Chapter 7 - Magic
"...Verdant Touch!"
I threw my hands forward, my high-pitched voice trembling violently with a volatile mixture of anxiety and intense anticipation. I stood dead center in the middle of the quiet study room, my tiny boots planted firmly on the creaking floorboards. For a fraction of a second, absolute silence hung in the air.
Then, a soft, ethereal emerald glow sparked brilliantly at my fingertips. Directly beneath my hands, pushing through a microscopic hairline fracture in the weathered wood, a tiny green sprout aggressively punched upward. Within a single heartbeat, a beautiful, delicate wild flower bloomed, its pristine petals unfolding gracefully into the dim room.
My golden eyes widened to the size of saucers.
"I DID IT!" I screamed, the sheer euphoria roaring through my chest. I stumbled backward, nearly tripping over a stack of heavy ledgers in my absolute excitement.
"I finally did it! I actually cast real magic!"
Laughing hysterically, I lunged forward to grab my textbook, desperate to document the exact sensory feedback of the success. But the moment my fingers brushed the leather binding... the entire world violently tilted.
My knees wobbled like jelly. My vision warped into a dizzying kaleidoscope, and my brain felt as though it had been instantly stuffed with heavy feathers and thick, suffocating fog.
W-what... what is happening...?
I barely had the cognitive capacity to process the sudden biological failure before my equilibrium completely vanished.
Thud!
I collapsed face-first onto the hard floorboards, the breath violently knocked out of my lungs. My limbs felt entirely disconnected from my nervous system, laying spread-eagled across the room.
My mana pool was exhausted, almost completely gone. That single, pathetic, microscopic flower had ruthlessly siphoned most of the spiritual fuel my body possessed.
Seriously? I thought bitterly, my adult consciousness raging against my physical limitations. That tiny sprout is my absolute maximum capacity? That is... so incredibly lame...
Yet, even as the dark edges of unconsciousness rapidly crept into the borders of my vision, a sleepy, triumphant smile tugged at the corners of my lips. It had taken me nearly a full year of grueling, repetitive effort, theoretical study, and mental visualization. But I had finally crossed the threshold.
I was officially five years old today. And on the very first day of my birth month, I had forced reality to bend to my whim.
As I slowly drifted out of consciousness, the distant, rhythmic creak of the study door echoing in my ears, I caught the hurried sound of soft footsteps. Then came a voice. It was gentle, deeply concerned, and desperate.
"Kyro...?" Reyna's voice.
The world faded into a warm, featureless blur, and I succumbed to sleep, still smiling like an absolute idiot.
***
When I finally opened my eyes, I was tucked securely into the familiar comfort of my own bed.
I blinked up at the ceiling, noticing that the wooden layout felt just a little bit more spacious than it had a few weeks ago. Right... Dad had recently spent his evenings modifying the framework of the house. He had grunted something about "his little boy growing up way too fast" and physically expanded the parameters of my bedroom, ensuring that even though it remained entirely humble, I had actual breathing room. I guess he had finally realized I was no longer the clumsy, waddling toddler who couldn't walk in a straight line without tipping over into a laundry basket.
I heard Dad is now planning to expand the backyard and make a path towards our barn field from the backyard.
The barn field is a bit far right now since you have to take the path in front of the gate. Our barn field is located just behind our house, so Dad is planning to expand the backyard and build a dirt road to it, creating a shortcut that saves us time.
I rubbed my eyes roughly with the back of my hand, squinting against the brilliant, unfiltered daylight streaming through the windowpane. The sun was out in full force, bathing the landscape in a warm, radiant glow. Outside, the vast agricultural fields stretched out toward the horizon like a sea of pure, shimmering gold, the ripe wheat swaying in rhythmic, elegant waves under the command of the breeze.
Then, the realization hit me like a physical jolt.
The flower. I actually successfully conjured a spell from scratch!
A massive, uncontrollable grin split my face. I sat up rapidly, clenching my tiny fist and aggressively pumping it into the open air.
"Yes!" I whispered fiercely to myself. "A total victory!"
My wandering gaze naturally drifted toward the heavy, weathered brown textbook resting quietly on the small table in the corner. Source of Power.
I scrambled off the mattress, my small bare feet pattering against the floorboards as I grabbed the tome. I eagerly flipped past the introductory chapters, skipping directly to the advanced theoretical section I had deliberately saved as a psychological reward for when I finally cast my first spell. Now that I had crossed the threshold, I could read it with actual pride.
My eyes locked onto the bold, hand-inked title: Mana Reserves and Limitations.
Perfect. Let's look at the actual physics of this world. I leaned my back against the sturdy wooden bed frame, crossing my legs as I began to methodically digest the text:
"A spellcaster's mana reserve is an entirely finite pool of internal energy. In early childhood, this reserve is naturally minuscule, presenting as a highly volatile, easily depleted spark. As the physical body ages and achieves biological maturity, the mana capacity naturally expands in tandem. However, this natural growth definitively halts once a species reaches their absolute physical prime."
Intrigued, I skimmed down to the specific taxonomic breakdown:
Humans: Natural mana growth ceases entirely around ages 19–20.
Orcs: Physical prime and mana stagnation occur rapidly around age 20.
Demons: Internal reserves continue to naturally expand until roughly age 50.
Elves: Prolonged biological development allows natural mana growth to persist up to age 120.
"That is quite a comprehensive list..." I muttered to myself, tracking the data across two full pages of detailed racial breakdowns.
I skipped past the hyper-specific sub-species variants, my eyes hunting for the operational methodology of increasing that cap. Finally, my eyes landed on the concluding paragraph:
"However, the exact methodology regarding the artificial expansion of an individual's maximum mana capacity beyond their natural biological limitations remains a subject of ongoing, highly contentious research among the high academies..."
I paused, tapping my finger rhythmically against the brittle parchment. "Ongoing research, huh...?"
I squinted harder at the page. The subsequent paragraph looked as though it had been violently scratched out or torn entirely, the crucial text near the very bottom of the page cutting off mid-sentence. The paper was incredibly brittle and faded, likely a casualty of historic moisture or poor archival storage before my father had acquired it.
Figures. A classic fantasy trope, crucial information missing exactly when the protagonist needs it most. I let out a heavy sigh, closing the book slightly.
"Seems like one of those scientific areas where someone actually needs to step up, conduct proper trials, and do the actual grunt work," I muttered, the methodical mindset of my past life as an industrial chemical engineer flaring up.
I looked down at my small, soft hands, slowly flexing my fingers inward. Then, I pressed my palm firmly against the center of my chest, right over my sternum, trying to mentally map the exact internal locus where that strange, warm energy resided.
If mana functions similarly to a biological muscle, then the fundamental principle of hypertrophy should theoretically apply. Push the tissue to failure, cause microscopic stress, allow it to recover, and the capacity should naturally adapt to handle the increased load. Probably.
That was precisely how the mechanics operated in every classic anime I had consumed in my past life. The protagonist aggressively overuses their supernatural abilities, burns out their circuits, collapses dramatically in a pool of their own sweat, and subsequently wakes up with a reinforced power level. It was cliché as hell, a repetitive, rinse-and-repeat cycle of growth achieved through absolute physical exhaustion. It might not be strictly recognized by the conservative scholars of this world, but hey, it made for an excellent framework for my theory.
With a quiet, determined grin, I slid off the floor, cradling the heavy tome securely under my arm. More empirical research is clearly required.
But before I could plan my training schedule, my nose caught a sudden, incredibly sharp scent wafting into the room from the lower floor. It was the rich, intoxicating aroma of roasted nuts, caramelized sugar, and freshly baked dough.
Oh man. Mom is definitely cooking something special.
I stretched my stiff limbs out, heading down the stairs while keeping my eyes glued to the open pages of the book, completely lost in my own thoughts.
"Look who our little prodigy mage is!"
Reyna's melodic voice sang out from the shadows of the hallway. Before I could even register the auditory warning, she appeared around the corner with the terrifying velocity of a highly affectionate, heat-seeking missile. She scooped my tiny frame off the floorboards like I was a feather caught in a draft.
"Oouf—!" I gasped, the wind instantly driven from my lungs as the textbook nearly slipped from my grip.
"Oh, Kyyy! You are growing up way too fast!" she squealed happily, spinning me around in left and right circles, crushing me against her chest with enough maternal force to genuinely threaten the structural integrity of my ribs. "I swear, I don't want you leaving your poor Mama anytime soon!"
My arms and legs flailed helplessly in the open air like wet noodles in a boiling pot. The family had taken to giving me a casual nickname recently; Mom routinely called me "Ky" when she was feeling particularly affectionate, though Dad strictly maintained my full name, Kyro.
"Uwaa—uwaa—Mom, I can't breathe—!"
"Rey," Thorskil's deep, rumbling voice called out calmly from the open kitchen. He was standing casually by the counter, meticulously decorating a massive multi-layered cake with beautifully carved pieces of fresh orchard fruit. He didn't even bother looking back to assess the situation; his hyper-awareness simply registered the exact threshold of my physical distress. "Kyro is genuinely going to pass out a second time if you keep compressing his lungs like that."
"Oh, right! Silly me. Sorry about that, Ky!" Reyna laughed warmly, setting my feet back onto the solid ground before planting a loud, affectionate kiss directly onto my forehead. "I am just so incredibly proud of you, sweetie!"
"Aw, thanks, Mom," I said, a faint blush rising to my cheeks as I hurriedly smoothed down the wrinkles of my messy linen shirt. I turned to Dad. "I thought you were working on the backyard..?"
"It's your birth-month, silly." Thorskil chuckled, "Stopping work a day or two wouldn't hurt, not like we're in a rush."
I smiled, "Yeah, okay." I nodded.
The entire farmhouse smelled heavily of a massive celebration; a beautiful symphony of roasted chestnuts, heavily sugared forest berries, and rich, spiced holiday bread. The large wooden dining table was absolutely cluttered with glistening trays and overflowing porcelain bowls.
I was officially five years old. My birth month had arrived. A whole month dedicated entirely to domestic indulgence and family warmth. I absolutely loved this time of the year.
***
Weeks bled into one another in a blur of routine.
Every single day, the moment my agricultural chores were completed and the family meals were finished, I locked myself securely inside my bedroom. I armed myself with nothing but absolute, unyielding stubbornness and the faint, glowing potential hidden deep within my physical biology. The wooden walls of the farmhouse were thin, the floorboards were perpetually ice-cold beneath my bare feet, and the drafty air always smelled faintly of dried hay and livestock from the barn outside, but absolutely none of those environmental factors mattered to me.
I began my training with the absolute simplest, lowest-tier spell available in the nature lexicon.
"Oh God of Nature, lend thy breath to this seed. Grow."
I spoke the words clearly, focusing my mind entirely on the internal reservoir. A sharp, distinct ripple of warm mana surged violently through my veins, rushing toward my outstretched palms. In the small clay flowerpot resting before me on the desk, the dark soil visibly twitched. The earth shifted, and a bright green sprout aggressively pushed upward like a curious child peeking out from behind a curtain. Within seconds, it bloomed. They were soft, delicate blue petals unfolding slowly, gently, mimicking a lazy yawn greeting the first rays of dawn.
I took a slow breath, immediately pivoting my mental visualization to the opposite conceptual spectrum.
"Oh God of Nature, I return this life to your soil. Wither!"
The internal energy inverted, turning cold and pull-heavy. The vibrant blue petals instantly curled inward, shrinking away from the light. Their rich color drained in a matter of heartbeats, ugly brown spots spreading like necrotic bruises across their delicate faces. The green stem stiffened, trembled under the sudden cellular degradation, and then cracked entirely in half with a quiet, hollow snap.
It took me hours of meticulous, agonizing calibration just to get that simple binary sequence right. Sometimes the magic manifested perfectly. Most times... it absolutely didn't. When the spell structure destabilized, the flower would either violently explode into a cloud of irritating yellow pollen or simply sit there in the dirt, completely motionless, mockingly staring back at me with its stubborn, non-reactive stillness.
But I refused to stop.
Once I felt I had achieved a baseline understanding of nature manipulation, I began to deliberately venture into the other foundational elements documented in the Source of Power text. They were basic, low-grade starter spells—purely elemental in nature, heavily grounded in structural rhythm and vocalized intent. The incantations themselves were brief, but every single syllable demanded absolute, unwavering cognitive control.
"Oh Wind unshackled, brush against the world. Gale."
A microscopic, localized puff of compressed air flicked violently against my bangs. It wasn't even remotely strong enough to move a loose sheet of parchment off the desk, but the air had moved entirely under my command.
"Oh Fire unborn, take spark from my soul. Flicker."
A single, brilliant golden spark danced off the tip of my index finger. It hovered in the cool air, alive and vibrant for barely the space of a single heartbeat before fizzling out into a tiny wisp of gray smoke.
"Oh Water unseen, draw forth from the air. Drip."
The ambient humidity around my hand spiked drastically, the air turning thick and damp. Then, agonizingly slowly, a single, pristine droplet of pure water coalesced in the space above a ceramic bowl, falling with a soft, resonant plink. Sometimes my aim was completely off and I missed the bowl entirely, soaking the wood; other times, the droplet formed directly over my own knuckles.
"Oh ground beneath, rise in my grasp. Pebble."
A small clump of loose soil stirred within the pot, lifting roughly an inch into the air before immediately crumbling like wet sugar, scattering across the table. It was crude, incredibly fragile, and practically useless in a practical scenario—but it was undeniable progress.
It was an encouraging, intoxicating feeling. To a casual observer, these tiny magical displays were pathetic. Microscopic sparks and single drops of water. But to me, they were special. I was finally able to do functional spells! The fundamental fabric of reality was actively responding to my consciousness.
Although, I do notice something when I cast Water magic, it drains me more than any of the intermediate spells than usual... I guess Water isn't my affinity.
However, the method of pushing myself to failure carried a brutal, agonizing tax.
After casting just three simple spells in rapid succession, a sharp, throbbing migraine would instantly manifest right behind my eyes. If I pushed myself to five consecutive casts, my vision blurred into a smeared mess and my hands shook so violently I couldn't grip a pencil.
And if I dared to cross the threshold into seven...?
I would either instantly black out from cognitive exhaustion or violently vomit my lunch into a wooden bucket. Once, I pushed the envelope too far, blacking out entirely on the cold floorboards. When I finally came to, a thick trail of dried blood was caked beneath my nostrils, and the fingers of my right hand were spasming rhythmically as if they were possessed by an external current.
But the stubborn engineer inside me absolutely refused to quit. The data didn't lie; with every collapse, the recovery period became just a fraction shorter. Either way, it's nothing big, and it's probably because I'm still growing, or maybe my mana-muscle theory was true. The only way to find out is to wait until I ever cross the age of twenty and see if my general mana capacity is higher than that of an average mage. My father told me I'm not a Blessed One—like children who possess God's blessings—so yeah. That's my hypothesis.
***
As yet another week passed, a deep, profound irritation began to fester within me. I grew utterly, entirely exhausted from repeating the exact same long-winded, poetic incantations over and over again. My mouth began to physically ache, my throat parched and raw from the constant, rhythmic chanting required to prime the mana. It was a redundant, highly inefficient mechanical process.
One sweltering afternoon, I stood over the flowerpot, my patience finally splintering into a thousand jagged pieces.
"Oh Nature's light, awaken and enrich this soil..."
I cut myself off mid-sentence, the words catching in my dry throat. I grit my teeth, my jaw clenching with pure frustration.
"Bloom!" I shouted aggressively, abandoning the preamble entirely for the fifth time that afternoon.
The internal mana surged violently, reacting to the raw emotion. A beautiful flower instantly burst from the soil, lingering for a mere fraction of a second before violently shivering apart into a cloud of fine gray ash.
I collapsed instantly onto the floor, my forehead hitting the cool wooden boards with a dull, resonant thud. My breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, my tiny limbs trembling uncontrollably from the sheer explosive output. I could feel it, though.. deep within my chest, my core mana pool was genuinely expanding. Slowly, steadily, it was responding exactly like a physical muscle under high-intensity resistance training. Push it to absolute failure, and the biology responds.
But something about the underlying mechanics of the world still deeply bothered my scientific sensibilities.
"Why..." I groaned, my voice sounding incredibly raw and hollow in the quiet bedroom. "Why does it absolutely have to be spoken out loud? Why do I need to explicitly say the words at all?"
I winced as I swallowed, my throat feeling like it had been scraped raw with coarse sandpaper.
"I swear to god, if I have to shout the word 'bloom' one more time, I'm going to start coughing up petals..."
I rolled onto my back, staring blankly up at the wooden ceiling beams. Sweat clung uncomfortably to my brow, my tiny chest rising and falling in uneven, labored breaths. As the silence settled around me, my thoughts naturally drifted back to a specific memory—a conversation with Damian, the traveling mage who had healed my arm. I had been too small and overwhelmed to fully process his insights back then, but now, the memory flared with absolute clarity.
"Still a firm no, kid. It is one thing to simply mouth the words. It is an entirely different matter to actually mean them." He reached up, gently tapping the side of his silver spectacles. "Intellectual intent matters more than vocalization. Especially when you are telling reality exactly what to do."
Intellectual Intent matters... I thought.
I stared unblinkingly at the ceiling, that singular phrase echoing through the architecture of my skull like a resonant bronze bell.
Magic wasn't a linguistic miracle. It wasn't the literal vocal vibration of the word "bloom" that forced the plant cells to rapidly replicate and arrange themselves into a flower. The spoken word was nothing more than an external guide—a set of cognitive training wheels. It was a psychological crutch designed to help an unrefined mind construct a vivid mental image to direct the flow of mana.
But... what if I don't need the training wheels?
What if I already possess the absolute, unyielding intention? Instead of wasting energy shouting a poem into the open air, what if I focused 100% of that cognitive effort internally?
I hummed thoughtfully, the theory solidifying in my mind. Saying the incantation out loud helped shape the image, yes, but if I could bypass the vocalization entirely and focus exclusively on the raw, structural blueprint of the outcome within my own mind... wouldn't that be infinitely more efficient? No energy loss. No latency. Pure, unadulterated execution!
I sat up slowly, my breathing instantly stabilizing as a sudden, profound stillness washed over my entire body. The ambient noise of the farm seemed to completely fade into the background. I focused entirely on the memory of the flower. The exact cellular shape. The rapid flow of nutrients. The precise biological purpose.
Let's test this hypothesis.
A thrill of genuine, academic excitement rippled through me, vividly reminding me of my late nights spent analyzing chemical reactions back at the university labs. I took a deep, deep breath, closing my eyes.
Focus.. Do not speak... Just.. visualize it.
I reached deep down into my core, grabbing hold of the raw, warm mana pool. Instead of funneling it toward my throat, I guided it smoothly down the neural pathways of my arms, straight toward my fingertips. I didn't utter a sound. I didn't even open my mouth. I simply projected the absolute, unyielding image of life into the target.
Bloom..
The clay flowerpot beside me violently trembled.
A single, robust green sprout instantly shot out from the dark soil like a bullet. There was no grand incantation but there was only my silent, concentrated will and the fluid movement of energy.
I opened my eyes slowly, my heart stopping.
Perched beautifully at the very peak of the vibrant green stem sat a single, flawless, tiny blue petal, swaying gently in the quiet air of my bedroom.
My jaw hung open in absolute, stunned disbelief.
"...I did it."
I sat up completely straight, a cold, electric chill crawling straight up my spine—not from a sensation of fear, but from the sheer, staggering magnitude of the realization. I had just successfully cast functional magic... without uttering a single word. I had bypassed the very laws of standard mortal instruction.
"Holy cow," I whispered, my eyes burning with a sudden, frantic academic fire as I lunged for my notebook. "I need to write this down immediately!"
I FOOKIN' DID IT!
[End]