Aster's shack wasn't all that shabby. Yes, it was run down and on the brink of collapse, but at least it had the necessities.
A small fire pit at its centre that served as a makeshift kitchen, a three-legged table that threatened to topple over at any moment, and a small flower pot with a single tulip.
He walked towards the table. A crusty old notebook was placed on top, with a messy quill and ink by the side, and a small dagger.
Using all the strength his fragile body could muster, he pulled a stone towards the table and sat down.
He picked up the notebook and glanced through its content—messy handwriting that explored detailed yet befuddled theories of something and nothing in particular.
Everything was obviously put down by Aster himself.
The name 'Asterion' was written boldly and circled on the first page.
Most of the journal's contents contained theories of Aster's origin, something he had always tried to figure out for himself.
They were things he was sure of and things he wasn't.
Firstly, he knew he had been born. He didn't know where, but he had theorised when.
'During the fall of curses.'
Fifteen years ago, a vile race of atrocities had fallen. They had been called curses.
Aster had never met one, as they were now believed to be extinct, but he had theorised that the year they fell was the same year he had come into existence.
He had heard stories.
They were cruel and abominable, bloodlusted creatures with human appearance.
They burnt villages and laid siege to capitals.
Their terror was so great that, years after their doom, the world still shivered at their names.
And yet—
they were gone.
He never really could understand it.
He couldn't wrap his head around how an entire race known for their remarkable strength could fall.
But yet…
they did.
He continued to flip through the pages, more complex theories defining page after page—the similarities he had with others and then the differences, his view on matters and the view of society.
All this documentation was what made him realise that he was an anomaly in more ways than one.
He didn't function on the world's most basic principle—
mana.
Every human, no matter the town, the city,
or the continent, possessed something called a mana core.
A compressed energy source that connected them with the natural affinities of the world.
It granted them the ability to manipulate these affinities and served as an adapter between them and the world's natural mana.
Most awakened extraordinary affinities and ventured into becoming adventurers, while others whose awakenings weren't as grand decided to live modestly.
Aster didn't have a mana core.
He couldn't even perceive the fundamental yet mystical law.
He had obviously tried.
Normal people awakened their cores and their natural affinity from the age range of seven to ten.
Late bloomers from the range of eleven to thirteen.
Aster was fifteen.
He had tried every rumoured technique.
Meditation—he had done that.
Intense physical training—he had done that too.
None helped with the problem, but rather made his mind sharper for a teenager and his body more tenacious than it looked.
But when it came to mana—
it was like his body actively rejected it.
He had finally flipped to a blank page, picked the quill that had already been dipped in ink, and began to write.
This page's entry.
'The fourth call of Asterion.'
Shriek.
With a vile shriek, a small and abominable creature took its last breath and died.
A small dagger plunged deep into its sponge-like flesh.
Aster bent down and retrieved his dagger, wiping the dark blood with the corners of his rags.
His breathing was frantic, and his body was covered in dirt.
The grotesque creature he had slain was one of the very few mana beasts he could actually challenge without losing his life.
But rather than be happy, Aster's expression was dark as he stared down south.
The mana beasts he had killed were a very weak and rare type to find directly on the outskirts of the town.
Someone had to venture far south before they could even encounter one, and yet he had come across two and slain one.
They were migrating.
And migrating mana beasts always brought a horde.
He didn't know how long it would take, but unless an adventuring party travelled far south and killed the abomination that caused the migration—
then the city would fall.
Maybe today, or tomorrow, or in a week's time—
but it eventually would.
And Aster would fall with it.
He groaned and pulled at his hair.
Why couldn't life be simple for once?
He had to find a way to tell the town's guild, if they didn't already know.
He bent down and began to carve out the spongy meat of the dead atrocity.
Yes, there were urgent things he had to attend to.
But for now—
The most pressing matter was dinner.