The flowers remained flowers, the trees still trees, and the world's dreamlike hues unchanged.
What had shifted was Rogue.
Awakening, Rogue felt like a fish in a pond, observing a world rippling gently with light. These flowers, these trees, these colors had transformed into a flat painting. Something lay beyond the canvas, and Rogue strained to see through it, instinctively wanting to leap forward—yet each attempt rebounded him, like a fish against a crystal fishbowl's glass. Summer waned into autumn before Rogue finally recovered, or rather, reverted to all his former vices; he no longer woke checking whether his hands had turned to bones.
Rogue could distinctly sense the Divine Origin—the silver eyes, the knife-carved lines, the undulating patterns beneath the white robe—flashing through his mind like fragments of a dream. A flame ignited within him.
The Necromancer's innate aversion to angels had not dulled Rogue's lustful nature; instead, it was gradually overwhelmed by it. Like many nobles, Rogue possessed a pronounced obsession, though most nobles manifested theirs through unquestioning belief in their superiority over commoners. Rogue's fixation was simpler: to recreate a Light Angel as his Familiar using the Divine Origin. Never before had he craved power so intensely. If a Light Angel was this unforgettable, what then awaited in the celestial realms? Only seventh-rank mages could command Familiars, but Rogue's spirit, refined by the Divine Origin's purity and supplemented by the Necromancer's deliberate retention of fusion array knowledge, might—upon reaching third-rank mage—barely summon his own.
Fess, a ninth-rank mage, occupied a quiet two-story building deep within the academy as his laboratory. Ordinarily, Fess's rank alone wouldn't warrant such privilege, but his mastery as an Alchemist outweighed his magical prowess—high-tier magical artifacts were coveted by all.
Naturally, Rogue's appearance held little appeal. Fess chose him as an apprentice partly because of Rogue's exceptional flattery, and partly because Rogue had withstood temptation before Fess's collection of priceless gems. Rogue was no gentleman who refused found treasure; he understood that to pursue greater profit, one must sacrifice small gains. Deeper still, Fess—a commoner by birth—relished being served by a noble. After several escapades seeking pleasure together, Fess and Rogue's bond deepened, uncovering shared interests. Still, witnessing Rogue's sudden frenzy for researching arrays and arduous cultivation filled Fess with genuine satisfaction.
"Master," Rogue asked, "what purpose do these crooked symbols in the array serve?"
"They gather corresponding spatial energies, much like your incantations," Fess explained. "Different magical materials produce distinct functions. An array's power depends on the magnitude, type, and sequence of these gathered energies."
"So the combinations must be endless?"
"Indeed. Hundreds of documented materials interact with dozens of pure magical energies—including various divine forces. Factor in incantations controlling energy magnitude, flow, and duration, and the permutations become infinite. Existing arrays are hard-won lessons from millennia of failure."
"What if a flawed array is activated?" Rogue immediately cursed himself a fool—the explosions in Fess's lab spoke volumes. Yet luck favored him; though Fess's magical strength was modest, his array expertise was peerless.
Three-quarters of Lyon Academy's students were nobles, and lower-tier nobles like Rogue often faced disdain. Noble students rarely matched commoners in diligence, yet their superior magical equipment—even at the novice level—leveled the playing field. Commoners, lacking funds, relied solely on grueling cultivation. Original Rogue possessed neither the wealth for artifacts nor the will for such toil, leaving him mediocre—his only triumphs were bullying commoners beyond academy walls.
Days passed, the air growing crisp. Acquaintances scarcely recognized the change: the disgracefully stout rascal now buried himself in dusty tomes or meditated in solitude. As his magic slowly swelled, one snowy morning, Rogue reached third-rank mage. Alongside this, unexpected discoveries emerged. After the complete transformation, his body possessed explosive strength and agility rivaling beasts. *"You're less human, more like a monster,"* the Necromancer had declared. Early fusion allowed mental dialogue, but now their souls were indivisible. Clearly, only a Necromancer—versed in both human and monstrous anatomy—could have uttered such a verdict.
Another surprise was his spirit. One afternoon, wrestling with *Principles of Wind Magic Arrays*, Rogue felt those silver eyes searing his nerves. *"Damn, I could use a drink,"* he thought, eyeing the wineglass on the windowsill. Driven by that craving to delve deeper into arrays, he instead found the glass hovering before him. Before shock could register, it crashed onto his head, cheap Bourbon Wine drenching him. Afterward, Rogue discovered he could move objects with his spirit. Months of fearless, ignorant practice taught him to hurl thieving cats from rooms—a tedious, seemingly useless skill beside magic. Yet the Necromancer's lingering insight into the world's essence hinted at its latent value. Only years later would Rogue realize he'd misjudged the Necromancer; this foresight stemmed from a schemer's innate keen sense for treachery.
At last, the great day arrived. Rogue gazed almost ecstatically at the multicolored Familiar Summoning Array he'd drawn within his room. Modified to harmonize with the Divine Origin, this array deviated from standard designs. Most mages summoned minor imps, crows, or black cats—scouts at best. A Familiar shared a mage's soul essence; its death often crippled its master. Fess had predicted Rogue's Familiar would be a boar or mole. Familiars held little combat value—even large beasts like Black Panthers paled beside summoned creatures, which offered greater power and safety.
Rogue finished his incantation. Magic seeped into the array from without, illuminating symbols one by one in interwoven radiance. When all blazed, a devil's roar and heavenly hymn clashed within the array. Sweat drenched Rogue, veins bulging as he strained against the array's endless thirst for magic. From the center, black mist coalesced, dripping mercury-like liquid. As it pooled to the size of a human head, the mist vanished, leaving the silver mass twisting and rolling in midair. Rogue began another chant, hand hovering above it. A golden droplet welled from his fingertip, falling into the substance. It convulsed violently, spewing torrents of black fog that engulfed the array.
Exhausted, Rogue slumped aside, eyes fixed on the array, silver eyes flashing in his mind. He knew this creation would be unprecedented. Whatever emerged, he prayed it bore silver eyes.
The fog cleared. Rogue stared wordlessly at his new Familiar: a shabby and rundown skeleton.