The sun was setting outside the mana-forbidden zone when Lencar walked deeper into its heart, carrying the Demon-Dweller sword in one hand and a single objective in mind: to elevate his magic beyond simple devouring or replication.
He needed synthesis.
He needed evolution.
And for that, he needed silence.
The deeper he walked, the thinner the natural mana became. It was like walking into a vacuum—an emptiness where magic fought to exist. Even his enchanted grimoire flickered slightly, pages rustling as if protesting the environment.
"Don't complain," he muttered. "This is where breakthroughs happen."
He stopped at the remains of an ancient stone platform—likely a ruin from before the Clover Kingdom even existed. The air here was so thin with mana that even light spells fizzled before forming.
Good.
If his new technique worked here, it would work anywhere.
He planted the Demon-Dweller sword in the ground beside him. The blade trembled faintly, reacting to the barren mana around it.
The sword was special.
Not just because it could cut and borrow magic—
but because Lencar had learned something new while training:
The Demon-Dweller sword remembers.
This memory wasn't conscious, nor articulate. It was instinctive—an echo of spells that had once surged through its blade. Most people used it only once per magic they copied, requiring the original caster to be near.
But Lencar was not "most people."
He knelt and placed his palm on the hilt.
"Let's begin."
His heretic mode activated for a flash—just enough to awaken the sword's latent echoes—then he stabilized into Mage-Mode again, deliberately suppressing the chaotic pull of devouring.
He didn't want to devour magic this time.
He wanted to assemble it.
He closed his eyes.
Magic flowed from him into the sword, tracing along its internal channels—like veins that ran through steel. And within those channels… remnants. Bits. Pieces. Shadows.
Asta had cut fire, water, lightning, air…
and each element left a faint "imprint" on the blade.
Most were too faint to read.
But Lencar had something Asta did not:
Absolute Replication.
He activated it—sparingly, carefully—letting his magic scan the internal echoes.
The sword flashed once.
The imprints sharpened.
Six distinct magical signatures emerged—
not full spells, but fragments of mana-nature, enough to study.
"Perfect."
He didn't need the complete spell.
He only needed its nature.
Fire.
Wind.
Lightning.
Water.
Earth.
And one faint signature that almost vanished before he could touch it…
"Mmm. Spatial magic… Finral must've been nearby once."
The realization gave him goosebumps.
The sword had the blueprint of space—but only as a smear, a residue. He couldn't reconstruct the spell, but he could use the principle.
He lifted the sword.
The blade hummed, responding to his mana, craving more.
"Let's see if I can make the magic echo without the caster."
He swung the sword horizontally—not violently, but with precision.
A ripple of blue erupted—
—but instead of borrowing someone's spell, it generated pure mana essence of that affinity.
A blade of wind.
Real wind.
His smile grew.
"I don't need the original caster anymore."
The Demon-Dweller sword pulsed again, as if confirming.
He exhaled slowly.
"All right… time to see if composite magic is feasible outside of grimoire casting."
Normally, composite magic required two grimoires—or at least two different elemental affinities merging at the caster's will. Lencar had an advantage there too:
Reverse Replication Magic.
With it, he could recreate the shape of a spell from its principles… even using a sword instead of a grimoire.
He raised the sword and poured mana into it, splitting the flow into two strands.
Left strand—wind affinity.
Right strand—fire affinity.
He shaped them simultaneously, weaving them into the blade.
"Don't explode," he whispered.
The two affinities clashed violently inside the sword.
The blade groaned.
The ground trembled.
Lencar steadied his breath and forced the mana to rotate—spiraling like a double helix.
The result was instant:
A pillar of swirling, heated wind erupted from the blade—
not fire, not wind—
but something in-between.
Scorch Gale Magic.
A hybrid.
Lencar swung the sword upward. The composite spell launched like a scythe of burning wind, ripping across the barren field and carving a crescent into the cliff wall ahead.
He blinked.
"That's… stronger than expected."
And incredibly stable.
He tried again—wind plus earth.
This time the sword generated:
Granite Cyclone Magic — a rotating storm of dust and stone.
Then lightning plus water—
Conductive Torrent Magic — water infused with lightning, moving with unnatural precision.
He wasn't simply recreating spells anymore.
He was creating new ones.
While testing, Lencar noticed something unusual.
Whenever he released a composite spell, the Demon-Dweller sword created faint glowing lines along its surface—patterns of mana forming shapes.
Runes.
Symbols.
Not accidental.
They were sorcery lines—the pathways through which different mana natures merged inside the blade.
His eyes widened.
"These lines… are instructions."
He traced one with his finger.
It pulsed back.
Not only did the sword remember elemental traces—
it also recorded how Lencar wove the mana.
Which meant—
"I can recreate my own composite spells without needing to consciously shape them each time."
All he had to do was feed mana into the sword, and the sorcery lines would activate the appropriate channels.
He tested it:
Mana → Sword → Sorcery Line (Type 3)
A surge of energy rushed through the blade and—
Granite Cyclone Magic launched instantly, without any manual weaving.
"Beautiful."
He wasn't just mastering composite magic.
He was developing:
Sword-Based Spell Automation.
A technique that allowed him to cast spells with the speed of a swordsman and the complexity of a mage.
The last step of the day was the most dangerous.
Lencar lifted his grimoire and opened it to a blank page.
"Reverse Replication Magic: Transcription Seal."
He pressed the Demon-Dweller sword's tip to the page.
A pulse of mana shot through both objects.
Slowly… faintly… the sorcery lines engraved themselves onto the page, becoming part of his grimoire's ink.
Not devoured.
Not replicated.
Transcribed.
Now he had a written, permanent record of composite mana-weaving formulas.
If the sword was ever taken, broken, or sealed, the knowledge remained his.
The page glowed once and settled.
Lencar exhaled, exhausted but satisfied.
"This completes today's research."
He picked up the sword, slung it across his back, and began leaving the mana-forbidden zone.
Behind him, the carved cliffs, the scorched earth, and the shattered platform silently testified to the birth of a new type of magic—
Lencar's own evolution.
Composite magic.
Spell memory.
Sword-channeling.
Mana transcription.
His power no longer relied on what he devoured.
It relied on what he could create.