Upgrading a skill mid-battle was unusual—almost reckless. But Thalion had little choice. This fight was slipping through his fingers, and unless he pushed himself further, the outcome was certain. There was a window now, a fragile moment of clarity amid the chaos, and to waste it would be unforgivable. He had to try. The last time he’d attempted a skill upgrade had been alongside Sylas, working on the fireball technique. Back then, he discovered that sometimes a skill's rarity could increase without a new name or updated description. That oddity had joined a growing list of strange quirks he had noticed about the system, especially during the tutorial phase.

One of the most baffling details was how beast forms he absorbed often lacked their original skills. Another was the system’s tendency to reclaim spatial rings and even entire homes at the end of the tutorial, stripping everything away as if it were merely borrowed. There were other strange inconsistencies, too many to count, and Thalion often found himself mentally sorting them by how absurd they were. But right now, there was no time for reflection. He needed to push Aqua Lance beyond its current limits. To upgrade a skill, you had to evolve it—to refine and enhance it until it surpassed a hidden threshold that the system recognized. But Thalion couldn’t simply flood the spell with more power. He was already casting it at maximum output.

Any more, and the spell risked becoming unstable. It could explode mid-cast, tearing his body apart from within. He could barely hold the current pressure, his body straining under the intensity. Maybe he could push it slightly further, but not enough to truly transform the skill. The stream was already focused and dense, leaving little room for further refinement. That left only one path. Duration. Aqua Lance usually lasted less than a second before fading. He could adjust his aim slightly during casting to follow a dodging target, but it was limited. Still, extending the spell's duration might allow more sustained damage, especially if he could strike the leviathan repeatedly.

The question was how to achieve that. One option was to continue channeling mana into the spell after releasing it, stretching its life just a little longer. Another idea was to try recasting it quickly while the original was still in effect. Thalion chose the first approach. He began storing power until his body ached from the strain, then let the spell fly. It was imperfect. The increased energy didn’t focus better, and the blast didn’t grow stronger, but it did linger. Just under a second, maybe. A small improvement, but a step forward.

Below him, the battle took on a surreal rhythm. The fishfolk danced through the water like nimble spiders, swinging each other through the ocean currents with threads of light. The leviathan chased them with terrifying purpose, massive body slicing through the deep like a living dreadnought. Thalion kept striking the beast’s back. It was the most armored area, useless for meaningful damage, but perfect for testing. And the leviathan ignored him. Completely. The creature almost seemed amused, as though it recognized how fruitless his attacks were. Each Aqua Lance struck its thick hide and dissipated harmlessly, like arrows against a mountain.

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Thalion could feel that amusement echoing through the mana, as though the creature was mocking him. The fishfolk, meanwhile, were visibly frustrated. Every time he struck the leviathan’s back again, he caught glimpses of their exasperated expressions. They didn’t need to speak—he could practically hear their thoughts. “Not the back again. Is this snake actually serious?” Still, he didn’t care. This was more than pride. He needed the upgrade, or he would die. Escape was not an option Thalion could stomach. His only chance lay in forcing this skill to evolve, even under pressure.

The biggest problem was the nature of the spell itself. Aqua Lance released most of its power in the first instant. Everything after that was a diminishing wave. Still lethal to lesser sea creatures, but meaningless against the leviathan's impenetrable scales. The act of casting it felt like a breath held too long. Eventually, you just couldn’t pull in more energy. So Thalion altered his approach. He concentrated all his power into a single burst, shortening the spell's duration in exchange for a sharper impact. It took several painful attempts to get the balance right.

His first success came from an undercharged version, one he could control more easily. That restraint turned out to be a blessing. The shot hit with a force that rivaled a fully charged Aqua Lance, though it vanished almost instantly. Encouraged, Thalion began to test the extremes. He had learned to amplify power by shortening duration. Now he worked in the opposite direction—stretching the spell as long as possible. Short bursts could shatter the scales. Longer, sustained lances might burn the soft tissue beneath them. That was his theory.

He didn’t have time to perfect it.

The leviathan surged forward, maw wide, and one of the female hunters vanished in a blur. It looked almost ridiculous—how fast she disappeared, drawn into the beast's endless throat like a leaf into a whirlpool. Despite the loss, Thalion stayed focused. He kept firing at the leviathan’s armored back. The beast, still dismissing him, showed no change in its behavior. One dorsal fin was gone, and an eye had been lost, the wound frozen solid. Without a heat source, it would remain that way for some time. But these were surface wounds. Nothing decisive.

The leviathan was still whole. Still hunting. And Thalion was still not strong enough.