Prince of Gluttony: Born from Betrayal

Cain sat in silence, the echo of what he had just swallowed still burning faintly in his chest. The first sphere had fused into him completely, leaving behind a steady reservoir of energy that pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat. He had expected exhaustion, perhaps even collapse, but instead he felt sharper, more alive, as if his senses had been tuned to a higher pitch.

The glow on the warded walls dimmed slightly as he drew a deeper breath. The temptation rose again. One sphere was not enough. He wanted more.

Cain closed his eyes and sank back into the technique. He called again to the energy around him, feeling the faint threads brush against his skin. They came slower this time, weaker, as if he had drained the chamber itself of its strength.

He pushed harder, drawing them in, weaving them into spirals, compressing them as he had before.

But the resistance grew. The air felt thinner, stripped bare of its fullness. The energy that did come was sluggish and pale compared to the first torrent. He frowned, sweat dripping down his temple as the sphere formed shakily, far less stable than before.

Cain exhaled sharply and let it collapse, the fragments dispersing back into the chamber. His eyes opened to the dim glow of the runes, and he realized the truth.

The chamber itself was nearly dry. He had pulled too much too quickly.

A low chuckle escaped his throat despite the strain. "So even the world has limits."

His body ached with the desire to push further, to see what else the book had left inside his mind. The second technique rose unbidden, its words and gestures alive within him, older than language but clear as thought. A spell of fire, simple in design, but primal in its essence.

Cain lifted his right hand, letting the patterns form in his mind. The air thickened around his palm, a faint vibration running through his bones as the spell's structure took shape.

A spark ignited in his hand, then swelled into a ball of flame. But this was no ordinary fire. The blaze shimmered in shades of violet, rich and deep, its light warping the air around it. Heat poured from it, not searing but heavy, pressing against his skin as if the flame carried the weight of another world.

Cain stared at it, his breath caught in his throat. The fire twisted and coiled, alive with an intensity he had never felt before. This was not elemental magic as he had known it. This was older, purer, a flame that answered to the primordial core he now carried.

The ball of violet fire pulsed once, steady in his palm, waiting for his command.

The violet flame pulsed in Cain's palm, steady but hungry. At first, he marveled at its weight and color, the strange beauty of a fire that should not exist. But then he felt it, the tug deep in his core, a steady siphon of energy being pulled from the reservoir he had just created.

His eyes narrowed. The spell was drinking from him at an alarming rate. Each second the flame grew brighter, his mana reserves bled away like water through a sieve. What should have lasted hours of practice was already thinning in minutes.

Cain clenched his teeth, tightening his grip on the fire. His instincts screamed at him to release it, to test it before it consumed more than he could afford. He turned his gaze across the chamber to the far wall, where a line of reinforced targets had been etched into the stone. Wards shimmered faintly over their surfaces, ready to absorb whatever was hurled their way.

"Let us see," he muttered, his voice low but steady.

He drew his arm back and thrust it forward, hurling the violet fireball across the chamber. The flame tore through the air, leaving ripples in its wake, the violet glow painting the walls with ghostly light.

It struck the target with a sound like thunder.

The wards flared violently, the runes along the walls screaming to life as they absorbed the impact. For a heartbeat the chamber shook, dust drifting down from the ceiling, and then the flame vanished in a burst of light. The wards dimmed, flickering weakly as if taxed to their limit.

The silence that followed felt heavier than the blast itself. Cain lowered his arm slowly, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. The drain had been worse than he thought. His reservoir, once steady and full, now felt shallow, like a riverbed after a drought. A sharp ache gnawed at his muscles, warning him of just how close he had come to burning himself out.

His eyes flicked toward the far wall. The reinforced target still stood, but the wards protecting it were scorched and cracked, their glow dimmer than before. Lines of faint smoke curled upward where the violet flame had left its mark.

Cain let out a long breath, half laugh, half sigh. "Not bad," he murmured, though his voice carried a rasp. "But costly."

He closed his eyes, feeling the faint embers of power stir restlessly within him. The primordial magic was unlike anything he had wielded before. Potent, devastating, but greedy beyond reason. If this was the weakest of its flames, what would the stronger ones demand of him?

Cain's fingers curled into a fist. The temptation remained, sharp and undeniable. He wanted to see more. He wanted to push further, to unravel the depths of what he had devoured from the book

Cain leaned back against the wall, drawing slow, deliberate breaths. The hollow ache in his body should have lingered, but already the emptiness was being filled. His core pulled at the world around him without thought or effort, the constant tide of regeneration pouring back into the reservoir he had nearly emptied.

He could feel it, mana trickling back, not sluggish but steady and inevitable. What would have crippled another mage for days would barely cost him an hour. The wound in his strength was already closing.

Cain opened his eyes, violet light still dancing faintly across his vision. The hunger of the flame had been great, yet his body answered it with greater patience. His lips curled upward.

He flexed his fingers, watching the faint shimmer of mana curl lazily along his knuckles. If this was only the beginning, then Abel's schemes, betrayals, and desperation would mean nothing. Abel could plan, plot, or even beg the gods themselves for favor, but Cain's strength would never run dry.

"Whatever trick you think you have left," Cain whispered into the stillness, "I will break it. And then I will break you."