The moonlight crept in through the windows like silver smoke, washing Adam's room in pale light. No candles were lit. No fire burned in the hearth. It was late—deep in the night—but sleep hadn't come. Not yet. Not with the way mana hummed beneath his skin, alive, restless, begging to be used.
He sat cross-legged on the wooden floorboards, shirt off, sweat long since dried from the evening's final stretch of workouts. His body had grown warmer to the touch, more firm—he could feel it now, not just in his appearance, but in how his breath came easier, how his arms no longer trembled under their own weight. His reflection in the moonlit mirror didn't look noble. It didn't look powerful. But it looked ready.
He inhaled deeply.
Focused.
And whispered, "Color Magic—manifest."
The effect was immediate. Like swirling ribbons pulled from his soul, three strands of pure color emerged from his body, coiling slowly in the air above his hands—Red, bold and fierce; Yellow, sharp and crackling; and Blue, calm yet heavy, almost sluggish in its glow.
They danced around him in a halo of faint illumination, each mist-like ribbon tingling at the edge of control, like feral spirits pretending to be tame.
He smiled.
His mana drained slowly, steadily, as the colors stabilized. He opened his status window to confirm.
Mana: 300 / 500
Shit, he muttered mentally. That much just for forming them?
Three colors at once was too much. His control wasn't there yet, not at Tier 10. Not with only five gates opened. He waved a hand, dismissing Yellow and Blue with a breath.
Only Red remained.
Immediately, the consumption slowed, barely a trickle now.
One at a time, then, he noted, watching the red mist curl around his arm like a living flame without heat. Much more efficient.
The red mist shimmered, reactive to his thoughts. He willed it to shape—a claw, a gauntlet, a coiling rope—and it obeyed sluggishly, but it obeyed. Not perfectly, but it was something.
Red.
The color of Strength.
The color of war, of raw force. He closed his eyes, drawing in the mist toward his chest, guiding it into his limbs. A tingle, like warm iron, spread through his muscles. The air seemed to thin. His arms tensed.
He opened the status window again.
Strength: 40
He blinked.
Forty?
That was the average strength of a well-trained woman knight. He'd jumped from twenty-five to forty with just this single application. His lips curled into a grin.
But then… something pushed back.
A slow, grinding resistance inside him. A pressure at his chest. His Red wasn't flowing smoothly anymore. It was like something was leeching it. Not from the system. From within.
The Curse.
Of course, he thought bitterly. Of course it would interfere here too.
He'd noticed it during workouts—the way his muscle growth seemed to slow just when he started seeing gains. The slight drain whenever he pushed past a threshold. The curse wasn't just limiting his Trait or aura or even appearance—it was suppressing his growth. Especially anything tied to strength.
Strength… which was what Red enhanced.
His cap must be forty for now.
Any further, and the curse would just suck it dry like a greedy tick.
Fine, he thought. I'll deal with you later. I've got ideas. Just wait until the Academy.
He rose to his feet, eyes gleaming in the low light.
Time for test number two.
He walked over to the ornate wooden chest beneath his bed. It was old—childhood-old. He remembered this one. The edges were worn smooth from use, and the front was carved with cartoonishly etched wolves. His tiny fingers had once sketched them with charcoal, pretending to be a knight while Crystal and Laylee played mages.
He chuckled.
Even if the original Adam had turned into a petty tyrant, there were still memories worth keeping.
He reached in and pulled out the old wooden practice sword tucked beneath the lid. Smooth, worn-down hilt, barely balanced. It was practically a stick with dreams.
Perfect.
He focused the Red mist into it. Let it flow, slower than with his body, careful not to overload it. The sword trembled at first, vibrating softly, until it held steady. A red shimmer coated it—faint, like oil on water.
He grinned.
Now to test.
He grabbed an empty wooden crate from the corner—one of the ones used to store his old clothes before he had them incinerated for smelling like shame. Holding the sword in both hands, he swung down hard.
CRACK.
The crate split clean in half with a solid, satisfying thud.
He blinked.
That… that was legit.
Then came the voice.
"Young master? Is everything alright?" his butler called from outside the door.
Adam straightened. "Yes! Just… dropped something. I'm changing, don't come in."
A pause.
"…Very well. Please call if you need anything."
Footsteps receded.
Damn near blew my cover, he thought, exhaling.
But he wasn't done.
Now for the big test.
He re-infused both himself and the sword with Red. His body lit up like molten metal, veins pulsing with color. The sword vibrated harder this time, almost singing.
His mana ticked down rapidly.
Mana: 150 / 500
Shit—this drains fast.
But the payoff?
He grabbed another box—this one heavier, reinforced, gilded along the rim. He positioned it carefully, then exhaled. Raised the sword. And struck.
BOOM!
The impact rang like a bell. The box exploded apart, splinters flying. The sword carved into the wood—and through the floor beneath it. A shallow crater opened in the timber, exposing the gray concrete base beneath.
He blinked.
He grinned.
He giggled.
This… this was power.
"Young master, what was that?!" the butler called again, clearly more alarmed this time.
"Just dropped a chest!" he called back. "Still changing. Please don't come in!"
A long silence.
"…Understood."
He could hear her retreat, the tension in her steps reluctant. A woman walking in on a noble man changing—especially unmarried—would mean execution by morning. It bought him time.
Enough to sit down, let his heart calm.
He deactivated Red.
Let the sword fall from his fingers.
And smiled.
The moon was high now. His room smelled of sweat, wood dust, and mana smoke. His muscles ached. His core burned. But he felt good.
Like he was one step closer to spitting in the face of fate.
And as he slid under the covers, eyes already heavy, a dream began to curl through his mind—of standing atop a mountain, Red magic swirling around him, oceans parting at his will, the sky breaking from the weight of his strength.
He smiled in his sleep.