Chương 9: Source Runes and Etching

Rowan leaned against a pried-open cabinet. A distinct smell lingered in the air. However, it wasn't the nauseating, bloody stench of underhive mutant beasts he had expected. Instead, it was an unmistakably pungent odor—a mix of inferior synthetic seaweed flavoring and the cheapest industrial nicotine, leaving a foul stench resembling dead fish after full combustion. Rowan's taut muscles relaxed fractionally. He clicked the half-drawn dagger back into its sheath, a mocking sneer tugging at the corner of his lips.

"These dirty cops feeding on the Consortium's scraps... their taste is as revolting as ever." This brand of cheap synthetic cigarette, named "Deep Sea Kiss," possessed a harsh, jittery stimulant effect and was dirt cheap. Only the lowest thugs in the Sector 4 red-light district and the grunts of the Public Security Bureau who spent their years wallowing in the underhive ever smoked them. Though it seemed this particular batch was slightly expired, carrying a faint, bizarrely sickly-sweet undertone.

Julian's lapdogs probably felt that spending even a single second in this gutter rat's hole was pure torture. They had likely just smashed things up symbolically, smoked a cigarette, and left to report mission accomplished. Rowan turned around and. pulled the rusted iron door—now hanging precariously from its violent breach—shut. Slapped hastily on the back of the door with strong adhesive was a paper bearing the electronic red seal of the Public Security Bureau: [Contraband Search Warrant (Copy)].

Expressionless, he ripped the paper down, crumpled it into a ball, and tossed it into the corner. Scanning the room, it truly looked as if a miniature tornado had swept through. Rowan walked over and rummaged through a pile of scrap metal. Sure enough, the discarded server chassis he used to disguise his magitech array had several massive dents smashed into it.

Meanwhile, the slightly valuable pure copper coils and two older motherboard chips he had scavenged and hoarded over time had all been pocketed by uniformed thugs.

"Consider it advance payment for your coffins." After confirming no genuinely vital items were missing, Rowan righted his overturned chair and sat down. Beep— Rowan spent 20 Terra Credits to renew his internet fee and connected to the network. The AR projection on his right retina flickered faintly, and the long-silent communication app, "Akashic Talk"—Terra's omnipresent monitored messenger—chimed with several unread message notifications. The first was from his only buddy, Rad. Two short lines: "Friday's thing.

Don't forget." Rowan's eyes glinted slightly as he read the message. This Friday at the underground black market, there was a "Bazaar" that was extremely important to them. It was the day when underhive rats traded among themselves, and one could even buy defective, decommissioned military gear. It would be his perfect opportunity to offload materials and upgrade his equipment. He quickly replied with a simple "Received" hand-gesture emoji. Rowan paused, thinking.

He absolutely had to figure out the secret behind the text on that bloodstained page. Subsequently, he opened a long-silent chat box—from Mr. Larry, the cultural studies and ancient history teacher at Westpoint Magitech High School. He was one of the few genuinely good people around, a man who never held Rowan's poverty against him—except, of course, when Rowan failed his cultural exams. Choosing his words carefully, Rowan sent Mr. Larry an inquiry.

"If a completely new magical civilization were discovered within an uncharted ancient ruin, is it possible for their language to be similar to Terra's? Are there any recorded instances of civilizations with different magical systems but similar written/spoken languages?" Mr. Larry's reply came back as a massive block of voice-to-text.

The words oozed the rigorous pedantry of an old scholar, laced with a hint of exasperation at Rowan's "procrastination":"Rowan, you're a candidate about to gamble your life in the Combat Department's special admission. Didn't they exempt you from the cultural exams? Why on earth are you researching these obsolete archaeological topics right now? However, for the sake of what little academic curiosity you have left, I'll explain it simply. Your foundational premise is entirely flawed.

As long as it is a magical civilization, it will inevitably have a similar language! Terra's magical script was not 'invented' out of thin air by our ancestors. It evolved directly from magical [Source Runes]." Rowan immediately sat up straight, reading the text word by word.

"Take the simplest example. The ancients didn't invent the written character for 'Fire' first and then develop fire magic. The exact opposite is true! The earliest ancients accidentally glimpsed free-floating [Fire Source Runes] in nature. They felt the physical manifestation of the concepts contained within that rune—heat, combustion, and destruction. They traced the shape of the Fire Source Rune, and from that tracing, the written word and pronunciation for 'Fire' were born.

Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel. Magic is the foundational law of the universe; language is merely a clumsy imitation of that law. As long as a world utilizes mana—whether they are Elves, the now-rare Demi-humans, or the natives of some sealed ancient ruin—they are all tracing the exact same "Universal Blueprint." Therefore, their language and pronunciation will always carry the shadow of the Source Runes to some extent. Fundamentally, they share the same origin.

It's just that differences in local biological structures and historical evolution lead to slightly different 'accents,' so to speak." After reading this passage, Rowan exhaled a long, deep breath. It hit him like an epiphany. This perfectly explained why he, a resident of Terra, could roughly understand the bellowed warnings of that otherworldly martial artist, and even decipher terms like "Supreme Radiance" from the torn page left behind by the white-robed cleric.

Because whether on Terra or in the alternate world, the source of magic was universal! Rowan's mind raced. He had initially planned to send the two otherworldly words he had hand-copied directly to Mr. Larry for translation. But the ingrained paranoia of an underhive rat made his finger freeze dead hovering over the send button. No. A combat-track student suddenly asking obscure cultural questions was already suspicious enough. Moreover, Akashic Talk is an official app.

The underlying data is fully monitored by the 'Akashic Network Security and Cloud Computing Group.' If he uploaded a script representing a completely new civilization—one unrecorded even in Terra's vast databases—it would instantly trigger the highest level of AI censorship. Tomorrow morning, it wouldn't be a few dirty beat cops knocking on his door; it would be the Consortium's armed suppression squads kicking down his door. He decisively closed the official communication network.

After layering three illegal Akashic Network proxies, he plunged headfirst into Terra's Dark Web. Since official translation software was unusable due to "cloud archiving," he could only seek help from the underworld. After a tedious search, Rowan found a highly reputable private account named [@plus_Hermit] within an encrypted, private forum called "Ruin Archaeology and Tomb Raiding," specializing in deciphering ancient runes. Rowan never trusted anyone.

To prevent handwriting analysis, he picked up a carbon pen with his left hand and clumsily, shakily drew the complex words he had memorized from the torn page onto a rough scrap of paper. Photo taken. Encrypted. Uploaded.

"Just opened a new Ancient Ruin Blind Box. Pulled some weird runes. I know the rules. Seeking paid translation." An "Ancient Ruin Blind Box" was a marketing gimmick used for unidentified items brought back by frontier exploration squads. Unboxing unrecognizable garbage was a daily occurrence. Rowan winced as he authorized a transfer of 100 Terra Credits from his account as the Dark Web bounty deposit.

For him right now, every single credit was a bargaining chip for his future survival, but this intelligence fee had to be paid. His account balance now sat at a pitiful 426 Terra Credits. After sending the encrypted mail, Rowan immediately severed the connection without a second glance. In underground trades, patience was just as vital as stealth. Having done all this, the predatory glint returned to Rowan's eyes.

He reached into his inner pocket and, with extreme solemnity, pulled out the pigeon-egg-sized [Mana Primordium] that radiated an intoxicating halo. The theory of Source Rune origins had given him a much deeper understanding of the essence of magic, making him even more desperate to step through the gates of the supernatural. In Terra's magic system, for a mortal to become a Tier 1 Mage, they had to complete the "Etching." It was an exquisite, yet brutal, magical process.

The "Source Crystal Core" inside a mage's body was like a blank lithography wafer used in microchip manufacturing. And the [Source Runes] existing in the world were the blueprints.

"Etching" meant using expensive "Etching Fluid" as a medium to permanently engrave a specific Source Rune onto the surface of one's crystal core, turning it into a fixed [Mold]. For example, the Military Tier 1 spell Minimalist Water Blade burned into the Aether Core in Rowan's left arm wasn't conjured out of thin air. Its underlying logic was a complex model constructed from over 140 individual [Water Source Runes]. In actual combat, a formal mage didn't need to slowly gather water elements from nature.

They merely needed to frantically pressurize their own mana, pushing it through the etched "Water Source Rune Mold" on their crystal core to instantly "print" multiple free-floating Source Runes. Finally, using powerful mental strength, they would instantly assemble those 140+ printed runes—like interlocking precision gears—into a complete Water Blade spell model and unleash it! Mold, Print, Assemble. This was the essence of spellcasting.

And in this entire process, the most dangerous step was the very first one: pouring etching fluid over the fragile Source Crystal Core to forcefully carve the first mold. A Mana Primordium was absolutely required to act as an external buffer and shield. Anyone trying to "raw-etch" without a primordium was either a desperate lunatic or an arrogant fool. Now, Rowan possessed the protective umbrella required to become a Tier 1 Mage—the Mana Primordium. All he lacked was the "ink" to print the blueprint.

Rowan reconnected to the black-market supply section of the Dark Web and typed a few words into the search bar. [Water Source Rune Etching Fluid] As the most foundational element, and currently the only element compatible with his Minimalist Water Blade, Water Source Rune etching fluid was the most common type available. But when the search results popped up on the screen, the string of crimson numbers made the corner of Rowan's eye twitch violently.

[Current Average Price: 8, 000 Terra Credits / Standard Dose]"Fucking highway robbery..." Rowan gritted his teeth. He quickly changed his approach, filtering the conditions to display low-grade etching fluid. Finally, he saw a somewhat more approachable price. [Current Average Price: 3, 000 Terra Credits / Standard Dose] It still wasn't cheap. It was enough to buy out every piece of gear on his body. Rowan glanced at the pitiful remaining balance in his account.

Then, his gaze shifted to the mud-stained tactical backpack resting on his desk. Lying quietly inside were the half-piece of an unknown magical root, a small handful of mud mixed with shattered array crystal dust, and... the remaining one-third of the earth-element-rich premium beast meat he had personally carved from a tank-sized Tier 1 Armored Rhino.

"Not enough... Nowhere near enough." Rowan's eyes gleamed in the darkness with the hunger of a starving wolf. These supplies might just barely scrape together enough for a low-grade etching fluid, but he still needed to prepare expensive supplies for the military special admission, and he had to brace for Julian's next retaliation, which would surely be uglier than the last. He had to make another trip to the Scrap Iron Street black market.