Leon materialized back at his training spot on the rocky mountain, the familiar weight of solitude settling over him like a comfortable cloak. The eternal twilight cast long shadows across the jagged stone, and the cool mountain air filled his lungs as he centered himself.

Time to get back to work.

He raised his hands, and white light immediately gathered around his palms, responding to his will with increasing ease. The luminescence pooled and swirled, taking shape according to his intent. But as he manipulated the radiant energy, forming it into increasingly complex patterns, he felt the limitations clearly.

Nearly not enough, he thought with frustration, watching the light construct wobble slightly when he pushed it too far. My control is improving, but it's nowhere near where it needs to be.

He needed mastery, not competence. The difference between life and death in the higher domains would come down to split-second control, perfect execution under pressure. What he had now was merely adequate—and adequate wouldn't be enough.

Leon began his training regimen in earnest, dedicating himself to pushing his light element manipulation to new heights. He formed spheres, blades, shields, and intricate geometric patterns that tested the absolute limits of his control. Each construct demanded precision, requiring him to maintain multiple points of focus simultaneously while adjusting for instability and energy fluctuations.

At the same time, he worked on his skills. Healing Light remained his primary focus—the skill was intrinsically tied to the light element, making it the perfect vehicle for developing his understanding. He practiced on conjured wounds, on the mountain itself, testing different applications and variations of the healing energy.

But he didn't neglect his newer acquisitions. The skills he'd recently learned sat at level 1, practically untouched, their potential unrealized. Can't let these stagnate, he reminded himself, cycling through each one methodically, familiarizing himself with their mechanics and limitations.

Six months passed in the dimensional space.

Six months of relentless training, of pushing himself to the edge of exhaustion day after day. Six months of incremental improvements that felt simultaneously significant and insufficient. The light element bent more readily to his will now, responding with speed and precision that would have seemed impossible when he started. Several of his newer skills had climbed steadily through the levels, their power and efficiency growing with each advancement.

But there was a wall.

A barrier that refused to break, no matter how hard he threw himself against it.

His older skills—the ones that had reached level 100—remained stubbornly locked at that threshold. Leon had tried everything he could think of. Different training methods, extreme conditions, pushing himself to the point of mana exhaustion, meditating for days on end seeking some epiphany. Nothing worked. The skills sat at level 100 like statues, immovable and unchanging.

What am I missing? he wondered for the thousandth time, staring at his status screen with barely contained frustration. There has to be a way forward. Skills don't just stop at arbitrary numbers.

Throughout those six months, Leon made regular trips to check on Seraphine. Every few days, he would teleport to their makeshift house, hoping to find her awake and recovered. But each time, she remained in deep slumber, her breathing steady and peaceful, her body still processing the monumental transformation the Seed of Stormlight Heart had initiated.

Still sleeping, he noted during his most recent check, brushing a strand of purple hair from her face. But that's fine. She doesn't need food or water here anyway.

That was one of the peculiar benefits of training in their conscious forms within the dimensional space. Their physical bodies in the real world experienced minimal time passage—less than a day for Seraphine, despite the months that had elapsed here. Hunger, thirst, and other physical needs didn't apply in quite the same way.

But that convenience led to another mystery that gnawed at Leon's mind.

How did she even absorb the seed through her consciousness? The question had bothered him since he'd witnessed her transformation. It shouldn't have been possible. The seed was a physical object meant to integrate with a physical body. Yet somehow, it worked on her conscious form in this space.

The dimensional space continued to confound him with its properties and rules—or apparent lack thereof. Despite all the time he'd spent here, all the experiments he'd conducted, Leon felt like he understood maybe one percent of what this place truly was.

So many mysteries, he thought, returning his focus to the present. But mysteries can wait. Right now, I need to figure out this skill barrier.

Leon stood on his training ground, light crackling around his hands as he prepared to attempt another breakthrough. His control over the light element had reached a truly satisfactory level now—he could feel himself approaching the threshold of level 1 light aura. That particular achievement felt tantalizingly close, just a bit more refinement and understanding away from manifestation.

But his satisfaction with the light element only made the skill barrier more infuriating by contrast.

He had reached level 100 with several additional skills during these six months of intensive training. Each time, he'd felt the same frustration as the skill locked at that seemingly arbitrary ceiling. No matter what he tried—no matter how much effort he poured in, how many different approaches he attempted, how desperately he pushed—the barrier remained absolute.

It's like hitting a wall, Leon thought bitterly, dismissing the light construct he'd been forming. No, worse than a wall. At least walls can be broken with enough force. This is like hitting something that doesn't even acknowledge the impact.

He had tried brute force repetition, thinking perhaps the barrier required an enormous amount of experience to overcome. He had tried innovative applications, hoping creativity might be the key. He had tried combining skills, isolating them, using them in extreme conditions, pushing himself to the edge of capability and beyond.

Nothing. Worked.

The skills sat at level 100, mocking his efforts with their immobility. Each one is a testament to his progress and simultaneously a reminder of his limitations. He could feel the potential locked behind that barrier—sensed instinctively that a breakthrough would bring qualitative changes far beyond simple numerical increases. But sensing it and achieving it were entirely different matters.

Six months, Leon thought, frustration bleeding into genuine anger now. Six months of trying every method I can conceive, and I'm no closer to understanding this barrier than when I first encountered it.

He formed another light construct—this one a complex spiral that rotated on multiple axes simultaneously, demonstrating the exceptional control he'd developed. Then he dismissed it with a gesture that was perhaps more violent than necessary.

The light element is progressing beautifully. My newer skills are climbing steadily. My understanding of combat and magic deepens daily. But these level 100 skills refuse to budge even a fraction.

Leon sat down heavily on the rocky ground, staring out at the eternal twilight that painted the dimensional space in perpetual golden hues. His hands clenched into fists, knuckles white with tension.

What am I doing wrong?

The question echoed in his mind, demanding an answer he didn't have. There had to be something—some principle, some requirement, some fundamental truth about skill progression that he was missing. Skills didn't just stop developing arbitrarily. There was a reason, a mechanism, a key that would unlock continued growth.

But what was it?

What am I doing wrong?

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