It was useless. Utterly useless.
No matter how many times Vastarael stared at the half-finished Control Circle in front of him, no matter how many adjustments he made, or how much energy he poured into his craft, the blasted thing just wouldn't work.
At first, he'd been optimistic. His Mystic Eyes of Awareness were glowing faintly as he poured over the patterns and runes. He even whispered to himself;
"This'll be a breeze. I've got the knowledge, I've got the tools, I've got the infinite potato curry stew. What could go wrong?"
Everything. Everything went wrong.
The analogy came to him as he sat there, shoulders slumped and eyes bloodshot from hours of failed attempts. It was like having a mathematical equation in front of you. A long, terrifying one full of squiggly symbols and numbers that seemed like they had escaped from a nightmare.
You knew the theory. You knew the steps to solve it. Heck, you even knew what the solution should look like! But when it came to actually implementing it?
Total and utter failure.
Vastarael sighed deeply, resting his forehead against the edge of the workbench. His breath fogged up the sapphire plate beneath him.
"It's like trying to solve a Rubik's cube, except it has about fifty sides, each piece keeps changing colors, and every time I move a piece, the cube mocks me by resetting itself. Is that normal for Circlecraft? Or is the universe just trolling me at this point?"
He was on his second day of trying now and things weren't improving. His infinite potato and meat curry stew had been his only solace during this madness.
Every few hours, he would take a break, scoop up a spoonful of curry from the now-legendary sapphire bowl, and let its warmth fill his stomach. It never ran out, and for that, he was grateful. He didn't have time to cook for himself.
"At least you haven't abandoned me," he muttered to the bowl like it was his only friend. "You understand me, right? Unlike this... this disaster."
He waved a hand at the half-baked Control Circle that glared back at him in mocking silence.
By the third day, Vastarael had officially entered the 'desperate problem-solving' phase of his efforts. This was where all logic and common sense flew out the window, replaced by random experimentation and the occasional scream of frustration.
He flipped through the Divine Mystic Book of Altherion with the ferocity of someone looking for cheat codes in a video game. Phaenora had used the Royal Library and her Knowledge Absorption to full the book with Circlecraft and Magecraft details before he went to the academy but nothing worked.
"There has to be something in here about Control Circles. A hint? A tip? A 'Circlecraft for Dummies' chapter, maybe? No? Great. Thanks for nothing, ancient book of infinite knowledge."
The book, of course, didn't respond.
He tried everything. He adjusted the runes. He recalibrated the geometric proportions. He infused the circle with varying amounts of essence, trying to find the perfect balance. Nothing. He even resorted to drawing the runes backwards, hoping that maybe the solution was hidden in reverse logic. That failed too. At one point, he grabbed a piece of sapphire, held it to the glowing circle, and shouted,
"Work, damn you!"
Spoiler alert: it didn't.
By the fourth day, Vastarael was starting to feel personally attacked by the concept of Circlecraft itself.
"Who invented this nonsense, anyway?" He muttered to himself, pacing back and forth in the massive workshop.
"Some ancient mage who got bored one day and decided to ruin the lives of future generations? 'Oh, let's make a magic system so convoluted that no one will ever figure it out!' Yeah, great job, buddy. Thanks for that. Now I understand why high school students hated Einstein for making physics just because of an apple falling on his fucking head."
His stew bowl floated after him, as if sensing his despair. He paused mid-rant to scoop another bite into his mouth.
"At least this curry understands me," he mumbled through a mouthful of potato.
The Divine Mystic Book of Altherion sat on the table, its pages glowing faintly with an almost mocking light. He swore the runes on its cover were laughing at him.
By the fifth day, Vastarael looked like a man on the brink of insanity. His hair was disheveled, his clothes were wrinkled and his normally sharp gaze had dulled from sheer exhaustion.
"Alright, Control Circle," he said, pointing at the half-finished construct on the mage book with a shaking finger. "You think you've won? You think you're smarter than me? Well, joke's on you, I've got infinite stew and all the time in the world. I'll crack this thing if it's the last thing I do!"
The circle didn't respond.
By this point, even his Mystic Eyes of Awareness seemed to be losing faith in him. They highlighted every flaw, every misalignment, every microscopic error in the design, but none of it helped. He could see the problems. He just couldn't fix them.
And yet, despite all his failures, Vastarael refused to give up. He'd spent days on this now. He wasn't about to let some stupid circle get the better of him.
"One more try," he muttered, grabbing his quill diving back into the work. 'Just one more..."
Of course, this was what he said every time.
As the fifth night rolled in, Vastarael sat slumped at the workbench, the faint glow of the half-finished Control Circle casting eerie shadows on his face. It was floating in front of him, as if mocking him.
His stew bowl sat beside him, steaming faintly. He stared at the circle with bloodshot eyes, his determination as strong as ever.
"Alright," he said quietly, gripping his pen with renewed resolve. "Let's do this again. For the fifty seventh time. Maybe this time, the universe will stop being a jerk."
And so, the cycle continued. It was useless. But that didn't mean he would stop trying. After all, Vastarael wasn't just some ordinary mage. He was a prince, an Ascender, a stubborn fool with infinite stew and a grudge against the concept of impossibility.
And if there was one thing he was sure of, it was that he would figure out that Control Circle. Eventually. Maybe.
Hopefully.
°°°°°°°°
Nothing worked. Absolutely nothing.
For twenty-nine days—yes, twenty-nine whole days—Vastarael had been at this.
His Control Circle was still half-finished, and his sanity? Well, that had packed up and left somewhere around Day Fifteen. Now, he sat hunched over his workbench, surrounded by piles of discarded runes and failed sketches, his once-perfect hair looking like it had been attacked by a particularly vengeful bird.
He had tried everything. Literally everything. 2,737 trials, to be exact. And every single one of them had ended the same way: with him slamming his quill down, screaming into the void, and glaring at the glowing half-circle like it was personally responsible for every bad decision he'd ever made.
His once-pristine workshop looked like it had been through a magical tornado. Scraps of sapphire, pages ripped from the Divine Mystic Book of Altherion, and half-eaten potatoes from his infinite curry stew were scattered everywhere.
He hadn't slept. Not even a little. His Mystic Eyes were practically glowing brighter than ever, fueled purely by spite and whatever mysterious energy was keeping his stew bowl endlessly full. He had become one with the potato curry at this point. It was the only constant in his life.
And now? Now he was asking himself some truly existential questions.
"Is this how Einstein felt?"
Vastarael muttered to no one in particular, his voice hoarse from days of muttering, ranting, and occasionally screaming into his stew. He stared at the half-finished circle like it was mocking him.
"Is this what it's like to create something from absolutely nothing? Because if it is, then that guy... what a legend. What a bastard. He made gravity look easy! Gravity! Who even does that? Just wakes up one day and says, 'Oh, you know what this world needs? A mathematical framework for how everything falls. Let me just pull that out of thin air.' Fuck!"
He slumped back in his chair, running a hand through his long curly hair, which at this point resembled a small, tangled shrub. His eyes were bloodshot, his clothes wrinkled and stained with... was that curry? Probably. He looked more like a sleep-deprived cosmic horror than a prince.
"Einstein probably didn't even have Mystic Eyes," he muttered, waving a hand toward his own glowing irises. 'And here I am, with Mystic Eyes, a genius in two lives, and I still can't finish one damn circle. What does that say about me, huh?"
He let out a laugh, the kind of laugh that was halfway between humor and despair.
"Am I even a genius anymore? Or just some idiot with glowing eyes and a god complex?"
His gaze drifted back to the half-finished Control Circle. It pulsed faintly, as if laughing at him. He swore he could hear it whispering. Mocking him.
"You think you're so smart, don't you?" He hissed at the floating blue half finished circle, leaning forward until his face was inches away from it. "Sitting there, all glowy and half-finished, acting like you're better than me. Well, guess what? I'm still smarter than you. You're just a bunch of lines and runes! I'm a prince! I'm an Ascender! I—"
He paused, his voice dropping to a whisper.
"I've lost my mind, haven't I?"
Yes. Yes, he had.
He sighed and leaned back, rubbing his temples. His thoughts spiraled in a hundred different directions. He thought about his past life, about how he'd been the smartest kid in the room... every room, actually.
An A+ student who routinely left his teachers baffled, a genius who could solve problems faster than anyone else. And now? Now he was here, struggling with a stupid circle, and it was making him question every accomplishment he'd ever had.
"This is worse than finals week," he muttered, picking up his quill and staring at the circle again. His hand trembled as he traced another line, only for the glow to sputter out immediately. He groaned, tossing the quill onto the table.
"Even cosmic horrors would be easier to look at than this mess. At least they'd probably just drive me insane instantly instead of... this slow, painful descent into madness."
He looked around the workshop, his gaze falling on the discarded rune sketches and shards of sapphire.
"No one's ever done this before," he whispered, trying to convince himself that his struggle was noble, that his insanity was somehow justified. "That's why it's so hard. I'm making history here. I'm pushing the boundaries of Circlecraft! I'm... I'm losing my mind. Oh gods, I'm losing my mind."
He grabbed his stew bowl and took a long, dramatic sip, as if the infinite curry might hold the answers he sought. It didn't. But it tasted good, so at least there was that.
"Alright," he said, slamming the bowl down and rising to his feet. His eyes glowed brighter and his hair stood on end, giving him the appearance of an unhinged, electrified scarecrow.
"One more try. Just one more. I've got this. I'm a genius. I'm the Prince of Anqerise. I'm the Handsome Prince of Freedom! I..."
He froze, staring at the circle. A single line of runes glowed faintly, then fizzled out.
"...I hate this," he whispered, sinking back into his chair.
The cycle repeated. Again. And again. And again.
Twenty-nine days. 2,737 trials. No progress. Just a glowing, half-finished circle and an infinite supply of stew keeping him alive.
By now, Vastarael wasn't just trying to finish the circle. He was trying to prove a point to himself, to the circle, and to the universe. He didn't care how long it took. He didn't care if he went completely insane. He would finish the Control Circle. He would succeed.
Eventually. Maybe. Hopefully.
Probably not today, though.