropped a chest!" he called out. "Still changing!"
"…Understood."
She left. Probably cursing his clumsiness under her breath.
He sat down, letting Red fade. The sword clattered to the floor.
He closed his eyes.
The room was filled with the scent of dust, sweat, and mana smoke. His muscles ached, but it was the good kind—the ache that reminded you of growth.
He was getting stronger.
He was getting ready.
And as he lay back in bed, letting the moonlight wash over him, a dream curled through his mind—of mountains split by crimson light, of the world bowing before the only man who could wield magic.
He smiled in his sleep.
[Absolute Choice System — Progress Synced]System Notice: Path Divergence Near. Prepare for Next Selection.