Paper is fragile.
Stone is slow.
Skin, however… skin listens.
The idea comes to me while reviewing my notes late one night, watching a glyph flare to life under my hand. The delay is minuscule—fractions of a second—but it's still a delay. If magic truly flows through me now, if my heart beats Titan blood, then the glyphs don't need to be external.
They can be part of me.
I design the layout carefully. No randomness. No aesthetics without purpose. Each glyph is positioned for efficiency, flow, and minimal interference with the others. My right arm becomes the obvious choice—the casting arm, the conduit.
The process is… unpleasant.
Titan blood reacts strongly to the ink, the glyphs burning into place as though my body recognizes them as something it had been missing. The pain is sharp but focused, the kind that feels purposeful. When it's done, the glyphs rest quietly beneath my skin, faintly glowing blue when I flex my fingers.
Plant.Light.Fire.Ice.
All of them.
I don't need to draw anymore. I don't need paper, chalk, stone, or preparation. I raise my arm, focus, and push magic into the glyph I want.
The response is instant.
A light flares into existence without a symbol being drawn. Fire blooms with a flick of my wrist. Ice forms seamlessly along my fingertips. The glyphs don't activate on my skin—they activate through it.
It feels natural. Dangerous. Perfect.
This changes everything.
In combat, in emergencies, in research—there is no setup time. No vulnerability window. My magic is always ready, always loaded. I've effectively turned my body into a living spell array, a mobile glyph engine powered directly by my Titan-infused heart.
I test combinations next. Light and fire. Fire and ice. The results are stronger than expected—cleaner, more controlled, as though my body itself is acting as a stabilizing matrix.
I laugh quietly to myself.
Belos carved glyphs into stone and bone.Witches rely on bile sacs.I carved them into identity.
This isn't just magic anymore. It's instinct.
I pull my sleeve down, hiding the glyphs beneath fabric. To the world, I still look human. Still normal. Still harmless.
But my arm hums faintly with power.
And for the first time, I realize something chillingly clear:
I don't need tools anymore.
I am the tool.