I fell.
The world tore itself apart around me, a twisting mosaic of stone and darkness, and I hit water that should not have been there. The dungeon's gravity was wrong, time stuttered, and the water rose faster than reason allowed. My hands and feet were bound by cold, unyielding chains—steel engraved with runes that hummed faintly under the weight of the dungeon's dense Axiom.
I sank.
Cold burned into my lungs. Darkness pressed against my skull. The metal bindings would not bend; even the slightest twist made the runes flare like angry eyes. Panic clawed at me, but it was useless. Knowledge—everything I had learned from my father, from the halls of Sunspire, from reading runes and dissecting old logic texts—was my only weapon here.
The chains were not ordinary metal. They were runic constructs, designed to hold not just my body, but my will. Every link, every loop, carried a definition:
ᚱᛋᛏᛖᛚᚾᚺᚱᚾ. (Prevent escape.)
At first glance, it seemed impossible. But then I felt the Axiom density.
It was uneven. The steel vibrated faintly under the dungeon's own definition of "restraint." Time here warped; reality itself stuttered. If I could amplify the natural resonance of the runes beyond the threshold they were designed for…
I exhaled, focusing. My fingers traced invisible patterns in the water, fingertips brushing the chain like I was "reading" it. Every rune had a cost, a scope, a limit. If I forced the definition to accept more energy than it could calculate, it would overload. A spike in Axiom density, a jolt to the recursive logic embedded into the metal, and it would break.
I murmured the sequence, softly:
ᚲᛋ ᚨᛉ ᚠᛉ ᚨᛏ ᛞᚠ (Crucis Axiom Flux—Augmenta Defensum)
The steel vibrated. The runes flared like molten frost. My muscles burned, my chest screamed for air, and the water pressed harder. Then—snap.
The chains shattered. I shot to the surface, lungs screaming, coughing water into the darkness. My arms throbbed, wrists bruised where the metal had bitten, my body shaking.
I collapsed against the stone, gasping, water dripping from my hair. My chest heaved, lungs screaming for air, muscles trembling with exhaustion. For a moment, I considered giving up. The chains were gone, but the dungeon isn't.
I opened my palm. Fingers trembling, I traced the rune carefully in the air:
ᛋᚾᚱ ᚡᛏ (Restore Life)
A soft glow emanated from the rune. Pain receded, muscles loosened, my breath steadied. Not fully healed, but alive—and that was enough. I let out a long, shuddering exhale, leaning back against the stone.
I shook my head. A bitter, incredulous laugh escaped me. My hands hovered over the faintly glowing rune etched in my palm. "It isn't just force. It isn't fire or wind or light. It's… everything you believe, defined properly – isn't that right, Mother."
Magic isn't divine. It isn't some gift from above. Magic is logic. Runic logic. Every circle I draw, every stroke I etch, is a definition imposed on reality. The world obeys definitions better than it obeys intent.
I traced the rune in the air again, letting my mind break it down, layer by layer. A magic circle isn't just a pretty shape—it's a map of reality itself.
At the center, the Cause Circle hums quietly, defining why the spell exists, the spark that triggers everything else.
Around it, the Effect Circle spreads like a ripple on water, dictating exactly what happens—the outcome reality must obey.
Beneath and intertwined lies the Cost Circle, a hidden ledger of what I pay to make the world bend: my Axiom – my life force mana, my strength, maybe even my life if I'm reckless.
Beyond that, the Limit Circle coils, a boundary keeping the magic from unraveling in chaos, preventing corruption from eating the caster alive.
The Duration Circle wraps around time itself, dictating how long the world must honor this definition before forgetting it entirely.
And finally, the Scope Circle stretches outward, invisible but firm, marking the space where reality will bend to my will.
Every rune I draw, every line I carve into the air, threads these layers together. Define it clearly, and the world answers. Hesitate, and reality swallows you instead.
I let the glow of the rune fade, but the fire inside me didn't. My breaths came ragged, uneven, each one shaking with rage. Teeth gritted, fists aching from the water and chains, I muttered through the pain, "They think I'm just a boy. Just some weak thing to be tossed aside. Let them." My chest burned, not from exhaustion, but from fury. Knowledge, cunning, Axiom… it was all mine. Sharper than any blade, deadlier than any blade—they would regret underestimating me.
I glanced past the stone, into the dungeon's creeping shadows. Every flicker of crystal light, every pulse of raw Axiom, throbbed with hunger, with intent. The dungeon itself was alive—a wound in reality, meticulous, self-correcting, unforgiving. One mistake, one miscalculation, and it would tear me apart. And yet… the rage in me boiled over that fear.
I understood it. I understood the rules of this cage. I would turn them into my advantage.
I would survive.
And when I did… they would pay.