Theron stared at his son, his tea cup pausing halfway to his lips. The silence in the training hall was heavy, broken only by the faint dissipating hum of mana.
He was a Venerable Eighth Order Mage. The Shadow Bind he had just cast, while suppressed to the First Order in complexity, was fueled by mana of a density and quality that defied logic.
It shouldn't have been something a mere Third Order could shake off. Even the average Fourth Order mage would have been left immobilized, trussed up like a pig for slaughter.
Yet, standing before him, his twelve-year-old son, a dual Third Order cultivator, was dusting off his clothes, completely unbound.
'He actually broke it.'
Pride swelled in Theron's chest, but he ruthlessly crushed it down. He couldn't show it. Not now.
History was littered with the corpses of geniuses who drowned in their own arrogance before their beards grew in.
'Like my father used to say: A genius without sufficient strength is just a high-quality corpse in the making.'
Theron set his cup down with a sharp clack, the sound echoing in the hall. He composed his face into a mask of solemnity.
"Damien, my son. Do not let this small victory cloud your judgment. First things first..." Theron's eyes narrowed.
"You are still too weak."
He raised a hand, stopping Damien before the boy could even open his mouth.
"Don't rush to refute me. Listen."
Theron flicked his wrist. The shadows in the corner of the room surged to life, twisting and coalescing into detailed silhouettes under his control.
"In the world of Elias, a Third Order mage is considered an elite among commoners. But that standard applies only to the Human Race."
A shadow morphed into a slender, elegant figure holding a bow.
"Take the Elves you are so eager to visit. Individually, their affinity for mana puts us to shame. Among humans, a dual Third Order at twelve is a 'once-in-a-century' miracle. But for Elves, who are born kissed by nature and life magic? Reaching the Fifth Order is merely the standard for adulthood."
The shadow shifted again, expanding into a massive, winged beast.
"The Dragons in the West. Rumor has it that mere survival to adulthood grants them the power to rival minor gods."
The shadow shrank, becoming stout and holding a hammer.
"The Dwarves in the North. Our spies report their mechanical colossi can now barely match an Eighth Order Mage. Terrifying? Perhaps not individually. But if they achieve mass production..."
Theron's voice dropped an octave, leaking a trace of killing intent. He felt satisfied. He was peeling back the curtain of the world, revealing the horrors that lurked outside to crush the boy's ego.
However, he had no idea that the boy standing respectfully before him was internally rolling his eyes.
'Sigh... Father, do you think I, a transmigrator, don't know how crazy this damn world is?'
Damien kept his face neutral, a mask of shock plastering his features, while his mind raced.
'Just wait until the Protagonist and his group of murder-hobos start causing chaos. That's when the real show starts. '
'The Demon Invasion, the revival of the Ancient Sects, the Dusk of the Gods, the return of the Outer Deities...'
Damien suppressed a shudder.
'If the Third Order is an ant in this era, then in the coming era, even an Eighth Order Venerable like Father is just a slightly larger ant.'
Since he couldn't exactly explain that he had read the script of this world, Damien remained silent, widening his eyes at the appropriate moments.
Theron, seeing his son's "stunned" silence, nodded in satisfaction.
'Good. He is the listening type. Luckily, he didn't inherit his mother's fiery temper.'
He glanced at his wife, who was gracefully sipping her tea as if her husband wasn't dismantling their son's worldview, and let out a light chuckle.
"However," Theron's tone softened,
"I tell you this not to instill fear, but perspective. Despite these monsters, despite the Dragons and the Demons... on this continent, the Human Race is Supreme."
The shadows dissipated. Theron leaned forward.
"We lack the pure talent of the Elves. We lack the longevity of the Dragons. We lack the craftsmanship of the Dwarves. We aren't even blessed by mana like the Demons."
"But tell me, Damien. Why do we rule?"
"Because unlike them," Theron continued, his eyes gleaming,
"we have no racial limits on reproduction. Dragons take centuries to breed. Elves take decades. Humans? We take nine months."
"Do you understand what I mean?"
Damien's eyes lit up. This wasn't acting. As a genius, and a man of modern logic, the realization clicked.
"I understand," Damien said, his voice steady.
"Elves and Dragons favor quality, resulting in clans of maybe a few thousand."
"Precisely."
"But humans..." Damien looked at his hands.
"We have millions. Tens of millions. Even if the probability of a human reaching the Seventh or Eighth Order is one in a million, with our population base, we can brute force the statistics."
"We dominate not through individual might," Damien concluded, looking up at his father,
"but through the sheer, overwhelming weight of our top powerhouses born from an endless ocean of people."
Theron smiled, a genuine, proud smile. "Correct."
Damien sat back, his mind whirling. In his past life, he had always wondered how humanity, generic, squishy humanity held onto the continent.
'Numbers. It's a Zerg Rush strategy. We simply out-spawn the enemy until a statistical anomaly, a supreme powerhouse is born.'
But his blood ran cold when he thought of the future. The Heavenly Demon Lord was coming. And against that being, even a billion ants might not be enough.
He needed to get stronger. He needed to go to the Elven Empire and secure those resources before the 'Elven Slave Capture Arc' began and ruined everything. He had to move against the major human powers.
'Sigh... hopefully, after this trip, I can finally take a long vacation.'
"Here. Before you go."
Theron's voice snapped him back to reality. The older mage extended his hand, and three items materialized from thin air, floating toward Damien.
A pitch-black book with a silver moon embossed on the cover.
A jagged silver gemstone.
A necklace holding a gem so black it seemed to devour the surrounding light.
"To break through to the Fourth Order, you cannot simply compress mana like you did for the first three," Theron explained, his voice turning solemn.
"The Fourth Order requires a metamorphosis. You need a cultivation technique."
Theron pointed to the book.
"You cannot use this while your Aura Core is still active. But, if you ever decide to abandon the warrior path and focus solely on being a Mage... use this."
"This is the technique practiced by every Patriarch of the Voss family: The Midnight Tome."
Damien took the book. It felt cold to the touch, heavy with history.
"It doesn't just lead to the Eighth Order," Theron whispered, a glint of fanaticism in his eyes.
"The founding ancestor left a note on the first page. It claims that if mastered to perfection, one becomes Invincible Under the Night Sky."