Silas sat down again to examine his newly awakened Will Ability.
As expected, it was a conditional framework aimed at physical tempering.
The early stage of the Mentalist Path used Will Fog to systematically rebuild the physical vessel.
The process was split into four clear tiers: skin, blood, bone, and internal organs.
Advancing through this tempering demanded two things.
First, the practitioner had to absorb ambient spiritual energy to feed the Will Fog.
Second, they had to deepen their philosophical grasp of their innate ability.
Raw physical refining took months of tedious accumulation, but a sudden breakthrough in understanding could compress weeks of work into a few seconds.
Having spent a million years picking apart the idea of liberty, Silas already held vast comprehension.
My ability is simple: the more clearly I understand the oppressor, the faster my liberation.
A low chuckle rumbled in his throat as he recalled the dense treatises written by the High Wizards of his past life.
The ultimate oppressor is reality itself.
Mortals are bound by the laws of their home world, and worlds are bound by the iron framework of the cosmos.
Might alone decides who holds the leash and who crawls on the floor.
The moment that understanding locked into place, the golden Will Fog within his skull surged, pushing out through his pores.
To anyone looking into the room, the ten-year-old boy was suddenly wrapped in a swirling, luminous veil of gold that rolled down his shoulders and wrapped his arms and legs.
The golden mist soaked into his flesh, purging impurities at the cellular level.
Dark, greasy grime seeped out onto his skin as the vapor hardened every layer of dermal tissue.
For a moment, the light washed through him, reconstructing his outer boundary until his skin carried a clean, jade-like clarity.
His skin was now permanently reinforced by his Will, set to harden automatically with every future breakthrough.
Silas let out a slow, controlled breath, feeling the firm strength beneath his skin.
He wanted to seize control of the planet immediately, but his foundation was still young; it would take at least four months for Earth’s planetary core to form the seed of the World Spirit.
In the meantime, he had to scout the globe and pick the tools he needed.
* * *
Silas went back to his life as an ordinary ten-year-old, but across the world, scientific institutions were losing their minds over the sudden seismic pulse.
Geological agencies pointed their satellite arrays at the tectonic plates, churning out frantic theories, but not one computer could locate a conventional epicenter for the worldwide tremor.
Then, while sorting through the environmental data, atmospheric researchers hit an even bigger shock.
“Sir! Look at the readings over Antarctica, the ozone breach is closing!” a technician yelled, tapping frantically against his screen.
The senior scientist pushed past him, staring at the telemetry.
“That makes no sense. Look at the molecular density. At this rate, the hole will be completely sealed within five years!”
“Wasn’t the old estimate around two thousand years?”
“It was,” the scientist said, his hands shaking against the desk.
“That earthquake wasn’t tectonic. Pull full-spectrum audits on every biosphere metric right now.”
While research teams scrambled, Silas ignored the commotion.
His planetary senses were turned toward sorting candidates for the backbone of his future empire.
He looked at prime ministers, generals, and celebrated athletes.
Many of the athletes had fierce personal discipline, but their worldview was narrow, lacking the administrative ruthlessness needed to manage whole populations.
In the end, Silas marked the current heads of state as the primary material to mold into the sovereigns and warlords of his new world order.
He was about to search the scientific facilities of the northern hemisphere when a sharp knock broke his concentration.
Knock, knock.
“Silas, open up! Mom says dinner’s on the table,” Alice called through the wood.
A relaxed smile softened his face.
Of all the surprises rebirth had brought him, this little family was the one thing he actually cherished.
They looked after him without hesitation, offering comfort without asking for a single thing in return.
These ten years had been the quietest decade he had ever lived.
Silas pulled the door open and walked into the kitchen.
The house was tiny, just a short entryway leading into the kitchen and dining area, with three cramped bedrooms off the main hall.
Clara and Alice were already sitting on cushions around the low wooden table.
Dinner was plain: bowls of steamed white rice and a small dish of pickled greens.
Nothing fancy, but the room smelled warm and familiar.
Clara looked up as he took his seat, her eyes narrowing with warm curiosity.
“Silas, you have to tell me what you’ve been putting on your face. Your skin looks like polished porcelain lately.”
Alice jumped right in, grinning.
“See, Mom noticed it too! You’ve been keeping some kind of secret routine from us.”
Silas tipped his chin up with mock arrogance.
“Why would I need creams? I already have youthful skin and a face people tend to remember. I’d rather not interfere with nature’s work.”
Playing the cocky little brother gave him a simple, uncomplicated amusement he had never experienced in his previous life.
Alice rolled her eyes, crossing her arms.
“Keep bragging. One of these days your head is going to get too big for the doorway.”
Silas grinned.
“Why look at doorways, Alice, when looking at your face gives me all the entertainment I need?”
Alice swung toward Clara, her voice full of loud, dramatic offense.
“Mom! Look at him! He’s picking on me again. You can’t let him get away with this again.”
Clara watched them both with a quiet, fond expression.
It was normal for kids to bicker, and Silas only ever acted his age when he was teasing his sister.
Silas said nothing more, content to let Alice complain.
He cleaned his bowl, excused himself from the table, and walked back to his room to lay out the next move.
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