"Like I said before," the voice continued, calm and steady in Icariel's mind, "special elemental spells like lightning… they can never be recreated or mastered more than once."

The boy listened in silence, his footsteps sluggish, dragging slightly through the soaked earth. The forest was wet, heavy with mist, and unnervingly still. The kind of silence that felt like breath being held.

"You remember how you tested flame spells—mixing golden and blue mana orbs in different ratios to change their density, intensity, even temperature. More golden mana made the flame larger, more ravenous. More blue cooled it down, made it gentler, even harmless."

A pause followed—subtle, pointed. The voice waited, like a teacher with no interest in repeating themselves.

"But spells like lightning don't work that way. Once imprinted, they don't bend. They don't flinch or flow. That's the nature of special elements—they're rigid, locked in form. Not unless you've spent years locked in study, mastering every breath and pattern, like a man memorizing the rhythm of his own heartbeat."

The voice darkened slightly.

"And let's be honest. You don't have the time—or the temperament—to bury yourself in scrolls and rituals, dissecting the soul of magic through dusty words."

Icariel didn't answer. He didn't need to.

"In simpler terms: you had one chance to imprint a lightning spell. One chance. That's why I told you not to mess up. Because if you failed… that would've been it—no second chances. No do-overs. No mercy."

The air around him buzzed faintly. Not real lightning—just memory.

"And you didn't just succeed," the voice murmured. "You created something… unprecedented. On accident."

The voice dropped lower now, heavy with restrained tension.

"And that's also why I told you not to use it again."

"You've been using spells for weeks now. You understand the curve—the difference between raw and refined. When you first mix elemental mana in the air to form a spell, it's soft. Weak. A child's version. But once that spell is imprinted—once your body learns it, remembers it—and you feed it with internal mana… it becomes something else."

Icariel's injured hand throbbed again, the pain rhythmic, like it pulsed in time with the memory of what he'd done.

"And yet… that white lightning—the one you used—was already monstrous the first time. That was it at its weakest."

A shiver moved through him, like something ancient brushing past his spine.

"So imagine what happens… when you cast it again. When you truly cast it. When your own mana breathes life into it."

Silence fell. Deep, layered. Only the damp crunch of his boots on the earth marked the passage of time.

He walked slowly toward the cave, hand aching, vision still scorched with white afterglow. That flash—his flash—had seared more than just flesh.

The voice waited, then softened unexpectedly.

"Knowing you, I'm sure you won't even think about using it again. It'll be like the spell never existed. Like it was erased from your mind, swallowed by fear."

Then, after a long pause, it asked:

"But I have one last question for you, Icariel."

The boy stopped at the cave's entrance. The shadows inside were thick and cold, curling like smoke at the edges of the opening.

"Will you really give up on training?"

There was silence. Breathless.

Icariel stepped forward, and the dark took him in.

"…Yes," he said at last.

Then, a beat later:

"For today."

A faint smile tugged at his lips—strained, cracked at the edges, but real. A survivor's smile. The kind that comes not from comfort, but from making it through one more hour of pain.

It was true—he had nearly killed himself learning that spell. And he hated that. Hated the feeling of standing one inch from the grave, grasping for something he didn't even understand.

But the voice… the voice had said he'd created something unprecedented. Something impossible. Something forbidden. And still—he was here.

Alive.

Maybe it wasn't pride. Maybe it was defiance, bone-deep and burning. The kind that whispered: not yet.

He stepped deeper into the cave, muscles sore and trembling. He knelt beside the pile of goods scavenged from the ruined Groon house—supplies, small and vital.

"First, I should treat this arm," he muttered, eyeing the slashes and burns that still screamed beneath the skin.

"I'm glad I took these," he added, pulling out a roll of bandages and a small pouch of medicine—crushed roots, dried herbs, bitter oils. Smells of rot and relief.

He applied the balm gently. The sting was sharp, cleansing. Almost reassuring, like proof that pain still belonged to him and not the spell.

He wrapped his hand and forearm in tight, practiced coils of cloth. It wasn't elegant—but it would hold.

"It's done," he said, flexing his fingers. They moved stiffly, but they moved. "Should be fine. Healing."

He sat there for a moment, spine against stone, blinking slowly. His limbs trembled faintly, and the weight of survival pressed down like cold water. He was tired. Not just in body—in soul.

"Now… I need to hunt. Eat. Sleep," he murmured. "I'm really tired."

The forest beyond the cave stirred slightly. Leaves glistened in the new light, and the birds—timid, cautious—sang again. Like they'd been holding their breath, too.

Icariel glanced toward the cave's mouth, then spoke softly—toward the presence curled behind his eyes.

"Does that sound good to you?"

The voice replied, calm as always, like distant thunder: "As you wish."

And so, Icariel stood. He stretched, each movement slow, deliberate—like reassembling a broken machine. He stepped out of the cave once more—into the quiet green of dawn.

To hunt. To eat.

To live.

The next day, he woke before the sun had finished climbing. Light bled weakly through the trees—anemic and silver. The air was sharp, smelling of damp bark, moss, and something old.

A lone bird cried in the distance. Then, silence again.

"I slept early last night… after hunting and eating that deer," he muttered, sitting up and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He stretched slowly, working out the knots and leftover agony from the spell's backlash.

Today felt better. The storm inside him had quieted.

Something strange hit him—this was the first time since acquiring White Sense that he'd risen this early. Back in Mjull, rising with the dawn was normal. But now, with his vision wide open to mana… morning looked alive.

He saw it drifting—gold and blue and pale green—like invisible wind-chimes swaying around his body. Some of it entered him naturally, like air filling lungs.

"The mana really is denser in the morning," he said aloud.

"Because it's not disturbed," the voice replied simply.

"Oh… I see," Icariel nodded, genuinely curious. "You should tell me more about that later—how it works. I want to know."

"Sure," the voice answered.

"So… what should I do today?" he asked, standing and brushing dirt from his pants. His tone was lighter now—flickers of energy beneath exhaustion.

"Originally," the voice began, "I planned that once you acquired the lightning spell, you'd use the remaining time learning it—until it felt like a part of you. Like the others."

Then, with a teasing edge, "But that's no longer an option. Someone had to mix all the black mana into it."

"It's not like I wanted to," Icariel grumbled.

"For the rest of the training, I want you to use what you've learned—as if you're fighting. That was the goal for the final week."

Icariel cut in, "Or escaping someone? Not everything's about fighting. Especially for me."

"That could work too."

"You've learned spells of fire, wind, and water. Use them now—as if you're facing something real. A monster. Or a human like that woman…"

He tensed at the mention.

Elektra.

The name scraped through his mind like a blade. That eye in the mist. That smile like hunger.

"Elektra," he whispered.

"So what should I use as my opponents?" he asked, voice quiet now.

"It's obvious."

"...What?"

"Trees. And stones."

"…Huh?"

"Are you ready?"

"...Yeah, I guess," Icariel said, forcing a smile.

It felt strange—like wearing someone else's skin. But it came. And maybe that was what surviving looked like now. Laughing before the fear came back.

Little did he know…

These quiet days—these false mornings of control—would vanish. Like fog in the mouth of fire. And Icariel, still wrapped in bandages and innocence, didn't yet understand just how fast the world would change.

[End of Chapter 17]