At the same time, what intrigued the black-robed mage was Lynch's self-developed magical abilities. Although he could not use the Magic Origin, he could endeavor to keep his magical power unaffected by any external disturbances. Even within the Anti-Magic Field, the young Lynch could still recite spells, which astonished the black-robed mage.

Learning always makes time pass more quickly, and they had been drifting in the Nether River for nearly half a year. Lynch began to doubt whether the Abyss Demon Piffed had deceived him, pointing him towards an endless journey. Although the joy of mastering a new spell could dispel his melancholy feelings in a timely manner, gradually, he lost his patience.

Sometimes, after a day of deep contemplation, the mage would lie on the deck, gazing at the starless night sky. At times like those, he would recall the beautiful sights he had experienced. He would think of the forests of the Elf Kingdom, where the morning sun trickled down through the white branches, warmly awakening the melodious bird songs; he would visualize on the northern-bound ship in the sunset, an unending tranquil water surface covered with glistening golden scales, where little angels chased playful white tigers; he would remember the cave filled with purple light, where a dwarf joyfully toasted, blessing former guests in every possible way. However, the final image lingering in his mind was of a moonlit meadow, where only faint buzzing from insects could be heard in the distance, and Zilvra sat beside him. Although her tone remained sharp, Lynch wasn't bothered; he quietly listened, not wanting to miss a single word.

"I should have smiled then," the mage murmured softly. Then he stood up, surrounded by a world of red. Devils bared their fangs and claws, and the hideous and solid iron ships around him imprisoned him like a cage. He loathed this place; it wasn't his domain.

Eryies lay at his feet, still asleep. Her once smooth black hair, meticulously combed over countless hours, now hung disheveled across her forehead, which so many hands once wished to cradle! The traces of sweat marked the Desire Demon's face, and dust stealthily marred her beautiful visage. After all, she wasn't a strong devil; the constant toil was not her forte. "She should be nestled in someone's embrace, happily plotting how to seduce that soul," Lynch thought, smiling.

He chanted a spell over Eryies, and the Desire Demon's body quivered slightly before returning to tranquility. She would regain her strength in the absolute comfort of her sleep. Lynch crouched down, gently combing the hair tangled before her eyelashes, observing her slightly darkened eye shadow. If he merely reached out, Eryies would easily succumb to his magical power—in the past, he might not have had such prowess, and now it was merely a trivial effort.

"This is dangerous, my friend." The black-robed mage's voice sounded from the other end of the deck as he spoke: "When you gaze into the depths of the abyss, you may inevitably fall. We mages should have more meaningful goals."

Lynch stood up, looking at the black figure. The mage clearly felt an ambition, or rather a desire, continuously urging that frail body forward. Until he proved his strength, the black-robed mage would never stop, which was also the root of his power. Lynch pondered the other's words, then softly, yet confidently and assertively, said, "No, the definition of meaningful goals is in my hands."

For the first time, the black-robed mage showed a genuine smile, untainted by any other emotions. He gently said, "Congratulations, you finally understand..."

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