A few hours later, Damien finally stopped.
The air in the middle of the training grounds still held onto its heat, like it had just been scrubbed clean by lightning and fire.
Stone targets were webbed with charred cracks. A few had been blown apart completely, rubble scattered across the ground. Fine stone dust curled up in thin white smoke, rising lazily on the leftover warmth.
Farther out, the grass had been pressed flat by shockwaves. A faint ozone bite hung in the air, mixed with that scorched, acrid smell magic left behind—close enough to taste, close enough to feel the aftershiver of something huge that had just detonated.
Damien stood at the center, his breathing already steady again.
He lifted a hand, brushed the ash off his cuff, and reflexively pulled up the familiar system panel.
A pale-blue interface unfolded across his vision, the numbers sharp and unmistakable.
[MP: 8996400 / 9999999]
He stared at that line for a few seconds, like he needed to make sure his eyes weren't lying to him. Then he let out a quiet sigh.
"…Been at it almost three hours, and my mana bar barely moved."
It didn't even sound like a complaint—more like disbelief with a side of resignation.
For a mage used to calculating every last bit of mana drain, having a reserve this close to infinite was, somehow, harder to get used to.
Vaelric hadn't left his shoulder once.
The pitch-black crow stood prim and proper, feathers twitching lightly in the breeze. Its single eye glinted with a measured, appraising light.
Like a noble who'd just finished a lavish banquet, it nodded slowly, pleasure written all over its tone.
"Interesting. Of course," it murmured, its voice rough but oddly satisfied. "The way you cast… it's not like any mage I've ever seen."
It cocked its head, like it was still savoring the nonstop tempo of spell after spell.
"No long chanting. No elaborate magic circles unfurling. You even compress the stabilization phase of mana flow." Its eye narrowed slightly. "You just force the energy straight to the limit, then let it erupt right at the threshold."
The crow paused, as if seriously turning something over in its mind.
"It's practically… art."
Damien glanced at it.
No anger. No expression. Just cold, like stone.
If a look could take physical form, the crow would've already been stuffed into a target and used for the next round of practice.
Vaelric obviously understood.
It shut up immediately.
"…Let's call it there," it said a few seconds later, clearing its throat like it was trying to sound dignified. Its tone turned abruptly serious. "I think I've seen enough for today."
It spread its wings and gave them a light shake, like it was tidying its feathers.
"So what now? You planning to sunbathe in this backyard all day?"
Damien didn't dignify the teasing with an answer. He just looked down, brushed the dust off the hem of his clothes, then turned and headed toward the manor.
"The market," he said.
Vaelric froze for a beat.
"Buy a few things."
The crow blinked its lone eye, then—without the slightest hesitation—settled right back into place on Damien's shoulder, voice bright as an uninvited travel companion.
"Then I'm coming with you," it said. "I'm curious what someone like you usually buys."
Damien didn't respond.
He only sighed, and had a servant prepare the carriage.
…
Less than half an hour later, the carriage rolled to a stop at the entrance of the city market.
This was one of the royal capital's busiest commercial districts.
Shops and street stalls packed both sides of the road. The air was a messy blend of smells—fresh-baked bread, the sharp metallic tang of alchemical reagents, the syrupy sweetness leaking off some bizarre potion, and the spice-heavy scent of caravan goods hauled in from far away.
Hawkers shouting, buyers haggling, the occasional flicker of light off a magic item—everything wove together into a loud, lively pulse that made the whole street feel almost alive.
Damien walked along at an unhurried pace.
It was familiar to him… and also a little strange.
Familiar, because it was almost exactly like the royal city market in the game.
Strange, because this time, he was really here.
Vaelric perched on his shoulder, turning its head now and then to scan the crowd. It looked genuinely interested in the noisy spectacle of human society.
Before long, Damien stopped in front of an alchemy materials shop.
It wasn't big, but an exquisitely carved wooden sign hung by the door—a smoking flask emblem etched into the wood. Through the glass window, he could see shelves packed with bottles, jars, and sealed containers. Some of the ingredients even gave off a faint magical glow.
He pushed the door open and stepped inside.
A bell chimed sharply overhead.
Behind the counter, a dwarf wearing a monocle immediately looked up.
Middle-aged, beard neatly trimmed, clean dark apron—he broke into a bright, welcoming grin the moment he saw a customer.
"Welcome!" the dwarf boomed. "What materials are you looking for?"
Damien walked up to the counter, eyes sweeping over the rows of containers behind him.
His gaze paused on a few items for a couple seconds. Then he tapped the countertop lightly.
"Lizard drakefolk tail. Phoenix feathers. Beetle shells…" he said.
His tone was calm, but the way he rattled them off was unnervingly smooth.
"Star-silver powder. Obsidian sand. Wind lizard scales. Rotbone moss…"
He named thirty materials in one go.
"One large bag of each."
The dwarf's expression lit up instantly.
Like a miner who'd just spotted an entire mountain made of gold.
"You got it!" He spun around and bellowed into the back. "Warehouse Three! Pull stock and pack it up—follow this gentleman's list!"
The staff sprang into motion.
The dwarf leaned on the counter, beaming at Damien, his friendliness cranking up another notch.
"That's a hefty order," he said. "Want us to arrange delivery to your estate?"
Damien shook his head.
"No."
As he spoke, he lifted his right hand and casually rubbed the ring on his finger.
It was a plain-looking metal band, nothing special.
The next instant—
All thirty packed bags vanished in a faint wash of white light.
The dwarf froze.
The surprise lasted less than a second.
Then his grin got even wider.
"Oh! Of course!" He smacked his forehead. "A spatial storage ring!"
His tone shifted immediately into something noticeably more respectful.
"My apologies—my apologies. I can't believe I didn't recognize it right away."
In this world, spatial storage gear was expensive magic equipment—usually something only noble mages or high-ranking adventurers could afford.
Someone who could casually stash thirty heavy bags of alchemy materials wasn't an ordinary customer.
Damien didn't bother explaining.
He paid, turned around, and left the shop.
After he'd gone a fair distance, a younger clerk sidled up to the dwarf and asked under his breath, "Boss… what's that guy's background?"
The dwarf shot him a glare. "Don't run your mouth," he said. "Anyone who can toss thirty bags into a storage ring like it's nothing—who do you think we can afford to offend?"
The clerk clamped his mouth shut.
Only Damien knew the truth.
The ring on his hand was just decoration.
The thing doing the real work was something else entirely.
—The system inventory.