The ruined sanctuary stood on the edge of silence, half-swallowed by creeping vines and time-worn stone. Cracked pillars leaned like old sentinels, their engravings faded with age, and sunlight filtered through holes in the collapsed ceiling, casting angled beams like ghostly fingers from the heavens.
Here, in the stillness untouched by academy bells or the judgment of peers, Elias sat alone.
He had cleared a space on the stone floor, brushing away dead leaves and brittle twigs. Around him, ancient scrolls lay unrolled in a sacred circle—pages brittle yet alive with dormant power. A few glowed faintly, others wept flakes of gold dust from their aging runes. All of them bore the same simple signature at the end:
– A.L.
No name. No title. Just the initials, like the whisper of a forgotten soul.
Elias had spent hours combing through them. Some contained raw inscriptions, others described strange meditative postures or spiritual tempering techniques. But the inheritance's first and most repeated lesson was simple:
"Know your sea."
He obeyed.
Closing his eyes, Elias let the world fade.
Breath by breath, sensation dissolved. First, the sanctuary—the cool stone beneath him, the filtered sunlight on his shoulders. Then the rustle of leaves outside, the distant cry of a hawk overhead. Then, even time itself.
In its place bloomed a boundless ocean.
Not of water—but of essence. Of self.
The Spiritual Sea.
It stretched endlessly beneath him, its surface a glowing mirror of starlight and shifting smoke. Wisps of will, fragments of old memory, and pulses of spiritual force drifted through it like fish in the deep. As Elias hovered above it, his form weightless and bare, he felt its quiet rhythms pulse in time with his thoughts.
This was his core. His foundation.
And in his past life, it had betrayed him.
His spiritual sea had been shallow, choked with sediment, poisoned with haste. He had scraped and clawed his way up through talentless effort and desperate refinement, never truly strengthening his foundation. He remembered the nights of pain—nose bleeding, ears ringing, soul trembling—trying to cross boundaries he was never born to touch.
It had cost him dearly.
Now, though… things were different.
His spiritual sea was cleaner. Deeper. Not vast, not yet—but untainted. Its essence was smoother, its energy purer. Like a glass basin slowly being filled with clear water.
"So this is what a second chance feels like…" he thought, his voice lost in the echo of the dreamscape.
But even now, even in this improved state, the difficulty remained. For the spiritual sea was not just a vessel—it was a test. It demanded precision, patience, and above all—talent.
To purify it, one had to dive deeper. And the deeper one delved, the more resistance would rise.
Elias focused.
His consciousness pressed downward. A ripple spread beneath him, and instantly, a sharp resistance flared through the sea. A pressure—not just physical, but spiritual—like an unseen force weighing down upon his soul.
The surface resisted his descent.
And he smiled.
"Still difficult. Good."
It meant he had not skipped steps. There were no false shortcuts here. Every inch downward would be earned with sweat and strain.
Purifying the spiritual sea was the path to growth, yes—but it was also dangerous. Many had drowned in their own potential. Delving too deep, too quickly, could rupture the spirit. Madness was common. Some never woke again. Others emerged broken—unable to sense inscriptions, deaf to the language of runes.
Elias remembered one such peer from his past life. A genius with unmatched instincts who had rushed forward, reaching the fourth level within a year. He died shortly after—his sea imploding under the strain of arrogance.
Now, Elias would walk slowly.
"I have no need to hurry. What I build this time must last beyond empires."
He focused again.
His mind sank beneath the sea's surface. Essence rushed around him like wind, stirring old shadows—glimpses of pain, fragments of memory. His old failures flickered through the depths, not to haunt, but to remind.
He reached out and began to temper his sea. Inch by inch. Breath by breath. Every motion was like carving stone with a feather. The energy resisted, pushed back, but never fully rejected him.
Progress came in drops.
But progress came.
After long hours, Elias slowly resurfaced. His breath hitched as sensation returned. Sweat dripped from his temple, his robes clung to his skin, and his fingers trembled faintly. His spirit ached—not with damage, but with deep exhaustion, like a blade tempered by flame.
He opened his eyes.
The sanctuary had not changed. Light still spilled across the dusty floor. The scrolls of A.L. waited in silence, unmoved. But Elias could feel it—something within him had shifted.
Not much.
Just a fraction.
But real.
He looked at his palm, where a dim wisp of refined essence curled like smoke. It was cleaner, denser, more obedient.
A single drop added to the sea.
He exhaled slowly.
He thought of the academy. The students whispering. The rumors that must be spreading after his absence. Some would wonder if he'd failed. Others would mock him behind closed doors.
Ryn would be curious.
That girl might be too.
Let them wonder.
He was not wasting time. He was buying his future—one grain at a time.
The clouds shifted above, casting a shadow across the sanctuary. Elias tilted his head back, watching them move. In the silence, his thoughts returned to the inheritance, and to the name signed at the bottom of every scroll:
"A.L."
Who had this man been? What path had he walked, to leave behind such a legacy?
No answers came.
Only the sea.
And in its depths… destiny waited.