Taking less than half a second to consider, the corner of Jeremy’s lips curled into a pragmatic arc: "Just kidding, I am more than willing."
For an orphan who had to fight for every breath in the mire of survival like him, the concept of clinging to the past was fundamentally a luxury. In his old world, that body, withered by a terminal illness, would not have lasted more than a year even if it hadn’t collapsed from exhaustion. Regardless of what schemes the original owner was hiding behind this transaction, acquiring a healthy, vigorous body right at this moment was an absolute bargain.
As if anticipating this answer, the God of Covenant’s consciousness did not waver in the slightest, carrying only a cold tone akin to a decree of judgment:
"The laws of order do not permit gods to interfere too deeply with mortal reality. This spatial intersection will close in exactly thirty seconds. Human, I offer you one single piece of advice to survive safely: Within ten years, you must reach the threshold of the Holy Magister realm."
The corner of Jeremy’s eye twitched slightly: "Are you joking?"
The magic system on the Sylvanor continent delineated ten extremely rigorous major realms: Apprentice, Novice, Intermediate, Advanced, Grand Mage, Magister, Grand Magister, Holy Magister, Primordial, and the ultimate pinnacle, Mage God. Each realm was further subdivided into nine magic stars, demanding accumulation in both quantity and quality.
Among the tens of billions of living beings on the vast Sylvanor continent, the number of powerhouses qualified to step into the Holy Magister realm, even during the most golden era in history, had never exceeded 2%.
A person who had just taken over a body awakening Spirit Covenant number 305—the absolute rock bottom of history—was being forced to meet a quota of reaching the top of the pyramid within a mere ten years?
There was no response. The spatial rift within his sea of consciousness had completely closed, returning his mind to absolute silence.
Jeremy raised a hand to lightly massage his temples, letting out a soft sigh. The concept of surrender had never existed in his survival dictionary; the die was cast, and even if he had to walk on the edge of a blade, he could only move forward.
Suddenly, right at the very core of his soul, a brilliant crystal condensed, glowing with the deep crimson hue of blood jade.
That was the Natal Holy Artifact—an item born simultaneously at the moment the Covenant Mark was established. It was bound to half of one’s life, serving as the mage’s exclusive companion weapon until their soul withered away. As long as its master was still breathing, this weapon would never be destroyed.
Relying on the newly assimilated stream of memories, Jeremy immediately recognized the connection between his consciousness and the crystal. He focused his mind, and with just a slight mental command, the space before his eyes instantly distorted. A streak of silver light tore through the air, condensing into a pair of twin curved blades hovering right in front of him.
Far from the conventional curved blades with their bulky and heavy designs, this pair of Crescent Blades possessed a slender, sharp, and masculine silhouette, with the curvature of the blades precisely calibrated down to the millimeter.
The entirety of the blades was forged from an ice-cold pure silver alloy. Crimson, rose-shaped patterns were deeply engraved into the metallic core, radiating an aura that was both eerily beautiful and brimming with overwhelming murderous intent.
Jeremy reached out and grasped the hilts. The cool, metallic sensation fitting perfectly into his palms, combined with the flawlessly balanced weight resonating through his nerves, brought a fleeting flash of satisfaction to his eyes.
It was just... what exactly was the unique ability accompanying this absolute rock-bottom Spirit Covenant number 305?
If the Natal Holy Artifact was the weapon’s outer shell bound to the physical body, then the unique ability was the core essence blessed by the gods after a mage completed the matrix connection ritual.
Jeremy silently chanted an ancient incantation that had just surfaced from his subconscious memories. A moment later, a string of complex golden characters, resembling minuscule chains, automatically wrapped around the polished surfaces of the blades.
The meaning of the runic string was explicitly clear: *Maboroshi* — The ability to freely interchange between five core combat forms: the twin Crescent Blades, a magic staff, a death scythe, the Fang of Abyss, and a longbow.
Jeremy immediately channeled a sharp surge of magic power into the hilts to test it out. Sure enough, in the blink of an eye, the silver twin blades flickered, morphing seamlessly into the other four deadly weapons with absolute perfection. There was not a single trace of resistance or energy disruption.
The Mark abilities recorded throughout magical history predominantly revolved around systems such as elemental summoning, divination, magical amplification, or curse purification...
To this day, no historical text had ever mentioned a type of Covenant capable of forcing a Natal Holy Artifact to alter its physical structure with such extreme flexibility and versatility.
Was this ultimately the pinnacle of luck, or just a flawed mutation of trash?
Jeremy lightly tapped his fingertips against the weapons, which had just reverted to the twin blades, silently hoping the answer leaned toward the former.
Just then, the tolling of a bronze bell from the ancient clock tower echoed through the air, shattering the tranquility of the garden. A broadcaster’s voice, amplified through a magical speaker system, permeated every corner:
[The process of faculty sorting and the formation of practical combat teams for freshmen has been officially completed. All students are required to report to the administrative center before ten in the morning to receive their personal magic ID cards, uniforms, and faculty emblems.]
St. Aetherwing Magic Academy was the ultimate launchpad to power for the empire’s aristocracy. Aside from an extremely rare few commoners possessing once-in-a-millennium talents who were granted special admission, all the students here were heirs to prestigious and powerful families.
The training curriculum at St. Aetherwing lasted for exactly six years, segregated into five completely independent major faculties: Astraea, Omnia, Linnea, Zenith, and Anima. The allocation of freshmen into specific faculties or practical combat teams depended entirely on the metrics from the aptitude test matrix—specifically, their Covenant rank and personal magical attributes. Once the sorting results were finalized by the system, there would be absolutely no exceptions or changes permitted throughout the six years of cultivation.
During that period, students were strictly forbidden from dropping out or transferring of their own accord. Any disciplinary violator expelled from the academy would be stripped of all aristocratic honors and viewed by the upper echelon as complete trash, their social status plummeting even lower than that of a slave.
Jeremy swept these tangled thoughts into the deepest recesses of his mind. He reached out to brush off the dry leaf fragments clinging to his broad shoulders, adjusted his collar until it was perfectly crisp, and leisurely took long, confident strides toward the administrative center.