The air inside Lencar's hidden base shimmered faintly with mana residue. Silver glyphs hung in the air like constellations, the afterglow of a spell still stabilizing. In the center of the dim room, a dozen artifacts floated—each rotating slowly above a rune array etched into the stone floor.
Lencar crossed his arms, studying his haul like a teacher evaluating lazy students.
"Alright," he muttered. "Let's see what I almost got vaporized for."
He flicked a mana thread toward the first relic—a dark blade that seemed to hum when looked at.
"Demon-Dweller Sword," he read aloud, glancing at his notes. "Cursed. Semi-sentient. Eats mana. Probably hates being in this world." He prodded it once with his gauntlet finger and winced when it hissed.
"Noted. Temperamental. Like every ex I never had."
He shifted to the next item—a rectangular crystal slab the size of a painting. Its surface reflected nothing, not even his face.
"Mirror Tablet of Vekil," he said. "Reflects active mana formulas for exactly three seconds."
He squinted at the tablet. "So basically a fancy screenshot tool. Ancient mages invented magic PowerPoint."
He grinned, pressing his palm against its surface and channeling a faint spell. Runes bloomed across the slab, tracing the entire structure of his fire spell before fading.
"Oh-ho. So that's how you work," he murmured, eyes gleaming. "Three seconds of truth."
Next came the Etherium Core, pulsing faintly with light from its cracked heart. He knelt, touching it gently. The mana pulse nearly burned through his glove.
"Still unstable. I can feel the mana field humming out of rhythm." He tilted his head, thoughtful. "Might be able to use it as a dummy core for testing Reverse Replication output without using my own mana... if it doesn't explode first."
He jotted a note:
> "Potential: 70%. Explosion Risk: 110%."
The Sealed Codex Fragment was next. The shifting letters danced mockingly across its charred surface. He stared at it for a full minute before sighing.
"Still can't read ancient scribbles. You'd think devouring seven grimoires would grant literacy in Whatever-This-Is Language."
He tossed the fragment gently back into its case, moving on to the simpler items.
The Runic Band of Neros gleamed faintly as he slipped it onto his finger. Instantly, his mana circuits calmed—like a symphony conductor bringing an orchestra to silence.
"Now this," he said, flexing his fingers, "is quality craftsmanship. Stable, efficient, no murderous whispering—unlike you." He pointed at the Demon-Dweller Sword, which hummed in protest.
Then came the Mana Conductor Gauntlet—sleek, bronze, runes running down the length of his forearm. He activated it, and glowing threads of mana extended from his fingertips like silk lines.
He smirked. "Now this I can work with."
He turned toward the smaller pile—his "combat toys." Three black orbs sat on a metal tray, each one pulsing faintly with inner heat.
"Bahal Orbs," he said with mock grandeur. "Ancient magical grenades. Because even thousands of years ago, people solved problems with explosions."
He twirled one between his fingers, then quickly put it down when it began to vibrate. "Note to self: don't juggle divine explosives."
Beside them, two gleaming daggers lay crossed. One shimmered red—Ignis—and the other flickered with faint sparks—Voltra. He drew both, testing their balance.
"Lightweight. Sharp. Beautifully unstable," he said approvingly. "Just like my luck."
A flat, circular relic sat near them—a pale blue gem embedded in a shield-shaped frame.
"Aegis Core—Shield of Orun."
He infused it with mana, and a translucent barrier flared to life around him.
"Responsive, efficient, slightly dramatic. Perfect."
Finally, he lifted a small crystal that glowed faintly with blue runes.
"Valenlink Crystal," he whispered. "Long-distance communication by mana signature."
He chuckled softly. "A magical phone. I'll call it—ManaTalk." He paused. "No, that's terrible."
For hours, he tested, measured, categorized. The lab was filled with quiet light and low, rhythmic chanting as he adjusted his runic circuits, connecting mana threads between relics.
Then—finally—he picked up his grimoire.
He flipped to a page he had deliberately kept blank, tracing it with a gloved hand. "Now… let's see if I can refine Reverse Replication using these tools."
He summoned a small spell structure—a low-level Fireball rune—and cast it toward the Mirror Tablet of Vekil. The surface immediately flared, showing the exact runic architecture of his spell. He pressed his hand onto the mirror, channeling the reflected structure into his blank grimoire page.
The page glowed.
A perfect duplicate of the Fireball spell appeared—cleaner, sharper, more efficient than the original. The mirror, however, began to hum dangerously as the energy feedback looped.
"Ah, that's not good—!"
The mirror flared, sending a shockwave through the lab. Lencar shielded his face, laughing even as dust rained down. "Okay! So the system works—just needs less self-destructive enthusiasm."
He stood up, brushing off his cloak, and looked at the glowing page. "Reverse Replication: Confirmed stable at 80% success rate. Efficiency up by 30%. Damage to lab—acceptable."
He couldn't help but grin. "So this is it. My Reverse Replication—Version 2.0."
A faint knock echoed from above.
"Lencar?" Rebecca's voice. "Dinner's ready! And stop making things explode again!"
He blinked, looking around the half-smoked room. "Define explode," he muttered under his breath.
"What was that?" she called again.
"Coming!" he said, quickly sweeping mana over the relics, hiding them under illusionary covers. The Mirror Tablet dimmed, the Etherium Core sank into its seal, and the Bahal Orbs were tucked neatly into a reinforced case.
He climbed the stairs, the faint scent of cooked stew meeting him. Rebecca was waiting by the small table, arms crossed.
"I told you not to mess with dangerous stuff again," she said flatly.
"I didn't," he lied with a straight face. "I was just, uh… cleaning."
"Your 'cleaning' always smells like smoke and regret."
He laughed quietly, taking his seat. "Regret is part of progress."
She sighed, shaking her head with a reluctant smile. "You're impossible."
"Only statistically," he replied, grinning.
That night, after dinner, he stood at the window, looking at the stars beyond the capital. His grimoire floated beside him, its pages quietly turning.
The new spell shimmered faintly—[Reverse Replication: Complete Link].
He whispered, half to himself, half to the world,
"Next stop—the Kiten Dungeon... and beyond."
The Mirror Tablet pulsed once in silent agreement.