The Ravine of Echoes was a jagged, lightless wound in the earth, located approximately ten miles north of the Hage-Sosei border. It was a place where the wind didn't just howl—it screamed, caught in the narrow stone corridors of the canyon. As the sun began to dip, casting long, skeletal shadows across the rocky floor, Lencar Abarame moved through the brush with the silence of a shadow.
For the past week, Lencar had played the part of the helpful villager, but tonight, the "Data Analyst" mask was pulled tight. He wasn't looking for a broken fence or a missing cow. He was looking for the disruption in the system.
He was in Mage Mode. The siphoned wind from Yuno was humming in his veins, acting as a passive sonar. Because his nerves had been overclocked by years of Mana-Forging, he could feel the "pings" of mana in the distance—rough, undisciplined, and aggressive.
Mana Readings: Four distinct signatures. One high-frequency leader, three mid-to-low frequency specialists.
Lencar dropped into a low crouch as he reached the edge of a cliff overlooking a small, sheltered cove within the ravine. Below, the bandit camp was a scene of crude decadence. Stolen crates of Sosei grain were being used as stools; fine silks from a merchant caravan were draped over dirty tents.
But it was the mages who commanded his attention.
In the center, a man with a scarred face lounged by the fire, a jagged, sand-brown grimoire floating beside him. To his left, a woman with wild red hair toyed with a flickering flame in her palm. A third man, thin and twitchy, was practicing quick-draw wind-blades against a wooden post. But the fourth variable—the most dangerous one—was a man standing near the edge of the light, his form shimmering in and out of existence. Concealment magic.
"Absolute Replication will finally have its fill" Lencar whispered. He didn't say it like a wish; he said it like a verdict.
He opened his grimoire. The plain, brown leather pulsed with a dull, golden light from within. He shifted his weight, his Mana-Forged muscles tensing like coiled springs.
Lencar didn't start with a spell. He started with physics.
He leaped from the thirty-foot cliff, channeling a burst of siphoned wind into his heels at the last possible second. He hit the ground with the sound of a thunderclap, the shockwave blowing out the campfire and plunging the camp into disoriented shadow.
"WHAT?!" the Sand mage roared, lunging for his grimoire.
Lencar was already moving. He cycled to the "Chain Binding Magic: [Magic-Sealing Chain]." Because his current siphoned magic was "rigid"—a static copy of Revchi's intent—it shot out in a perfectly straight line, thick and heavy.
CLANG.
The iron links caught the Fire mage by surprise, wrapping around her torso and slamming her into the rock wall. The sealing magic took hold, snuffed out her flame.
"Intruder!" the Wind mage screamed, sending a barrage of jagged air-blades toward the center of the dust cloud.
Lencar didn't dodge. He cycled to [Earth Reinforcement Magic: Stone Hardening]. His skin took on a grey, matte sheen as the magic reinforced his physical frame. The wind blades struck him, tearing his tunic but failing to draw blood.
He lunged through the dust, his fist shrouded in high-pressure wind. He caught the Wind mage in the solar plexus, the concussive force of the strike launching the man through the back of a tent.
"Sand Creation Magic: [Serpent of the Waste]." the leader yelled. The ground beneath Lencar's feet turned to liquid. A massive cobra made of pressurized sand surged upward, its fangs made of jagged sandstone.
This was the limit of "Script" magic. Lencar's current Earth and Water spells were too weak to counter the volume of sand. He was forced to jump, but the moment he was in the air, the Concealment mage struck.
A cold blade of shadow-attribute mana sliced across Lencar's ribs. He hadn't seen him. He hadn't even felt the mana surge.
Lencar hit the ground hard, rolling to avoid a follow-up strike. His mana pool was draining rapidly. Using the high-output "Yuno-level" wind while simultaneously running defensive scripts was inefficient. He was bleeding, his lungs were burning, and the four bandits were beginning to coordinate their fire.
"You're dead, brat!" the Sand mage laughed, the sand cobra circling Lencar like a predator.
Lencar panted, his hand clutching his side. He looked at his grimoire. Mana Pool: 12%. He was almost at the limit. He had used every "tool" in his belt—Wind, Chain, Fire, Water—but they were all inflexible. He was a man fighting with a collection of hammers against people who knew how to use needles.
"I need the source code," Lencar rasped.
He baited the attack. He let the sand cobra strike, and at the last second, he channeled his remaining wind into a suicide-burst. He didn't push the sand away; he pulled himself into it.
He collided with the Sand mage, both of them tumbling into the dirt. Lencar's left hand gripped the man's throat, and with his right, he slammed his blank grimoire flat against the bandit's open book.
"Absolute Replication."
The Soul Realm
The world didn't just go dark. It shattered into a million silver shards.
Lencar felt a sickening wrench at the base of his skull, as if his very essence were being pulled through a needle. His vision blurred, the sound of the ravine replaced by a low, rhythmic thrumming that sounded like a giant heartbeat.
His knees buckled. In the physical world, he collapsed.
But in his mind—in his soul—he opened his eyes.
He was floating in a vast, infinite space filled with a swirling silver mist. It was silent and cold. He looked down and saw himself: a translucent, pale blue version of Lencar Abarame. And beneath him, tethered by a thin, glowing cord, lay his unconscious physical body, still clutching the bandit.
Beside him, the soul of the Sand mage was also floating. But where Lencar's soul felt solid and sharp, the bandit's was a chaotic, muddy brown.
And then, he saw it.
Embedded in the center of the bandit soul's forehead was a Yellow Crystal. It was jagged and raw, pulsing with the rhythmic vibration of Sand Magic. It looked like a gemstone carved from condensed mana.
"The Soul Crystal," Lencar whispered, his voice echoing in the void.
As the Absolute Replication magic took hold, the yellow crystal began to tremble. It fought against the soul it was attached to, but Lencar's grimoire acted like a gravity well. With a sound like breaking glass, the crystal was torn free. It drifted through the silver mist toward Lencar.
The moment the yellow gem touched Lencar's spectral forehead, it didn't just attach; it merged.
VWOOM.
A surge of warmth, of absolute clarity, exploded through his spirit. He felt the "logic" of Sand Magic—the feeling of the grains, the weight of the desert, the fluidity of the dunes—it wasn't a script anymore. It was a memory. It was his.