The flickering candlelight danced against the stone walls of Frid’s small study, casting jagged shadows across the shelves filled with tomes and scrolls. He leaned over his desk, fingers tracing the cold, rough surface of the ancient stone he had discovered in the school's archives. A remnant of Old Magic. Barely perceptible, yet undeniably potent.

  His breathing was slow, measured, but his mind was racing.

  "This… this is real."

  The stone pulsed faintly, as if mocking him, tempting him with whispers just beyond his understanding. A fraction of what once was, but even a fragment of Old Magic surpassed the modern world’s feeble imitations. His hands trembled as he gripped the edges of his desk. This was what he had been seeking. Not false promises, not flawed rituals—but a true key to surpassing human limitations.

  A knock on the door shattered his trance.

  "Albert?" Agatha’s voice was gentle, concerned.

  Frid hesitated before sliding the stone into a drawer. He adjusted his expression, adopting the calm, composed demeanor of a scholar. "Come in."

  Agatha stepped inside, her gaze immediately drawn to the scattered books and papers. “You haven’t been resting,” she murmured.

  Frid forced a small smile. “Research has its grip on me.”

  She sighed, approaching him with a soft touch on his shoulder. “I worry about you.”

  Her warmth… it was strange. Unfamiliar, yet not unwelcome. Frid had spent years drowning in deception, obsession, and secrecy. Agatha was different—a presence untouched by the weight of his past. She made him feel… human. Dangerously human.

  But before he could respond, the sound of shattering glass echoed from the window.

  A presence. A shadowed figure. A flicker of movement.

  Frid’s body reacted before his mind did. A rush of magic. The air twisted. A mirage of himself flickered away from the desk, moving toward the window—bait for an attack.

  But the intruder did not strike the illusion.

  Instead, a voice slithered through the room.

  “You always were clever, Frid.”

  The hooded figure stood in the corner, a dagger pressed against Agatha’s throat.

  Frid’s heart stopped.

  Agatha let out a strangled gasp, her eyes wide with confusion and fear. The figure’s grip was firm, unwavering. This was no bluff.

  The hooded figure smiled beneath the shadows of his cloak. “Drop the act. I know who you really are.”

  Frid’s fists clenched, but he forced his breathing to remain steady. “What do you want?”

  The figure tilted his head. “You already know.”

  The illusion grimoire.

  Frid’s mind raced. This wasn’t about revenge. The grimoire was the only reason he had survived this long. A tool of deception, escape, and power. Without it, he would be vulnerable. Defenseless.

  The figure tightened his grip on Agatha. “Hand it over. Now.”

  Frid’s jaw locked. He could sense the malice in the man’s voice. He was enjoying this—forcing him into a corner, dangling Agatha’s life as leverage.

  A war raged inside him.

  The logical part of him screamed to let her go. She was nothing in the grand scheme of things. A weakness.

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  But another part—one he didn’t want to acknowledge—refused to abandon her.

  The hooded figure chuckled. “Look at you. Hesitating. You’ve changed, Frid. The old you wouldn’t have thought twice.”

  Frid’s eyes flickered toward the drawer where the illusion grimoire rested. He could hand it over. He could walk away, unharmed.

  But…

  He had spent years running. Deceiving. Surviving.

  And he was tired of it.

  Slowly, Frid’s lips curled into a smile. A slow, dangerous smile.

  The hooded figure’s own grin faltered.

  “You think I only have one illusion grimoire?” Frid whispered.

  Then, the world shattered.

  The floor twisted. The walls blurred. The air grew thick with distorted reflections.

  The hooded figure cursed, staggering as his perception bent and fractured.

  In an instant, Frid moved.

  A dagger materialized in his grip—not real, but real enough. He lunged.

  The hooded figure barely had time to react before Frid’s blade plunged into his side.

  A burst of mist—an illusion. A distraction.

  Frid seized Agatha, pulling her away as the hooded figure stumbled back, his dagger clattering to the ground.

  The man snarled. “You—”

  Frid didn’t let him finish.

  With a flick of his fingers, the room dissolved into chaos. The walls closed in. The ceiling warped. Mirrored versions of Frid surrounded the attacker, their eyes glowing with cold amusement.

  The hooded figure staggered, bleeding, disoriented.

  Frid grabbed Agatha’s hand. “Run.”

  They bolted.

  Behind them, the hooded figure let out a furious, frustrated scream. Illusion magic was a cruel thing.

  And Frid was its master.

  Frid’s heartbeat pounded in his ears as he dragged Agatha through the twisting corridors. The echoes of their footsteps merged with the distant, enraged shouts of the hooded figure, but he didn't stop.

  He couldn't stop.

  A cold sweat clung to his skin. He should have been drained, exhausted from the sudden clash, but instead—he felt sharper. His mind clearer. Every shadow, every flicker of light, seemed more tangible.

  Was this because of the stone?

  His fingers twitched as he recalled its raw, terrifying power. The Old Magic fragment.

  He had nearly died trying to comprehend its nature. The sheer density of it had almost torn him apart, forcing his magic to its limits. He hadn’t controlled it—it had devoured him, pushing his mind into a chaotic abyss.

  And yet, somehow…

  Somehow, the struggle had loosened the chains on his own power.

  Before, his illusions had been mere tricks of the mind. Deceptions layered over reality. Convincing, yes, but ultimately still reliant on perception. A skilled opponent could see through them.

  But now?

  Now, he had turned his magic into an experience.

  The hooded figure hadn’t just seen illusions—he had felt them. The walls had closed in, his body had staggered against forces that weren’t truly there. It was no longer about what was real or fake—Frid had made the false into something tangible.

  He clenched his fists.

  "That stone… even in a fraction of a second, it shattered my limits."

  It was terrifying. And exhilarating.

  A deep part of him craved more.

  “Albert—what the hell just happened?!” Agatha’s voice snapped him from his thoughts.

  She wrenched her wrist free from his grip, skidding to a stop near an old storage room. Her chest heaved, her wide eyes full of a mix of fear and confusion. “That man—he knew you. He called you Frid!”

  Frid froze.

  The name he had long buried now lingered in the air like a curse.

  For a brief moment, the scholar in him wanted to craft a lie, another layer of illusion to calm her. But after what she had just witnessed… it would be pointless.

  So he exhaled and gave her a weary look.

  “I’ll explain later,” he murmured. A promise. A fragile one.

  Agatha’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn’t argue. Not yet.

  A noise echoed down the corridor—a sharp clang, as if metal had struck stone. The hooded figure was regaining his bearings.

  They had no time.

  Frid pulled her toward the storage room, pressing a hand against the old wooden door. His fingers twitched as he reached for his magic.

  The moment his mind connected with it, his vision split.

  Not in the painful, fragmented way it had before—but in a refined, controlled manner.

  He didn’t just see the door. He saw possibilities.

  A door that led nowhere. A door that led to a hundred different corridors. A door that simply didn’t exist.

  Before, such illusions would have been unstable, translucent at best.

  But now?

  He wove the deception with terrifying ease.

  He smeared reality like ink on parchment, bending the light, sound, and air itself. The old wooden door shimmered, then disappeared—replaced by a cold, solid stone wall.

  Agatha gasped as she watched the entrance vanish. “You—”

  Frid grabbed her hand again. “Move.”

  The hooded figure’s footsteps grew louder behind them, but when he arrived—there would be nothing but a dead end.

  Frid led Agatha deeper into the hidden passageways, weaving his illusions seamlessly with the ancient architecture of the school. He wasn’t just running. He was leaving false trails, distorting paths, ensuring that their pursuer would spiral into a labyrinth of his own mind.

  And as he did, a dark, exhilarating thought settled into his chest.

  If this was what a mere fragment of Old Magic could do for him…

  What would happen if he got more?