Forbidden Splicer: Infinite Spellcraft

Chapter 2: Logic of Synthesis

Damp shadow clung to the stone walls of Jaroth's cell as he sat cross-legged on his narrow cot. In the dark room, the blue interface box floated three inches before his eyes, casting a soft glow across his knees.

He focused his mind on the glowing icon at the bottom of the screen and selected [YES].

A faint hum vibrated behind his ears. Inside the virtual interface, the two stolen spells untangled like silver threads pulled from a loom. The bright, arrogant golden strands of

[Aurelian Flare]

stripped down to their basic light geometric nodes. Opposite them, the sickly green threads of

[Marrow-Erosion Wave]

unraveled into dark runes of organic decay.

The system brought the two opposing matrices together. Golden fire and corrosive shadow collided, but instead of detonating, the strands merged. The light absorbed the acid, and the acid swallowed the flame, collapsing into a single, dark-violet thread of energy that hummed with quiet malice.

Jaroth waited for the familiar spike of agony in his chest, but his shattered core remained silent.

In standard spellcraft, a mage forced mana through their internal pathways to shape a spell inside their chest before releasing it. Jaroth's core was a mass of cracked glass; attempting to channel that much power through his body would have torn his organs apart. The Splicer bypassed his anatomy entirely. The system acted as an external vault, locking the compiled spell inside a dedicated memory slot ready for immediate deployment.

[Synthesis Complete: Sun-Blight Eruption (Tier 1)]

Properties: Solar Light / Organic Decay / Invisible Mana Trace.

Current Slots Occupied: 1/2.

Jaroth closed his eyes and took a quiet breath. He could feel the spell hovering in his mind, dormant and weightless, waiting for a single mental command to release it.

An hour before dawn, Jaroth slipped out of his quarters and descended into the narrow maintenance tunnels beneath the Citadel.

He followed the sound of trickling water until he reached the Archive Drainage Slums—a subterranean waste chute where volatile liquid runoff and discarded alchemy fluids emptied into the deep city sewers. Cold mist rose from the black water, reeking of sulfur and rust. Heavy iron grates sealed the main drainage pipes, preventing sewer beasts from crawling up into the vault levels.

Jaroth stopped near a pile of discarded construction rubble. He needed to test his new creation in a controlled environment to measure its range, cast speed, and physical output.

He spotted a thick, rusted iron reinforcement bar jutting out from a chunk of broken concrete. The metal was two inches thick, solid enough to withstand a heavy hammer strike.

Jaroth raised his right hand. He willed a tiny fraction of

Sun-Blight Eruption

out from his matrix slot, directing it into his forefinger. A microscopic spark of dark-violet light flickered beneath his nail.

He flicked his finger, sending the droplet of energy across the four-foot gap.

The purple spark struck the iron bar. There was no loud thunderclap, no roaring flame, and no burst of pressure to trip the Citadel's warding alarms. A muted golden glare pulsed once beneath the surface of the iron. Within three seconds, the rusted metal quietly dissolved, crumbling into a pile of fine gray dust that drifted into the black water below.

Jaroth stepped forward and touched the concrete where the bar had been anchored. The stone felt cool to the touch. No residual heat remained, and no trace of elemental mana lingered in the air.

A cold sense of satisfaction settled in his stomach. Imperial sorcerers relied on massive mana output, loud explosions, and raw elemental force to crush their enemies, creating massive energy signatures that ward stones tracked with ease. His spliced magic operated like an invisible decay code. It erased matter silently, leaving behind no evidence for investigators to follow.

He turned on his heel and headed back toward the upper levels before the morning shift bell sounded.

The iron bell of the Citadel rang three times at sunrise, its heavy tone echoing through the subterranean corridors.

Instead of returning to their normal duties, all sub-level scribes were herded into the Grand Atrium of the archives by armed guards. Heavy iron portcullises had been dropped over every exit, sealing the sector under total lockdown.

Archivist Garrick stood on the raised marble podium at the front of the hall. His thin lips were pressed into a hard line, his cold gray eyes scanning the crowd of trembling commoners. Beside him stood a tall man clad in heavy plate armor and a crimson cloak embroidered with gold oak leaves—the official crest of House Vane.

Captain Derrick Vane moved with the rigid authority of a senior Enforcer. His jaw was set in tight rage, his hand resting on the hilt of a broadsword.

"Quiet!" Garrick barked, his voice amplified by a brass horn rune on his collar. "By order of the High Enforcers, this sector is under investigation for high treason and archival sabotage. You will submit to questioning."

A murmur of panic ran through the rows of scribes.

Captain Derrick stepped down from the podium, carrying a glowing quartz sphere suspended in a silver frame—a Veracity Stone.

"My kin, Cassian Vane, lies in the infirmary with his face scorched and his core channels permanently damaged," Derrick said, his deep voice carrying across the silent atrium. "An intruder breached our perimeter, but someone in this room may have aided the assassin or hidden evidence during the chaos. If the stone turns red while you speak, you will be thrown into the lower dungeons."

Derrick marched down the line, pressing the quartz sphere against the chest of each scribe while asking quick, sharp questions. Two scribes ahead of Jaroth broke down in tears, their hands shaking as the stone glowed a steady, pale blue for neutral answers.

When Derrick reached Jaroth, the tall officer loomed over him, casting a broad shadow across Jaroth's face.

"You," Derrick growled, inspecting Jaroth's soot-stained tunic and thin frame. "The guards found you lying near the blast zone. Speak your name and state your position when the attack began."

Jaroth kept his shoulders slouched, bowing his head until his chin nearly touched his chest. He let his knees tremble faintly, forcing cold sweat to break out along his collarbone.

"J-Jaroth Drake, my lord," he stammered, keeping his voice high and thin. "I was sweeping Searing Ash near the third aisle when the red barriers shattered."

Derrick shoved the Veracity Stone against Jaroth's chest. The cool quartz pressed firm against his ribs. "Did you see the intruder? Did you assist him?"

Jaroth forced a look of pure terror onto his face, letting his eyes dart wildly. "I saw a giant black shadow blade break the book stacks, my lord! Lord Cassian tried to fight him with fire, but... but everything exploded! I threw myself behind a fallen stone pillar and covered my head! I heard screams, but I was too frightened to look until the guards arrived!"

The quartz sphere hummed softly, emitting a bright, clear green light that illuminated Jaroth's pale skin. The stone confirmed absolute truth—he had indeed hidden behind the pillar, and he had indeed been terrified of the blast.

Derrick stared at the green light for two tense seconds before pulling the sphere back with a sneer of disgust.

"A cowardly worm," Derrick muttered, turning his back on Jaroth. "He survived because he hid like a rat in the dark. Move to the next row."

Jaroth kept his head bowed, hiding the faint, cold curve of his lips as the officer walked away.

By mid-day, the High Enforcers concluded that the intruder had acted alone, using high-tier shadow arts to bypass the outer wards without internal help. The lockdown was lifted, but the mess remained.

Archivist Garrick gathered thirty commoner scribes at the entrance of Sub-Level 3 Vault.

"The Enforcers have finished their sweep," Garrick announced, waving his hand toward the ruined entryway. "The noble houses demand this vault be cleared and secured by nightfall. Clear the fallen stone, sweep up the volatile ash, and stack the undamaged spell scrolls in the main sorting bay."

Several scribes paled, looking nervously at the dark, smoke-filled aisle.

"Sir," an older scribe ventured, clutching his hands together. "The lingering mana radiation in the blast zone... it could scorch our skin or poison our blood without protective wards."

"Then work quickly," Garrick replied coldly, turning his back on them. "Anyone who fails to meet their cleaning quota by sunset will lose their daily bread ration."

Left with no choice, the scribes picked up wooden brooms, iron shovels, and brass dustpans, shuffling hesitantly into the ruined vault.

While the other scribes hovered near the outer edges, carefully sweeping light dust to avoid lingering spell sparks, Jaroth moved straight toward the center of the destruction.

He stepped over crushed oak bookshelves and melted floor tiles, his boots crunching on scorched parchment. He stopped beside the massive stone pillar where Anzor had clashed with Cassian and the Enforcers. The air here was dense with the sharp smell of burnt ozone and corrupted shadow.

Jaroth lowered his eyes, pretending to sweep a pile of gray soot away from the pillar base.

As his hand drew near the cracked slate, a series of rapid blue light pulses flickered in his peripheral vision. System windows opened over the rubble, pinpointing glowing, unstable energy signatures trapped within the scorched stone:

[Detecting Unbound Residual Matrices in Environment]

[Phase-Step (Utility Arcana — Partial Matrix)]

[Iron-Skin Aegis (Defensive Arcana — Partial Matrix)]

[Warning: Residual matrices decaying rapidly. Harvest before structural collapse?]

Jaroth gripped his broom handle tighter, his eyes locking onto the flickering spell fragments hidden in the dust.