Zatiel was hunched over his workbench in the dim light of his laboratory, fully absorbed in the precise and meticulous process of rune crafting. Sheets of beast hide and shards of refined mineral were scattered around him, each inscribed with faint lines of power. Today's focus was twofold—completing more Secondary Consciousness and Aerial Walk runes.
His hands moved with the assurance of someone who understood the essence of his craft. Even so, his attention kept drifting to a third schematic—one far more complex, etched with spirals and curves that seemed to shift subtly when stared at too long. It was the Transfiguration rune. He had already gained partial understanding of its structure, enough to lower the time and mental strain it would eventually take to create it. But he was nowhere near ready to begin.
The problem wasn't skill alone—it was energy. Even for a Neo-Demon, whose energy was far denser and more abundant than that of a Magus at the same rank, the power required to craft a Rank 1 rune was staggering. And Transfiguration wasn't just any Rank 1 rune—it was high-grade, an undertaking far beyond what his current Rank 0 self could support. Attempting it now would be little more than burning resources to ash.
He was just about to conclude his work for the day when a voice, cold and authoritative, resonated through the walls of his home.
"Apprentice Zatiel, Magus Jhon summons you to the fourth floor of the tower. Your immediate presence is required."
It came without introduction, without pause, and without expectation of an answer—more an edict than a request. The presence faded as abruptly as it had arrived.
Zatiel set down his pen, unfazed. "So, they finally reached out—sooner than I anticipated. Perhaps I underestimated the stir those runes would cause. No matter. Let's see what they want."
He regarded the summons with the same indifference one might give a shift in the wind. Most apprentices would have been struck with awe—or fear—at the thought of being called by a Rank 1 Magus. But to Zatiel, such individuals were far from untouchable.
Someone else in the house, however, didn't share his calm.
"Zatiel! What happened? Did you cross someone? Why is a Magus summoning you?"
Sophia stood in the doorway, her body tense, her voice pitched high with alarm. Her wariness of Magi was obvious—her bandaged form practically rigid.
"Relax," Zatiel said evenly. "It's likely about my runes, or perhaps a transaction. Nothing more."
He usually wouldn't bother with reassurances, but Sophia's panic bordered on distracting.
Realizing this wasn't a punitive summons but one concerning his craft, Sophia's shoulders eased slightly. "They might be interested in your methods," she said cautiously. Even without deep knowledge of runes, she recognized Zatiel's creations as extraordinary.
"They already know them," he replied.
Her eyes widened. "How? No one's been in your lab except me, and I haven't told anyone—"
"Your perceptiveness leaves much to be desired," Zatiel interrupted with a faint smirk.
She bristled. "What's that supposed to mean?"
It pleased him to see her irritation replace fear. "Tell me, Sophia—what are Magic Towers?"
She hesitated at the odd question, then answered, "They're headquarters for Magi—optimized for meditation and experiments, fortified like fortresses, and amplifying the abilities of whoever controls them."
"Exactly. Now tell me—would you allow hundreds of people to wander in and out of something that valuable without safeguards?"
Her eyes narrowed in sudden understanding. "The tower is under surveillance?"
"Not constant," he corrected. "Mostly proximity-triggered around important areas, or when someone higher up wants information on you. Now, I need to go. I'll return soon."
He left without hurry, the weight of the summons no heavier than the thought of an evening meal.
Zatiel arrived on the fourth floor within minutes, where a small golem awaited him. Without a word, it turned and led him through wide, echoing corridors to Magus Jhon's quarters. The residence resembled an apprentice's home in layout, but the materials were finer, the air charged with a faint, lingering magic.
The golem deposited him before a set of tall double doors. They opened silently, revealing a broad chamber where a middle-aged man stood waiting.
Zatiel took his measure at once. A Rank 1 Elementium Magus. Recently advanced, judging by the magnetic force field. And… his eyes flicked down briefly, he's using my runes.
"Apprentice Zatiel greets Magus Jhon," he said, bowing slightly. In another life, such a rank would have been inconsequential. But now, as nothing more than an apprentice, Zatiel saw no shame in showing formal respect.
Jhon studied him in turn. So this is the runemaster everyone's talking about. Runemasters usually advance their magical rank at a crawl, yet his energy feels like a pseudo-magus already. And he's so young. A flicker of envy crossed the Magus's eyes.
"I'll be direct," Jhon began. "Arthur's master intended to kill you. I intercepted him and forced his retreat."
His tone was heavy with pride, as if expecting Zatiel to bow in gratitude for the intervention.
Zatiel's inner thoughts were less impressed. So he's just the messenger—and the deterrent. Still, he masked his disinterest behind a performance: his expression shifted from polite attention, to feigned alarm, then to visible relief.
"My thanks, Lord Magus," he said, letting genuine-sounding gratitude color his voice.
That seemed to please Jhon, who straightened slightly. "I've decided to extend my protection for five years. In that time, you will advance to the rank of Runemaster and craft eight runes of my choosing."
He held out a parchment—an official contract. The terms were clear: once the runes were completed, they would go not to Jhon directly, but to a certain Clyde.
Zatiel glanced over the details, his mind moving quickly. Refusal risks provoking Clyde into action. He's not an immediate danger, but forcing a confrontation now would attract unwanted attention.
"I accept," he said finally.
He signed the contract after confirming its legitimacy, then returned it.
"Good," Jhon said, tucking it away. "You may go."
Dismissed, Zatiel gave another polite bow, turned on his heel, and left the chamber—his mind already calculating how to turn this new arrangement to his advantage.