Michael grit his teeth as he watched his mana dwindle, overwhelmed by the violet mage's will-infused energy. If he left things as they were, his defenses would soon collapse, leaving him no option but to accept death.
That was why, in a moment of desperation, he considered the unthinkable—refining the foreign mana within his body.
Even as a White Mage, Michael knew it was impossible. His mother had tutored him from an early age, instilling in him the rigid laws of magic. Despite his lack of growth, he understood the fundamentals better than most.
Only ownerless mana could be refined within the body. And even then, it had to be purified before the soul could begin the process.
Because refining was a matter of the soul.
If even the smallest impurity remained, it could corrupt the soul entirely. The consequences ranged from mild headaches to irreversible madness—or worse, death.
But Michael had no choice.
If he allowed the violet mage's mana to surge unchecked through his veins, it would tear him apart from the inside out. Yet trying to refine it with his soul might be just as fatal.
For ten-year-old Michael, this wasn't about choosing how he died. It was about clinging to life. And desperation left only one path open.
Normally, a mage had to quiet their thoughts and meditate before attempting refinement. But there was no time. No calm. No peace.
Blood began to seep from his ears, nose, eyes—every one of his seven orifices—as he forced himself into the lotus position. On his left wrist, the two yellow rings flickered weakly, their glow nearly extinguished. His mana reserves were almost gone.
Michael didn't flinch. He lowered the invisible mental barrier protecting his soul within his inner palace. The moment it dropped, a brilliant light burst from the center of his forehead, illuminating the empty desert like a miniature sunrise.
Releasing one's soul during refinement was unheard of. A mage would typically extend tendrils from the inner palace between the eyes, allowing the soul to remain shielded while it worked.
But Michael didn't have that luxury.
If I don't risk everything, then there's no point in trying at all! he cried inwardly, jaw clenched so tight it hurt.
The appearance of his soul within his body made him shudder. As a mage, there was nothing more vulnerable than this state.
Through his mind's eye, he observed the last strands of his yellow mana locked in combat with the violet intruder. He waited. Watched. Timed it.
Then it happened.
As the final threads of his own mana flickered out, the violet energy halted, confused by the sudden absence of resistance. Lacking true intelligence, the will-infused mana hung there—stagnant and directionless.
Michael struck.
His soul surged forward, engulfing the violet energy in a brilliant wave of light. But the moment they touched, a scream tore from his lips—raw, primal, and filled with a pain no child should endure.
The pain was beyond anything Michael had ever imagined—deeper, crueler, and more consuming than he thought possible. The murky violet mana, laced with countless impurities, collided with his white soul and began corrupting it almost instantly.
He fought to purify it, struggling to refine the invading energy. But for every fragment he cleansed, two more took its place. It was like trying to filter poison through torn cloth. Slowly, steadily, the brilliance of his soul began to dim, darkening at the edges.
A piercing scream rang in his ears. It took a moment to realize—it was his own.
Michael's vision dimmed. Consciousness slipped through his fingers like grains of sand. Even as he knew that giving in would mean death, a small part of him welcomed it. The pain was unbearable. Surely he'd earned rest.
Isn't this enough?
I did my best, Mother…
The thoughts drifted through his fading mind like dying embers. His body felt light—detached—as if he were sinking beneath a vast, black ocean.
Let's meet again… in the afterlife.
Down he sank, swallowed by the abyss. The world around him faded into silence, his senses dulled. He reached out with a trembling hand—reaching not for survival, but for something more distant, more precious. To see her again. Just once.
That's when he saw it.
A glimmer in the void.
At first, it was no more than a pinprick of light. But it grew—quickly, impossibly—until it filled his entire vision.
The brilliance didn't burn. It comforted. Despite its intensity, Michael didn't look away. Within the light, a figure emerged, radiant and indistinct. He squinted, trying to make out the shape. There was something familiar in it.
Is it… one of the gods?
The figure turned.
And Michael saw his own face.
His thoughts scattered before he could process it. The figure reached out, hand extended—not in warning or judgment, but in welcome.
It grasped him.
Michael didn't resist. He couldn't have, even if he'd wanted to.
He felt it then—a gentle pull. A force lifting him from the depths of his despair. Slowly, the static in his mind began to fade, and with it, the unbearable pressure. Pain gave way to warmth. Cleansing. Peace.
It wasn't instantaneous. The purification was slow, painful even. But it brought clarity. A stillness.
Is this what death feels like?
He felt untethered, like a bird no longer confined by earth. His soul floated, weightless. For the first time in a long while, he felt… free.
Even thoughts of his mother no longer hurt. Instead of grief, her memory brought warmth—sunlight on his skin, the sound of her laughter, the softness of her voice when she called his name.
Alice Aurelius had been his sanctuary. The only one who had ever loved him without condition.
When others mocked him for his white rings—called him weak, unworthy, cursed—she wrapped him in love. In her arms, the jeers faded. Her love had made the world bearable.
But now that she was gone…
What remained?
Revenge? No. That was impossible.
Even though Michael had ascended to a Yellow Ringed Mage, it didn't matter.
Stewart—the man who had murdered his mother—wielded Green rings. That was four entire realms above him. A gulf so wide it might as well have been impossible.