Chapter 72

The problem with Thalamic practices, and the reason Nick hadn’t utilized them more often, was that they required a specific mental state and would not be effective if that mindset was attained artificially.One had to believe that what they were doing was right. Not that it was necessary. Not that it was a net positive. But that it was right.

Some practitioners on Earth reached this state due to deep psychosis. Few other factors could persuade a human that sacrificing his fellows was the correct path.

Oh, millions had bled out to honor the gods, but the Thalamics were different. They weren’t trying to receive a blessing. They didn’t care about religious traditions. They wanted power and were ready to bargain with just about anything to get it.

In ancient times, according to Nick’s grandfather, this issue was addressed by utilizing slaves bred for sacrifice, who saw death as their ultimate purpose, thus relieving the ritualist of any lingering unease, or by killing large numbers of non-human creatures.

“The more intelligent the creature is—the more it understands what’s happening—the greater the results. This also means that they are more likely to resist, complicating the process.” Those were his words. It was Nick’s best theory for why he had achieved so much with the sacrifice of the two adventurers. He had been so certain of the necessity of his actions that guilt only ever filtered in after the deed was done.

Right now, as a spiritual being bound to the Green Ocean’s Feral Gods attacked him, Nick felt absolutely no hesitation.

It was quick. Really quick. So quick that he hardly had time to stumble back a few steps, leaving the obsidian circle just as it had entered. It was such a simple action, and yet, combined with several of the silent preparations he had in place, it was enough.

The moment he was certain it was in, he flooded the stones with his mana.

“Stainless are my lips, for they are redder than the vine's purple and the blood with which I am intoxicated. Stainless is my forehead, for it is whiter than the wind and the dew that cools it.

I am light, and I am night, and I am that which is beyond them.

I am speech, and I am silence, and I am that which is beyond them.

I am life, and I am death, and I am that which is beyond them.

I am war, and I am peace, and I am that which is beyond them.

I am weakness, and I am strength, and I am that which is beyond them.

Yet none of these can man reach up to me. Yet by each of them must man reach up to me."

This time, there was no light show, and nothing particularly impressive occurred. It was merely a wraith confined within a Thelemaic ritual circle. Oh, it tried to scratch at the invisible boundaries. It slammed, silently roaring its fury. It did so with enough force that, had it been Nick it was striking, he would have been long dead.

But it wasn’t striking Nick. It couldn’t, as a spiritual being. It had entered the circle of its own volition, and it would remain bound within it as long as the stability wasn’t compromised, Nick released it, or it fulfilled the will of the caster.

In this case, Nick wished for it to die, so it was out of luck.

The Vine Wraith snarled silently once it became clear it wouldn’t break free, writhing and clawing at the edges of its prison. Shadows flickered across its ghostly bark-like skin, glowing faintly as if illuminated from within by an otherworldly fire. It was hurting itself by rejecting the contract. Nick’s offer of a spiritual bargain would have been terribly foolish against an intelligent being like a dryad or a demon. They would have known simply to gather the unbound ritual energy for themselves, and he would have been in deep trouble—but for this mindless ghost, it was perfect.

“You’re not getting out of there. Unfortunately for you, hunting me for so long shows a clear interest in me. To the Thalamic school of magic, that’s as good as a notice that you’re ready to enter a bargain.” He smiled, ignoring the fatigue that was building up. He needed to hurry, or he’d either run out of mana or be caught by the priests. Marthas might not have been there, but he wasn’t the only one who could notice—especially with the wraith not being particularly subtle in its approach.

“You know, Grandpa would have killed me for doing something this foolish. He was the type to kill spirits first and ask questions later. He kept a cold iron musket just for situations like this. Not that they came up that often, with the planet dying...” The last part was barely a whisper. There was no danger of any being watching through the wraith, as the contract wouldn’t have worked if it hadn’t chosen to follow him of its own volition—another foolish risk he had taken.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

Still, there was no reason to disclose more than necessary. He enjoyed monologuing just like anyone else, but he had a job to do.

The theory behind the ritual made it clear that it wasn’t meant to kill; it was designed to bind, bargain with, and possibly placate. However, he didn't care about any of that. He wasn’t a true Thalamic practitioner and had no intention of negotiating with a being that had tried to kill him.

Instead, he concentrated on activating the provisions aimed at punishing a summoned spirit that went rogue. Those measures were his only hope now, especially considering how forcefully the wraith was slamming against the boundary.

Taking a deep breath, Nick started to chant, growing louder with each passing second. “By my will and by the ancient words, you are bound. You are judged. You have broken the silent contract, and for that, you must face punishment.”

The obsidian stones at the edges of the circle glowed faintly, releasing trails of smoke as they absorbed the mana he poured in waves. His words rang out, infused with power, resonating through the still air around him. The Vine Wraith thrashed harder, becoming more erratic, but the circle remained strong. He had chosen this path because contract magic was the strongest with spiritual beings.

“The terms of the summoning bind you,” Nick continued, taking on a harsh edge. “You have violated those terms, and now you will face retribution. By my command, I invoke the law of dissolution!”

That felt a bit melodramatic. It wasn’t as if he could command the world to do anything, but making his actions appear immensely powerful enhanced even minor magical feats, like invoking penalties into a contract. If the wraith believed he was performing something powerful, the magic would deal greater damage.

It was an old trick and the primary reason why most practitioners were so theatrical.

The wraith shrieked silently beyond the boundaries, its spectral form beginning to crack under the weight of the magic. It launched another attack, and the air vibrated with the force of its defiance.

Nick clenched his teeth, frustrated with his trembling legs as the strain of maintaining the ritual began to take its toll. His mana reserves were dwindling rapidly, but he couldn’t afford to stop now.

The obsidian stones smoldered as the excess energy morphed into heat. Nick forced himself to push harder, pouring every remaining ounce of mana into the ritual. The edges of his vision began to blur, and a sharp ache settled where his third eye should be, but he ignored it. This had to work.

The Vine Wraith convulsed, breaking apart like dried wood snapping under pressure. Light poured from the fissures in its body, and Nick felt a strange tug in his chest, as if the magic itself were reaching out to him. It was the natural consequence of the wraith failing to fulfill a contract—the magic naturally sought out someone who could give it purpose.

With one final burst of energy, he shouted the last words of the chant. "Therefore, pass on, O Prophet of the Gods, to the Cubical Altar of the Universe; there you shall receive every tribe, kingdom, and nation into the mighty Order that reaches from the frontier fortresses guarding the Uttermost Abyss to My Throne!”

The wraith let out one last silent cry before bursting into a cascade of shimmering light, taking the barrier with it. The fragments lingered in the air for a brief moment before racing toward Nick, flowing into him like a tide of warmth and energy. He gasped, reeling back as his power surged, filling the void left by his drained mana. The obsidian stones shattered, charred beyond use.

For a moment, Nick stood frozen. Then, instinctively, he reached for his new spell. Harnessing the residual energy of the wraith, he shaped the magic, focusing on the principles of the vortex and allowing the winds to guide him.

Opening the third eye was something any competent occultist can achieve. They often found themselves overwhelmed by visions of the spiritual world, and if they managed to survive, they'd find it easier to draw from those energies.

Although Nick was reckless, he had already confirmed with the Ritual of Astral Projection that he shouldn’t experience such symptoms. The spiritual plane of this world was surprisingly close to the material plane—which is what allowed him to cast as a spirit during the stampede.

This time, it was different.

He wasn’t just an observer, waiting idly for the winds to carry him news. Thanks to the wyvern wand, his mana fused with the element, becoming an exceptionally pure expression of it—and yet still unmistakably his—allowing him to feel the shifts in the currents as they occurred.

His range increased significantly. Everything within five hundred feet was under his eye, and if he concentrated in a specific direction, he could extend it up to seven hundred.

The sensation was unlike anything else. He wasn’t merely probing a spell for information. This magic arose from the sacrifice of a spiritual being and possessed its own unique characteristics. It allowed him to perceive everything touched by the winds. Everything.

The world appeared to tilt as the spell fell into place. A clear ding resonated in his mind—the System acknowledging his success. Nick smiled, pleased at having killed two birds with one stone.

He went to read the messages, but as they appeared, he was left reeling.

For a brief moment, he sensed the system’s presence as something tangible, immense, and unfathomable, pressing down on him from above. He could tell it was just a fraction of the whole, and even that was enough to shatter his guard. His third eye, which he had carefully controlled throughout the entire process, opened fully.

He was not prepared for what it showed him.

Nick fell to his knees, tears streaming down his face as the wind sang to him. He could feel everything—the rustling of grass, the movement of tiny insects, the faint hum of energy coursing through the temple grounds. The magic brought the world to life in ways he had never imagined, every detail sharp and vivid.

He laughed through his tears. He had achieved it. After so many failed attempts and hours of frustration, he finally succeeded. The Wind God's third eye was his.

The system chimed again, and more notifications flooded his mind, but they felt distant, almost abstract. The sensory overload began to take its toll; his body felt heavy, and his mind sluggish. The rush of mana, the strain of the ritual, and the intensity of the new spell were too much to handle all at once.

The last thing he felt before darkness surrounded him was the sound of the wind, gently whispering in his ears like a lullaby.