A scream tore from Souta's throat as the world dissolved into white-hot agony. His body convulsed, muscles locking as if electrocuted, his veins burning like molten wires beneath his skin. The magic circle beneath him pulsed violently, its crimson glow searing his vision.
Then—silence.
The pain vanished as suddenly as it had come. Souta collapsed forward, gasping, sweat dripping from his brow onto the scorched tatami. His entire body trembled, but when he clenched his fists, he felt it—the thrum of something new beneath his skin.
Magic Circuits.
They were alive inside him, humming with energy, raw and untamed. He could count them, instinctively knowing their number—twenty-seven. Same as Shirou Emiya's pitiful twenty-seven, but far fewer than Rin Tohsaka's monstrous forty. Yet, as he flexed his will, he realized something astonishing—the quality was exceptional.
Each circuit burned with near-perfect clarity, no degradation, no inefficiency. They were pristine, as if freshly forged rather than inherited through generations of diluted blood.
A grin split his face.
This... this changes everything.
Souta staggered to his feet, his mind already racing with possibilities. He had read about the pinnacle of modern magecraft—the Unlimited Blade Works of Emiya Shirou, the displacement magicraft of the Ainsworth family, the jewelcraft of the Tohsakas.
If they could achieve that, why not me?
He laughed, exhilarated. He had twenty-seven high-quality circuits—more than enough to perform advanced magecraft. He didn't need decades of study. He didn't need to be some prodigy.
I just need to push further.
First Attempt: Gradation Air (Tracing)
Souta grabbed a kitchen knife from the counter, placing it before him. Tracing was the foundation of projection magecraft—replicating an object's structure through magical energy. Shirou Emiya had taken it to an absurd level, but in theory, any magus could do a basic version.
He focused, channeling Od through his circuits, visualizing the knife's shape, composition, history—
"Trace, on."
A flicker of light—then nothing.
The knife remained unchanged. No duplicate. Not even a shimmer.
Souta frowned. Again.
He poured more energy in, gritting his teeth as his circuits burned.
"Trace, on!"
This time, a faint outline formed—a ghostly, transparent knife hovering for a second before dissolving into motes of light.
Pathetic.
But he wasn't discouraged. Shirou didn't get it right immediately either.
Second Attempt: Reinforcement
Next, he tried reinforcement. A simpler magecraft—just enhancing what already existed. He placed his hand on the wooden table, pushing magical energy into it.
"Reinforce."
The wood groaned, its fibers tightening—then crack.
A jagged split ran down the center.
Souta jerked his hand back. Too much.
He tried again, this time on a steel spoon.
"Reinforce."
The metal hummed, its surface gleaming brighter—then snap. The spoon bent at an unnatural angle, the structural integrity failing under the strain.
Damn it.
The Harsh Reality
After an hour of failures, Souta slumped onto the floor, frustration boiling inside him.
Why isn't this working?
He had high-quality circuits. He had theoretical knowledge. So why couldn't he replicate even basic magecraft properly?
Then it hit him.
He had forgotten one crucial thing.
Emiya Shirou was a monster whose Reality Marble defied the rules of magecraft. The Ainsworths were freaks who warped time itself through inhuman experiments. These weren't examples to follow—they were exceptions, aberrations in the world of magic.
Real magecraft took years. Decades. Generations.
And he had just started.
Souta exhaled, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair.
I got arrogant.
He had assumed that just because his circuits were good, he could skip the fundamentals. But magic wasn't a video game. There were no shortcuts.
If he wanted power, he needed to train.
Not like a genius.
Like a beginner.
He stood, wiping his hands on his pants. No more reckless experiments. No more delusions of matching prodigies overnight.
He needed discipline.
And he knew exactly where to start.
Tomorrow, I train properly.
But for now...
He glanced at the ruined table, the bent spoon, the faint scorch marks on the floor from his failed projections.
Maybe I should clean up first.