Chapter 141: Spirit Mage [2]

"Ah, it is always quite refreshing to witness the intricate handiwork of another fellow Spirit Mage out in the open," Andres chuckled softly, breaking the lingering silence as the refractive shimmer of the concealment spell finally settled over the vast hull of the moving warship.

Craig, however, couldn’t help but let out an internal, heavy sigh.

While raw magical displays dazzled ordinary onlookers, Craig’s intimate knowledge of the arcane hierarchy—forged through the brutal, apocalyptic crucible of his past life—remined him of just how punishing and unforgiving the path of a Spirit Mage truly was.

It was far more common for humans corrupted by the residual energies of the Abyss to forcefully awaken their shattered mana cores as brute-force Sword Expert Superhumans.

True Spirit Mages, by contrast, were exceptionally rare; and the agonizing mechanics of their class ascension made the journey even more perilous.

From the deep archives of his memories, Craig knew that the structural ascension rituals required for every class within the Spirit Mage Realm were nothing short of psychological and spiritual torture.

Take the Mana Apprentice class, for instance. Its foundational journey was divided into three torturous plateaus:

• The Initial Stage was titled Whispering to the Veil. During this phase, early-stage apprentices were forced to sit in absolute sensory deprivation, sensing spirituality deeply, grasping faint ambient strands, and mapping out the volatile geography of their personal mana reserves against the raw, indifferent pressure of the Spirit World.

• The Middle Stage was known as Weaving the Conduit. This centered entirely on mastering one’s internal mana circulation—a grueling discipline where the practitioner learned to pull raw, untamed ambient mana into their flesh without triggering internal thermal friction, organ rejection, or severe spiritual backlash.

• The Peak Stage, which Annie had currently achieved, was called The Spiritual Synthesis. This required establishing an absolute, harmonious unity between physical mana and raw spirituality so that both currents could flow freely as one seamless, indivisible river.

Yet, the true nightmare began at the finish line.

The actual Ascension Ritual required to break through the bottleneck and ascend from a Mana Apprentice into a full Mana Master class was an exercise in sheer madness: the practitioner had to deliberately embrace a profound, overwhelming negative emotion—such as bottomless despair, murderous rage, or existential terror—to the absolute brink of complete spiritual corruption, and somehow manage to survive the catastrophic psychological erosion without entirely shattering their sanity or losing their mind to the void.

It was a ruthlessly sadistic ascension ritual.

That was precisely why true Spirit Mages were infinitely rarer and more terrifying than run-of-the-mill Sword Experts.

And for that very reason, a quiet wave of deep, unexpressed pity stirred within Craig’s chest for Annie.

As a young girl standing firmly at the Peak Stage of the Mana Apprentice class, she was rapidly approaching that horrifying precipice. Sooner or later, she would have to face the crucible of her ascension ritual.

Craig broke away from his thoughts, offering a subtle nod to Andres’s casual remark.

He glanced sideways at both Andres and Ser Hughway before turning his body away to make his departure.

The middle-aged female First Layer Mage who had cast the massive concealment spell completely disregarded Craig and his party as she swept past the deck.

But such an attitude was entirely natural in the hierarchy of power.

Craig was currently operating as an Initial-stage Sword Runner, Andres was masquerading as an Intermediate-stage Mage, and Ser Hughway stood as a formidable Sword Master. In the grand scheme of arcane power scaling, First Layer Mages held a status roughly equivalent to elite Sword Sages, placing her socially above transient merchant guards.

Craig didn’t mind the casual coldness in the slightest; he simply watched as she turned and headed straight back toward the elevated control room.

Not long after, Andres offered a polite, casual excuse, muttered a brief farewell, and turned away to make his own way down toward the lower residential deck to his cabin.

Craig followed suit, signaling for his party to pull back from the railing.

They navigated the labyrinthine, iron-plated corridors of the massive black warship until they reached the designated residential block where their private quarters were located.

Coming to a halt before Room 500, Craig raised his hand and rapped his knuckles firmly against the heavy oak door.

Inside, a brief scuffle of footsteps echoed before a familiar voice called out, "Who is it?"

"It is me, Damian," Craig answered smoothly.

Instantly, the lock clicked, and the heavy door swung wide open.

Damian stood on the threshold, stepping aside with a respectful bow as Craig walked into the room.

The space was surprisingly neat, well-lit, and spacious, featuring polished wooden flooring, comfortable berths, and a large porthole looking out over the churning indigo wakes of the Northern Ire Sea.

Craig stepped further into the room and immediately shifted his gaze. Sitting cross-legged on the floor near the center of the cabin was Annie Blacksun.

Her eyes were closed, her chest heaving heavily as she gasped softly for air, her palms pressed flat against her knees as she desperately tried to stabilize her fluctuating internal pathways and recover the immense reservoir of mana and spirituality she had just expended.

A warm, reassuring smile touched Craig’s lips.

He walked closer and looked down at her. "Are you alright, Annie?"

Annie slowly fluttered her eyes open, offering a tired, reassuring nod. "I... I am quite fine, My Lord," she rasped softly, wiping a sheen of cold sweat from her forehead.

"Since I am still navigating the peak of the Mana Apprentice class, utilizing the active power of The Voice spell to broadcast across the spiritual ether takes a terribly heavy, exhausting toll on my mental stamina."

Craig nodded understandingly, reaching into his pocket to pull out a small restorative pill, which he handed down to her.

"You pushed yourself hard, but your timing was impeccable. Tell me... did you successfully complete the task?"

A sharp, cunning curl touched the corners of Annie’s lips.

She accepted the pill with a steady hand and gave a curt, confident nod.

"Yes, My Lord," Annie whispered, a sly satisfaction dancing in her eyes.

"I utilized my spiritual resonance to weave the spell across the open maritime channels. It seems your intuition was dead-on—there was indeed a network of scouting Spirit Mages monitoring our ship’s spiritual signature as we cleared the port.

The fabricated rumors regarding our vessel supposedly carrying a secret cargo manifest of ten thousand barrels of refined alchemical oil have successfully propagated and reached their receivers."

Craig raised an eyebrow, a dark, anticipatory grin spreading across his face as he crossed his arms over his black trench coat.

"Whose receivers, exactly?"

Annie spat playfully on the ground in mock disgust before flashing a sharp, predatory grin.

"They belong to one of the most ruthless, bloodthirsty syndicates in the southern waters... a dominant pirate collective known as the Skull Lords."