The spell of entry was far simpler than the Black String — almost insultingly so.It took Ares only a few months to learn it, and when he finally recreated the pattern, it felt almost natural. He imagined that it would take forty-eight motes of green light arranged in a clean spiral to complete the spell.
Yet even as he mastered it, doubt crept in.What if it didn't truly connect him to Vraelm? What if he was not able to enter here again — cut off from this place?
He decided to learn more before leaving.
The first spell he sought was teleportation. The old man, Rodan, had always appeared and vanished at will, pulling him in and out of realms as if it were nothing. That ability — to move freely — fascinated him. It was both annoying and awe-inspiring. He wanted that power.
So Ares turned toward the Category of Unmentioned Teleportation, the collection of patterns that hummed quietly at the edge of the thousand conduits. He studied them all. It took him fifty years.
When he finally succeeded, he still wasn't satisfied. The fear remained — that the old man might have tricked him. "What if the spell of entry didn't work?" he wondered. So he turned toward the seven golden conduits floating near the Black String — the ones Astro had shown him.
They were impossible. He could barely form even a quarter of a single spell before his soul began to tremble from the strain. Each conduit was layered and connected in elegant patterns that grew increasingly complex. He tried for a hundred years. Then, reluctantly, he stopped.
When he opened his eyes again, he was back in his room.
The air felt warm, the light soft. For the first time in a long while, he felt… proud. He had achieved something. He wanted to test the Realm spell immediately.
He raised his hand. The spell conduit formed as a template; green motes filled in — forty-two of them. "So it was forty-two, not forty-eight," he said out loud.
"Well, here goes nothing." A single stroke of will, a clean connection — and pain exploded through him.
It was real, burning, sharp, as if his very soul had been torn apart. The conduit shattered. The room vanished. When the pain faded, he found himself once more on the black sands of Vraelm.
He gasped, clutching his chest. "Why does it hurt so much? Dammit!" he whispered as he noticed floating spells around him. "He wasn't lying."
But the horror remained. Every time he cast the spell, it ripped through him. He dissolved the conduit again, trying to analyze it. Why did Rodan never suffer this? Was his form different? Was it his strength?
He returned to his body and tried again, carefully observing the pattern as green motes filled the conduit. He dreaded the searing pain — but did it again.
And again.
Each attempt ended the same — searing agony, his conduit torn apart, his soul screaming. He began to dread casting it, even though it worked perfectly.
He needed a solution.
He thought back to the golden soup Beth had made for him—how it had always filled him with warmth after pain. When he returned to his body, he stumbled straight to the pantry, gulped it down greedily, and waited. The ache softened. His soul pulsed stronger.
"At least it's useful for something," he muttered. Then, half-mad from exhaustion, he laughed. "Well its like I have found a cheat code... but couldn't it be less painfull"
It was a ridiculous thought. But even ridiculous things began to make sense after a few centuries.
He spent the following days studying both magic and cooking — anything that might ease the pain. When he wasn't trying to refine the conduit, he was memorizing the symbols Beth used in her soups. He noticed something strange: the silver soup she brewed for recovery contained layered runes, faint mana symbols that fused together as the mushrooms melted. It was alchemy disguised as cuisine — a spell in liquid form.
The realization stunned him. Each bowl was a carefully woven enchantment designed to restore the soul.
He tried to memorize it, line by line, rune by rune — but the spell was complex, far beyond anything he could reproduce. It rivaled the seven conduits in complexity. Still, the discovery filled him with a quiet awe.
Later that night, as he drank the silver soup, the pain receded completely. His memories grew sharper; his mind, clearer. He looked at Beth and, for the first time, truly saw her effort — her quiet care, her tireless patience.
He stood, walked over, and hugged her. "Thank you," he said softly. "For everything."
Beth blinked, startled, then smiled and patted his shoulder. "What's gotten into you?"
Ares chuckled weakly. "I really appreciate your cooking."
Two days later, he tried to visit Rodan.
But the door didn't let him enter. He was pushed away by an unknown force.
No entry.
"So that's how you want to play," he muttered. "Fine. I have everything I need."
Still, he couldn't help himself. He placed two golden bowls of soup in front of his door — an offering, a plea. Nothing changed.
He tried again the next day. And the day after. Failure after failure. By the time the academy's orientation neared, he was exhausted — his soul frayed from overuse. The repeated casting of teleportation and realm spells had become its own kind of torture.
During one of those days, his experiments went too far. The teleportation spell — one of the Unmentioned — tore through him violently. He blacked out and reappeared right in front of Beth.
She screamed and instinctively hit him with a ladle. The pain of the soul was so far beyond physical hurt that he hardly felt the blow, but it made him laugh — a genuine laugh that broke through weeks of frustration.
Beth, red-faced and furious, eventually forgave him and handed him another bowl of silver soup. This time, as he drank it, he understood the spell behind it completely — not through memorization, but through feeling. The runes resonated with his soul like an old memory returning.
He couldn't recreate it yet, but he could sense its flow. It was beautiful.
Afterward, he sat quietly in the pantry, staring at the empty bowl. His heart still ached from the repeated failures, but his soul pulsed with strength.
He knew one thing for certain now: the soup was not just food — it was a spell that rejuvenated the spirit.
He looked at Beth again, smiled faintly, and said, "Thank you so much. I'm really glad I met you here."
Then he rose, stretched, and turned toward the long hall. In two days, orientation would begin.