The First Level of Hell.
Alan didn't hear the dark-robed woman's exclamation. His full attention was on the greatsword within his body. With the sword replacing his shattered mana core, elemental energy flowed through him faster than ever, carrying a sharpness akin to a sword's edge. In that moment, he reached tier-iron level 7!
The sword absorbed mana from his surroundings, refining and dispersing it throughout his body, strengthening it and dispelling his fatigue. Compared to tier-iron level 6, his strength had nearly doubled.
If he faced the seneschal again, Alan was confident he'd have the upper hand. At tier-iron level 7, he was also a step closer to the tier-iron level 8 requirement for Lioncrest Academy. Alan clenched his fists in excitement.
Just then, the dark-robed woman spoke. "Don't celebrate too soon. While you've replaced your mana core with a staff, as you progress, the staff will eventually be unable to contain the massive elemental energy, and when that happens, you'll be destroyed from within."
A bead of sweat formed on Alan's forehead. He turned back to her, listening intently.
"However, it's not all bad news. If you can find increasingly powerful staves, each upgrade will yield considerable benefits."
Alan sighed in relief. His mind drifted to the three blazing staffs he'd glimpsed before entering Hell, seemingly holding the entire Hell in check. Curiously, he asked, "Senior, what level are those three staffs?"
"With your current strength, you're far from worthy of even touching them. For now, your sword-staff will suffice," she replied, pointing to the massive vortex below.
"But your real problem is the 18-level Hell itself."
Alan looked down, feeling his soul tremble as endless wails echoed from the swirling depths of darkness. He sensed a connection growing stronger between him and Hell, faintly perceiving strange and terrifying presences hidden below.
Even a brief glance made his eyes burn, his vision swimming from the overwhelming pressure.
"You sense them, don't you?" she said, noticing his bloodshot eyes and labored breathing. "This is the 18-level Hell, where the most fearsome spellbeasts, killers, and monsters are imprisoned. Each one could wreak untold havoc if they ever escaped into the world."
She continued, "I don't know why Hell's will chose you, but if those monsters break free, you'll be the first to die."
Despite knowing he was in the 18-level Hell, hearing the woman's confirmation left Alan feeling an immense weight pressing down on him.
Sensing his unease, the woman changed the subject. "Do you know the name of the mystic technique you just practiced?"
Alan shook his head.
"Infernal Visualization Technique," she said softly. "A mystic technique only magi can cultivate."
Alan froze. If only magi could master this technique, and he succeeded, did that mean he had the potential to become a magus? If so, Alan felt that even with Hell's terrifying creatures, he might stand a chance to suppress them.
After all, magi were rare and powerful, commanding the forces of nature with ease.
"Yes, you do have the potential to become a magus. But even if you achieve that level, imagining you could suppress those that are about to break through Hell's gates is pure fantasy," she said bluntly.
Alan's expression didn't falter as he asked, "Is there any way, then?"
"Finding suitable sealing objects could temporarily stabilize Hell's gates and buy you time to grow stronger."
"What exactly are sealing objects?" Alan asked, frowning. He'd never heard of them before.
"You're too weak to understand. Focus on strengthening yourself. Right now, your strength is pathetically low," she said, shaking her head.
Did she just look down on me? Alan thought. As House Roan's heir, he had been a celebrated prodigy, a revered figure among his peers. Yet, before this senior, he was no more than a worthless insect.
Recognizing her immense power, he swallowed his pride and asked earnestly, "Senior, how can I become a magus?"
"Becoming a magus can be simple or incredibly difficult. You've already passed the most challenging hurdle—talent. Now, you must strengthen your soul until it can manifest in physical form. Only then will you have entered the threshold of a magus."
With a thought, a massive black grindstone appeared before him.
"Ordinarily, achieving mastery would take years. But this grindstone can refine your soul, accelerating the process."
The dark-robed woman's gaze narrowed slightly as she spoke.
Alan stared at the grindstone, the size of a small house, hearing its ominous creaking. His soul instinctively shuddered. He'd heard of the "Iron Grinding Prison" within the 18-level Hell. In that hellish place, vicious creatures were pursued and crushed by a merciless grindstone, reduced to nothing but pulp.
Now, this grindstone wasn't meant to grind flesh but the far more delicate soul.
"Of course, if you're unwilling, you can continue slowly strengthening your soul through the Infernal Visualization Technique. But becoming a magus is no simple feat," she said. "Magi are invincible within their tier and can even fight beyond it. If you think it's easy, you're mistaken."
Alan didn't hesitate. Clenching his fists, he focused his will, and his barely visible soul was pulled into the grindstone.
He needed power, and the magus was the strongest class on the Eldritch Continent. Compared to magi, swordsmen and warriors were little more than fodder. Nearly every magus who achieved greatness became legendary, their names etched into history.
The woman's satisfaction was evident as she watched Alan enter the Soul Grindstone. Besides the powerful soul, the most essential trait of a magus was an unwavering spirit—a natural king's heart. Only those with an unyielding spirit could command the fickle magical elements around them.
If Alan had hesitated or shown fear, his talent wouldn't matter. Even if he became a magus, he'd have no future. Cowards could never reach the heights of magi.
Creak… creak…
The eerie sound of soul being ground echoed in the dim, sinister Hell.
Alan's soul-arm was pulled into the grindstone, crushed bit by bit into refined soul particles. Emerging from the other side, these particles began to recombine into a purer form of his soul.
But the searing pain of his soul being torn apart was unbearable. His face twisted, almost unrecognizable, his features contorting with agony.
He'd anticipated that the grindstone would be excruciating, but he hadn't imagined a pain so intense it left him speechless. It felt as though he was being hammered and cut, his bones shattered, his flesh peeled, pushing him to the edge of madness.
Yet, despite the near-overwhelming pain, Alan clung to a single, unwavering belief. As his soul was nearly crushed into nothingness, his resolve allowed it to reassemble into his form once more.