The third week began. The sky had remained silent for four days. Icariel sat outside the cave, eyes half-closed, listening. Waiting.

He couldn't create or manipulate lightning without first mixing it from the atmosphere—and without mixing it, he couldn't imprint it. Without imprinting, there was no way to truly own it.

So, for four days, he focused harder than ever, refining his mastery over the elements he already wielded.

Flame. Wind. Water.

"I can shape them now," he muttered to himself.

Especially flame. Not only could he alter its temperature, he'd begun controlling its form. He could mold fire into spears, launch them like blazing arrows. They packed a deadly punch, burning through wood and stone on impact. But...

"I can only hold them for a few seconds before they burn me too…"

He looked down at his hands—red and raw from yesterday's training.

"The past four days were bright. Clear skies. Warm winds. But today…" He glanced up.

Dark clouds rolled in from the horizon. "It might turn into a storm."

"The sooner it rains, the better," the voice replied. "The more time you will have to train."

"But why?" Icariel asked suddenly, standing from the rock he'd been sitting on. "Why did you say I only have a month to train? We have time. It's not like I've got somewhere to be."

The voice paused for a beat.

"Who knows? Maybe dungeons will start appearing here... like you feared."

That made Icariel freeze. The voice had told him before—no dungeons would spawn in this area for the time being. Now it was different. Now it said maybe.

Something had changed.

Icariel didn't speak, but a quiet determination sparked in his eyes. "I know it. Something shifted. And if this is all the time I've got… then I'll give it everything."

Not long after—rain.

A heavy downpour began, echoing through the forest, washing over the trees, splashing against the rocks. Icariel stood shirtless inside his cave, watching the droplets paint the ground. He didn't need to rub sticks together anymore.

A small fire danced beside him—summoned effortlessly with his mana.

And then—CRACK!

A sharp rumble of thunder tore across the sky. The ground trembled beneath his feet.

"Go outside," the voice said. Calm. Steady. "It's begun."

Icariel stepped into the storm, letting the rain pour down his face.

"Yes…" he whispered. "Let's begin."

Another crack of lightning ripped through the sky.

It struck not far from Icariel's usual training place—a tree deep within the forest before his cave. The impact was deafening. He watched as the tree split apart, its bark catching fire, smoke rising in the downpour.

"Go there."

The voice's command rang clear, cutting through the thunder. And so he ran—soaked to the bone, breath sharp in his chest—through the rain and wet soil, toward the burning tree. When he reached it, his eyes widened.

"You see them?"

"Yes..." Icariel replied, awestruck. "There are too many… colors. I don't know what to pull. Tell me."

His White Sense was overwhelmed.

The world in front of him bloomed with orbs and streams of colored mana—red, white, silver, orange, green, blue, light blue, and other hues he didn't even have names for.

And then—black.

A color he had never seen until now. A color that felt wrong.

The voice spoke again, clear as ever despite the roaring storm. "Pull the red-colored mana first—as much as you can. You can only acquire Lightning once. Just one chance to imprint it. After that, it's locked. You can't reshape it like flame. No temperature tweaks. No form control. Just one version. One spell. Forever."

Rain thundered around him, but Icariel obeyed. He focused, and red orbs surged toward his hand like iron to a magnet.

"Now the silver ones," the voice instructed.

He gritted his teeth, still holding the burning red mana, and pulled in the silver orbs. They shimmered as they collided, crackling, vibrating with pressure in his palm.

"And now… just one. One orb of black mana. No more. You can't handle more than that."

Icariel tried. He narrowed his focus and reached for a single orb of black mana—just one—but the storm of mana he'd already gathered made it almost impossible to balance. His hand trembled violently.

"I… I can't—!"

"It's too much! I can't even pull it!"

"Try again!" the voice advised.

"AHHHHHHH!"

He screamed through the rain as he reached again, pushed past his limit, his White Sense straining to the edge—and that's when it happened. All the black orbs. Every last one within range.

They pulled themselves toward him.

"No—" he gasped.

"No no no—!"

They didn't wait. They didn't ask.

They merged.

The red. The silver. And now the black.

"Oh shit," Icariel said, staring at his hand. "They mixed by themselves."

"NO!" the voice roared inside his head—not cold, not calm—panicked.

Something about the tone shook Icariel to his core.

But it was too late. The mana had already fused.

A light sparked in his palm—not orange, not red, not yellow.

White.

A single streak of pure white lightning coiled and cracked in his palm, growing, pulsating violently.

"I fucked up…" Icariel whispered.

Because he understood.

His eyes widened in horror as the lightning began to swell beyond his control—heat, light, and pressure compressing into one chaotic mass.

Because he knew it well—too well—that's why even the voice screamed 'NO' in panic. They knew all too well that lightning… when formed… is never meant to stay in one place.

It's meant to erupt.

And what erupts—

—does not ask permission.

The White Lightning, born from the wrong mix of mana—from red, silver, and black—began to ignite.

The fatal, critical flaw in the equation.

And now—it was going to explode.

The lightning grew too fast.

Too unstable.

Too alive.

Icariel stared at his palm, mouth open, lips trembling as the white lightning twisted violently—howling like a beast trapped in his hand.

His knees buckled under the weight of it.

Rain hissed violently against the searing heat radiating from his skin.

His whole body screamed in agony.

Through his forever-changed vision, he could see it clearly now—what he had created wasn't a spell.

It was something else. Something he could not control.

"I'm going to die..." Terror gripped him. "I'm going to die—what did I just do—"

"RAISE YOUR HAND UP!"

The voice roared in his head, snapping him back to the moment. Without thinking, Icariel obeyed. He raised his trembling arm toward the sky—

And it erupted.

A blinding pillar of lightning shot from his palm—white.

Massive.

Violent.

The explosion of light and sound was apocalyptic. The pressure blasted him off his feet, slamming him into the ground so hard he spat blood from the impact.

"KHHHHHEMMM—!!"

And still, the lightning hadn't stopped.

It poured from his hand like a divine punishment, his body pinned to the soaked earth by its own magic, hand still raised.

"AHHH—!! I CAN'T—!"

"I'm going to break—!"

His voice cracked as he screamed, muscles tearing under the strain, bones groaning from the sheer force of it. The storm above bent around him. The trees shook.

The earth hissed and steamed beneath the crashing surge of energy—and Icariel realized this was no longer a normal spell.

And this spell showed no desire to stop.

[End of Chapter 15]