System of the Beast Slayer [litrpg Adventure]
Copyright© 1999 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 275: The City of Rising Spires
In the early morning, Roy, seated cross-legged, opened his eyes. Within his dark-gold pupils, a brilliant prismatic shimmer of elemental light flickered and vanished.
He raised the index finger of his right hand and gave a slight curl. Moisture gathered swiftly in the air, condensing into a droplet no larger than a fingernail. It hovered, circling at his will, drifting with idle grace.
A moment later, the droplet collapsed. In its place, a small orange flame sprang into being, lively, dancing, then fading. A faint breeze followed, snuffing it out, brushing across the ground and stirring up a lump of damp clay.
Earth, water, fire, wind, the Four Elements. Four trivial tricks of magic, displayed one by one in Roy’s hand.
Since Meditation reached level six, his Elemental Affinity had deepened again. Outwardly, his control over the elements had sharpened, his Signs flowed more smoothly.
Inwardly, the change lay within the void of Meditation itself.
When he entered Meditation, beyond the kaleidoscope of Elemental Particles, Roy could now perceive four immense, hazy spheres of light, hanging in a distant sky, endlessly inhaling and exhaling Chaotic Energy.
According to Letho, those four spheres were the planes of the Four Elements, realms where Dao, Djinn, Marid, and Efreet dwelled.
The deeper one’s Meditation, the stronger one’s Elemental Affinity, the closer the connection to those planes, the clearer the perception.
It was said that true masters of magic could, through Meditation, commune with the elemental planes, employ rare techniques to capture and tame the four great Genies, and wield immense power through them.
Of course, such unfathomable arts had nothing to do with Roy. At present, he still lagged behind even a Sorcerer Apprentice, able only to rely on repeated, complete cycles of Meditation to restore stamina and magic, and to replenish his daily share of “Activation.”
A typical Witcher required decades of steady Meditation to reach level six. Letho, Orin and his brother, Flavius, they were all roughly at that level.
Roy had leapt across that long grind with Skill Points. What was there to complain about?
So long as he continued to refine Meditation and his Enhanced Elder Blood, the day would come when he could cast magic at will.
With that quiet certainty, the black-haired Witcher stretched, letting his body loosen. His gaze drifted past the horizon, where dawn traced the delicate outline of a town.
Oxenfurt, close now.
...
Under bright sunlight, a breeze swept in from the southern river delta, carrying the briny scent of the sea.
To the crisp rhythm of hooves, several travel-worn knights rode slowly along a muddy, crowded street, taking in Oxenfurt’s curious streetscape.
How to put it. A town of painted timber, vivid in color, yet far smaller than its famed reputation suggested. The streets were narrow, the buildings compact and neat, their roofs rising into sharp peaks.
More populous than an ordinary town.
Small, yet complete.
They rode on, passing dense rows of workshops, studios, stalls, and shops of every size.
Countless goods were produced and sold here, from mundane necessities to peculiar designs rarely seen elsewhere, born of the strange inspirations of Oxenfurt’s students and scholars.
Some were astonishing in function. Others were utterly useless. Yet there was never a shortage of speculative merchants or customers from across the world.
Those drawn here in turn fed fresh blood and vitality back into the town. There was no doubt, every aspect of Oxenfurt depended on the Academy.
The Academy nurtured the keenest minds in the world. Clever people, more often than not, knew how to enjoy themselves.
Beyond the dull clamor of workshops, Oxenfurt offered a riot of inns, taverns, viewing stands, booths, counters, and portable grills.
Everywhere, exquisite dishes filled the tables, rich in color, scent, and taste. Not only the ingredients, but even the seasonings, garnishes, and spices were rare in the wider world.
Only those who lived in Oxenfurt could partake of it regularly.
Knowledge sharpened the mind, and lent it a certain ... romance.
The Witcher reined his horse aside, carefully avoiding a few staggering drunks weaving across the street. Bare-chested, clad only in white shorts, their young faces flushed red, they recited poetry in broken fragments. Likely students from Oxenfurt’s academy of narrative verse and poetry.
From the taverns lining the street came the clink of goblets and tankards. Through the windows, patrons raised their drinks, offering amused mockery to the students outside.
The group, lacking much taste for such arts, clicked their tongues and pressed on toward the Academy Isle.
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