Chapter 8 – History
In this world, the continent is split in half between two great regions.
On one side is the Argent Crown Empire.
On the other is the Safon Tide Dominion.
And at the very center of the world lies something… wrong.
Sixty islands—an archipelago of small, scattered landmasses—form a loose ring between the two continents. To the locals, it's just the "Center Seas," a dangerous, half-mapped region where storms and monsters are worse than usual.
To me?
It always looked like a wound.
Back on Earth, we had theories—continental drift, tectonic plates, slow collisions and separations shaping coastlines over millions of years. Continents didn't split like clean circles; shores were jagged, broken, interlocking like puzzle pieces. When you looked at the maps long enough, you could see how they once fit.
But here?
If you laid the maps side by side and actually paid attention, you'd notice it. The seas and landlines don't form a natural flow. Instead, there's a near-perfect ring—like someone carved the world in two with a single stroke and sprinkled islands along the scar to cover it up.
That doesn't happen by nature.
It happens by magic.
My best theory is simple:
A "Great Hero" once used everything—life, mana, soul—to take down the Demon King and the approaching armies. The result: the collapse of an entire region, sunk into the ocean, leaving behind a ring of shattered land in its place. A magical impact so violent it overrode whatever "continental drift" this world once had.
Why is that important?
Because sea travel here is suicidal.
It's not just storms and pirates. There are colossal creatures in the deep that drag ships down like toys. Things that don't move like anything that should exist—limbs bending at the wrong angles, too many eyes, shapes that make your brain itch when you try to count them. If Lovecraft had seen them, he would've written them as a joke and then gone quiet.
Most people assume it's just "how the world is."
But in Thomas's memories, I saw something else.
Not just two continents and a ring of islands.
Beyond that—further than any map here shows—there was another landmass. Larger than the Argent Crown and Safon Tide combined. Untouched by human kingdoms in the game. A blank space on the edge of the known world.
A third continent.
"Maybe one day, I need to reach there," I murmured to myself.
Not yet.
But someday.
***
By the time those thoughts settled, my magic had already improved.
Traveling with Alice, with nothing but time and a carriage's shaking to keep me company, I practiced relentlessly. Pulling, spinning, compressing, and releasing mana until it felt natural—until it felt less like a foreign force and more like a limb I'd been ignoring.
[ System ]
[ Mana Core – x1 | Rank: S ]
[ Mana Control – B Tier ]
[ Spell: Vector – Rank: ?? ]
'Vector,' huh.
Unlike elemental magic—fire, wind, ice, water—Vector isn't an element at all. It's the root. The base manipulation of mana and force that everything else rides on.
Why do I use root magic instead of flashy elemental spells?
Efficiency.
Why would I waste time building complex chant structures and full elemental diagrams when I can just control the foundation directly?
Elemental magic:
- Stronger amplification.
- Higher spectacle.
- Slower, more wasteful.
Root magic:
- Less raw power per spell.
- Faster activation.
- Finer, direct control.
In capable hands, controlling the root of mana can do things no normal elemental caster can manage. With Vector alone, a mage could:
- Detonate an enemy's mana core from the inside, killing them instantly.
- Destabilize spell structures mid-cast, causing them to fizzle—or backfire.
And if the enemy's own mana control is sloppy?
Vector can shake their entire core apart.
For most mages, that's a nightmare.
For me, it's a goal.
Vector is said to be the heart of the ancient arch-mage's art—Merlin, the one who supposedly sent an entire region under the waves. A crater the size of a country, born from someone twisting the world's root like a lever and forcing the sea to swallow land whole.
I can't even imagine power on that scale.
In all my lives, I never reached it.
At most, I was a 4th-tier mage in one regression. Let it be known: the jump from 3rd to 4th tier is massive—like comparing an ant's walk to a horse's gallop.
Here and now, in this region, there's only one known 7th-tier mage.
Just one.
And she's the same person who always dies defending this area. Every timeline, she burns herself out holding back the horde, and every timeline, her death only manages to delay the inevitable.
So this time, I'm going to find her.
Before the disasters start.
At the Magic Tower.
***
The carriage rattled one last time, then rolled to a gentle stop.
I pulled the curtain aside.
Beyond the glass, I saw tall stone walls, banners fluttering in the wind, and an enormous gate flanked by armored guards. Towers rose behind it like stacked spears, rooftops glinting with sunlight and layered mana formations.
The Academy.
In another life, this place was just a checkpoint. A brief chapter before the real suffering started.
This time, it's my launchpad.
I stepped down from the carriage, boots touching the ground of the Academy for the first time in this new life. The air here felt different—sharper, fuller, saturated with the residue of countless spells cast and broken.
"The new beginning," I said coldly.
But there was a hint of something else under my voice.
A thin strand of happiness.