"Your spellcasting instincts are extraordinary, Arthur," Alastor remarked, his tone as casual as if he were discussing the weather. With a flick of his wrist, he deflected the seven-circle spell Arthur had unleashed, the magic dissolving into motes of light that danced momentarily before fading like the remnants of a dream.
The Creighton estate stood as a beacon of modernity—its sleek glass and steel facade a testament to progress—but within its walls lay some of the most advanced magical research facilities in the world. Arthur had come here with a purpose: to refine his spellcasting and master the Astareus method. His days were spent poring over digital tablets, their screens filled with impossibly intricate formulas, while his evenings were consumed by rigorous training sessions with Alastor in a room that felt less like a training hall and more like the heart of a starship.
"The spell was well-cast," Alastor continued, his sharp gaze dissecting Arthur's posture and movements like a scholar analyzing ancient texts. "But your anchors were slightly misaligned. Think of it as coding—while the Fuller method allows for some leniency in syntax, cleaner code results in a more efficient and powerful output."
Arthur nodded, closing his eyes to focus. The air around him hummed faintly, the mana in the room stirring as though eager to heed his call. It was a living energy, vibrant and expectant, responding to him like a well-trained instrument.
Alastor watched with a mix of fascination and pride. Arthur's grasp of the Fuller method was far from perfect, understandable for someone who had devoted more of his attention to swordsmanship than spellcraft. Yet there was something remarkable in the way he wielded magic—a raw, intuitive understanding that suggested he wasn't simply learning spells but rewriting the rules as he went. While he might never match the pure magical precision of prodigies like Rachel or Cecilia, his hybrid approach was a marvel unto itself.
'A walking contradiction,' Alastor mused as Arthur prepared another seven-circle spell. "A torrent of talent surging through a logician's garden."
But Alastor's admiration carried an edge of unease. Talent alone could not explain the boy's meteoric rise. Three years ago, Arthur had been a novice in the arcane arts, struggling to navigate the elegant intricacies of four-circle and five-circle magic. Now, he stood on the cusp of seven-circle mastery—an ascent so steep it defied natural progression.
"The leap from six to seven circles…" Alastor murmured to himself, activating his Gift, Sage's Eyes. The world shifted, suffused with a spectral glow that revealed the intricate threads of mana weaving through Arthur's being. "It's not mere talent."
What he saw took his breath away. Arthur's awareness, his sensitivity to the subtle flows and ebbs of mana, was unlike anything he had encountered. It was as though the boy had been honed into a living blade, each edge perfectly attuned to slice through the veil of reality itself.
'A feat unheard of,' Alastor admitted, a rare smile breaking the solemn lines of his face. It explained so much: Arthur's ability to outmaneuver opponents far above his rank, his unprecedented mastery of the Fuller method, and the seamless synergy between his Gifts and his Grade 6 art.
"Enough for now," Alastor said, dismissing the last remnants of Arthur's spell with a casual wave. Though impressive, the boy's creations were still raw, their brilliance tempered by the need for refinement. "You mentioned joining the war in the East after your mid-year exams?"
Arthur straightened, his gaze steady. "Yes, Uncle."
"A wise choice," Alastor replied, nodding. "The crucible of war will forge your newfound power and hone your instincts further."
Even with Arthur's extraordinary progress, there was still room to grow, rough edges to smooth, and heights yet to be scaled.
At this point," Alastor chuckled, his voice rich with both amusement and genuine pride, "you could even become the new Zenith of Magic."
Arthur scratched the back of his head, a faint blush creeping up his cheeks. "I don't think I'm deserving of that."
"Perhaps," Alastor said, his expression thoughtful. "Your talent for spellcasting isn't the best—not compared to others like Rachel or Cecilia. But that hardly matters. You've pushed yourself to such a level that talent has become irrelevant. Honestly, Arthur, you've far surpassed even my wildest dreams for your strength. Be proud of that."
Arthur's gaze softened at the words. Compliments from Alastor were rare, and they carried weight. Here was a man who had seen the rise and fall of legends, whose expectations were carved from stone and tempered by decades of experience. To have exceeded those expectations was no small feat.
Alastor leaned back, his piercing eyes studying Arthur as if trying to reconcile the boy he had once trained with the powerhouse sitting before him now. When Arthur had first entered Mythos Academy, Alastor had believed in him more than anyone. He had even wagered that Arthur would surpass Lucifer Windward by the end of their first year.
And Arthur had done just that before Lucifer unlocked his second Gift—albeit by a margin that was modest at the time. But since then, Arthur's growth had not merely been steady; it had been explosive. He had soared so far beyond what Alastor had thought possible that even his imagination struggled to keep up.
But Arthur wasn't alone.
Alastor's thoughts drifted to his daughter, Rachel. Her brilliance burned with a quiet intensity that rivaled Arthur's fiery determination. Watching her growth, even as her father and mentor, often left Alastor feeling a twinge of inadequacy. It was a strange, humbling feeling to know that his own child had surpassed him in ways he could scarcely fathom.
This generation—Arthur, Rachel, and the others—was different. Their potential was not confined to the traditional boundaries that had defined Alastor's time. Where his generation had dreamed of reaching low Radiant-rank, these young mages would go higher. They would break the barriers of expectation, carving paths into realms that had once seemed unattainable.
No, they wouldn't merely graze the stars; they would become them.
For this was the golden generation of geniuses, born in an era of unprecedented opportunity and danger. They were the harbingers of a new age, their talents forged in the fires of ambition and tempered by a world teetering on the edge of chaos.
And as Alastor looked at Arthur, he felt a rare flicker of hope—not just for the boy, but for the world they sought to protect.
"How's your progress with the Astareus method?" Alastor asked as he and Arthur strolled out of the training grounds, their footsteps echoing faintly against the polished stone floor.
"Not bad," Arthur replied, his tone calm but laced with the focus of someone perpetually calculating. "I think I'll be able to conceptualise it before the mid-years, though it'll need a lot of refinement."
Alastor nodded, his sharp gaze flickering to his nephew with a glimmer of approval. The Astareus method was no simple feat, even for prodigies. It built upon the already labyrinthine Fuller method, but its conceptualisation required a level of precision that was almost inhuman. Yet for someone like Arthur, who had already conquered the Fuller method, the path forward, while challenging, was entirely within reach.
"Hmm," Alastor hummed thoughtfully, his hands clasped behind his back. "That's as it should be. The Astareus method is an evolution, yes, but not a reinvention. You've laid the groundwork, so this will come faster. And when you refine it—truly refine it—it will elevate your spellcasting to a level few can match."
Arthur nodded, his expression resolute. The Astareus method promised more than just an incremental improvement. It was a leap forward, a refinement of spellcasting that allowed for greater power, efficiency, and adaptability.
"I can't help much with the theory," Alastor admitted, his voice carrying a note of apology rare for the man. "That's your battlefield, not mine. But if you manage to conceptualise it faster, I'll help you refine it to its fullest potential."
"Thank you, Uncle," Arthur said sincerely, inclining his head slightly.
Alastor stopped then, turning to place a firm hand on Arthur's shoulder. His smile, warm and genuine, softened the sharp lines of his face. "Don't thank me, Arthur. If you want to repay me, do it by making my daughter happy. That's all I ask of you. Nothing more."
Arthur blinked, taken aback for a moment by the simplicity of the request. He met Alastor's eyes, the weight of those words settling over him. For all of Alastor's pride and ambition, his love for his daughter was as fierce and unwavering as the man himself.
"I will," Arthur said finally, his voice quiet but filled with conviction. "You have my word."
Alastor's smile widened, and he gave Arthur's shoulder a reassuring pat. Together, they resumed their walk, the training grounds fading into the background.