**********

  Twenty years earlier

  ******************

  It was a peculiar day in which Quintix Lastrum first decided to conduct the experiment.

  Mirky stripes of foam formed in the professor's coffee as he began to scan Kag’s cloudy surface. He reached forward, cup dangling from his spindly fingers as he took a sip. Mornings like these had become rare in recent months, Kag’s streets plagued with constant storm. Taking hold of a nearby table, Lastrum leaned against the laboratory wall as he flicked the gauge.

  The little needly jolted upwards for a moment, almost teasing him as he scoffed.

  Would the damn thing ever change?

  His workplace was Arole tower, a narrow scaffold-like construction that would soon become Kag’s forefront of meteorology. Scraping bricks and twisted mortar lined the construction’s base as academics teethed the streets below. Often it would be considered a useless science, one that could be so easily displaced by magic, yet as countless before had lamented replicability meant nothing in the absence of knowledge. Lastrum would often state that seemed to be their entire lives. Countless souls bound to some majestic fate by the sweeping hands of an unseen force. Gambling on the fate of society with threads of power beyond even the most fickle concentration. They cheated, sold, bought, lived and were contingent on the wants of a dystopic world.

  He stared at the street below.

  It was madness that they didn't feel his same desires.

  It was magic which paved Kag’s marble streets, magic which fed its starving hands and magic which bled them all to death. Anyone who could dream, dared possess a thimble of ability was tied to the whim of both its sanguine accolades and relentless barbarity.

  Their entire lives depended on a power they knew nothing about. Through his youth, Lastrum had always believed his knowledge was circumvent, that beyond Kag’s imperialistic shores would lie truth, the face of a waking god or feats of heroes strewn throughout a backwater world. Now he was thrust to confront reality; his entire livelihood persisted on an ability he could barely understand. What made a mage able to twist water? Strike lightning or turn hardened rock into road? Bring back pale imitations of the dead?

  A connection to a planet, a seeping feeling towards the ground, in which their only limit was their ability to draw power. It was an ability that, mixed with talent, birthright and training, could forge a channeler who shook the face of an entire world. Now it was only a matter of time.

  67.7%

  Blast, it was hot, but this would work well.

  Lastrum glanced towards the gage once more, noting the humidity. In a few hours, the moisture content would reach its maximum levels. The experiment couldn’t be replicated indoors, but at the very least, it could be prefabricated.

  He stood for a moment, hand clasped over his amulet. A tri-point star which was pinned to his sleek black robes. Professor of Ground was a title he was gifted no more than years prior, and it was a name he would soon honour. Putting down the drink, he motioned to his assistant, a gray-haired professor and six others who were waiting from the tower’s lower decks. Fatigue seeped into their hard pressed faces. A few still had weld and grease stains on their clothing, signs from when the setra had been formed. It had been a monster of their own creation, copper-plated interior and articulated wires curling through the device-sutured hull.

  Lastrum took out a pencil, jotting down the latest readings before leaving towards the street below. He was just about to make the final steps towards the road when a sudden delivery arrived. The sight was no stranger to Lastrum, a sweat-stained executive pressed a few letters into the scholar's arms before hurridely accepting postage. Brushing past his assistant’s Lastrum re-entered the office, he muttered as his hands ran along the smooth letter. His heart fluttered for a moment. He could recognize that sparling black font anywhere.

  The letter was ordinary yet uniform with its envelope sealed by the Zhang-East company crest. Wax pressed against his fingers as he broke the paper open, scanning its contents. The sheet was made of livum, a high-quality parchment that normal so at least the bank still held him in some regard.

  It was the kind of paper his lab would have used in the past, expensive as a statement, it's quality a symbol of their esteem. Now Lanstrum couldn’t afford such luxury. He scanned it’s contents while putting his back towards his assistants to shield it’s screaming words from their view. Lastrum’s dreams had not only cost the university, but a personal fortune.

  Millions of quand had flowed into miscalculation and mistake, seeped into salary and preparation of failure after failure. When the grants went dry, he switched to his fortune, a vast sum accumulated from years of poised nobility. Yet when that too went on the verge of collapse Lastrum shifted to loans.

  At first they were paid back, a mere shift in funding to allocate an easier transfer of funds or paid off by side-projects and scattered magic. Now the entire name teetered on the brink of ruin. His house and furniture were sold two weeks ago. A manor hidden in the foot-hills of Kag’s forest now lay boarded up like an empty shell. His stocks and bonds were liquidated. A portrait of his late grandfather, once supercilious in it's resting place above the family mantle had been auctioned like some common chair. His colleagues knew of some of his misfortunes but not all. They had barely an idea of the depravity he had transpired to fulfill his dreams. However, this wasn’t the reason for the letter today. The words hit him cold, letting Lanstrum teeter for a moment as he folded the page and inspected the terms. 287543.5 quand to be delivered at Lopal in six months…………fine for the penalty of espionage……. imprisonment and disservice to the state.

  He held his breath. Lanstrum’s brother Awler had always shared the same passions. A burning desire to strike his way into the annals of history and a fascination with fulmanology, yet compared to Lanstrum, he was even more rash. Awler had departed to Wei to study their own attempts at making a setra and after their refusal for his collaboration, had taken drastic actions to steal the setra itself. The fool trusted the wrong friends. He was caught, wounded and cast into whatever rank pit suited his enemies most. Thankfully, Lanstrum still had a few connections scattered through Wei’s bureaucratic elite. A flurry of letters and court favours had ended up with reduced charges yet even with the starkest ambassadors, Lanstrum would still have to pay a King’s ransom to let Awler walk free. He had taken many precautions to shield their reputation, bribing guards and local dignitaries to quiet any word of Awler’s deeds yet if he didn’t provide the funding soon, it would be too late. All these problems would be solved by one thing, if Lanstrum could prove the origin of magic, testify against the world that his theories were true, a thousand cities would pay fortunes to hear his slightest scrawl. It was a fool’s dream, the only dream. He breathed out slowly to let his tongue clasp the roof of a dry mouth.

  “Hello? Getting old Lastrum? Are we doing this or what? ” an assistant asked.

  “Still younger than you” he replied.

  It was time to move things forward.

  "Here are the reports you ordered on the copper's conductivity, it should channel the lightning well-enough" the other passed him a clipboard.

  They wore uniform, sleek white robes as a lab coat along with melded black welder’s goggles. Lastrum noted as their hands twitched, either in fear or anticipation. As he walked, the crowd parted in astonishment with a few marking into hushed bows; he was used to this kind of acknowledgement, a celebrity among the crowd despite his young age. Only twenty-three years old, and he had already situated himself at Kag’s largest meritocratic seat of power.

  Lastrum’s jet black hair reflected in the puddled streets as those around him continued towards the testing chamber.

  “Send for an auditor and inform the magistrate of our results,” Lastrum coughed.

  “What of Irwain?” another replied.

  “Fool left the conference first chance he got. Will he join us?” they added shortly.

  “He’s gone, Archmage’s has approved Irwain’s travels.”

  The crowd recoiled at this. Irwain was a touchy subject that seemed to bridge a mixture of both hate and admiration.

  “Upstart, it took me three years to approve a measly biology expedition to Wei, and he gets fumenology done in seconds,” A professor spat.

  He turned to his companions, grunting under his breath as he rolled up a scroll.

  "This geofuminology stuff may be impressive to the theorists, but the practical applications of healing brunsprout could have saved lives."

  "Not to mention make you a personal fortune?" A sly assistant added.

  The professor seemed a little disgruntled by this but nodded in agreement with a shake of his head.

  “Forget it, Slanworth, we have more important things to focus on.” Lastrum sighed

  The others nodded.

  "You have to remember if the setra succeeds, we'll gave enough funding for three thousand of those expeditions, maybe even more," Lastrum added.

  "If it succeeds," the Professor spat.

  Lastrum gave him a cold glance, and the other academic stiffened before falling back into the crowd.

  “What happens if the setra is too slow?” an assistant added. He wasn't being demeaning, only repeating what had happened far too many times before. The man teetered on the pavement. His luxurious clothing were greased and stained from a mixture of work and constant worry.

  “We could spend another year testing more development, we don’t know how volatile the results may be or even if they’ll be observable at all." Another piped up.

  “This is quack science Lastrum, and you know it. We can achieve our goal, but we are hardly prepared to analyze it; performing the fusion could kill us all,” the Professor added.

  God, they really have such little faith?

  It made sense; they were nervous. They we're cowards. If they failed today, they wouldn't have enough funding for another try; it would be hopeless, at least a non-broken machine could still be used to allure investors. On Awler's life, he would succeed. He had to; he couldn't let his parents down. He had promised to look after him, no matter what.

  I'll save you, I'll show them it can be done

  “Do you know how long we’ve worked for this? How many times have I judged the Setra’s abilities? We have the finest instruments Kag can produce, some of the brightest minds across the continent. and limited time."

  The others nodded at this, letting him speak further. He wasn't the best at articulating but passion made up for the rest.

  “How long before another country catches wind of our experiments? How long before our research ends in the footnotes of history, chasing the scraps of those who were bold enough to tread a path we feared?” he shouted.

  They stood still.

  “I’ve already heard of setra’s being made in Wei, even in the east?”

  He misjudged the confrontation's resolve and the others sheepishly retreated behind sideways glances. The assistant shrugged, letting Lastrum’s words mull over as they reached the first set of doors. It wasn’t long before an imperial guard nodded in the group's direction as five more soldiers joined their party. Among them was the Archmage himself. He was a simple man, wrinkly face transfixed in a sour expression as startling white robes brushed like wildfire against the brick floor. He cast a glance at the professor, a mixture of intrigue and disgust marring his gaze. He was old, maybe in his eighties and had doubted the setra's existence like a despotic plague from the beginning, but still, he wouldn't miss this day for the world.

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  “Know what you're doing, Lastrum?” the old man coughed.

  “This experiment won’t lead to some fissure of power. I don’t know where it will take us, but it will be simple, rooted in fact,” Lastrum replied.

  The other nodded, signaling a pair of guards to open doors above.

  “Then show me Lastrum,” the Archmage whispered.

  And show our creditors why they should reinvest, I assume you old bat?

  Cold air caught the parties ’ lungs as they descended towards the research station. Twenty people in total surrounded the twelve-metre-long construction that was the setra. It was beautiful, copper interior lined in a gleaming bronze shell, gilded metal fabricated to the first artistry. Tempered glass caught the setra’s windows as the entire structure sat rooted in four equally spaced rubber shafts. Sprout like wires and various gauges wrapped around the bolted frame for a small control deck to lie at the foremost wall. It contained a simple network of levers and scattered gears. At the forefront of Kag technology, the setra system had taken years of development and months to construct. Inside was scattered sand, no more than a handful waiting for a lick of power to christen its charred form. The setra’s shell haunted their every move, yet Lastrum ignored it. Still lost in though, he walked forward to place a hand on the machine’s controls. Lastrum winced as he felt the gears vibrate, interlocking twists making up their failsafe. In a world where swords and bows still reigned supreme, the setra was almost commanding in it's presence. It felt like a glimpse into the future, teasing the majesty of a world those inside would never know.

  An assistant cast a glance towards the floor. Wrought iron flakes were scattered in a protective circle, twice Lastrum coughed when he inhaled the dust but he tasted the pain of his breath with pride. Chalk-like projections flicked from its side to form an impervious wall of protection. Lastrum shuddered at the cost, noting how the room's entire structure was composed of metal. Wooden beams held up thin-plate steel and welded edges. It had taken years to gather funding, an army's worth of supplies had been gambled on their success. From the quality of a single pencil to the arrangements of the floor it was obvious no expensive was spared. He knew if Wei had conducted the experiment, there would no expense spared either. Another reason speed was more imperative than ever.

  Could you imagine? Wei riding off their own research? The Arlon, that batty old fool of a despot, trying to replicate Lastrum's glory?

  All this just to heat sand.

  But it wasn't just about heating sand; magic came from the ground. If they could isolate the essence of the dirt itself and heat that sand to near oblivion then they would get answers.

  Current gages sat on either side of the foremost wall, glass-shuddered devices tied to the setra's network. It was eerily quiet for a moment as only the sound of the scribes echoed through the welded hall.

  Slowly, the group got into position. A few scribes traced the scene into scripture as Lastrum sneezed. For a moment, the room paused. Laughing as he brushed his nose. He felt queasy and unfamiliar as he issued orders to the crowd.

  “Ready?”

  The eight were situated in equally spaced intervals around the machine. Each was standing on a wrought-steel scratch that was drawn the night before. It was meticulously timed, down to the last comparable second.

  They began.

  Lastrum went first, his eyes lit up towards a faded splatter of colours as lightning arced from his palm to strike the setra's hull. It took the impact in full, the group watching the needle gauge rise as more researchers joined in. One by one, the room's air began to crackle and sift as the setra took their blows. Over six feet high, the contraption was an easy target, yet even this strained the scientists, a mixture of sweat and charred air collecting on their faces as lightning streaked from open hands. Lastrum was the most powerful, a sharp violet blue spewing forward, yet it was hard to keep it straight. On occasion, his palm would waver, energy spewing, and graze the wrought iron floor. If it wasn't for the wrought-iron floors, they all would have been fried, moldered in an instant to a thin pasty ash. Lastrum shouted to the first scribe and demanded they read the gage.

  “Keep going, keep going,” Lastrum shouted.

  “I can't, I can't feel my arms, I can't feel my arms” a researcher cried, falling back.

  “Keep going! Don't quit now!” The professor cried. His eyes lit up with the lightning's glow. An impure blue shone through the former white.

  More complaints echoed from the group, yet they strayed forward. Slowly, the gauge began to edge forward as more and more current slipped through.

  “Reading?”

  “297 hallics and closing”

  “403 hallics"

  They pushed harder. A few more let out gasps of exhaustion.

  “500 hallics”

  "What are you all looking tired for? We've barely begun!" Lastrum shouted.

  Above, the archmage looked down with an imposing glance. Lastrum would do anything to prove that man wrong. On Awler's life he would.

  “1000 hallics”

  “2000” the scribe was shouting now.

  The Archmage had a perplexed expression on his face. He may not have believed in their methodology, but he never expected them to get this far. 2000 hallics were record-breaking. The last time a feat like this had transpired was centuries prior when dragon-flame torched entire cities. Uthnar the Terrible had flaunted the majesty of his power by charring the sand of the High-King's boned not into glass but veritable ash. It had been war then, today the researchers approached their task with the same resolve.

  Lastrum cast a glance at the team. Two had seemingly abandoned their posts and were watching with the archmage and the scribes. They craned their necks like giraffes towards the glass eager to ride the coat-tails of their colleagues towards immortal fame. Cowards. The rest held strong, hands now blistered as more and more power swept to patter the setra's glowing hull.

  “5000.” The scribes looked down, peering through a thin glass pane to see the inside material shimmer. Once scattered sand, it had begun to transform, mulchlike consistency seeping through as thin black ooze clung to the setra's insides. Its fluorescent glow shimmered through shaded colours, frothing consistency warped like a raging sun.

  “9000 hallics!” The scribe screamed.

  It was pure insanity, there wasn't a single forge in history that had scratched the fragment of this heat.

  Surely, the stone will have melted into nothing but fickle dust.

  His voice let out a guttural tone, a twist of both fear and awe as the lightning seemed to weave in a single flickering strand. Maybe they we're right, would Kag's academics even have the necessary tools to analyze the product. Would it simply disappear in an instant? nurtured by flames only to taunting them with a mesmerizing glow snuffed out by the frost of a real world? He would argue the legalities of borrowing analyzers and enchanted tools from the other departments once the product had revealed it's volatility. Rays of light shot through the tempered glass blinding the scribe as it streaked from a supposedly black interior. It was beautifully horrifying, a twist of light and dark seeping from every metallic stretch to dance among the shadows below. Lastrum gasped in horror as power warped around the setra's shell seemingly showering the device in a thin crackling veil. A bolt flew out from the exterior of the device, piercing through the air to plant three feet into a nearby wall. Then another and another. The metal began to crunch and bend, tarnished copper and chaffed bronze almost melting in the limelight.

  “We have to stop, we have to stop!” A professor cried.

  "Lastrum?!" the Archmage roared.

  “No trust me, keep going!!” He cried in response.

  Now only Lanstrum remained. The rest were huddled near the observation deck, scattered, half dazed where they stood. The professor seemed to fight with every inch of his soul, eyes a splintered white as more and more lightning streaked from his hands. Laughter caught his lips, a smile slowly inching across the pale face.

  Weaklings couldn't withstand the requirements of progress...

  “10000” hallics

  The scribe cried. His clothes were singed in the static air as the gage flicked to hit its metallic side. It was the end, that was all they had anticipated. As far as feasibly possible.

  “20000 hallics”

  The Archmage was looking terrified. The others in the observation deck seemed to be eyeing the door like the now twisting Setra might explode.

  Lanstrum didn’t care anymore, you could tell it in his eyes. Pitch-black seeping through his face with a smile crossed across his lips. The Setra was working better than expected. The slightest lick of his own power was being magnified over ten-fold. They were almost there. Just one final push, a few more seconds, a few more scraps of his life.

  “25000!!!!!”

  "Stop!!! Stop!!!" the scribe roared.

  Lastrum collapsed.

  "Heal him, heal that madman!" the Archmage roared.

  It didn't take long for his arms to feel like they fell off. Exhaustion seeped through his bones as his face met the cold wrought-iron floor. Two assistants rushed forward, helping him to his feet as a potion was thrust towards his lips. He smiled as he drank; he could tell the Archmage wasn't just mad. He was interested. The groups took sips of the living draught, desperate to restore what little strength remained. A few muttered in shock as white streaks formed in Lanstrum's once-curly grey hair. He seemed older, almost a year or two added to his still-young face.

  “Did we do it?”

  The scribes were continuously printing, using magic to draft image after image of the setra's container onto scattered paper. Their hands worked at lightning speed to capture the intricacies of a three dimensional world into the confines of a paper world. The device had held firm with a few bolts missing as it seemed to have almost compressed inward on the wrought-steel frame. Suddenly, a bolt spat out, planting itself into the metal wall with a satisfying hiss.

  “Run, look at it! It's seconds away, seconds away from exploding,” a scribe shouted.

  The man dashed for the open hall.

  "Wait!!, wait!!!!" Lastrum wheezed in response.

  His loyal assistant poured the rest of the healing draught's contents into his throat, and Lastrum turned to see who remained. The Archmage stood with them.

  A few had already abandoned them.

  Lanstrum ignored their hurried cries more continued to opened the wrought-steel door and fled into the dimly lit hall. He stood up, face caked in soot, as his arm was covered in burns. Slowly, he approached the setra. Two others followed, more out of instinct than reason as the researchers approached the metallic craft. It had an almost hypontic allure, with curiosity overriding any sense of preservation. The rest stayed, more loyal to the words of ambition their own health. The young professor laughed for a moment with a smile spreading across his weakened lips as he spotted the ooze’s tepid swirl. It was beautiful, magnificent; his entire body seemed to ease with laughter as his hands ran along the splintered metal frame. It was still hot, burning in fact, but Lanstrum didn’t care; the scolding touch of the handle gave euphoria. The few above now rushed into position, each peering down in awe toward their creation below. Rejuvenated by the setra’s success, the scholar screamed towards his associates, causing them to leap toward the instruments with glee. They were overjoyed, excited whispers streaking across the disfigured room. An associate turned to the scribes, face half marred in ash as he yelled in their direction.

  This was insanity.

  “We did it, we did it!! Inform the Lord General and bring more scribes!!!”

  "Lastrum........" The elderly Archmage whispered in shock.

  He had not expected these results. The researcher ignored his superior, moving to shout more direct orders.

  They all inched forward, a few taking notes through magic on a half-wood pen.

  "A few notes for the autobiography, eh?" an assistant laughed as he wrote in a half-crazed stupor.

  "This is great!" the Archmage muttered as he stepped forward.

  “This isn't great, this is amazing, this is incredible” Lanstrum muttered in a half-crazed state.

  His hair was growing more white by the second, yet he ignored it. Remedies and spells could correct his loss and if anything only two or three years was a simple price to pay. Lanstrum was ecstatic, his heart heaved as his back rose, this was what success felt like, three thousand years of progress culminating into a megre moment of greatness. All the pain, the misery, the hours of unfounded suffering, all the time he had wasted, skeletal life he had destroyed, rectified by a single gleaming vile. Statues would line the streets of every academia, wings renamed in their Honours. Stuffled researchers, that ignorant jerk of an archmage, Irwain, the collectors and false theorists would gravel at their feet. In fact the Archmage already was. Lastrum could tell from his greedy eyes he was already thinking about how much to charge for the paper transcript alone. The legacy of kings would pale in comparison to a single stroke of their pen, the future intertwined without reason. His hand reached out, almost unconscious to his shifting eyes with his hair standing on end.

  What the hell was that?

  He had expected it to work, but never in his wildest dreams would it have yielded the results seen now. Behind four inches of plexiglass was a terrifying sight. The sand had completely disappeared to leave a thick mulching black ooze. It seemed to stretch and warp, almost making a web-like exterior within the setra’s metal hull. Lanstrum reached a hand forward, pulling one of the setra’s levers to have the thermometer punch forward. Immediately, the device broke, reaching record levels as the ooze began to engulf its frame. It moved with a strange consistency, creeping up the hull’s sides with no care for gravity. The liquid was expansive yet delicate. It swirled as it almost felt its way towards the setra’s streaking cracks. Its colour was unique, hurting Lanstrum’s eyes as he gazed at the mirrade of reflections.

  Slowly, an associate approached with a long test tube, and Lanstrum stuck his hands into a pair of wrought-iron gloves. They were enchanted to resist heat, and almost painstakingly crafted to protect the user. They didn’t know how fast they would have before it changed, or worse if the sand reformed. Lanstrum shot a eye towards their laboratory deck and cursed. It was a few feet away, yet still enough to merit trouble. His heart heaved. Four assistants scrambled to make the instruments ready while the rest put on the same metal gloves. A professor stood in shock as Lanstrum undid the latch; his movements were careful and graceful and every inch reflected in a steady hand. The Archmage sat with his eyes wide open; he too was smiling, seemingly impressed.

  This was his moment of protege and Lastrum's hour of triumph. His name would be etched into the walls of history. His accolades culminated in his people's teleological progression toward a greater world. He had revenge, revenge in the world's greatest form of immortality.

  No matter how he died, how they perished, rich or poor, virtuous or half-crudded swine, their names were forever stitched into the fabric of history. At least that’s what Lanstrum thought as his hand reached forward, using a single wrought-iron spoon to scoop some of the stitching ooze. His mind was racing, heart beating in anticipation.

  They all watched in awe until it squirmed.

  Until, to their horror, they realized it was alive.

  by The Enchantress

  Luke Carter is a transmigrator. A cultivation prodigy. 'The Chosen One'.

  So when a Future Life Simulator boots up in his head, showing him timeline after timeline of catastrophic failure?

  He scoffs. Then dies.

  Again. And again. And again.

  Every version of him meets a spectacularly creative end—sometimes betrayed, sometimes obliterated, occasionally eaten (don’t ask). But every death leaves him a gift:

  - A divine flame from his 17th life

  - A forbidden technique from his 40th

  - The sweet, sweet taste of betrayal—ten years early this time

  Luke’s plan? Loot his own corpses, cheat the timeline, rob his future selves blind, and maybe punch fate in the face on his way to godhood.

  What's a little timeline collapse between a man and his ascension?

  What to Expect

  -Intelligent, strategic, and sarcastic MC

  -OP progression

  -Unique system mechanics

  -No harem (mentions of different love interests only in simulations)

  -Deep worldbuilding, cultivation lore, and original spirit techniques

  Release Schedule:

  -Daily release for the first week

  -5x/week afterwards

  -Patreon will be 10 chapters ahead