The sun had climbed high, nearly reaching its zenith in the vast, open expanse of a cloudless sky. Its golden light poured down like molten glass, unbroken by clouds but filtered gently through the thick forest canopy overhead. The trees stood like silent sentinels—tall, ancient, their interwoven branches and clustered leaves forming a dappled roof that fractured the sunlight into long ribbons of brightness and shadow. The glade where Jack stood was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of wind through foliage or the distant chirp of a bird, its song fading quickly into the hush of the woods. Even the insects seemed subdued in this still, breath-held moment.

  Jack stood in the center of the clearing, surrounded by the natural quiet, his posture relaxed but grounded, spear held in one hand. His body was still, yet there was tension in it—like a bow drawn back, waiting for the release. His breath moved in slow, controlled rhythms. Each inhale filled his lungs deeply, each exhale escaped with deliberate calm. Beneath his boots, the forest floor was cool, slightly damp from the morning’s dew, though the rising sun was quickly drying it out. The breeze that whispered through the trees was soft, almost tender, brushing against his skin like a second breath.

  He had been at it for hours now.

  His training session had begun with the basics—stances, footwork, control. He had moved with careful deliberation, repeating each form again and again until it became muscle memory, instinct, a natural extension of thought rather than a sequence of steps to remember. Jack had cycled through every combat posture he knew, refining transitions, sharpening reaction time, pushing his body to feel where he could shave off milliseconds. He had paid special attention to the small things—the angle of his foot, the pressure in his grip, the subtle shift of his balance before a spin. Nothing had been rushed.

  When he wasn’t practicing his forms, he rested. Not because he was tired, but because he had learned the value of recovery—especially when managing his internal energy. His SP had limits and he needed some time to recover it after intense training . So, he had paused when necessary, sitting in stillness beneath the trees, breathing in time with the wind, letting the natural pulse of the world around him replenish what he had spent. There was a discipline in stillness too.

  Now, he felt ready. The thrum in his chest, that familiar pulse ofenergy, was growing stronger. Not chaotic, not rushing, but steady—like the tide pulling in. He could feel the build-up deep in his core, and it brought with it a quiet sense of purpose. It was time to take the next step.

  Jack closed his eyes, letting the world fall away.

  In the silent dark behind his lids, he reached inward, focusing not on his body but on his mind—on the network of magical pathways that lay beneath conscious thought. There, in that abstract mental space, he began to search. His awareness brushed against the hidden strands of psychic energy that wove like invisible threads through the corridors of his mind. This was a different kind of magic—not loud, not flamboyant, not built on words or gestures or elemental commands. Psychic magic was quiet and internal. Subtle. A matter of will, memory, and mental focus. But that didn’t make it weak. Jack knew better. The mind could cut deeper than any sword if wielded with precision.

  He located the thread he was looking for—a spell etched into his mental landscape like a ripple in a still pond. Shadow Box.

  He didn’t speak. There was no need. Instead, he visualized the structure of the spell—the delicate interlocking patterns that shaped it, the conceptual scaffolding that gave it form. He summoned that image into clarity, locked onto it with razor-edged focus, and then—like releasing a breath—let a controlled pulse of mana flow into it.

  One mana per second.

  That was the cost. Not expensive, but steady. Enough to matter. Especially since he planned to use other spells in tandem. Jack made a quick calculation in his head. If everything went smoothly, he’d have a couple of minutes before he’d run dry. That was enough. It had to be enough.

  The world around him wavered—like heat rising off stone. The edges of reality shimmered subtly, the trees blurring, the air thickening. Then the illusions began to form.

  From the margins of thought and shadow, they emerged.

  The first sound was a snarl—low, guttural, and bestial. It tore through the quiet glade like a warning bell. A hulking figure stepped into view, materializing from the flickering haze. The Infernal Barghest. Its massive body was warped and lupine, wrapped in a haze of dark fire that licked and hissed at the edges of its frame. The hellfire clung to it like a second skin, casting flickering orange light on the surrounding leaves. Its eyes burned with intelligence—a cold, cruel gleam that marked it not just as a beast, but as something cunning, calculating, and hungry. The sound of its snarl echoed unnaturally, reverberating like a chorus of ghosts trapped inside the creature’s throat.

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  Jack’s jaw tensed. He remembered this monster. He remembered what it had done. Even knowing it wasn’t real, that this was only an illusion crafted from his own memory and the spell’s architecture, he couldn’t stop the spike of adrenaline that hit his system.

  The Barghest wasn’t alone.

  Three more shapes slunk out of the gloom behind it—undead hounds, once the hunting beasts of Faraun the necromancies. They moved with eerie silence, their forms pale and half-rotted, strips of flesh hanging loosely from cracked bones. Their mouths hung open in eternal snarls, jagged teeth flashing beneath sloughing skin. Their eyes glowed with faint blue fire, flickering with hate, and as they circled, Jack felt the heat of combat rising within him.

  The Barghest struck first.

  Jack was already in the Laughing Wind stance—a form optimized for movement, evasion, and quick counters. It was made for exactly this kind of scenario. Against the Barghest, he should have had no trouble dodging. He had fought the creature before and had grown much faster since that encounter. Yet somehow, it closed the distance with terrifying speed. Later, he would consider why. Perhaps the spell had drawn not just the image of the Barghest but Jack’s memory of its threat level—his fear of it. In that memory, it had been nearly his equal in speed. And so, here in this mental recreation, it was again.

  It lunged.

  Jack moved, but not fast enough. Its claws scraped across his arm—not real enough to draw blood, but real enough to hurt. Phantom pain. It shot through his nerves like electricity, making him flinch despite knowing this wasn’t flesh and bone.

  He pivoted instantly, instinct overriding pain. His body dropped into the Monkey King’s Whistling Tail stance, his spear a blur of motion as he used its length and momentum to create distance. The illusion wasn’t deterred. It pressed forward, relentless.

  Jack locked down on the pain, pushed it aside, and brought his mind into focus. He visualized a new spell—Ice Dagger. No incantation. No hand gestures. Just pure intent. A pulse of cold magic traveled down his arm, collecting at the spearhead, which shimmered with icy blue light.

  With a sharp cry, he struck.

  The spear’s tip pierced the Barghest’s flank, and the spell released mid-thrust. Frost exploded into the wound. The creature howled, its claws lashing out in retaliation. Jack felt them rake his shoulder—a second burst of pain—but he stood firm.

  He transitioned smoothly, grounding himself into Steady Root. His feet dug into the earth, posture firm, spear raised into a defensive guard. He knew what was coming.

  The undead hounds attacked.

  They came from three directions, trying to overwhelm him with coordinated ferocity. One from the front, two from either side. Jack let his training take over.

  He shifted into Feather Twist, pivoting on one heel while swinging the spear horizontally. The shaft cracked against the side of the foremost hound’s face, knocking it off balance. Its gaping maw snapped shut on empty air as it tumbled.

  The other two pounced in tandem.

  Jack moved like water—fluid, without resistance. He twisted his body, spear dancing in tandem. The second hound leapt high, but Jack ducked low, using the spin to carve his spear through its ribcage. The creature shrieked as its bones were scored and broken. It staggered, and fell.

  He didn’t stop.

  Using the momentum, he launched into Spiraling Climb. His feet dug deeper into the earth, anchoring him. The spear moved in a tight upward corkscrew, aimed at the exposed throat of the third hound. The point struck true. The blade pierced through bone. Ice magic surged again, another Ice Dagger erupting from the spearhead. The force of the blow knocked the creature’s head clean off. It hit the ground and rolled away, leaving its body crumpled.

  The last hound—wounded but not dead—charged again. Its eyes burned with fury.

  Jack summoned his mana and shaped it quickly through Aetherspire, forming the spell Overcharged Flame Gout.

  Heat exploded outward.

  The hound never reached him. The spell unleashed a torrent of fire that consumed it instantly. Flame roared through the clearing, engulfing the creature in a flash. It writhed, twisted, and then turned to ash. The stench of burning meat clung to the air like oil.

  Jack exhaled. The spell had cost him. A significant drain on his mana reserves. He couldn’t afford to cast again if he wanted Shadow Box to remain active.

  The Barghest had waited for the hounds to get out of its way. Now it charged.

  Jack’s chest still ached from the earlier strike, but he forced the pain aside. He dropped into Coiled Vine—the low, crouched stance with his muscles tensed and ready. His spear was raised, tip aligned with the incoming beast. He waited.

  The monster lunged, fire flickering along its body.

  Jack moved.

  With Monkey’s Leap, he surged forward—his body a blur of motion, closing the distance in a burst. The spear came down in a brutal arc, a precise counter to the Barghest’s predictable lunge. The weapon struck the center of its chest with explosive force. Jack twisted, driving the weapon deeper, shredding the creature’s phantom form.

  The Barghest screamed—a long, unearthly wail—and then shattered like brittle glass, its pieces dissolving into the wind.

  Silence returned.

  The only sound left was the rustle of leaves and Jack’s breathing, steady and calm again. His heart slowed. The spell faded. The glade was his once more.

  He sat down, waiting to recover his MP and SP. Once he was ready he planned to repeat the exercise again and again until his forms, stances and spells were as natural as breathing. Only then, would he be ready to move forward.