After finishing my exercise and yoga meditation, I sat in a lotus position atop the watchtower of the Star Fort. Practicing box breathing—six years after our arrival—I finally felt it: a presence. I hadn't sensed since the moment of my creation. It was everywhere, a sudden pressure that made my eyes snap open instinctively. I tried to pull it back, to anchor it, but it vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
I clenched my hands, which held tiny metal fragments of different elements: gravity, water, lightning, and three others I had yet to identify. I had stolen these shards, each no larger than a tooth, from the storage area a year ago in a desperate attempt to feel mana.
For six years, I had used every bit of my Earth-side meditation knowledge, combined with my biological overclock, to seek this "presence." My heart dropped when it vanished, reminding me of a conversation I had with my mother on my second birthday. After a year of fruitless effort, I had asked her when I would finally feel mana.
She explained that approximately fifty percent of the population first senses environmental mana between the ages of eight and nine, while thirty percent feel it between ten and twelve. A rare ten percent sense it before age eight, and the remaining few after sixteen. She warned me that if one only begins to feel mana after sixteen, the chance of forming a mana core is incredibly slim. The common consensus is that one must sense mana until it no longer feels foreign; only then are you ready to attempt forming a core—a process that still only has a forty percent success rate.
I also conferred with Master Arka, but he was often too busy with other matters at the Star Fort to spend much time with me. He confirmed my mother's words, noting that he himself lacked a core; he had mastered martial arts but never awakened the power of spirit, which was why he dedicated himself to knowledge instead. I remembered the serious look he gave me when he said, "The power of spirit is different. Theoretically, everyone has it. In academic circles, it is said that while spirit is hard to enter but has a linear path of advancement, magic is easy to enter but hard to master. Remember: do not mistake one for being 'easier' than the other. Only those on the path know the true difficulties."
He explained that while magic is largely standardized, Spirit is highly personalized. Magic may be identical between two people, but the Power of Spirit is unique to the individual, even if the outward effects appear the same. For some reason, those words remained engraved in my mind.
I began to pack my "treasures" while stuffing small pieces of beast meat—shaped like chocolate toffee and coated in a honey-like substance from worm creatures and a corn-syrup-like bark resin called moba—into my mouth to maintain my calories.
I prepared to head down. I ran my hand along the wall to find one of the hidden compartments I had built during the fort's repairs. Finding the loose brick, I pulled out a small box the size of a matchbox—also stolen—where I stored my mana-sealing treasures.
After replacing the brick tightly, I thought back to the team of mages who had fortified this place; the memory still gave me goosebumps. We had hired them with our own funds to rebuild and repair the necessary facilities and fortifications of the fort, as well as for the processing and storage of monster and beast parts. According to my father, they weren't as skilled as the Royal or Ducal teams, but they were efficient. They had completed the entire Star Fort in just eight days, according to the contract.
Since the outer walls were in good condition, they focused on using spells to dig the ditch and glacis and utilized golems for heavy lifting. They built the citadel and drew runes for fresh water sources that drew from environmental mana. For the blacksmiths, they installed two rune furnaces that ran on environmental mana but used fire mana stones to amplify the heat. They etched many runes throughout the fort, some powered by general mana stones and others by specific elemental ones. I tried to speak with them, but they looked through me, dismissing me as just another noble brat who saw the world as his footstool.
As I descended from the watchtower, I went to our house to study. The true scale of our five-year transformation hit me. I looked around the renovated fort.
Porters strained beneath crates of monster materials. Blacksmith forges roared, their heat washing over passersby as sparks danced in the air. The scent of sweat, cooked meat, and alchemical reagents blended together.
On the central parade ground, some soldiers practiced individual combat with blunted spears, their boots kicking up thick clouds of dust. Others stood in disciplined lines, their armor reflecting the harsh forge light. Our forces had grown to five hundred, including the original veterans; most of the new recruits hailed from the villages, cities, and lawless lands we had cleared of monsters.
Near the gates, the atmosphere shifted. The merchants from the Lowlands—or the Law-less Land, as the locals called it—had set up a chaotic bazaar. They were easy to spot: colorful silks, weathered faces, and eyes that never stopped moving. They sold everything from sun-shriveled fruits to "corn-syrup" moba resin and clay jugs of potent, dark alcohol that smelled like fermented grain and woodsmoke.
I stopped for a moment to watch a merchant load his wagon. He was using one of those spatial storage boxes. From the outside, it looked like a standard crate, but I watched as he slid a large number of monster parts into it with the ease of a man putting a sword into a scabbard. The runes etched into the flickered a faint, stabilizing blue—a reminder that in this fort, even the mundane act of storage was an act of magic.
The Star Fort was no longer just a ruin; it had become a living, breathing machine of war and commerce.
I settled into my study nook, the wooden desk scarred by my own restless carvings. Before me lay a heavy, leather-bound tome on Aetheric Theory, but my mind was miles away, still vibrating with that vanished pressure.
Fifty percent by age nine, I thought, my fingers tracing the edge of a page without reading a single word. I'm seven. If I'm in that lucky ten percent, why did it feel like catching smoke with my bare hands? I stared at a diagram of a standard mana channel. It looked so clean, so mathematical. But Master Arka's words looped in my head like a broken record: Magic is easy to enter; Spirit is difficult. Is that why I'm struggling? I leaned back, my chair creaking in the silence.
Back on Earth, meditation was about letting go. Here, it feels like I'm trying to tune a radio to a frequency that doesn't want to be found. If I'm using my biological overclock to force the connection, am I doing it wrong? Am I trying to use a master key on a lock that requires a unique shape? I looked at my reflection in the dark window glass.
I am a "noble brat" to the mages, a "prodigy" to my family, and a "ghost" to the mana. If I don't feel it again—if that was just a fluke from the shards—I'm just a kid playing with stolen rocks in a fancy fort. The thought of failing, of being one of the "remaining few" who never forms a core, sent a cold shiver down my spine. I didn't get a second life just to be a spectator.
If Spirit is personalized, then I need to stop looking for the mana everyone else sees. I need to find the mana that responds to me. I pulled the book closer, but I wasn't looking for spells anymore. I was looking for the gaps between the lines—the things the "efficient" mages were too arrogant to notice.
The heavy door didn't creak; it thudded, a sound my sonar had already mapped to Master Arka's uneven gait. I didn't look up from the tome, but I could smell the sharp, medicinal scent of dried moba resin and old parchment that always followed him. "You're reading that book again, Zaemon," Arka said, his voice a dry rasp. He didn't walk to the desk; he leaned against the doorframe, his walking staff tapping a rhythmic, mocking beat against the stone floor. "You've been staring at it for twenty-two minutes." I felt a spike of irritation.
My firewall caught the surge of adrenaline before it could reach my face, keeping my expression flat and boyish. "I'm trying to understand the flow, Master. The book says it's constant, like a river." "The book is a lie," Arka snapped, moving into the room. He reached out with his staff and tapped the scarred wood of my desk, right over one of my carvings. "Books are written by mages who want the world to be as orderly as their gardens. But you... you're not looking for a river. You're looking for a storm."
He leaned down, his clouded eyes uncomfortably close to mine. "I saw you on the way to the watchtower this morning," he whispered. "I think you sensed when the pressure shifted. You think you 'felt' mana, don't you?" My heart hammered—a chaotic thrum I couldn't hide from someone this close. I stayed silent.
"You didn't feel mana, boy. "You felt the Aetheric Backlash of the Star Fort's primary furnace," Arka said, a cold smile touching his lips. "The mages we hired were 'efficient,' as your father puts it. But efficiency in magic often means cutting corners on the grounding runes. Every few days, the excess energy 'bleeds' out of the stones. Most people are too dull to feel it. But you..." He straightened up, his gaze turning clinical. "You're trying to 'force' a connection to a leaking pipe. If you keep trying to anchor that 'pressure' into your undeveloped core, you won't awaken. You'll internally combust. Your body isn't ready for a raw surge."
He paused, his tone shifting. "Your father ordered that you prepare yourself; in half an hour, you must display your skills in front of the others. Two boars will be your opponents." Master Arka left, a flicker of worry finally visible in his eyes. I took a deep breath and calmed my mind. So, the day has finally come.
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