The mornings in Cael Varn had a strange rhythm.
The city floated above shifting clouds and sun-baked winds, but within its white-stone spires, life was almost peaceful. Muffled bells marked the transition between hours, and the air smelled faintly of chalk dust and alchemical incense. The hum of arcane engines beneath the floorboards gave every hallway a heartbeat.
Alaric's room was modest — by noble standards. Polished sandstone floors, a bed that doubled as a focus array when activated, two desks, and a reinforced trunk filled with forbidden texts, spell matrices, and notebooks scribbled half in ink, half in symbols that pulsed softly when touched.
He rose early now. Spice had stripped the need for excess sleep from his body. Four hours, sometimes less, and he woke with his mind already arranging the day ahead.
James waited beside the desk, as always.
"Good morning, sir," the golem said, placing a warm cloth and a silver goblet of cooled fruit water on the bedside tray.
"Thank you," Alaric replied, voice calm but hoarse from disuse. Mornings were for thinking, not speaking.
He washed, dressed — robes enchanted for flexibility and endurance — and reviewed his schedule for the day. Three hours of advanced summoning lectures, a double session of runic theory, a practical application test in transmutation, and two favor contracts to fulfill: one alchemical, one enchanting.
Standard fare.
"Add thirty minutes of spice meditation at midday," he said quietly.
James updated the floating glyph interface without comment.
As they left the dormitory and stepped onto the long sky-bridge connecting to the main lecture halls, Alaric's eyes wandered — not toward the city, but toward the sky.
Ash.
Not here. Not now. But it lingered behind his eyelids.
He hadn't gone there since the first time — the void-hushed desert of white dust and colorless sun. The fourth thread had pulled him there, as if dragging his awareness across a curtain into another reality. No beasts. No storms. No horizon.
Just stillness.
And yet...
He had felt something out there. Not presence — not in the traditional sense — but weight. As if the dust itself remembered. Like a corpse, with the murderers' initials engraved upon it.
"James," he asked suddenly, "do you think a world can forget its purpose?"
The golem tilted its head slightly. "Unclear, sir. Define 'purpose' in this context."
Alaric didn't answer. He didn't need to.
The ash world reminded him of a tomb. A place that once meant something, but had been buried so deeply in silence and repetition that even its own ghosts had forgotten how to scream.
Was that what happened when order outlived meaning?
"Never mind," Alaric murmured, stepping into the arched doorway of Lecture Hall Seven.
The next few hours passed in disciplined focus. He conjured a water elemental during practicals, inscribed a dual-layered reinforcement rune on a steel tile, and corrected the teacher when they mismatched two sigils from conflicting spell traditions — politely, of course.
The instructor nodded stiffly. The other students whispered.
At midday, he meditated.
James set up the incense filters and cooling array in their private warded corner of the school garden. Alaric inhaled a cloud of vaporized spice — measured, precise. He sat cross-legged; eyes closed.
The world slowed.
In the quiet of his own mind, shapes danced. Concepts, not images — the way time folded around stillness. The way magic became less about will and more about rhythm. He sank into that rhythm.
And the ash returned.
Just for a moment.
Not visually. Not as a hallucination. But a texture in his thoughts. A reminder that not all worlds moved. Some simply endured.
He opened his eyes, exhaled slowly.
"James."
"Yes, sir?"
"If I ever begin to forget why I'm doing this — the learning, the crafting, the work — remind me of that world full of ashes."
James paused, then replied, "Understood, sir."
The rest of the day passed uneventfully. He finished the enchantment commission for a wind-based courier golem and transcribed a new stabilization matrix from a senior lecture he wasn't technically allowed to attend.
That evening, he returned to his room, closed the curtains, and activated the silent ward.
He opened a new page in his journal and began to write.
"It is time to travel the worlds I have already visited.
In the silver cities I will not be able to make much progress anymore as I'm not allowed to access more advanced knowledge since I'm too young by the teachers standards. Not to mention – so far, I have only been increasing my theoretical knowledge of the foundations of magic.
I haven't really expanded on to my ability to actually fight.
Patience, Wisdom, Initiative, Diversification of spells and so on. I need to get a good muscle memory of spells trained, or I will just die to the first idiot who rather casts a spell than talk to me.
I should also start observing Spirit Rings, Spirit Beasts and potentially Spirit Bones.
I have long reached the limit of my level 10 cultivation and need to get started with it anyway.
I guess I will just walk the world of Douluo Dalu and see it's wonders for the near future."
He paused, staring at the final sentence for a long moment.
Douluo Dalu.
It would be the first world he would return to for a longer time since beginning this multi-world pilgrimage. And unlike the others — where he had stayed cautious, observant, passive — this time, it would be different. This time, he would move with intent.
Alaric shut the journal with a quiet snap and stood. His limbs were light. Not with fatigue, but with readiness. The kind of alert calm that came only when the mind and body were perfectly aligned. The spice helped, yes — but this wasn't just its doing. This was purpose settling into his bones.
"Then let's see what the world of Spirit Masters can offer in contrast," he muttered.
Douluo Dalu.
The scent hit first — wild grass, moist bark, and something older beneath it all, like the exhalation of a living world.
He stood on a forested ridge, the canopy below vast and varied. Spirit beasts. He could sense them.
It was his usual physical training place.
James appearing right behind him, having been pulled into the world with the help of his scar, cloak adjusting to the local humidity.
He crouched and placed his hand on the earth. Raw energy pulsed faintly beneath the soil — not magical, but vital. Alaric could feel it in his bones. This was a world that breathed. That fought. That remembered.
He stood again, drawing a small disk from his belt — etched with runes designed to log spirit beast signatures. Custom-built. Only a prototype.
Time to test it.
That evening, Alaric made camp in a shallow hollow beside a natural spring. James erected the ward stones, and Alaric sat quietly, refining a new pulse detection glyph while small lights danced between the trees — fireflies or creatures pretending to be.
"Tomorrow after school," he said to himself, "we start traveling. Find a few exciting sights. Observe them. See what kind of soul beasts are lingering in this world. Potentially see the effects of soul rings"
James nodded beside him.
"And maybe," Alaric added, "learn what kind of soul I need to cultivate first."
He looked at his hand. Thinking of his martial souls, unmarked. Unbranded by any ring. Still clean.
But not for long - hopefully.
He knew he wouldn't rush it. The artificial ring needed to be perfect. It would be the base for his entire cultivation path. No mistakes. No regrets. No compromise.
And so, his journey in this world would begin like all his others:
Not with conquest.
But with understanding.