Book 1, Chapter 18

The first obstacle Immanuel needed to overcome in his quest to raise his mana capacity soonest was his tendency to be overwhelmed with a problem he could not sort out right away. This was especially true if he thought that problem only had one solution.

"You still tend to think in terms of what you can perceive with your senses," came the high ranking cleric's comment.

Looking up from the floor, Immanuel asked, "What are you trying to tell me, Your Beatitude?"

"When you stood on your hands, supported by your mana, you let your mana spread out all over your arms." Hierophant Hawking held one arm with the opposite hand as he spoke.

He continued, arms folded in front of him again. "Your faith in your mana isn't there yet. In that instance, you believed your mana to be an extension of your body, and only that. It's not."

Immanuel sat up and looked at the cleric with curiosity. His eyebrows furrowed.

"Remember your sigil. It was the will of one person that compelled their mana to do the impossible and completely change the very form of their body, if only for a moment."

The Hierophant raised a hand, his palm facing Immanuel to stop him from objecting. "Before you object," he emphasized, "I do understand the impossibility of achieving such a feat, which is why I only asked that you do the almost impossible as a way of growing your mana capacity. We're here to achieve that, not create another spell to be inscribed on scrolls for generations."

All existing spells and sigils were born from the wills of those who came before us who were given mana by the Creator God of Order, Mistrerion, Immanuel concluded, letting his thoughts flow with the Hierophant's words. He was listening to his mentor.

"I'll try again." Immanuel stood up at last. He was met with a nod from the cleric.

Being athletic, doing a handstand was no problem for Immanuel. But he never paid any mind to how many heartbeats he could last upside down; all that mattered before all this was that he could do it. And to him, it meant he was fit enough.

But now that its performance had more weight behind it, he decided to be attentive to the time he could last doing a handstand that was aided by his mana. Once again, he brought it to the surface of his being by acknowledging his sigil and keeping it glowing.

When he had distributed his mana on both shoulders, he bent down and planted both hands on the floor. But this time, before he lifted his feet off the ground, he moved and compressed his mana to both hands.

"No, no. Get it back up, Maier. No cheating." Hearing this, Immanuel let out a slight hint of a chuckle and brought his mana back up his shoulders.

He then lifted his feet off the ground, his hands and arms straining—shaking—to support his full weight. His breathing reflected how much effort he was exerting for a handstand, and he thought he needed to exert more effort than earlier.

True enough, while he had relatively little problem lifting his feet off the floor, he struggled to raise them up and straighten his body.

Now! Rather than wait for his body to be close to collapsing, Immanuel willed his mana to rush down his hands from his shoulders. At the same time, he willed his mana to keep him standing on both hands. True to what the Hierophant instructed, both cold sensations darted down to his hands, and when they had spread from wrists to fingertips, they removed the burden of supporting Immanuel's entire weight. Then he raised his feet up high and straightene his body to achieve the perfect handstand.

"Much better, Maier."

Indeed.

"Keep yourself in that position. Now, the real test of faith begins."

Bring it.

"While in that position, bring all your mana to one of your little fingers. At the same time, will yourself to stand on your little finger, the one where you want to move your mana towards."

I'm going with the right little finger, Immanuel thought as he laid his eyes on that finger, even twitching it so he imagined exactly how to bring his mana towards it.

"Faith," he whispered to himself. Then he counted down, "Three... two... one..."

There were two things Immanuel wanted at the same time at that moment—move his mana to his right little finger so he could stay upside-down on it. The first task he did without any issues, and as the mana rushed to his right hand and to the little finger, his arms bore his entire weight once again in no time.

Immanuel grunted, caught off-guard by the sudden weight on his arms and shoulders. Shouldn't something be happening at the same time?

Despite all his mana being concentrated on the little finger of his right hand, Immanuel could not push it down to support the entirety of his weight. His weight was distributed throughout both hands—no finger could be lifted and no finger could be pushed down any further.

His mind raced with memories of how the cleric let his little finger be the only thing standing between the floor and himself while he was upside-down and with feet in the air. For a moment, he distributed his cold mana throughout his right hand and willed himself to stand on one hand. Then he brought his head and shoulders lower, angling his arms with the intent to prime one of them to get him off the floor. With both arms no longer needing to move any further, he took his left hand off the floor and, in accordance with Immanuel's will, balanced on his right hand and arm.

"Now!" Immanuel grunted to himself. Then he pushed the floor down and bounced off the floor. While in midair, he tucked all fingers, except for the little finger, into a fist. At the same time, he willed his mana to move to his little finger, and the cold sensation complied.

But upon his descent, Immanuel imagined his little finger snapping in half upon impact, and he put both hands down and braced for impact. As he was unable to timely distribute his mana to both hands and will himself to stay standing on both hands, the impact stung from the base of his palms all the way to his shoulders.

With his arms and hands weakened, Immanuel flipped forward and crashed to the floor once again.

"Almost there. You just need—"

"Faith!" Immanuel blurted out loud, cutting the Hierophant's comment. Then he rolled to one side and rose up, supported by shaking arms. "I'm trying again."

As if expecting Immanuel to crash down the floor again, Hierophant Hawking moved a few steps back, giving Immanuel more space to try his method of raising mana capacity. Immanuel, having noticed the high ranking cleric move back, took advantage of the larger space given to him and brought himself to another spot in the room, a spot where he was certain that he would hit nothing and no one else except the floor if he fell again.

Once again, Immanuel felt his chest to acknowledge his sigil and make it glow. When he felt the cold sensation from deep within his being, he willed it to split and move to his shoulders.

Then he bent down and placed both hands to the floor, palms flat, before he took his feet off the ground, his hands and arms bearing the weight of his body once again.

He moved his mana down to his hands and, because he had willed it to support his body, it removed the burden off his arms. He kicked his feet and legs up high, with ease, once again. Then he straightened his body.

With the correct handstand form achieved, he angled his arms to dip his head and shoulders closer to the floor. Next, he willed part of his mana to move to his right hand and support the weight of his entire body. As one of the cold sensations rushed from the left hand to the right, Immanuel brought his left hand off the floor. And with the right arm primed to take his body to the air, he pushed the floor.

Two steps remain! In midair,he balled his right hand, with the exception of his little finger, closed. Then he rushed his mana towards his little finger, letting it concentrate there.

He was descending.

Faith, Immanuel! He envisioned his right little finger hitting the floor, straight, upright, and able to support his full weight.

Faith! Then he visualized in his mind's eye his right little finger being enveloped in solid rocks, as though it were a tower being built at rapid speed in preparation for a siege happening in a few hours.

Faith! Realizing that he had pulled his right arm back, he brought it forward as he descended.

Faith!

At the final moment of descent, Immanuel's little finger landed, on its end, with a soft tap on the floor.

"Good job, Maier. Now, keep yourself in that position until you feel uncomfortable." Hierophant Hawking stepped towards the door leading to the circular chamber. "I'll be back. You can lay on the floor to rest if you're feeling tired."

Immanuel Maier stood on his right little finger for an hour.

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Two weeks after Immanuel first stood on his little finger, aided by mana, he learned the exact reason why the Hierophant's secret room had nothing but small tables and cushions.

Clad in a cleric's white robe, Immanuel sat with crossed legs across Hierophant Hawking, who also sat with crossed legs between two other clerics. Each of the three clerics had a small table in front of them. Brushes and bottles of black ink that emitted tiny specks of gentle white light sat on the tables.

The day before this, Hierophant Arthur Hawking and Immanuel Maier met at the hall that housed a massive two-hundred-year-old painting. On that day, Immanuel learned that the place was called The Hall of Victories.

As you can see, I am without armor and weapon. We aren't fighting today. I brought you here to meditate with me, was how the high-ranking cleric made known his intentions for meeting Immanuel there.

For hours, both men stood on their little fingers, their mana keeping them in place. While it was impressive by the standards of most that Immanuel lasted two hours in the position, he longed to outlast the cleric someday; he lasted four hours.

Gesturing to the single cushion in front of the small tables, Hierophant Hawking requested for Immanuel to lie on the floor.

"Nah, I'd rather sit with crossed legs. Would that be fine?"

The Hierophant shook his head. "When we begin to inscribe the first—or rather, the second—sigil on your person, the collective of ancestral spirits will bring you to a different plane."

"Where I will fight the ancestral spirit associated with the sigil's origin. When a sigil has been completely inscribed, of course." In the days leading to this, Immanuel spent some of his time reading parts of the book On Sigils.

Hierophant Hawking nodded. "And in the heat of the fighting, it's likely that you will toss and turn as if you are having a nightmare."

"I see." Immanuel lay, setting his head on the cushion. He lay face up. Then the two undecorated clerics moved to either side of Immanuel. They set their small tables next to them and rolled up his sleeves, exposing forearms, upper arms, and shoulders.

One of them pushed Immanuel's shoulder muscle with two fingers. This cleric nodded to the other with raised eyebrows, a nonverbal signal that Immanuel understood to mean that he was asking the other's permission to inscribe first. The other nodded in approval, and he picked up the brush that emit tiny specks of white light.

The cleric to his right dipped the brush into the ink bottle. Its contents rose up the bristles, emitting a blue glow as it moved until it covered every bristle. A few drops fell to the floor as the cleric lifted the brush off the bottle and brought it close to Immanuel's shoulder. Bristles made contact with skin, and Immanuel fell through the floor, into a pit of absolute darkness that never seemed to end.