Arcane Heir: History's Strongest Mage

Michael sat up in his bed abruptly, his breath hurried. For a moment his mind was in disarray, but it suddenly grasped something—something important.

Without wasting a moment, he shot off the bed and ran to his old study desk, rifling through the drawers until he found some spare parchment.

"Shit, no ink!"

He didn't have time for this. The value of these runes were so monumental that he couldn't risk forgetting them. If he were to leave to get ink and get stopped by someone, the distraction might make him lose sight of it.

With determination, Michael bit his finger hard, tearing off a chunk of skin. Wincing slightly, he brought the tip of the quill up to the blood that had begun to pool—using it in place of ink.

He ignored the pricking pain and began to draw all of the runes that he remembered in the outer layer of the magic circle. Even as he scribbled them, they looked foreign—to the point where it was difficult to know if he'd transcribed them correctly.

However, he persisted. This was a once in a lifetime opportunity for not only himself, but also the entire mage world as they knew it.

Around five minutes later, and a few more wounds on his hand for more ink, Michael looked down at the runes he'd drawn, studying them intently. While he couldn't be sure that he'd drawn them correctly—they were at least close.

With a sigh of relief, he placed the quill back in the inkwell and sat back in his chair. He stared at the ceiling, his mind working overtime.

Was that dream real? Did that woman really cast healing magic? He wondered, feeling a sense of hope.

If this were true, then it meant the runes he'd managed to scribble down would be the key to reviving the lost magic once again. Of course he could have just had a wild dream and was making something up—but he hoped this was not the case.

It was too vivid to be made up… he told himself, raising his hand towards the ceiling, inspecting the fresh wounds.

But how could he explain this situation? While there were plenty of mysteries surrounding magic, it was rather far fetched to believe such things were real.

Michael wasn't even sure where his dreams took place—even if they were real.

The woman had mentioned the Bishop's forces, something that seemed to align with the first vivid dream that he had experienced over three months ago. To him, this made it even more likely that the dreams were real.

But were they based on real events that had passed?

If that were the case, then it would have to be prior to the great war… right?

As his thoughts reached here, Michael's eyes widened in shock. Could he have inhabited the body of someone over two-thousand years ago in his dreams? Was that even possible?

Michael's mind moved furiously, trying to think of ways that it could be plausible. While there were records of spacetime magic, it was limited to the slowing down or speeding up of time—time travel itself was considered impossible.

Apparently this was also true even in prior to the great war, at least according to public consensus.

Does that mean it really was just a random dream?

Michael's expression turned downcast, his eyes moving to the scribbled runes upon the piece of parchment. Perhaps the runes were just gibberish, a figment of his imagination.

The thought wasn't pleasant, but it also wasn't outside the realm of possibility.

But in the next moment, a determined expression crept onto his features. "There's only one way to find out…" he muttered, straightening up in his chair.

Letting out a deep breath, Michael stirred his crimson mana, his eyes narrowing. He lifted up his finger and began to draw one of the new runes in the air with a sense of calm that surprised even himself.

As he finished the first one, the mana wavered—seemingly about to snuff out.

Michael's expression dulled, feeling despair claw at his heart.

But instead of disappearing, it suddenly glowed before solidifying.

"Huh!?" Michael yelped in surprise, a feeling of elation surging from within.

"It's real? No way…" he muttered, unable to prevent the tide of rushing emotions that overcame him.

But he didn't stop there. Despite not being sure of the structure of the magic circle, he decided to draw the remaining runes beside the one he'd just done. With every completed rune, his face lit up—his excitement clear.

These are real… They're really real.

He stared at all of the runes that he'd managed to copy, watching them float in the air in front of him with a sense of satisfaction.

When drawing a magic circle, only proper runes would manage to retain their form. If the runes he'd drawn were not real ones, their structure would fall apart, causing the mana within to disperse.

The fact that these new runes he'd drawn had retained their shape and construct meant that they were indeed real. This meant that not only did he have a chance to revive healing magic—it also meant that his dreams were real.

This was not only exciting, but also kind of scary.

If my dreams are real… That must mean I'm inhabiting people from before the great war—or even during the war, he thought grimly.

But the question is… how is that possible? What do I have that's so special that can allow me to do such a thing?

But as he thought up to this point, everything seemed to fall into place.

"My unique soul trait?" he muttered in disbelief.

His mind whirred, thinking back to the time where he'd taken the soul pill. That very night he'd had his first dream in the body of the General.

Looking back now it had been so obvious, so why hadn't he figured it out until now?

[Trust your soul... Let it guide you.]

"Huh!?"

His mothers words entered his mind in that moment, causing him to freeze on the spot. Was this what she meant in that dream back then? Was that dream a manifestation of my unique soul trait?

But if that were the case, it meant that the scene with his mother was from the past. It meant she probably knew of his unique soul back then…

"Mother…"

A silent tear ran down his face, filled with mixed emotions. The meaning was clear. His mother was indeed dead, snuffing out whatever false hope that he'd been subconsciously holding within.

And so, he laid his head down on the desk and wept.