Tars pulled at his legs, struggling to arrange himself into a standard cross-legged posture with the soles of his feet facing upward. This was no easy feat for a kobold, especially one who was the smallest in the tribe, but eventually, accompanied by a faint pop from his joints, he succeeded.

  Perhaps this isn't strictly necessary, he thought after finally settling in. The Sigil Meditation never explicitly required it.

  It was a whim, a lingering bit of childhood fantasy—the image of a grandmaster from a story practicing a secret martial arts manual.

  When it came to this impressively named meditation method, the part he was most familiar with was his "old friend" who often danced for him: the pattern occupying the entirety of the second page.

  He now knew that he needed to visualize and trace six runes within his meditation space to form the first "Sigil." Through this process, his mental power would be tempered. For a typical wizard apprentice, the growth of mental power and the completion of the sigil occurred simultaneously. At the moment of success, one officially became a Level 1 wizard apprentice.

  The dancing pattern on the second page was the first rune to be mastered. Once he could manifest it, his tempered mental power would normally be strong enough to allow him to flip to the third page and behold the true form and explanation of the next rune.

  These mischievous runes would slowly dissipate after being traced. To stop these silent little rascals from vanishing, one had to complete the entire first Sigil as quickly as possible. This meant he had to sharpen his skills continuously; after mastering all six runes, he had to trace them all in one breath within his meditation space.

  Tars relaxed his mind, returning to that brief glimpse of mystery.

  Immersed in his meditation space, he reviewed the starting points of the meditation method but did not rush to begin. This mental space of his was intoxicating. He felt a unique tranquility, his feet standing on the surface of a mental sea that felt solid beneath him. He looked up at the starless deep sky. It seemed infinite, yet he could vaguely perceive the boundaries of his own mental realm.

  After a long while, he finally began to trace the first rune in the air.

  A moment later, his brow furrowed.

  The "old friend" he had stared at countless times felt strange now. From different angles, it changed, and it even underwent subtle shifts as time passed. He had to understand it to a certain degree and then manifest it in one swift motion. This requirement of "one breath" was a true test of mental control.

  Neither the limited legacy in his head nor the black book mentioned how long a normal apprentice took to complete their first successful tracing. He had no point of reference.

  He remained in that state until hunger forcibly dragged him out of the beautiful trance. He had just successfully manifested the first rune. A shifting rune floated in his meditation space, cycling through its forms and bringing a spark of life to that silent place, even as it began its slow dissipation.

  Gurgle! His stomach chimed in right on cue.

  He collapsed immediately, his legs so numb he couldn't move. Was that it? Is this hard? It was harder than he expected, yet it didn't seem as daunting as the solemn warnings in the meditation manual suggested.

  He was an expert at the "Stomach Clock." Before the fat grubs appeared, he was frequently starving. Judging by the degree of his current hunger, he made a calculation: if the subsequent runes were of similar difficulty, he could master all six and complete the first Sigil in just a few days.

  Maybe it really is that fast, he thought, looking up at the one-and-a-half grubs hanging on the cave wall. If food was sufficient, he wouldn't have to leave for days; he could just stay here and meditate like a madman.

  Gurgle!

  Ignoring the urge to check the new rune on page three, he dragged his unresponsive legs and crawled toward the half-eaten grub from his last meal. After eating, he resumed meditation. The success of the first rune seemed to have smoothed over his mental fatigue. The only difference was that this time, he chose to meditate lying flat on his back.

  As the grub meat slowly dwindled, he began to ration every bite.

  From the third page onward, there were no explanatory texts as he had guessed. Page after page consisted of new runes. When he flipped a leaf, he saw the third and fourth runes simultaneously.

  Finally, the food ran out.

  Tars looked at the thumb-length insect leg—the only thing left. He had saved it specifically to line his stomach before heading out to hunt, fearing he wouldn't have the strength to run if things went south. He had spent many days in a state of being "not quite starving, but never full."

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  "Wonder how that Holy Lord Gray-Long-Neck is doing..." he muttered. He grabbed his staff and followed his usual route, intending to head to the ravine for a few more grubs.

  He had completely mastered four runes and could trace them in one breath; the fifth was still a bit of a struggle. He looked at everything with a sense of excitement now, a joy that seemed to overflow from his heart. The business of making shorts would have to be delayed again, but he figured that once he became a powerful wizard apprentice, he could make something even better—something perfect. Besides, his precious black book was still so thick; who knew what lay in the later pages? Perhaps some powerful spells.

  It was another uneventful journey; he didn't encounter a single kobold. Kobolds usually spent their days bullying weaker kin for amusement—pointless and stupid behavior that he had no time for now.

  "What 'Master,' how 'powerful'... hasn't even led them to hunt on the surface..."

  He wanted to see the surface. He missed the sun. Even though his current appearance might scare people—they might chase him or poke him in the backside with swords—he really missed the feeling of sunlight and fresh air that smelled of the sun. As of yet, he didn't know the way to the surface. He had asked Aiskin before, but she was just as clueless.

  He arrived at his private hunting ground and, in a rare move, caught four grubs before heading back. This catch wasn't as lucky as the last, and the increased quota took a significant amount of time. He had a premonition that tracing and fusing the six runes wouldn't be simple, and he didn't want to be interrupted by something as trivial as food.

  Then, three loathsome figures appeared before him at the worst possible time. Two in front and one behind, blocking Tars in a stretch of the tunnel.

  "Hehe."

  The leading kobold giggled, looking utterly moronic. He wasn't particularly large, only half a head taller than Tars, but his appearance was the most striking of the trio. He was missing one ear and one eye. The ear had nothing to do with Tars—he was a kind little kobold, after all—but he knew the details of that empty eye socket very well.

  He remembered a sharp bone club. It had been thrust in at an angle, jerked upward, and then pulled back, followed by a harrowing scream. He had been close by and saw it clearly, mostly because that piece of bone had been in his own hand.

  He'd had no choice. He was starving. If he hadn't intimidated them like that, his scrawny self would have become a target for every kobold in the vicinity. His food would have been stolen again and again. He only wanted to keep that piece of bitter beast meat—his very first share from a tribal hunt.

  "Grubs." "Give them!" "Great Holy Lord Gray-Long-Neck... ordered... no eat grubs."

  The three kobolds spoke in turns, using their short, grating language as they closed in.

  Tars deftly slid the grubs off his staff and backed toward the side until his back hit the solid cave wall. One kobold immediately scrambled for the grubs, while the other two, armed with dagger-like weapons made of beast claws and fangs, continued to advance.

  Tars smiled and leaned his staff steadily against the wall, then untied the cord at his chest.

  "Let me show you something good..."

  Ever since he learned Catacomb Common, he had no desire to speak the ugly, tongue-tripping kobold tongue. But this time, it felt exceptionally satisfying because he had been waiting to say this phrase for a long time.

  The sound of rustling pages filled the air.

  He carried the black book every day not just because he cherished it, but because he wanted it to be a part of his security—and he had been looking for a chance to run an experiment.

  The two kobolds were indeed distracted, their three eyes bulging. Tars flipped to a page and held the book open, using both hands to fully display the two pages to them.

  The focus wasn't the text on the left, but the pattern on the right. The rune that made one's head dizzy. The rune that helped him sleep.

  According to his plan, he was going to keep flipping and show them the subsequent runes one by one. But his hand suddenly froze. The situation was exceeding his expectations.

  The two kobolds' eyes seemed to be glued to the book. Their bodies began to shake uncontrollably, and the veins on their foreheads throbbed, yet they couldn't shift their gaze for a single second.

  Tars, holding the book aloft, took a tentative step forward. The kobolds' eyes bulged even wider, the whites becoming completely bloodshot as if they had lost all power to resist.

  Just as he was about to continue his observations—BANG! The heads of the two kobolds exploded simultaneously. Their headless corpses slumped to the ground.

  Silence.

  A heavy, eerie quiet fell over this ordinary stretch of tunnel.

  Drop! Plop!

  The kobold holding the grubs stood there like a statue, the grubs slipping from his hands one after another.

  Tars lowered the book he had instinctively raised to shield his face from the gore. An ear that had splashed onto the page slid off; the interior of the book, just like the cover he used as a plate, was completely hydrophobic.

  This is my sleep manual? Incredible. He had only intended to knock them out. He had leaned his staff against the wall specifically so he could grab it easily. He had already designed ninety-nine different ways to beat them with his staff once they were unconscious; he had even considered if he could break their will and force them to catch grubs for him.

  He quickly analyzed the cause and effect to calm himself down. Still, the result wasn't bad. At least a major nuisance was permanently dealt with. However, he immediately abandoned the idea of ever letting Aiskin touch the meditation manual.

  Calming his nerves, he tucked the book under one arm and picked up his staff with the other, adopting an air of composed authority. He walked toward the remaining, stunned kobold.

  This lone survivor of the trio was the tallest of the three, but also the most dim-witted. He was so stupid he had lost even the animalistic cunning typical of kobolds. Usually, he played the role of the porter or the one who was sent in first when there was danger.

  Tars approached step by step. His pace was slow—getting slower, in fact—which only served to terrify the big oaf. The creature fell backward and sat on the ground, utterly lost. His vacant stare was filled with a primal fear of the unknown—something he couldn't understand, couldn't handle, and which exceeded his brain's capacity.

  "Did Holy Lord Gray-Long-Neck say we aren't allowed to catch grubs?" Tars asked, thrusting his staff into the ground right next to the creature's foot, looking down at the seated kobold.

  The big kobold looked at him in terror. He shook his head, then immediately nodded. Seeing Tars frown, the brute began to grunt and wheeze in a desperate attempt to explain.

  "Grubs."

  But the more afraid he got, the more urgent he became, and the less sense he made. He sat slumped on the ground, repeating the word and gesturing wildly with his hands.