Icariel was far from the cave now.
He'd found two large stones resting beside each other, surrounded—as always—by the tall, looming trees of the forest. The silence was unnerving, broken only by the rustle of wind-brushed leaves and the distant, hollow cries of birds. Morning light slanted through the branches above, thin and sharp like blades. Mana hung in the air—drifting like snow that had forgotten how to fall.
"You'll train your fire and water on the stones," the voice in his head instructed. "And your wind spells on the trees. Are you ready?"
Icariel gave a slow nod, the kind that belonged more to prey than to a predator.
"Good. I'll give you scenarios that could happen—and you'll respond as if they were real. It won't match true experience, but we'll mimic it the best we can. You've seen Galien fight. You've been hunted by that woman. You've stared death in the face. That's worth more than twenty years of training."
He didn't reply, but his heart began to pound like a war drum. He remembered her face.
"Let's start," the voice said. "That stone—the one on the right—think of it as Elektra."
Icariel's breath snagged in his throat.
He forced himself to imagine the stone as her—that cold, hungry look in her eyes, the way her black ponytail swayed like a coiled whip, her beast-like grin that promised ruin. His chest tightened.
He trembled.
Then, he raised his wounded hand—and cast.
A surge of fire exploded from his palm, dense and white-hot. It tore through the air, scorched the soil beneath, and slammed into the stone with a savage hiss. Flames erupted across its surface, clawing and spitting like something alive.
Then—
He ran.
Without pause. Without hesitation. He spun on his heels and vanished into the trees, legs pounding the dirt.
"Hey! What are you doing?" the voice snapped, startled.
"Surviving," Icariel shouted back. "You said treat it like real life. I attacked—now I'm gone. Buying time. Hiding. Vanishing."
Silence.
"...Icariel. Stop."
He did, breath rasping in his chest.
The voice knew. It always had. The boy didn't think like the others. He didn't fantasize about glory or power. He dreamed of surviving—of living.
Sometimes, even the voice couldn't understand him fully.
"…Alright," it said. "New scenario."
"The woman—Elektra—she's fighting someone else. Like back then. Just like when you threw the axe. It's your job to distract or injure her long enough so the other person can kill her."
Icariel stepped back into the clearing, closer to the burning stone. His lungs still pulled at the air in ragged, steady gulps.
"Oh. That's way better," he muttered, facing the stone.
He pictured her again—mid-fight with Galien. Her blade crashing, her body taut, eyes feral. He raised his hand and summoned a smaller flame—compact, but seething.
"This is my most precise fire spell," he whispered. "Not as destructive as the spear flames, but it burns hotter."
He focused. Held his breath.
Then hurled it.
The flame hit like a brand from hell. The stone cracked, fire curling across its surface in jagged veins. He imagined her scream. Imagined Galien's sword following through. Imagined blood.
"I did it…" Icariel said under his breath. "The scenario worked. I succeeded."
"Good," the voice responded.
But the fire wasn't stopping.
The stone burned hotter. Smoke curled toward the sky. Flames licked at the forest's edge.
"Now," the voice said firmly, "cast a water spell—put it out."
The fire grew faster than breath.
"You need to give a lot of your mana to the water spell," the voice warned. "Make sure it's enough to extinguish everything."
"Fine," Icariel answered, steadying his stance.
He felt the mana flow—leave him—then return through the air, filtered through White Sense like breath drawn through teeth. From his palm, a globe of water began to swell. Heavy. Cold. Almost the size of the stone itself.
"This should be enough?"
"Yeah. Throw it now."
He hurled it.
The orb hit with a hollow smack. A rush of steam shot into the sky, hissing and wild. The fire was gone. The stone smoked, cracked and blackened. The forest held its breath.
"Water spells are usually for support," the voice explained. "But who knows? They might come in handy one day."
Icariel looked at his palm. "Why isn't water dangerous? Why is it always just support?"
"Because it lacks the properties that kill on contact. Flame can burn someone alive. Lightning paralyzes. Wind cuts. But water is… just water. Even when weaponized, it barely scratches. The only lasting danger it holds—"
"—is drowning," Icariel finished, his eyes narrowing.
"Exactly."
"That's why I asked," Icariel said. His voice had cooled, turned inward. "Do you remember the time that unknown man came to our village?"
"The one Galien fought? Yes. He defeated him… though we never learned why he came or threatened the village."
"But Galien said something. About torturing him. About water. About drowning."
The voice paused.
"So," Icariel continued, "what if I trap someone inside this orb of water?" His tone was calm. Unblinking. "What are the odds they'd survive?"
A long silence.
"A normal person," the voice said at last, "or even a mage without the right spell—or a swordmaster without his blade—their chances would be zero. It wouldn't matter how strong they were."
"See?" Icariel whispered. "It's not just a support element."
"Why didn't you tell me that?"
"…Because," the voice hesitated, "I thought you wouldn't do such a thing."
Icariel blinked. Slowly. "What do you mean?" His voice, flat and cold. "If the scenario comes, I will never hesitate to put myself before others. You know that best."
The voice didn't answer immediately.
Then—softly, quietly—it said: "…Sorry. That was a mistake on my part."
"If that's the case," Icariel said, "then from now on—you'll teach me how to use every spell in every possible way."
A pause.
"Does that sound good to you?"
"Yeah. It does."
Nine days later—only four remained of the one-month training the voice had tasked Icariel with.
He now stood before the boulders he'd spent hours fighting. His dark hair had grown slightly, shadowing his face. His black eyes—once cautious—were now sharp. Tired. Focused. He wore the look of someone who had survived versions of death no one else had seen.
One of the massive stones was already shattered, reduced to ruin. From his hand, a flame spear burst forward, slicing the air like a god's finger. It smashed into the second boulder—splitting it clean down the middle, stone shrapnel flying like teeth.
"And that," the voice said, "was the next scenario I put you through."
It paused. Then, oddly—
"To be honest… shock. That's what you gave me, Icariel."
There was silence. Then the voice shifted, like it had stepped back into its own memories.
"I really wish I'd had that kind of opportunity… once, in this lifetime."
The words weren't proud. Nor jealous.
They were aching.
Icariel tilted his head slightly, but didn't speak.
The voice quieted again.
And for the first time—rage flickered behind Icariel's eyes. Not born of anger at the voice, but at the world. At its silence. Its cruelty. Its hunger for suffering masked as order.
What kind of scenario had the voice just forced him to endure?
Icariel clenched his fists, the words echoing in his skull like old prayers said too late.
Longing. Regret.
Almost painful to hear.
"For the last four days," the voice finally said, "you'll train your wind spell. That will mark the end of your mage training."
"You can still learn or acquire new spells in the future depending on what you face—but for now, this is all you need."
Icariel nodded.
"That's fine," he said. "It's enough for now. I've mastered flame. I've learned water well enough."
He looked down at his hand. Then up at the swaying trees.
His voice dropped, quieter. "It was different from when I waited in the rain to acquire the lightning spell. Back then, I was only experimenting. Just touching the edges. Now, I've learned how to use them—how to think, react, survive."
A small, tired smile tugged at his lips.
"Even if they were just motionless stones… in my head, they were beasts. Enemies. Alive."
The voice didn't speak—but its silence carried weight.
"Now, for wind," it said at last. "You only have one spell: Wind Slash. See the trees around you?"
Icariel nodded.
"You'll use them as targets. I'll tell you where to cut—and you'll train your aim, and the intensity."
"Fine by me," Icariel said.
The voice pointed out a lone tree standing in the middle of the clearing.
"That one. Cut it in half—at the middle. Not too weak. Not too strong. Control it."
Icariel raised his hand.
Fwwhhh!
A slice of wind split the air as he swung. It hit the trunk—but at the base. A shallow wound near the roots. Just a scratch.
"I told you—the middle," the voice said. "Not the bottom. Don't just cast it. Control it."
Icariel stared at the faint scar.
It wasn't a wound.
Not yet.
Just a warning.
He looked at his hand. Then at the tree.
"Even a whisper can kill," he murmured. "If it lands in the right place."
He adjusted his stance.
"Guess I've still got work to do."
[End of Chapter 18]