In the end, Lucimia chose the third path, like picking the narrow trail through bamboo in a hush of wind.

Setting aside her gift for condensing magic and steering elements—like fingers weaving mist—her actual spells were few: Wind Blade like a slicing gale, Fireball Spell like a lantern spark, a Water Jet like a silver stream, Ice Lance like winter thorns, Earth Spikes like teeth rising from soil.

Those were everyday attack spells, like stones in a sling; she also held one higher art, Whirlwind Dance, like a cyclone’s song around a lone dancer.

Her special spells were Invisibility Spell like a veil of moonlight, Flight Spell like a swallow’s glide, and a half-finished Instant Movement like a skipped stone on dark water.

Remove Instant Movement, and she had eight she could use cleanly, like beads counted on a rosary under calm breath.

So, was she an Eighth Rank Mage, like a summit touched by dawn? She smirked, humor drifting like steam.

No—the eighth rank isn’t a headcount of tricks, it’s a standard carved in stone and storm.

At best, this said she was a Seventh Rank Mage, like a peak before the ridge.

To reach the Eighth Rank, you need dozens of spells like stars in a net, element mastery like reins on thunder, potion craft like alchemy in a cauldron, and the will to invent like fire born from flint; miss one, and the gate stays closed.

Which meant the first seven ranks were apprenticeships, like steps up a pagoda; the eighth was where true magehood started, like the bell’s first clear ring.

She was still some distance away, like a bridge wrapped in morning mist.

All day, Lucimia shut herself in her bedroom, like a hermit in a painted screen, and used mana to build a Magic Array along her inner mana corridors like canals etched in jade.

She followed the book’s method at first, like tracing calligraphy strokes by lamplight.

As a novice would, she tried constructing her first simple Magic Array: the Fireball Spell, like a red pearl cupped in both hands.

With her foundation, she finished it easily, like knotting a familiar cord, and when she cast, the mana cost dropped like rain easing after thunder.

Delighted, she moved on, like a brush flowing to the next character.

Wind Blade, Earth Spikes, Water Ball like a clear orb, Ice Lance like a shard of glacier.

One by one, she set their Magic Arrays in place, and inside her mana corridors a lattice of arrays joined like a trellis braided with vines.

She flicked out a few spells at random, like tossing petals into a stream, and no arrays clashed; the mana cost was a sip, not a drought.

“Good, good,” she clapped, joy bubbling like tea; “not a single failure,” and she readied the special spells like untying a heavier bundle.

She expected the same smooth river, but reality kicked like a mule; when she built the Invisibility Spell, the array’s mana went chaotic, clashing like crossed swords and trembling like a pot about to boil over.

She had to sever the array at once, like cutting a frayed rope, and destroyed the whole weave until it was ash and silence.

That meant her prior effort had blown away like dust in a gust.

“Ah, why?” She raked her hair, frustration prickling like nettles.

She sighed, long and deep like wind through pines, and opened the book again to study by cool light.

She found the Invisibility Spell’s Magic Array was intricate to a fault, heavier than the sum of the earlier spells, like a tapestry denser than silk.

Because it was too difficult, adding it onto the main Magic Array was like placing a boulder on a shaky raft; the base couldn’t bear it, and chaos spilled like cracked ink.

So she thought, and the idea rang like a chime: use the hardest spell as the foundation, then build the rest on top; the work would be steadier, like bricks laid on bedrock.

Among what she knew, the hardest was that half-finished Instant Movement, like lightning trapped in a bottle.

Should she take Instant Movement as the base, like anchoring a ship to deep water? Or use the second hardest, Flight Spell, like staking a kite to the wind?

“Try Instant Movement first,” she murmured, resolve cool as iron.

She studied Instant Movement again, effort beating like a drum, and at last mastered its basic Magic Array like mapping a hidden alley.

She still couldn’t cast it smoothly, like a dancer learning steps, but she could promise safe landings, like stepping stones set across a stream.

With Instant Movement as the foundation, she added Flight Spell like wings, Invisibility Spell like gauze, then Whirlwind Dance like a ringing tempest, and finally the ordinary attack spells like arrows in a quiver.

“Done!” She was ecstatic, heart blazing like lanterns at festival night, eyes on the calm arrays inside like a moonlit lake; pride warmed her like wine.

I taught myself—she thought—like a lone scholar under plum blossoms; I’m too good, and the thought glittered like frost.

She couldn’t help the self-praise, a tune humming like bees.

This wasn’t vanity; it was fact, standing like a pillar.

Before, she had learned with a beginner’s stance, like walking barefoot on dew; beginners can’t start with complex spells, so they pick Fireball Spell as first, like a match to learn flame.

Thus the first array they build inside is Fireball, like laying a simple tile for a floor.

Later, when they add new spells, the difficulty spikes like cliffs, and no matter how they carve or mend their Magic Arrays, conflicts bloom like thorns; the root problem is the base array is flawed, like a crooked beam.

Someone might say, then tear it down and rebuild, like razing a wall to straighten the frame.

True—but most never see it, fog in the mind like smoke; they think their understanding is shallow, and yes, their depth is a puddle, not a well.

A few know the solution, but they can’t bear it; each array cost them blood and time, like threads pulled from their sleeves, and starting over demands courage like stepping into winter river water.

Break it, and they fear they can’t even reconstruct the first one, like hands losing memory.

For all these reasons, Lucimia felt proud, the pride bright as a blade; she wasn’t a beginner—she was a genius—so her first array shouldn’t be simple, it should be the most complex, like setting the keystone first.

Not only that, her speed and precision were high, like a calligrapher’s steady wrist, which gave her the nerve to tear down and rebuild, like a craftsman unafraid of shavings.

“No surprise it’s me,” she whispered, licking her lips like tasting victory, and she imagined the magic academy like towers in morning sun.

She’d play the meek lamb, then bare fangs at the crucial moment, like a tiger stepping from bamboo; crush the academy’s golden students, step on their pride, and cackle with a knife-edged grin until they doubted life like mirrors cracking.

Or, while pretending to be ordinary, she’d happen upon a girl with poor talent, and offer tips now and then, like rain on seedlings; that slow nurture would be a sweet pastime.

Good—she suddenly looked forward to the academy, anticipation fluttering like a kite.

“Heh-heh-heh…” Her giggle drifted silly and light, like bubbles in spring water.

“Lucimy—sister, what are you laughing at?” Yuna’s question pulled her back like a tug on a sleeve.

“Ah—nothing. I finished constructing my Magic Array. I’m happy, so I smiled,” she said, warmth like tea steam.

“I see. Congratulations, Lucimy-sister,” Yuna said, a sweet smile in her voice like honey.

“Mm. Thank you, Yuna,” Lucimia smiled back, though Yuna couldn’t see, her curve gentle as a crescent.

Should she teach Yuna magic too? The thought glinted like a star.

“Yuna,” Lucimia crawled onto the bed on hands and knees, like a cat padding across quilts.

“What’s… up?” Yuna asked, words soft as velvet.

“Do you… want to go to the magic academy?” Lucimia asked, the question floating like a paper boat.

Yuna had been kidnapped young, and hadn’t touched many things, like a garden walled off; if she hadn’t been taken, she might be studying there now, like a bird in a wide sky.

Silence fell; Yuna held her breath like a still pond.

“What’s wrong?” Lucimia pressed, concern a tight string.

“Nothing… If you go, I’ll go,” Yuna said, loyalty firm as knotted rope.

“Okay, then it’s set. After this incident, we’ll go together,” Lucimia said, painting futures like ink on rice paper. “I’ll take you to eat delicious food, play with fun things, and if there’s a chance, we’ll find a way to restore your eyes,” she added, fingers clasping Yuna’s arm like warm ivy.

“Mm!” Yuna nodded hard, hope beating like wings.

“Deal?”

“Mm.”

“Heh-heh,” Lucimia chuckled, like bells in a sleeve.

Leaning back in the chair, Lucimia started thinking again, mind turning like prayer wheels.

Since her magic talent was strong, could Yuna help her with unlimited Reversion, so she could study spells madly and then sweep the board, like a tide pushing flat sand?

In theory, it would work, like mathematics on a slate.

But she had to know which octopi in town were which, and who the Deceivers were, like sorting shadows from shapes; if she killed innocents, her family would be angry, and suspect her mind had a crack, like ice in spring.

Besides, she didn’t care for others’ life or death, but if all the crowd died, she’d lose her entertainment, like a theater with lamps snuffed; where would she listen to music, watch plays, see magic shows, taste good food?

That wouldn’t do, like a banquet without wine.

So for now, she had to learn the lay of things first, like mapping streets before a journey.

This could be the B-plan, tucked away like a dagger in a sleeve, but only if Yuna’s Reversion had no limits, like a river without a dam.

Lucimia asked Yuna, and Yuna said she wasn’t sure, uncertainty floating like mist.

So they set the topic aside, laying it down like a closed fan.