THIRD POV
Thaddeus relaxed for the first time in ages—no monsters, prophecies, or gods watching. Just him, a luxurious leather seat, and peace at 30,000 feet.
He lounged with one leg crossed, a worn Berserk volume in hand and a philosophy book open on his lap for appearances. Did he understand it? Mostly. But the dramatic underlines and Latin scribbles made him look scholarly.
A poised flight attendant approached. "Coffee, sir?"
He looked up eagerly. "Absolutely."
She returned with a cup that smelled divine—rich, velvety, perfectly bitter. He sipped, then gulped it down. "This is amazing. Liquid wisdom?"
"Another?" she asked, eyebrow arched.
"Keep them coming," he said, already handing back the cup.
By the third mug, he reclined with a dazed smile. The fourth made the text swim as warmth spread through his limbs. The world tilted softly.
"Sir?" Her voice echoed distantly.
Thaddeus raised a finger. "Think I'm gonna—"
Out cold.
He slumped sideways, snoring faintly.
The attendant sighed, tucking a blanket around him with practiced ease. She paused, then retrieved a slightly squished Stitch plushie from storage, nestling it into his arms.
"There," she murmured. "Perfect."
She had no idea she'd just triggered the worst moment of Thaddeus' life.
---
Slow applause sounded. "Bravo," came the slick, sarcastic voice. "World-saving, god-defying, and now first-class travel? How... mundane."
As sleep took him, reality dissolved into an endless void—a suffocating darkness where existence felt fragile.
Only one thing came out of his mouth: "God-fucking-dammit."
Of course—the Doctor.
Impeccably suited and perpetually condescending, he lounged in a suddenly appeared armchair as if time meant nothing. Here, it probably didn't.
"Did you imagine you could avoid me indefinitely?" The Doctor's quiet menace vibrated through the void.
Thaddeus massaged his temples. "I wanted to read manga and not have a psychological horror episode. Yet here we are."
The Doctor's glare sharpened. "My contempt for you grows daily."
"Join the club," Thaddeus muttered.
Externally, he appeared peacefully asleep, hugging a Stitch plush. Internally?
War.
Dream-time stretched as the Doctor advanced, his composed facade cracking to reveal ancient fury. His cane transformed—wood and gold twisting into a glowing red scythe.
The air combusted.
Thaddeus barely flinched before—
WHAM.
He twisted instinctively as the weapon grazed past his ribs, its impact fracturing the obsidian floor like shattered glass. Thaddeus backflipped into a defensive crouch, empty hands flexing—no weapons, just raw magic and desperation.
"Really? Now?" he growled.
The Doctor adjusted his gloves with meticulous calm. "Since words fail, perhaps violence will educate."
The assault came instantly. The Doctor moved like shadow given form, his transformed scythe cutting through dreamspace with terrifying precision. Thaddeus barely evaded each crimson arc, his counterattack fizzling pathetically mid-air.
Something was wrong. His magic recoiled like a wounded animal.
"Remedial training," the Doctor announced cheerfully between strikes. "Lesson one?"
Thaddeus ducked a vicious sweep. "Couldn't we do flashcards? Worksheets?"
The Doctor's grin turned predatory. "Focus."
A glancing blow connected. Thaddeus staggered as dual pain flared—physical and magical. His breath came ragged.
"That pitiful victory against Hades? That luck against Luke?" The Doctor's voice turned glacial. "You mistake survival for mastery."
The scythe descended.
Thaddeus summoned a barrier—rushed, sloppy. It shattered on impact, sending him skidding across the cracked obsidian floor. Sparks danced off his jacket.
The Doctor didn't slow. "You burned through more mana than your body could safely handle. Then what? Did you rest? Recover? No. You strutted around like a goddamned invincible anime protagonist. You ignored every warning I gave you."
Thaddeus forced himself upright, wiping blood—mental or metaphorical—from his lip. "Sorry, Doc. I didn't exactly have time for a mana nap between almost dying and literally almost dying."
"Oh, right," the Doctor said flatly, stalking closer. "Don't exhaust the Primal Matrix. Fancy term for 'mana core.' Ringing any bells?"
"Yeah, yeah," Thaddeus muttered, half-limping into a shaky stance. "Don't roast the engine. Got it."
"Good. Second question." The Doctor's eyes narrowed. "When do you use your Arcanum?"
Thaddeus flared a sigil into existence—glowing, pulsing weakly. The Doctor drove a fist straight through it.
Thaddeus soared backward like a ragdoll, crashing down hard. He groaned. "I don't know, man, maybe… not now?"
The Doctor exhaled, pacing like a professor with a disappointment quota to fill. "When. Do. You. Use. Your. Arcanum?"
"Only when necessary," Thaddeus wheezed, coughing into the floor.
The Doctor pointed the blade at him. "Because next time you push too far? You won't just pass out. You'll shut down. You'll fail. And in the real world, Thaddeus? Failure isn't poetic. It's fatal."
Thaddeus dragged himself to his knees, scowling. "Okay. Fine. Lesson learned. You win. Can we not die now?"
The Doctor tilted his head, smile returning—light, almost amused.
"Oh, we're not done."
Thaddeus blinked. "Wait. We're not?"
The Doctor's grin widened. "Nope. Now we fight without magic."
Thaddeus stared at him, betrayed. "You're insane."
The Doctor tossed his scythe aside. It vanished in a flash of light. He rolled his sleeves. "Nah. I'm just your insanity given form."
And with that, he lunged. Fists only. No magic. No fancy tricks.
Just pain.
"…You're the worst."
"I'm your worst," the Doctor corrected—then lurched toward him.
Round two didn't wait for a bell. The void shifted, crackling with tension. Thaddeus barely cursed before the pressure slammed into him like a wave. His limbs felt heavy, his mana sluggish, but weakness wasn't an option. Not now. Not with *him* watching.
He inhaled slowly, steadying himself. That familiar current lit his veins—mana coiled like a caged storm beneath his skin. Electricity danced at his fingertips, arcane light flickering across his knuckles. Every nerve fired, ready to ignite.
The Doctor stood motionless, an unreadable shadow cloaked in violet energy, hands loose at his sides, eyes glowing like dying stars. Silent. Distant. Utterly unbothered.
So Thaddeus moved first.
He Blinked—a snap of wind, a pulse of light. One second, meters away. The next, inches from the Doctor, fist charged with lightning enough to fry a manticore.
He threw the punch.
But the Doctor wasn't there.
A whisper brushed the back of his neck. "Too slow."
Thaddeus twisted, instincts screaming. He dropped low, narrowly dodging the retaliatory strike that carved a shockwave through the void. Planting his hands mid-spin, he slammed energy into the ground. A jagged rune flared open like a wound beneath him.
"Runespark: Thunder Vein!"
The ground hissed and cracked. Tangled veins of lightning erupted, arcing wildly in every direction like serpents unleashed. The air trembled with raw voltage. For a second—just a second—it seemed it might work.
But the Doctor moved like water—effortless and cold.
He tapped the ground with his foot's edge. A pulse rippled outward. The lightning sputtered, flickered… then died.
"You really don't learn," the Doctor said flatly. "Power means nothing without precision."
Thaddeus clicked his tongue. "That was rude. Cool. But rude."
The Doctor looked at him like a disappointed physics teacher. "You keep throwing out spells like they solve everything. They're not solutions. They're noise."
"Funny. All I hear is someone who's stalling," Thaddeus shot back. He slammed his foot down. Frost spilled out from the cracks. The air snapped cold. Ice crept up the Doctor's boots like living vines of crystal.
"True Ice: Frozen Chains!"
The Doctor looked down at the encroaching frost, then back at Thaddeus. "Improvement. You're using the field. Still too much flair, but—" He didn't finish.
Because Thaddeus clenched his fist. Jagged spikes of ice shot from the frost, aiming to pierce.
And just like that, the Doctor was gone.
No sound. No movement. One blink and he wasn't there.
A gust.
Thaddeus threw himself sideways, Blinking instinctively—just in time. A violet blur exploded through the space where he'd stood, the Doctor's fist shearing the air behind him. The blow cracked the world, warping the void like shattered glass.
With that strike, the entire realm shifted. The darkness rippled like a dropped stone in a pond. Thaddeus tumbled through the distortion, skidding to a halt, his body protesting.
He stood, ribs aching, breath ragged. "Okay. That… sucked."
The Doctor emerged from the distortion, rolling his sleeves back up. "If you keep wasting energy trying to impress me, you'll collapse before I even touch you again."
Thaddeus glared. "Oh yeah? Well—good luck collapsing me if you can't catch me."
"Then stop running, boy. Engage."
And like that, round three began.
Thaddeus wiped sweat from his brow, breathing hard, chest rising and falling raggedly. His fingertips still shimmered faintly with residual lightning—a flicker now, not a flame. He looked at his hands, flexing them slowly. Runespark. True Ice. The new lightning channel he'd barely learned to control. He'd been throwing spells like candy at a parade, and now his body made him pay. Again.
He remembered how it felt—after the Hades fight—when his mana gave out, when breathing became a battle. He wasn't going back to that. Not if he could help it.
"Okay," he muttered, narrowing his focus. "Less brute force. More finesse."
He drew a slow breath, grounding himself. Instead of flooding his limbs with mana, he let it pool—controlled and focused. In his palm, magic condensed into something sharper, colder. Ice this time. Precision, not chaos.
The Doctor reappeared, calm as ever, as if this were just another Tuesday at Magical Fight Club. His violet eyes shimmered with constant, unreadable judgment.
Before the man could blink out again, Thaddeus snapped his fingers.
A sharp crack echoed through the void.
The air instantly dropped in temperature. Frost erupted beneath their feet, climbing in jagged arcs like living glass around the Doctor. Thick, interwoven chains of True Ice locked around his limbs before he could move.
For a heartbeat, the Doctor's eyes dimmed with surprise.
Thaddeus moved.
This time, he didn't Blink away. He Blinked through—past the Doctor's side, behind him, feet skidding on the frozen surface. He pivoted mid-motion, fist pulled back, power swirling at the edge of ignition.
No wild lightning.
A single rune spun into the air around his knuckles—a tight, precise symbol etched in silver-blue mana, half frost, half spark.
Then he punched.
"True Surge!"
The fist connected—right between the Doctor's shoulders—and detonated. Not a fiery explosion, but a controlled, icy pulse. Frost rippled outward with jagged arcs of lightning threading through it. The air cracked. The void groaned. The sheer force blasted the Doctor across the icy floor, his boots carving deep trails backward.
Thaddeus stumbled as the magic drained out of him. His legs buckled, but he forced himself upright, panting. Everything ached. His vision wobbled, edges curling with fatigue. His mana was gone—burned clean through. He felt hollow.
The Doctor came to a slow halt, upright somehow, though the purple glow of his aura had faded. He dusted frost off his coat with casual flicks.
Then he looked at Thaddeus.
And smiled.
"That's more like it," he said, voice smooth but edged with approval. "Efficiency over excess. Precision over power." He adjusted his cuffs as if they hadn't just tried to obliterate each other. "Not bad, kid. Not bad at all."
Thaddeus managed a smirk as he hunched forward, hands on his knees, drenched in sweat and magic residue. "So… does that mean I get to pass out now?"
The Doctor crossed his arms, expression hovering between unimpressed and lightly amused. "Absolutely not. You're still conscious, which means we've barely scratched the surface. This, dear boy, is the beginning of your very delayed summer training."
Thaddeus groaned and collapsed into a half-sit, half-fall. "You and your definition of 'training' need therapy."
The Doctor ignored the comment, pacing slowly with his hands behind his back. "There's more to magic than throwing fire and looking cool. I'd like to teach you something beyond flashy combat spells and reckless overcharging. Something… fundamental."
He stopped, turning to Thaddeus with a sharp look. "Tell me—when you conjured your first proper shield, what did it feel like?"
Thaddeus blinked. "Uh… warm? Like, safe. It wasn't just mana; it felt... personal. Like it knew what I was protecting."
The Doctor nodded, mildly impressed. "Exactly. You manifested what we call a Willbound Shield. Its strength is proportional to your intent and emotional clarity. The more defined your purpose, the stronger it gets. It's not elemental—it's spiritual. A reflection of your inner self."
Thaddeus frowned. "Wait, so like… emotion-based casting?"
"In part," the Doctor said. "Magic, real magic, flows not just through incantations or glyphs, but through will. Some branches channel anger, resolve, sorrow—even hope. That shield of yours? It activated instinctively when Darren hit you with that disarming spell months ago. It rejected the spell outright. Not because of technique—but because your will overpowered his."
Thaddeus let that sink in. "So… it's less 'what I know' and more 'what I mean'?"
"Precisely," the Doctor said, snapping his fingers. "You're beginning to grasp the concept."
He paced again, slower now, hands moving as if shaping the air itself. "Now. Since you've proven you can tap into willbound casting, it's time we revisit something older. Something you've always had, even before you became who you are now."
Thaddeus squinted. "Oh boy. Here comes the cryptic talk."
The Doctor grinned. "Humor me."
He held out a hand. Between his fingers, faint blue lines spread like sonar pulses.
"Insight Field. Not flashy. Doesn't explode. Doesn't burn. But it will save your life."
Thaddeus straightened slightly, watching the ripple. "What is that?"
"A sensory spell," the Doctor explained. "But not typically. Recall how I always knew exactly where you'd strike? How I dodged before you moved?"
Thaddeus nodded slowly.
"This is why," the Doctor said. "Insight Field creates a feedback loop with your surroundings. It paints a map—shapes, motion, heat, vibrations, air pressure. A second skin of awareness."
Thaddeus blinked. "That's… insane. Like a sixth sense on steroids."
The Doctor chuckled. "I wouldn't know. I was born blind. Not poetically—actual blindness. Couldn't see color, shape, or even shadows."
Thaddeus paused, surprised. "Wait, really?"
"I was a scared kid fumbling in the dark," the Doctor said softly, the edge fading to something reflective. "I developed Insight Field from desperation. I needed to feel the world, even sightless. As I grew stronger, so did the spell. Eventually, it became more than a crutch. It became my eyes. Now? Instinct."
Thaddeus looked down at his own hands. "So I had this... before? In the other life?"
"You did," the Doctor said. "It's still buried in you. Instinct doesn't forget."
Thaddeus looked up. "Can I learn it again?"
The Doctor smiled. "You already are."
He stepped forward and tapped two fingers lightly against Thaddeus's temple.
"Close your eyes. Breathe. Don't look. Feel."
Thaddeus slowly obeyed. The void shifted—not visually, but viscerally. He sensed the Doctor's outline, the pressure shift when he moved, the air ripple when he exhaled. Shapes formed in his mind—not with color or texture, but with presence.
His eyes snapped open.
And even in the darkness, he saw everything.
Thaddeus stood in silence, eyes wide not with shock—but understanding. The world had no color, no texture. Yet he saw it. Not with light, but with presence. Shapes danced along invisible outlines. The Doctor's heartbeat echoed like sonar. Every movement left a wake, every footstep had weight.
His voice came out a whisper. "This is insane."
The Doctor arched an eyebrow. "Is it? Or are you just remembering what you already knew?"
Thaddeus slowly turned, tracking the void's contours with newfound clarity. "I feel… everything. Not just you. Air movement. Space's rhythm. Pressure points. Density changes. Even heat trails."
"Insight Field doesn't lie," the Doctor said, tone calm but firm. "It bypasses sight, speaking directly to your mind. It paints the world through proximity, kinetic shift, thermal variance, ambient mana, even breath. The trick isn't seeing—it's trusting the image."
Thaddeus blinked slowly. "It's like… my instincts are on overdrive."
The Doctor nodded. "They are. This spell is a neural link—heightening proprioception, merging it with external sensory echoes. It converts subconscious detection into spatial awareness. It's how you compensate for magical blindness in cursed zones. Or in my case, natural blindness."
Thaddeus frowned. "But it's hard to hold. Thinking too hard feels like breaking it."
"That's the point," the Doctor replied. "It's not a spell you cast. It's a state you enter. Like a muscle. Use it more, it becomes natural. The trick isn't activation. It's maintenance."
Thaddeus rubbed his temples. "So… how do I train it?"
"Simple," the Doctor said. "No fancy rituals. No twenty-step process. Just ten minutes—every week. Find quiet space. Shut off sight. No distractions. Meditate. Expand perception. Focus on presence, not noise. Start with breathing. Add movement. Throw a ball. Walk barefoot. Practice combat forms blindfolded. Most importantly—map surroundings mentally. Paint the picture. Then check your accuracy when you open your eyes."
"That's it?" Thaddeus asked, incredulous.
The Doctor smirked. "You expected blood rituals? A monastic pilgrimage? Please. Magic isn't always dramatic, Thaddeus. Sometimes it just requires attention."
Thaddeus exhaled. He focused again—stretching the spell. He felt the air ripple behind him, the pulse of ambient mana pooling to his right, the trace vibrations in the void's floor as the Doctor shifted his weight.
The Doctor's voice softened. "You've always had this gift. In your old life, it saved your ass more times than you can count. You just never called it magic."
Thaddeus chuckled. "I called it dumb-luck."
"And I called it training," the Doctor replied.
They stood quiet for a moment. Until the Doctor added, a bit too smugly, "Now, let's see how well you fight blind."
Thaddeus groaned. "Oh, come on."
"Lesson two," the Doctor said, cracking his knuckles. "Don't rely on your eyes. Rely on the field."
And just like that, the next step began.
…
For the seventh time, Thaddeus hit the floor with all the grace of a dropped bowling ball.
"Okay!" he wheezed, sprawled on the void floor. "That's starting to feel personal."
The Doctor didn't flinch. Arms crossed behind his back, he stepped forward like a man inspecting a carpet stain.
"It is personal," he said dryly. "You're misusing my spell. I'm offended and contemplating brutal punishment."
Thaddeus groaned, rolling onto his side. "Oh, come on. I'm blinking like you taught me. Fast, clean, tactical—"
"You're blinking like a toddler overdosed on sugar," the Doctor interrupted. "You blink every time someone breathes near you, every time you lose footing, every time your feelings get hurt. It's not a security blanket—it's a tactical maneuver. Use it when it counts."
Thaddeus grunted. "Fine. You want me to just stand there next time and take the hit?"
"No," the Doctor said, crouching beside him. "I want you to move like you know where you're going. Not like a drunk squirrel panic-skipping through space with a wand."
He stood, adjusting his coat.
"Let me tell you something," he continued. "When I first developed Blink, I wasn't trying to be flashy. I was trying not to die."
Thaddeus sat up, wiping sweat from his brow. "Wait—you made Blink?"
"Technically, yes. First generation," the Doctor said, his voice dropping into story mode. "It was a slow afternoon in the Support Student Training Zone. I was sixteen. Bored. Underappreciated. I hated how combat department students won every monthly class duel. Naturally, I became an academic menace."
He paced, animated.
"Teleportation back then took forever. Too many incantations. Too much mana. One mispronounced line and you'd materialize inside a brick wall. So I thought—why not condense it? Not across miles. Just feet. Enough to dodge an attack or reach cover."
Thaddeus blinked, ironically. "And it worked?"
"Not at first," the Doctor smirked. "Early versions left me half-phased through floors with my hair on fire. Got summoned to the Headmaster's office after blinking into the faculty restroom. Minor punishment. Nothing magic jailtime-worthy."
He shrugged. "Eventually, I stabilized the structure. Removed the traditional anchor point. Added directional compression. Blink was born. Not a teleport, not a dash. Just a ripple in space between now and a few feet from now. Clean. Fast. And only dangerous when used like a moron." the Doctor turned his gaze to Thaddeus.
Thaddeus huffed. "Cool. Inspirational. So what's your point?"
"My point," the Doctor said, jabbing a finger toward him, "is that you're overusing Blink out of fear of being hit. What I'll teach you next isn't something you can spam without consequences."
He snapped his fingers.
Reality around them flickered like static tuning. The void bent inward, then outward, replaced by two identical doors ten feet apart—linked by a faint mana shimmer.
"This," he said, gesturing at the doors, "is a Loop."
Thaddeus stared. "Okay… what's a Loop?"
"It's a hole in the present," the Doctor replied. "Anchor two points in reality, tie them via a spatial ribbon, and bend distance between them. Step through one—you come out the other. Unlike Blink, it doesn't tear space. It weaves it."
He paced in a small circle, hands behind his back like a true menace with a syllabus. "Loops are stable. Versatile. Strategic. Use them to escape, attack from unexpected angles, cross entire buildings without opening doors. But it comes with a price."
Thaddeus squinted. "Which is?"
"Focus," the Doctor said, stopping to face him. "You need mental strength to keep both ends open. Lose concentration? Both collapse. The thread breaks. You lose the door. Or worse… part of you doesn't emerge."
Thaddeus went pale. "Cool. So horrifying death. Got it."
"That's only if you suck," the Doctor said cheerfully. "Which you do. But! That's what training is for. So… I dare you."
Thaddeus raised an eyebrow. "Dare me to what?"
The Doctor gestured toward the opposite door that appeared out of nowhere. "Create a Loop. No Blink. No stepping away. Anchor here—anchor there. Thread it. Walk through."
"Just like that?"
"Just like that."
Thaddeus took a breath, hands tingling. He held one out, focusing—not on ripping space, but pressing against it gently. He imagined folding it like cloth, tugging one end of the world toward the other. A thin blue mana string shimmered, barely visible, stretching from where he stood to the door.
The air hummed. The line held.
Thaddeus took a single step—and vanished.
He reappeared a second later through the other door, nearly tripping.
"Whoa," he breathed. "That was…"
"Better," the Doctor said. "Still sloppy. But better. Like someone who knows how to write but still dots their i's with hearts."
Thaddeus rolled his eyes, catching his breath. "I didn't die. That's a win."
The Doctor grinned. "You didn't die yet. Now do it again. And this time, make the thread stronger. We'll loop until you drop."
Thaddeus groaned. "Of course we will."
Training, after all, was just pain with a schedule.
---
What felt like twelve hours inside Thaddeus' mind had passed in silence. In the real world, he still lay unconscious on the private jet, clutching a plush Stitch and drooling slightly into the headrest. But within that dream-space time stretched and warped, and the Doctor was still very much not done with him.
After Thaddeus had finally stabilized his Loops (three collapses, one accidental reverse Loop, and a nosebleed later), the Doctor clapped once with that annoyingly satisfied mentor-smile.
"Acceptable," he declared. "Not exceptional. Though acceptable. Now, on to something you clearly believe you understand, which is always the most dangerous kind of magic—healing."
Thaddeus, now seated cross-legged and catching his breath, raised a brow. "I've used healing spells before. I know the basics."
"'Basics,'" the Doctor echoed like it was an insult. "If by 'basics' you mean stopping nosebleeds and patching shallow cuts with mana-nature paste, then yes, you're technically not wrong. But healing isn't just about slapping light on a wound and calling it divine mercy."
He snapped his fingers, and between them appeared a soft, radiant orb that pulsed with golden-white light. It hovered in place, almost breathing with its own rhythm.
"This," the Doctor said, "isLumenflow. It's not just healing magic. It is restoration magic—the process of translating will, mana, and biological function back into harmony."
Thaddeus squinted at it. "Why does every name sound like a weird perfume line?"
"Because," the Doctor said patiently, "the names are not arbitrary. They're based on essence. 'Runespark' requires control of runic patterns—sigils that catalyze the flow of volatile fire. True Ice is not personality-based like those dramatic mage forums claim; it's about conditions—clarity, stillness, and absolute intent. It is a binding element that requires more mental discipline than emotional alignment."
"And Astral Surge?" Thaddeus asked, curious now.
"Derived from raw mana acceleration, often mistaken for lightning because of how it manifests. In truth, it's energy pushed past the threshold of containment, breaking through space in sharp bursts. Dangerous. Rare. Mostly shows up when someone's in survival mode."
Thaddeus nodded slowly. "And Lumenflow?"
"Lumenflow," the Doctor began, holding the light orb aloft, "is a symbiotic magic. Intent-driven, yes, but not solely. It follows rhythm, flow, and balance. It's less about imposing power and more about returning what was lost. Although it has rules."
He pointed the glowing orb at Thaddeus. "One, you can absorb the injury of another—take their wound into yourself. Rare. Noble. Idiotic if done recklessly. Two, you can channel pure mana into someone else's body to jumpstart healing—but if you push too much, their systems collapse. And three, you can cast area-based Lumenflow, restoring life over wide surfaces, yet it comes at a high cost—your stamina, mental clarity, and potentially your mana core."
Thaddeus frowned. "So it's all high-risk, high-reward."
"Exactly," the Doctor nodded. "It's not like waving a wand and muttering a prayer. You have to know what you're healing. Bone? Nerve? Skin? You have to feel it, trace it with your mind. Lumenflow isn't a spell—it's an agreement with life itself."
Thaddeus leaned back, thinking. "The healing I used... it came from nature. It felt rooted. Organic."
The Doctor gave a small smile. "Ah, yes. You're familiar with Verdant Lumenflow. Nature-aligned. Gentler. Slower, but deeply connected to the world around you. Good for stabilizing the wounded, even reviving flora. I'm not surprised—your affinity leans toward instinctive magic."
"So what do I do to get better at it?" Thaddeus asked. "Meditate under a tree and chant to the squirrels?"
The Doctor snorted. "Not quite. But proximity to thriving life does help. For Verdant Lumenflow to develop, you need to spend at least an hour a week in a natural environment—greenery, sunlight, flowing water. Let your mana align with the rhythm of growth. You're tuning yourself to restoration, not aggression."
Thaddeus muttered, "In short, I should go touch grass."
"Correct. though with intent," the Doctor smirked. "Channel mana while surrounded by life. Let the sensation of vitality—leaves moving, roots growing, water running—become part of your internal cadence. Only then will your Lumenflow evolve beyond reaction."
"Deal," the Doctor said, already conjuring another illusion. "Now, let's see how well you can reattach a severed limb under pressure."
Thaddeus groaned. "Of course. Why not."
Because in dreamspace training, breaks were a myth. And healing wasn't about rest. It was about restoration under fire.
---
Thaddeus had just finished mending the artificial wound on the training dummy—his Lumenflow glowing a soft, healthy light green at his fingertips—when the question hit him.
"Hey, Doc," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Why do some spells need incantations, and others don't? I mean… sometimes I just do stuff. No chants, no focus words. It just happens."
The Doctor didn't answer immediately. He adjusted his gloves, gave a long sigh then turned his gaze toward him.
"It depends on the caster," he said plainly. "Magic isn't always a science. Sometimes it's memory. Sometimes instinct. Sometimes both."
Thaddeus tilted his head.
"In your case," the Doctor said, walking a slow circle around him, "it's spiritual memory. Your soul, even fractured and transplanted into this obnoxiously newer yet younger version of me, still remembers things your body doesn't. Blink, for example—you used it against Hades not because you'd trained in it recently, though because your soul remembered what it felt like to need it."
Thaddeus blinked. "Wait. So… I soul-pulled a spell from my past life?"
The Doctor stopped and nodded. "Precisely. Same with the long-range teleport you used to get your friends out of the Underworld. You didn't consciously cast that spell. You remembered it. You felt the rhythm. You acted."
Thaddeus ran a hand through his hair, processing. "In a sense, Runespark, True Ice, Astral Surge... they're just me going with the flow of something I already knew."
"Not just 'knew,'" the Doctor corrected. "Lived. Repetition. Emotion. Stress. You trained these spells over and over in your past life, until your soul engraved them like grooves in a record. And now? You're playing the song on a different turntable."
"...And my body's the turntable."
"A cheap one," the Doctor added.
Thaddeus scowled. "Rude."
"But accurate," the Doctor continued, folding his arms. "This body is not the one that earned mastery over magic. This one's still young, reckless, prone to burning out its Primal Matrix just to win an argument. Until it catches up to your soul, there will always be a mismatch."
"Which is why you must train," the Doctor said simply. "Build the bridge between who you were and who you are. Refine your instincts. Stabilize the forms. Learn what your version of those spells looks like."
A silence passed between them. Thaddeus looked down at his hands, then back up.
"So what now? More light healing? You gonna teach me how to spiritually align my mana next?"
The Doctor gave him a faint smirk. "No. Now we begin hand-to-hand combat magic."
"Wait, what—"
He didn't finish the sentence. Because the Doctor was already mid-pivot, fist raised, and—
CRACK.
Thaddeus went flying.
He hit the void-ground hard, tumbling like a ragdoll before skidding to a stop. He groaned, stars spinning in his vision.
"What the hell, man?!"
"Lesson one," the Doctor said, already walking toward him, "is never assume a mage won't hit you in the face."
"Noted," Thaddeus wheezed.
The Doctor rolled his shoulders. "Hand-to-hand magic blends kinetic movement with arcane flow. You cast through the punch, with the strike. A good strike amplifies the magic. A great strike is the magic. It's called Arcanum Close Combat."
Thaddeus spat dust. "Sounds like a fancy way to justify punching someone really hard."
"Everything's fancy when you say it with enough conviction."
The Doctor crouched beside him. "In your current case, you'll be using Runespark and Astral Surge for most of these. Lightning and fire enhance strikes, create impact force, and destabilize barriers. But remember—mana follows motion. It needs form, direction, rhythm."
"Like a dance."
"A war dance," the Doctor agreed. "Now get up."
Thaddeus stood, rubbing his jaw. "If I see a bruise, I'm healing it out of spite."
"Excellent. More Lumenflow practice."
There is nothing more humbling than a punch to the face from your past self.
The ground cracked beneath Thaddeus' shoes as he was sent sliding backwards, arms up in a guarded stance, dust curling around him like smoke from a smoldering fire. His breath came hard. Fast. His shirt was torn at the shoulder, mana leaking in short pulses off his skin like static energy. And the Doctor? Not even winded.
"You're predictable," the Doctor said, tightening his gloves again with one clean snap. "Too much power."
Thaddeus growled and pushed forward, summoning a blast of compressed wind. "Tempus Gale!"
The surge of air screamed across the field, slamming forward like a jetstream made of knives. The Doctor lifted a single hand. "Aero Ward."
The wind parted. Just—parted. As if it decided not to mess with him.
Thaddeus cursed under his breath.
"Lesson two," the Doctor said, stepping forward, "Wind-based magic, like most elemental branches, relies on intention and momentum. You have intention. You lack momentum control."
And then, without warning, the ground beneath Thaddeus erupted.
"Terra Spire."
A massive spike of stone jutted upward. Thaddeus blinked away just in time, reappearing a few feet off-center and hurling a counterstrike—Runespark: Chain Bolt. Crackling fiery bolts of energy snaked toward the Doctor, bouncing off the stone debris like a lightning net.
He didn't even flinch.
With a fluid twist, the Doctor deflected the bolts using a current of water swirling around his arm. "Hydro Flux," he muttered, before stepping in.
Then the punches started again.
No magic. No frills. Just raw, physical combat. The Doctor moved like a dancer—elegant, brutal, efficient. Each strike was a test, a lesson, a correction delivered at the speed of pain.
Wham.
"Your stance is too narrow."
Crack.
"You're leading with your right too early."
Boom.
"Too much mana in the shoulders. You're overcharging, overthinking."
Thaddeus reeled but held his ground. His body screamed, still he stayed standing. He countered with a spinning back kick infused with Astral Surge, lightning wrapping around his leg like a whip. It grazed the Doctor's coat, leaving a seared mark.
The Doctor nodded. "Better. Still sloppy. But better."
Another hit—this time, a gut punch—slammed into Thaddeus, yet the boy caught the Doctor's arm just before impact.
"Wait," Thaddeus gasped. "You're using water, wind, earth… You said we were doing hand-to-hand!"
The Doctor smirked. "This is hand-to-hand. Just with a few more tools. Welcome to real-world combat."
He stepped back, brushing dust off his coat.
"Mages, wizards, arcanists—all of them," he said, voice calm now, "they share one trait, Thaddeus. Vulnerability."
He raised a finger. "We channel forces beyond comprehension. But we need focus. Form. Time. And if even one of those breaks?"
He snapped his fingers.
"We shatter."
Thaddeus said nothing, panting.
"That's why physical combat matters. Because when your staff breaks, when your mana's dry, when your spell fizzles mid-cast… you either throw a punch or take one. Which do you prefer?"
"I prefer neither," Thaddeus grunted. "But I get your point."
The Doctor walked a slow circle around him. "Your body must be as fluent as your magic. Learn the movements. Learn the elements. Learn how they fold into one another. Earth roots your stance. Wind guides your motion. Water teaches flexibility. Fire—"
"Let me guess," Thaddeus interrupted, "teaches me to burn stuff?"
"Teaches you to burn smart," the Doctor corrected. "Because an idiot with fire becomes ash. A mage with fire becomes a warfront."
They circled each other again. Then Thaddeus lunged.
This time, his punch was tighter, his footwork grounded with Terra Bindflowing just under the soles of his boots. A blast of wind followed the jab—not enough to carry, but enough to stagger. The Doctor countered with a sweep—water and motion as one—though Thaddeus caught it, finally catching the rhythm.
For the first time in the last hour, the Doctor didn't punch him.
He praised.
"Now," the old man said, "let's see if you can make it through ten minutes without kissing dirt."
Thaddeus raised his fists again. "Bring it on, grandpa."
And so, the lesson continued—fists, magic, grit, and the kind of brutal honesty only two versions of the same soul could throw at each other.
Thaddeus dug his heels into the cracked surface of the mindscape, heart pounding as mana swirled in his core. He'd been getting better—he knew that. He had adapted. Used Earth to anchor his footwork, flowed into Wind to dodge, countered with Fire to create openings. And now, for the first time, he tried combining them.
Lightning danced across his fingers as Runespark sparked to life. "Come on," he muttered. "Come on, come on—True Gale."
His hands ignited in a cyclone of pressure, wind howling outward in jagged arcs. The air cut, compressed so tightly it shimmered with visible force. His footing remained rooted thanks to Terra Bind, his arms shielded by a raw shell of burning mana. Wind roared from his limbs, a blur of pressure building around him.
The Doctor halted briefly. "There it is," he said with genuine interest, nodding. "True Gale. The absolute form of wind. Not just movement—but control. Still rough, but promising."
Thaddeus charged.
They clashed again.
Fist met fist, mana against mana, and for a second—a split second—Thaddeus held his own. His blows were tighter, sharper. He used the air itself to pivot mid-strike, landing a glancing blow to the Doctor's ribs. The older man grunted, adjusted his stance, and moved with the same calm precision as before.
"Improvement," the Doctor muttered. "Still too much hesitation. You flinch before committing. Your magic listens to your will, but your will doesn't listen to you."
The Doctor spun, using a flick of water magic to slip around a strike, then brought up a single glowing sigil along his arm. A thin gold lattice of overlapping symbols shimmered into place.
Thaddeus blinked. "What's that?"
"Aegis Array," the Doctor said, catching his punch effortlessly with the reinforced arm. "Personal reinforcement glyphs. Stackable. Modular. Designed to reinforce bones, boost muscle feedback, and reduce spell recoil."
Thaddeus strained against the hold. "You could've taught me that before this!"
"I'm teaching it now," the Doctor replied flatly, and with a twist, slammed him to the ground again.
Thaddeus groaned, lying flat on his back, sparks fizzling out of his fingertips. "Okay. New goal. Don't die."
The Doctor crouched beside him, unbothered. "It's called survival instinct. You'd be surprised how educational it can be."
Thaddeus cracked one eye open. "And you wonder why people don't like teachers."
"People love me," the Doctor said smugly. "They just bleed a little first."
A short silence passed, broken only by Thaddeus' labored breathing.
Then something shifted.
The Doctor stood slowly. His cane reappearing at his hand as it tapped once against the ground. A low hum reverberated through the space—not magic, but pressure. The air thickened like syrup. Color drained from the realm, and in its place came something else.
Killing intent.
Thaddeus staggered to his feet, every inch of him screaming in protest. His muscles locked. His mana froze. His throat dried as his vision narrowed, instincts going haywire.
The Doctor didn't glow with divine power. He wasn't chanting incantations or flaring with excess energy. He simply stood there, and it was enough.
The ground beneath them trembled.
Thaddeus had faced monsters. Fought the King of the Underworld. Walked through flame and memories that didn't belong to him.
Although now—he stood before himself.
The version of him that survived everything. The one who never hesitated.
The One Who Became The Doctor.
And for the first time, he realized just how wide the gap still was.
"I…" he tried to speak, but his voice faltered. "What are you—what is this?"
The Doctor stepped forward once. The space cracked like glass beneath his foot.
"This," he said, voice low and absolute, "is what happens when you hesitate against something that won't."
Thaddeus raised his hands, breath shallow. His mana refused to respond.
The Doctor raised his cane slowly—then froze.
"Training's over," he said casually, all the weight vanishing from the air like mist in the morning sun. "It's time to wake up."
Thaddeus blinked. "Wait—what—?"
The Doctor flicked his forehead with two fingers. "You drooled on your Stitch plush. Tragic."
And the void shattered.
---
Thaddeus jolted awake with a violent snort, flailing in his plush-lined first-class seat. The blanket had tangled around his legs. The Stitch doll was still clutched in one arm. The flight attendant blinked at him with a polite, vaguely amused expression.
He sat there, drenched in sweat, eyes wide.
"That," he muttered, "was not a nap."
Thaddeus turned his gaze to the window, watching as the patchwork of emerald fields and winding hedgerows of the UK unfolded below, stretching endlessly into the misty horizon. A new beginning. A clean slate. An entire continent away from divine family feuds and celestial headaches.
The intercom buzzed, breaking the moment.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we'll begin our descent shortly," the pilot announced. "Please fasten your seatbelts and return tray tables to their upright positions. Welcome to the United Kingdom."
Thaddeus released a long, steady breath.
This was it.
...
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End of Act I: A Demigod's Destiny
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