The night settled over the Phoenix Guild HQ like a quiet veil, soft and unintrusive, dimming everything except the soft silver haze that always lingered around Ael when he let his thoughts sink deep enough. He stood alone in the training hall Lyra had loaned him—spacious, silent, dark except for the faint glow of lanterns along the walls. It wasn't cold, but the moment he inhaled, the temperature seemed to shift, as if the air itself recognized the presence of something it couldn't quite define.
This was the first time since his Awakening that he wasn't stepping forward into a battle or being pushed into a corner. No rift. No beasts. No desperate struggle. Just a question that had been chewing at him since his core first thrummed with silver light.
What exactly am I using? What is Ether?
He lowered himself to the center of the room, sitting cross-legged as the faint circuitry of the training arena pulsed to life beneath him. He didn't activate anything. He didn't need to. His presence alone made the glyphs react.
He closed his eyes.
Darkness met him, but it wasn't empty—it was alive, rippling with threads of silver he could feel but not yet understand. His pulse steadied, his mind quieted, and then the question returned with sharper clarity.
People use mana to create fire. Ice. Lightning. Space distortions. Even void. Mana mimics the world, bends it, borrows from it.
So if Ether is above mana… then everything mana can do should be a shadow of what Ether already is.
His heartbeat echoed faintly in the hollow of his chest. He reached inward, brushing against the surface of his core. Every time he touched it, it felt different—like a living thing shifting under his fingertips.
If mana is a river… Ether is the ocean.
And Ael instinctively knew he had been using it wrong.
Up until now he had pushed Ether the way most people pushed mana: shaping it, forcing it, weaving it through techniques it didn't fit into. Ether wasn't meant to be manipulated like an element. Ether was the principle that gave birth to the elements.
Everything was made from its leftovers.
His hands rested loosely on his knees, palms facing upward.
He inhaled—and this time, he didn't guide the Ether.
He let it breathe.
The world responded.
A soft chime—like a metal string plucked in the distance—rippled through the air. The floor beneath him dimmed. For a second he swore the entire hall fell silent, as if even the wind outside paused to listen.
Silver particles drifted up from his skin like faint embers of starlight.
And then a realization hit him—not like inspiration, but like memory.
Lightning isn't just electricity. Lightning is momentum. Intent. Velocity given form.
If mana creates lightning… Ether births the concept behind it.
He exhaled through parted lips, and the silver particles swirled faster, condensing.
"Alright…" he muttered under his breath. "Let's start with one. Something clean. Something fast."
He extended one hand outward. Ether pooled into his palm like liquid metal, swirling, condensing into a small sphere. He tried shaping it into lightning directly—and it resisted, shivering violently.
It wasn't refusing him. It was refusing the limitation.
Right… it's not lightning you create. It's the principle behind lightning you translate.
Ael shifted his focus. No forceful shaping this time. No bending. No pressure.
Speed.
Impact.
Execution.
Those concepts pulsed in his mind, and as if answering, the Ether in his hand elongated, thinning into a narrow line—so bright and silver it cast razor-sharp shadows on the floor. A hum filled the room, sharp and hungry. Even the air trembled around it.
When he flicked his wrist forward—
—the bolt vanished.
No sound. No flash. No recoil.
Just a single white dot on the far wall where the strike landed, so hot it smoked faintly.
DING!
[You have created a spell, please say the name you want to bestow upon it]
Ael's lips curled slowly. "Etherbolt…"
[Successful registration of spell Etherbolt(C). The consumption is 10 ether per cast.]
He didn't name it. He recognized it.
The ability settled into him instinctively, wrapping around his mind like a completed puzzle piece. He read the drain—barely ten Ether. For something that moved faster than sight and hit like a concentrated spear, that was absurd.
"One down."
His pulse quickened—not from strain, but exhilaration. He rose to his feet, rolling his shoulders as silver dust shimmered along his arms.
The AoE attack would be harder.
Lightning spread. It sought paths, branching, splitting, ripping outward in uncontrolled cascades. Mana users relied on brute force and elemental affinity to contain the chaos.
Ether didn't need to deal with chaos.
Ether defined the rules.
Ael lifted both hands, closing his eyes as he centered himself again. He envisioned a storm—not wild, not untamed, but intentional. A controlled detonation of momentum spreading outward like a blooming flower.
The principle of dispersion.
The principle of acceleration.
The principle of overwhelming force.
Ether rose around him in rippling sheets, the air humming more fiercely than before. His hair lifted slightly, weightless. Dust danced around him. He felt weightless—untouchable—like he stood at the center of a storm that did not yet exist.
A deep breath.
Then he twisted his hands outward.
Silver lines shot from his palms, spiraling around him in a widening circle. Not random. Not chaotic. Perfect arcs—like pieces of a celestial diagram unfolding. The air trembled. The ground vibrated softly.
With a sharp pull of his arms, the spirals snapped outward—
—and the entire training hall erupted in a dome of silver lightning.
The blast was silent, but the shockwave pushed against the walls hard enough to rattle the beams. Air was sucked outward instantly, then snapped back in with a sharp gasp as the light vanished.
Ael's knees bent slightly, bracing from the force.
He exhaled, chest rising with a mix of relief and awe.
The floor around him was marked with thin white patterns—heat trails etched into the ground like roots of a glowing tree.
DING!
[You have created a spell, please say the name you want to bestow upon it]
He whispered the name that echoed in his mind.
"Silver Tempest…"
[Successful registration of spell Silver Tempest(B). The consumption is 60 ether per cast.]
The ability sank into him, lodging itself into his instincts, ready to be summoned with a mere thought. The Ether drain was higher than Etherbolt—but nowhere near crippling.
More than enough to use inside a D-Rank rift without putting himself at risk.
A slow smile crept across his lips.
Lyra was going to kill him.
Then hug him.
Then kill him again.
But she had told him to create two usable combat skills.
And he did.
Not mana techniques.
Not elemental sorcery.
Ether-born creations.
Ael straightened, stretching his back as the last threads of silver faded from the air. His body felt warm, alive, electric in a way he couldn't explain. Every refinement he'd undergone, every instinct he'd trusted, every question he'd asked himself—it all aligned into place.
He walked toward the exit, rolling his wrists experimentally, letting small sparks of silver dance between his fingers.
Tomorrow, Lyra would evaluate his progress.
Tomorrow, he would show her what Ether could truly become.
And after that…
Ael's eyes narrowed, a flame of determination igniting in them.
D-Rank rifts.
He wasn't ready because of his stats.
He was ready because he now understood the very source of power itself.
"I can probably implement elemental affinity into my Ethereal Weaponry constructs making them more deadly… But I'll leave that for another day, Im beat.", talking to himself before leaving the facilities.
Looking back at the training hall, he whispered once more—almost reverently:
"Etherbolt…"
"Silver Tempest…"
The air shivered, as if memorizing the names.
Ael stepped out into the night with a quiet confidence.
This time, he wouldn't just survive the future.
He would redefine it.