Elven Domination: Reincarnated with a Cloning System

Chapter 91: Another Step Forward



Arthur woke up in the same bed, just like always.

The stone above him was familiar now. He could trace the faint crack that curved through the ceiling like an old scar. The soft blue mana crystal on the wall still glowed dimly—just enough to let him see without blinding him.

He lay there for a moment, letting the quiet settle over him.

Another day.

Another climb.

He sat up with a soft grunt, rubbing his face and running a hand through his mess of sleep-tangled hair. The aches in his body weren't new. Just dull companions now—hints of yesterday's training still clinging to his muscles.

His life, recently, had become… predictable.

Every morning, he rose at the same time.

Every day, he shared three meals with Fira in the dining hall.

And between those moments—he did nothing but study the first black book.

The one she'd given him.

The one he wasn't supposed to get far with.

---

His mornings started with breakfast—usually quiet. Just a few words exchanged between him and Fira over warm bread, sliced roots, and whatever the cooks had bothered to scrape together that day.

She didn't talk much during those meals, but she always sat beside him. Always waited, if he was running late. She never said it, but he noticed.

Lunch came and went in a blur most days. Sometimes there was chatter, sometimes silence. Sometimes Arthur would catch Fira sneaking glances at him—at the smudges of ink on his fingers, the faint traces of lingering mana burn across his arms.

She never asked.

She didn't need to.

Dinner, though… that was different.

By then, they were both tired enough to drop the formality. That's when the bickering came out. The teasing. The smug grins and the sharp retorts. That's when Arthur could poke fun at her, and she'd grumble back, ears turning red.

It had become his favorite part of the day.

---

But the rest of his time—the 'real' part of it—was spent in solitude.

Just him.

And the book.

The first of the three black tomes she had given him.

He still remembered how smug she'd looked when she handed it over. How certain she'd been that it would break his spirit. Most people, she said, couldn't even get past the few couple of page, but she didn't know he had same talent as her.

He had reached page one on the first night.

Now, seven days later, he had made it to the final one.

Each circle had been harder than the last. The structure didn't just demand replication—it demanded understanding. The way mana flowed through each layer, the balance of symbols, the hidden logic behind placements… it was like being asked to solve an equation where the numbers were alive.

And he 'loved' it.

The book didn't pity him.

It didn't talk down to him.

It just tested him.

And each time he succeeded, it gave a little more.

---

Now, a full week had passed.

Seven days of broken sleep, aching arms, and eyes strained from long hours of staring at glowing diagrams.

He hadn't touched the second book yet.

Because he couldn't.

Not until the first one was truly finished.

He had felt it—a kind of lock, hidden somewhere in the paper. The last page of the first book still refused to turn. He could sense the mana seal coiled in its fibers, quiet and unreadable.

'Not yet', it seemed to say.

Not until he proved he was ready.

Arthur stood from his bed, rolled his shoulders, and stared at the book resting on his desk.

Just one more circle.

Just one more page.

Then, maybe… the second would open.

And after that—

Who knew?

But whatever came next, he was ready to meet it.

The final page stared back at him.

Same diagram.

Same patterns.

But after two full days of failure, it felt like it was 'watching' him now.

Arthur had tried every angle. Every variation in mana flow. Every rhythm and resonance shift he'd learned over the past week.

And it still broke on him.

Every time.

The problem wasn't the lines themselves. It wasn't even his control anymore.

It was deeper than that—'fundamental'.

The circle demanded something he didn't fully grasp yet.

And it waited. Patient. Silent. Like a predator sitting in tall grass, watching him approach and fail over and over again.

But this time…

This time, he didn't approach it like a mage.

He approached it like a person who had lived two lives.

Arthur inhaled.

Sat up straight.

Let the room fall away.

No more second-guessing. No more comparing himself to Fira. No more trying to impress the book like it was a teacher.

It wasn't.

It was a door.

And he just needed to open it.

---

Mana flowed from his fingertips.

Not sharp.

Not rushed.

It moved like ink through water—slow, patient, precise.

Each line he drew into the air glowed faintly before fading. But that was expected now. He was past the point of needing to see the whole thing. The image lived in his head—burned there through dozens of failed attempts.

One rune, then the next.

Outer ring. Inner lattice. Rotating core.

He adjusted the final stroke by a single degree—just enough to change the way the mana pooled at the center.

The page shimmered.

His breath hitched.

The mana lines 'didn't' collapse.

Not this time.

He held his breath.

The final sequence lit up as the mana loop closed.

A pulse ran through the page. A sharp, almost 'metallic' vibration in the air—like two unseen threads had been pulled tight and finally snapped into place.

Arthur opened his eyes.

And the entire page ignited with golden light.

Not violently.

Just a slow, radiant glow as the diagram floated above the book, then slowly disintegrated into motes of soft light—absorbed back into the parchment like it had never been there.

The page turned on its own.

And the book was done.

---

Arthur sat there, unmoving.

Breathing.

Sweating.

Smiling—just barely.

His entire body felt like it had been wrung out. His mana was a flickering, trembling thread inside him. His fingers twitched involuntarily.

But the first black book—the impossible one—had finally, 'finally' surrendered.

He leaned back in the chair and let his head fall against the wall behind him.

"I win," he whispered.

Then, after a long, long moment—

He started to laugh.

Just quietly. Tired and hollow.

The book sat still now—silent, its pages blank and still humming faintly from the last circle.

Arthur didn't reach for the second one just yet.

Instead, he just sat there.

Let the silence settle. Let the weight of what he'd just done actually sink in.

A full week of relentless effort.

Page after page of raw, mind-breaking theory.

Circles that punished every mistake. Structures that demanded precision most mages would never even 'see', let alone shape.

And yet—

Even after all that…

He hadn't learned a single spell.

Not one.

No fireballs.

No glyphs of ignition.

No named techniques, no flashy invocations, no dramatic flourish.

Just structure.

Just pure theory.

Just raw magic architecture.

His eyes drifted to the now-glowing page—soft mana still simmering across its surface like an ember in old paper.

'So what now?'

What was the point of mastering so many circles if none of them cast a spell?

He frowned.

Then sat forward again.

'No…'

He wasn't looking at it the right way.

The book hadn't been teaching him 'spells'—it had been giving him the tools to shape them.

The circles weren't the result.

They were the foundation.

He had been handed a toolbox, not a finished weapon.

And now… it was time to start building.

---

Arthur placed both hands on the desk.

Let his body still.

Then, slowly, he called to the mana in his body.

It stirred—sluggish at first, still frayed from earlier, but responsive. He shaped it into motion, guiding it not into the vague channels he used before—but directly into the circle forms now etched into his memory.

One of the earlier ones.

Simple. Basic. A stable container, nothing fancy.

He called on his fire affinity, letting just a thread of it bleed into the lines.

The moment it entered the circle—

Something sparked.

Not violently.

But real.

A flicker of orange hovered in the air above the desk—thin, flickering, unstable—but unmistakable.

A flame.

Not conjured by command.

Not shaped by words.

But formed—mechanically, surgically—by running fire-aspected mana 'through structure.'

Arthur stared at it.

It didn't look like a fireball.

Didn't even resemble a real spell.

But the mana was reacting.

Obeying.

Becoming.

---

He raised his hand again.

This time, he channeled slightly more. Focused harder.

Built the same circle—but thicker, wider, a little more refined.

The spark responded.

It grew.

The flame twisted higher, dancing now—not on fuel, but on 'intent'.

Arthur's eyes widened.

Not because the fire was big.

But because he could 'feel' how stable it was. How tightly the mana was held together.

Even with no spell.

Even with no incantation.

This wasn't imitation.

This was creation.

He laughed under his breath.

"…I haven't learned a spell," he said, almost in disbelief. "But I've learned something better."

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