Chapter 184: The Fragile Balance
The days following his discovery were entirely devoted to understanding and mastering magical runes. Mordred, now aware of the paramount importance of these symbols, had retreated to a remote cell in the underground prison that he had methodically transformed into an improvised laboratory. The cold stone walls, once silent witnesses to prisoners’ suffering, were now covered with complex diagrams, tangled calculations, and hastily drawn runic schemes.
The confined air of the cell now carried a persistent odor of burnt mana and stone dust. In one corner, charred fragments bore witness to the numerous explosions that had punctuated his experiments. Every available surface was covered with scribbled parchments, rough measurements, and half-formulated theories.
Each rune he attempted to materialize with his mana demanded precision that bordered on absolute perfection. Mordred had learned this the hard way: rune magic was not simply a matter of geometric form, but above all a delicate alchemy between quantity, density, and mana flow. Too little magical energy and the rune would remain inactive, a simple soulless drawing etched in the air. Too much mana, and it risked exploding with devastating violence, releasing destructive energy as unpredictable as it was deadly.
Sitting in a meditation position facing a carefully cleared section of wall, Mordred inhaled slowly, drawing upon the concentration techniques he had perfected over the years. The silence of the prison was broken only by the regular drip-drop of moisture flowing from the stone vaults. He closed his eyes, visualizing with surgical precision the exact form of a concealment rune he had studied at length in ancient manuscripts.
The rune appeared in his mind with crystalline clarity: three intertwined curves forming a complex pattern, each stroke bearing precise symbolic meaning. Mentally, he calculated the amount of mana he estimated necessary, basing his calculation on his meticulous notes from previous attempts. Slowly, methodically, he concentrated his magical energy in his right hand, feeling the familiar warmth of power accumulating in his palm.
With a fluid and controlled gesture, he began tracing the rune in the air, releasing a thin stream of mana that crystallized into luminous lines. The first arc formed perfectly, pulsing with a stable silver glow. The second followed, harmoniously intertwining with the first. But at the moment of completing the third stroke, Mordred felt the familiar resistance, that critical point where balance tipped toward chaos.
He imperceptibly increased the mana flow, but as soon as he had finished the rune, an icy sensation ran down his spine. The magical form suddenly seemed unstable, pulsing erratically, as if overcharged with energy it could not contain. The luminous lines flickered, shifting from silver to blood red, harbinger of an imminent explosion.
Mordred instinctively stepped back, his reflexes sharpened by weeks of similar accidents, but the accumulated energy was already seeking its release. A brutal blast tore through the confined air of the cell, hurling stone fragments torn from the wall and raising a cloud of acrid dust that burned his lungs.
The shock of the blast wave violently threw him against the opposite wall. Mordred hit the stone floor with a dull thud, breathless, sharp pain radiating along his back. He instinctively brought his hand to his face, feeling the warm liquid slowly flowing down his left cheek. His fingers stained with dark red that contrasted cruelly with the pallor of his skin.
- "Mordred!"
Livia’s voice tore through the dusty silence, charged with panic he had never heard from her before. The sound of her hurried steps echoed in the stone corridor, approaching dangerously. A few seconds later, she burst into the cell, her hair disheveled and her face marked with concern so intense it was almost painful to observe.
Her eyes quickly swept the scene of devastation: the scattered debris, the suspended dust, and especially Mordred leaning against the wall, blood staining his face. Her expression shifted from worry to pure terror, then to protective anger that surprised the young man.