Chapter 97 – Forgotten Knowledge

  Deep within the chamber, where darkness and magic intertwined, Eo sat in quiet contemplation. Before him lay the three grimoires, relics of power once belonging to Aelith, Antru, and Thorne. Though their owners still lived—Thorne trapped in an unconscious state—their grimoires had fallen into his possession, a mystery he intended to unravel.

  His abyssal mist coiled around the books, probing their existence with silent curiosity. Grimoires were not ordinary tools; they possessed a structure unlike anything he had encountered before. They did not simply hold knowledge—they bonded with their wielders, responding to their magic, yet existing as separate entities. If that bond could be broken through death, then it meant there was something beyond mere ownership at play. A grimoire could be claimed, but its nature was far more intricate.

  Eo focused first on their physical structure. Each page bore intricate inscriptions, arranged in a way that guided the flow of magic like a network of veins. When he injected a thread of his own energy into Aelith’s grimoire, it resisted—not in rejection, but as if recognizing he was not its master. Antru’s reacted differently, the fire and wind within surging chaotically in response to his touch, almost testing his presence. Thorne’s grimoire remained still, silent, unreadable.

  They functioned like external cores, extensions of their wielders’ power, but limited by predefined affinities. Each grimoire adhered to the natural laws of magic, restricting access to elements their owner was attuned to. That was the first flaw Eo identified. If grimoires were bound by affinity, then they were incomplete.

  When he first delved into formations, he encountered a world of layered inscriptions, interconnected runes, and recursive logic—a system that built upon itself infinitely, growing in complexity with every new layer. Formations demanded precision beyond mere magic control; they required an understanding of spatial relationships, energy distribution, and multi-layered activation sequences. A single miscalculation could collapse an entire formation, rendering it useless.

  Yet, even formations paled in comparison to the complexity of blood.

  Blood was not merely a carrier of life—it was an entire system of intricate pathways, chemical processes, and organic evolution. When Eo studied human veins, he realized that magic in this world mimicked the efficiency of biological structures. The way energy flowed through the body was governed by natural mechanisms far more advanced than any artificial system humans had created.

  Grimoires, in comparison, were straightforward.

  They were simplified energy processors, tools that stored and channeled magic in a way that even flawed beings could use. They lacked the adaptability of formations, the fluid intelligence of biological structures. Their primary function was to store knowledge and enhance the wielder’s magic affinity. That was all.

  This realization allowed Eo to grasp their secrets almost instantly.

  By applying his understanding of energy circulation, structural optimization, and living systems, he could dismantle the limitations of traditional grimoires. He understood now—grimoires weren’t complicated because they were inherently difficult to create. They were complicated because humans lacked the ability to comprehend deeper systems.

  To him, they were nothing more than primitive conduits of knowledge.

  And now, with his own archive—one that absorbed, analyzed, and evolved—he had surpassed what humans had spent centuries refining.

  Instead of a mere book, his grimoire would be a living system, one that could evolve alongside him. A construct capable of processing, refining, and even generating magic independently, rather than simply storing spells like its human-made counterparts. It would not be a separate object bound to an external force but an extension of himself—a part of his being.

  He considered the core structure of human grimoires once more. They were essentially energy processors, designed to enhance magic control by acting as an intermediary between spellcasting and the wielder’s raw magical energy. Their inscriptions functioned as pre-coded circuits, guiding energy into predefined pathways to minimize inefficiency. Some grimoires responded to their owner’s thoughts, while more advanced ones could self-activate under specific conditions, but in the end, they all followed a rigid system that limited growth.

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  That was their flaw.

  No matter how well-crafted, a grimoire’s capabilities were ultimately tied to its design. Even the most powerful grimoires could not function beyond the framework set by their creator. They were static, incapable of adapting to new information without being manually rewritten.

  Eo would eliminate that flaw.

  He directed his attention to the mist-like material composing his own grimoire. Unlike a traditional book, his grimoire would not rely on physical pages or a fixed structure. It would be an amorphous construct, capable of shifting its form based on necessity. Instead of inked inscriptions, it would utilize self-adjusting runic sequences, allowing it to update its functions without external modification. It would be organic in its progression—learning, adapting, and evolving in real-time.

  To begin, he needed a core framework to support its ability to absorb and refine information.

  He thought back to his research on energy circulation and formations. Energy needed a pathway to flow efficiently—veins for blood, circuits for formations, and channels for magic. A grimoire was, in essence, a magic processor, and like any processor, it required a system capable of handling input and output without unnecessary loss.

  Eo constructed a multi-layered core at the center of his grimoire—a structure inspired by the intricate biological processes he had studied. The outermost layer would function as a sensory network, allowing the grimoire to detect and analyze external magical forces. Beneath that, a flexible storage layer would act as a repository for accumulated knowledge, capable of reorganizing itself based on relevance. Deeper still, an adaptive core would serve as the grimoire’s “brain,” an information-processing node designed to synthesize and refine the magic it absorbed.

  Each layer operated independently yet remained interconnected, ensuring seamless adaptation to new discoveries.

  With the structure complete, Eo turned his focus to the next step—integration.

  Traditional grimoires required bonding rituals to link them to a wielder’s soul or magic signature. This process ensured that only the rightful owner could access its knowledge and prevented theft. However, this method had inherent weaknesses. A grimoire bound to a single wielder was restricted in its ability to evolve. If the wielder lacked the capacity to understand its knowledge, it could never truly be utilized to its full potential.

  Eo saw no reason to impose such a limitation on himself.

  Rather than binding his grimoire to a static signature, he crafted it to be self-attuning—able to recognize and adapt to any magic it came into contact with. Instead of requiring a bond, it would function as an extension of his own body, seamlessly integrating into his core system. By doing so, he removed the need for external activation, allowing it to operate at the speed of thought.

  With a single command, his mist pulsed, and the grimoire connected to his core. A surge of data flooded his awareness as the construct synchronized with his magic, responding instantly to his thoughts.

  He tested its function by feeding it a simple set of instructions—analyzing the residual energy signatures within the chamber. The grimoire complied, deconstructing and categorizing the different traces of magic that lingered in the air. Within seconds, it compiled a detailed breakdown of their elemental compositions, their decay rates, and potential applications.

  Perfect.

  Next, he experimented with its ability to store and modify magic. He drew upon his own elemental energies—water, fire, and the hybrid mist that defined his being. As he willed it, the grimoire absorbed the magic, analyzing its properties and restructuring it into an optimized form. When he recalled the stored energy, the magic emerged refined, more efficient than before.

  This exceeded even his expectations.

  His grimoire was not merely a record-keeping tool—it was a magic refiner, capable of optimizing spells before they were even cast. This single function alone placed it leagues beyond human-made grimoires, which could only store magic in its raw form without altering its properties.

  Now came the true test—creation.

  A grimoire’s greatest function was its ability to store spells and knowledge for later use. If his was truly superior, it would not just store knowledge—it would generate new insights from existing information.

  Eo fed it the knowledge he had accumulated from studying human magic theory—the structure of formations, the logic behind spellcasting, and the mechanics of energy flow. He then introduced the scientific principles he had developed through his observations of natural systems, biological processes, and his own unique physiology.

  The grimoire pulsed, its internal layers shifting as it processed the influx of information. Slowly, patterns began to emerge—connections forming between concepts that humans had never thought to link together. Within moments, the grimoire produced a new magical theory, one that combined the precision of formations with the fluid adaptability of biological systems.

  Eo examined the output, a slow realization settling over him.

  This was no longer just a grimoire.

  It was a living archive—an autonomous system capable of generating knowledge beyond what had previously existed.

  With this, he had transcended the limits of human magic.

  No longer bound by flawed traditions or incomplete understanding, he had created a tool that evolved alongside him.

  A new era of magic had begun.