Fire Mage-Chapter 680: Dream

Chapter 680: Dream

Then he sat on the cold floor, took out the darkness-affinity ’Genius’ potion vial, and opened it. After a brief hesitation, he brought the vial to his lips and gulped it down.

A foul, earthy taste flooded his senses, like swallowing gritty dirt water. His face twisted in disgust.

Simultaneously, a surge of dark essence coursed through his body, reinforcing the link between his soul and the element of darkness.

His understanding of the Shadowstep Dance Sword Technique suddenly deepened.

Charles remained seated, observing every subtle change in his body. After nearly two hours, he finally opened his eyes.

A flurry of notifications appeared before him.

...

[Host’s Darkness Affinity has increased from ’Extraordinary’ to ’Genius’ Rank]

[Mastery over Shadow Stealth skill has increased!]

[Intermediate Level Shadow Stealth Skill has been upgraded to ’Advanced Level.’]

...

He was about to fully awaken when a powerful suction force erupted from Grace, pulling his consciousness elsewhere.

A moment later, he stood before a small, single-story house with an attached barn. The landscape around him was all grassland, a few trees, a well, and a small carriage. Cows and a lone horse were tied inside the barn.

His brows furrowed.

Where am I?

He looked down at himself and found he was dressed in plain clothes and holding a wooden sword.

Worse, he couldn’t access any of his skills or spells.

"What kind of strange dream is this—?"

His words trailed off as a rhythmic clanking sound caught his attention. He turned and saw a young man, likely in his late twenties, practicing strikes on an iron dummy with a wooden sword.

The man was about 165 cm tall, broad-shouldered, with fair skin, a triangular face, monolid hazel eyes, and long black hair. He wore simple linen clothes and swung his wooden sword with silent, fluid precision—like a shadow slicing through air.

Training swordsmanship on iron with a wooden sword? Charles thought in disbelief.

Yet every strike the man delivered was precise and savagely intent. When the wooden sword hit, it left a faint scar on the iron dummy.

No sword aura... not even the beginner’s technique... And still—he left a mark?!

Then Charles noticed the sword sheathed at the young man’s waist. Its hilt bore a familiar hexagonal symbol.

Grace?

Realization hit him.

This must be what Azoth meant about linking oneself to the sword. She also said it would feel like a nightmare. If I fail to meet the requirements... I might be consumed by Grace!

His expression turned grim.

Charles stepped forward and began mimicking the young man’s movements.

The man continued practicing the same swing over and over, trying to deepen the cut on the dummy. Charles followed each motion, trying to absorb every detail.

But no matter how many times he tried, Charles barely made progress.

The young man eventually released the cows into the open field and continued training. As night fell, he herded them back and began milking them, filling a barrel. He loaded the milk into the cart and drove off into the darkness.

Charles tried to follow but was blocked by an invisible barrier.

So Grace is showing me this man’s past—his training—and letting me learn from him.

He turned back toward the iron dummy, lifted his wooden sword, and attempted the same attack.

He matched the form, the speed, even the trajectory—but something vital was missing: the cold ruthlessness in the strike.

The sword shattered on impact.

Then, almost instantly, the broken sword disappeared and reappeared in his hand, good as new.

At least I won’t run out of swords, Charles thought with a dry smile and kept trying.

He repeated the movement again and again—hundreds of times. But the result was the same: failure.

Frustration gnawed at him.

Three hours later, the young man returned, resumed his practice in complete darkness, and continued swinging that wooden sword without pause.

Eventually, he went inside and fell asleep.

Charles remained outside, still holding the wooden sword, determined to succeed.

He stood rooted in place, continuing his relentless practice. As time passed, he noticed something strange—he never felt fatigue, hunger, or even the need to sleep.

Does that mean I can use all my time to train? A firm resolve settled in his mind.

Hours slipped by, and soon dawn arrived.

After releasing the cows and the horse into the field, the young man returned to the training ground and resumed his routine. Charles mimicked his every movement and practiced with obsession.

Days crept by. A week passed in this bizarre nightmare realm.

All this time, Charles trained tirelessly, refining the same sword technique over and over, his posture improving to near perfection. But despite the effort, the results were underwhelming. His wooden sword broke repeatedly, each time sparking a strange, bubbling frustration within him.

This is making me furious, he grumbled, gritting his teeth as he swung again.

Then, something changed.

For the first time, the weapon didn’t break.

Though nothing visible surrounded the sword, Charles sensed a force—raw, powerful—within his strike.

Is anger the key? The thought lingered. But anger wasn’t easy to summon, especially for someone like Charles—calculating, calm, always in control.

Still, it’s not like I can’t get angry at all, he mused, and a memory surfaced—his best friend from a past life. Blood surged to his head, and emotion clouded his thoughts.

His eyes blazed with barely contained rage. Raising his sword, he struck the iron dummy.

An invisible energy sheathed the blade, radiating a blood-red aura.

The swing cleaved the iron dummy cleanly in two. A deep crack split the ground, a shockwave of energy rippling outward.

Charles staggered. Dizziness washed over him, and his body trembled with sudden exhaustion.

Only then did he realize something—his mind hadn’t been entirely his own.

Is this Grace’s doing? A grim expression crossed his face.

Damn it. Just thinking about past hatred triggered that kind of power... Still, the insight was valuable.

Relying on anger alone isn’t enough. I need to control it. Channel it. His eyes sharpened with understanding. Fuse it into the technique.

For the next three weeks, he continued practicing alongside the young man, relentlessly. Eventually, he managed to leave a scratch on the iron dummy.

Even after reaching the same level as the young man, Charles remained trapped.

Is this some sort of nightmare? What must I do to escape? He pondered as he pushed himself further.

Weeks bled into months.

Unlike the young man, Charles never relaxed—his focus never wavered, his training unceasing.

Two years passed in a blink.

In that span, Charles’s sword technique sharpened to terrifying precision. He cut the iron dummy to its deepest core.

By comparison, the muscular man beside him had only managed a cut two inches deep. Charles had discovered early on that the man lacked any natural affinity for the sword, which severely hampered his progress.

Time marched forward. Another two years.

And finally, Charles reached it.

He fully grasped the invisible power born from anger, mastered its rhythm, and cleaved the iron dummy clean in two.

The world shattered.

It cracked like a mirror struck by a hammer. Reality crumbled around him.

Before it all vanished, Charles glanced at the young man and noticed something—an aura had begun to form around his wooden sword.

Oh? He finally awakened his Basic Aura. He didn’t even know the man’s name. Yet, oddly, he felt a connection.

The next instant, Charles opened his eyes in the room he had booked at the Mermaid Inn. He exhaled deeply, relief washing over him.

Turning toward Grace’s resting place, a scowl touched his lips.

"You should warn me before doing something like that, Grace," he said coldly, rising to his feet.

Grace floated into the air and suddenly shot toward his neck, the sharp edge halting just before touching skin.

A wave of bloodlust radiated from her. Charles’s lips twitched.

"What a temper you’ve got," he muttered and stepped past her. He reached out, grasped the hilt, and held her tightly.

Calmly, he raised the blade, enveloping it with his Intermediate Sunshine Aura. The moment he moved, something shifted.

Power surged from Grace into his soul, creating an intense closeness between them.

The Sunshine Aura deepened in color—first orange, then a rich, burning red.

A series of notifications appeared before his eyes:

...

[Host’s understanding of ’Sword’ has unlocked the ’Sword’ affinity!]

[Sword Affinity: Nil → Intermediate Rank]

[Advanced Sword Aura Unlocked]

[Shadowstep Dance Swordsmanship: Intermediate → Advanced]

[Shadowstep Dance fused with Swordsmanship of Abyssal Insanity Slash → New Sword Technique Acquired]

[Please name the new swordsmanship.]

...

Name it? Charles furrowed his brow, then nodded.

Swordsmanship of Madness.

A cold smile tugged at his lips as he looked at Grace.