Chapter 11: Memories Carved into the Heart of the Mountain's Stones (5)
"Year 563,219: Sleep... a gateway to past memories and future anxieties... Inspired by my dreams, I've created a new magic—Nightmare Magic. Until now, all the magic I developed was foundational, not true sorcery. There exist advanced magics formed by combining basic spells—I call these 'High Magic.'"
"Year 598,402: I was right, yet I uncovered a bitter truth.
By fusing compatible spells, I learned to reshape magic into new forms of enchantment. Progress seemed flawless—until I cast them.
These High Magics demand terrible costs beyond mana:
- Memory loss
- Physical decay
- Emotional numbness
- Mental instability
- Even lifespan reduction
How do I know? I feel them gnawing at my being.
This revelation forced caution. Further research showed even basic magic carries such risks—milder, yes, but ever-present with overuse. My view of magic has changed forever.
Magic is no toy. It's a double-edged sword, blind to friend or foe, and its price can be ruinous..."
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"Year 637,217: Reached Level 79. After ages, another dream...
My psychiatrist, Dr. Arn, sat across from me reviewing notes. After three minutes, he looked up with weary eyes.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
'Take these pills. They'll ease the pain. Our next—'
'I won't be coming back.'
The room turned leaden as his piercing gaze held mine.
'Nai, don't make rash—'
'Rash?' My voice cracked. 'I decided long ago. What's the point? These... these are just numbing lies! Tell me, Doctor—why does the net paint me as some mastermind? As if... as if shadows conspire to frame me! Why won't anyone see the truth?! I lost my family too! Who do I blame?!'
Dr. Arn removed his glasses, rubbing his temples. 'I know you're innocent. But public minds feast on conspiracy. In weeks, they'll forget. There's still—'
'No.' I whispered. 'I'm no hero chasing villains in the dark. My life... it only mattered because of them. Without them... I shouldn't exist.'
The dream dissolved. I'm so tired... so alone..."
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"Year 676,084: I've devised a new magical system to mitigate High Magic's toll.
Research revealed language shapes magic profoundly. Naming spells and vocalizing incantations reduces backlash by 30%.
Thus, I created a new tongue—'Ilhari'—its grammar mirroring my native language. The name means nothing; it's borrowed from Magic Throne, that game Nova loved... I still dwell on the past.
The mountain slopes now glitter with my enchanted carvings. Ordinary etchings would've eroded eons ago, but these glow at night and regenerate when I channel magic into them. Yet nothing lasts forever... One day, this mountain too shall crumble."
"Year 692,084: The northern face of this damned mountain has become my parchment. Over centuries, I've covered every inch of its obsidian surface with glowing Ilhari runes - each character painstakingly burned into the stone with concentrated mana. The runes pulse faintly at night, casting eerie blue shadows across the sulfur plains below. During meteor showers, their light intensifies as if responding to the celestial violence.
The mountain itself rebels against my work. Toxic rains eat at the stone, and quakes regularly shake loose entire sections of carvings. I've reinforced key passages with preservation spells, creating a lattice of protective energy that hums when touched. The oldest carvings - those from my first millennia - now require constant maintenance. Their glow has dimmed to near invisibility, like dying embers.
Yesterday, an entire panel sheared off during a particularly violent tremor. Three centuries of observations about stellar magic patterns - gone in an instant. I stood there for hours, watching the rubble tumble down the mountainside, each broken fragment winking out as it fell. This planet is determined to erase me..."
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"Year 742,793: Reached Level 85. The final memory surfaced...
I remembered throwing myself into the river. And at last... I understood the whispers..."
