"Then here's to a productive partnership," Rowan Mercer said, exhaling as he returned to human form.
If the man had insisted on fighting, even Rowan knew how that would have ended. Against someone of that caliber, brute force alone would not have been enough. Escape, not victory, would have been his best outcome. Reaching cooperation instead was the cleanest result he could have hoped for.
More than that, it was efficient. There was no longer any need to scour the world for churches, secret orders, or fragmented traditions. He was now learning directly from someone who had brushed against the foundations of magic itself. That kind of access shortened decades of study into months.
Privately, Rowan suspected that if this man were willing to undergo the right ritual, he might even be able to transcend humanity entirely.
"Since you're not Clone 9981," the man said lightly, the earlier hostility fully gone, "what should I call you from now on?"
"Rowan Mercer," Rowan replied. "And if possible, I'd like a room in this building. It would make studying with you far more convenient."
"That won't be a problem. I'll have one prepared for you."
The answer came easily. In truth, he preferred Rowan to remain close. Cooperation did not mean trust, and keeping him within reach felt safer than letting him roam freely. Especially since the city's omnipresent surveillance network was, for reasons still unclear, useless against him.
And so Rowan stayed.
Two weeks passed in quiet routine.
During that time, Rowan absorbed an extraordinary amount of knowledge. His understanding of this world's magic deepened rapidly, guided by someone who had helped define its modern structure. Any question he posed was answered precisely, often followed by unexpected expansions that opened entirely new avenues of thought.
Different worlds shaped magic differently, but at its core, the principles were rarely incompatible.
As Rowan studied this system, insights from other worlds began to realign themselves. He had long wanted to unify multiple magical frameworks, stripping away inefficiencies and preserving only what suited him best. Until now, that ambition had stalled. He had learned techniques, not truths. Replication without comprehension.
Here, that changed.
In some worlds, even the greatest figures had only brushed the surface. Brilliant as they were, none had fully grasped the underlying mechanisms. Others had relied on instinct, emotion, or raw talent, growing stronger through conflict rather than understanding. Organized research had often died out alongside the civilizations that once supported it.
This place was different.
One afternoon, Rowan sat alone in his assigned room, surrounded by notes and diagrams, studying a topic that had recently caught his interest: magical armaments.
The term was misleading. To Rowan, they were simply advanced magical tools and weapons. What set them apart was their origin. Rather than being designed from scratch, most were deliberate imitations of legendary relics drawn from mythic traditions.
They were replicas, yes, but faithful ones. Each carried echoes of the artifact it was based on, manifesting fragments of its supposed power.
The stronger the original legend, the harder the replication.
Rowan recalled a particular example he had encountered before. A white, gold-embroidered garment worn by a silver-haired girl. Its appearance was humble, but its construction had demanded immense time and resources. The armor reproduced the essential structure of a sacred relic from religious myth, granting its wearer protection so absolute that even the most extreme destructive forces would fail to harm them.
That kind of craftsmanship fascinated him.
If he mastered this technology, then in time, he could create armaments based on the myths he knew best. Not perfect recreations. Not even close. But even a fragment of such legendary power would be transformative.
After all, these artifacts did not truly exist. They were made real through belief, interpretation, and magic. What mattered was not cultural origin, but the creator's understanding of the myth itself.
That principle alone was worth studying.
A knock interrupted his thoughts.
"Rowan Mercer," a voice said from outside. "The Director would like to see you."
Rowan glanced at the clock. This was not one of his scheduled lessons.
"So it's work, then," he muttered, rising to his feet.
Their cooperation had always come with boundaries. Trust was limited on both sides.
Rowan had been taught only modern magical systems, never the deeper archaic traditions. In return, he had set his own rules. He would not carry out indiscriminate killings or meaningless destruction. He would attempt assigned tasks seriously, but survival came first. If an enemy proved overwhelming, he would withdraw.
He also demanded clear objectives and adequate information. Blind missions were unacceptable.
Mutual caution, maintained by mutual leverage.
One condition remained non-negotiable. While operating outside the building, Rowan was not allowed to interfere with the city's surveillance network. The restriction was meant to prevent him from exposing secrets.
Rowan had never intended to do so anyway.
With that in mind, he opened the door and stepped into the corridor.