Astra gazed upon the infinite tapestry of stars within his inner domain, feeling the celestial mana wrap around him like a silent tide of power. The vastness of it stretched endlessly, the stars shimmering like fragments of forgotten divinity scattered across the void.
Beneath his feet, an ocean of shadows churned and sighed, endless, restless, alive. It mirrored the heavens above, its surface rippling like liquid night. Between that abyss and the starlit canopy hung a single dim sun suspended in the dark, his mana core, the heart of his power.
Below it, pulsing with quiet brilliance, was a lone star—his inner star. It throbbed in rhythm with his heartbeat, its light pure and unyielding. Every pulse sent waves of energy through him, weaving into his soul, threading through his veins until he could feel the harmony between flesh, spirit, and mana.
It had been five days since his meeting with Saint Valerius and Saint Satalus. Since then, Astra had chosen solitude. Aside from the occasional encounter or spar with Vesperion, he had isolated himself entirely, consumed by training. Days blurred into a relentless cycle, mana refinement, swordsmanship, physical drills, meditation, and study. He pushed his body and mind until they screamed for rest, until every muscle ached and every thought sharpened into focus. He needed this discipline. Too much had happened since the Spring Advent; he had to steady himself, to digest everything, to regain his rhythm before the storm to come.
He sat cross-legged upon the edge of his inner ocean, gazing into the reflection of his dim sun. Slowly, he reached for his mage coin. Its metallic surface glimmered faintly in his hand, then pulsed once, twice before sending a surge of mana coursing through his body.
Astra's breath hitched. His vision blurred, and for a heartbeat, the world fell away. Then, like ink seeping into water, runes flared across the darkness of his mind, glowing lines etching themselves into being.
[Quest Issued][Rank I Progress: 6/7][Rank II Qualifications Met][Forge Second Mana Core]
He stared at the hovering text, his heartbeat echoing in his ears. The runes felt ancient, alive radiating authority as if inscribed by the very will of the world. They pulsed in time with his mana, whispering insistently, urging him forward.
Astra exhaled through his nose, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "So… it's time."
But his confidence quickly gave way to curiosity. "How the hell do I actually form a second core?" he muttered. "Most make it sound like it just happens, a breakthrough, a moment of enlightenment, some divine spark of fate. Convenient, effortless."
He sank deeper into his inner world, willing the coin's network to unfold before him. Veins of luminous light branched outward in complex geometric patterns, alive and shifting. He began to scroll through the stream of information—endless lines of mana-script that shimmered like molten gold.
One passage caught his eye. He leaned closer, reading as the words reshaped themselves, aligning into meaning.
The Formation of the First Core
The formation of a first mana core is not an achievement, but a gift. It is an initiation, a child's first embrace by the mana that flows through all things.
It comes naturally, effortlessly. For most, between the ages of five and ten, their essence harmonizes with the ambient flow of the world. The process is pure, untainted by will or desire. Mana simply chooses to root itself within them.
It does not reward ambition. It does not recognize talent. It is as natural as breathing, as inevitable as sunrise. One day, a child wakes and feels it: the pulse, the warmth, the quiet knowing that they have become something more.
But what is freely given cannot easily be changed.
The first core is a perfect mirror of what one is—but to transcend it, to go beyond what was given, to forge a second core that is not a gift. That is an act of conquest. A rebellion against the limits of the self.
Astra's eyes lingered on that last line. A rebellion against the limits of the self.He smirked faintly. "Fitting."
He continued reading.
The Hierarchy of Cores
The strength of a mage is not defined merely by how many cores they possess, but by the quality of their foundation. Mana acknowledges four ranks of ascended cores, each representing the magnitude of one's spirit and potential:
Heroic — A core of perseverance and discipline. The will to endure.Fabled — A core of talent and distinction. The mark of those whose names are remembered.Legendary — A core of transcendence. The strength to alter the world's flow.Mythical — A core beyond destiny itself. The essence of those who bend fate by existing.
Heroic and Fabled cores grant no hidden blessings, but they form sturdy stepping stones for one's journey.A Legendary core may, through fortune or resonance, awaken a hidden trait—a subtle gift tied to the wielder's nature.A Mythical core, however, always bears such a secret. Each is unique: one mage may find their body reshaped by their mana, another may awaken eyes that perceive truths unseen. Some gifts are profound, others trivial; yet scholars have noted that the nature of the event that births the core often influences the form of its blessing.
Each of these four tiers is further divided into four gradations:
Low Tier — one who barely meets the threshold.Mid Tier — balanced and steady in growth.High Tier — a genius with refined command.Pinnacle Tier — a prodigy who stands above their peers.
The same structure extends to combat rankings. A high-tier combatant of any rank would naturally overpower a lower-tier equal; their mana denser, sharper, more vibrant.
While talent may ease the path, it is not the sole measure of worth. Mana judges by deed, not by birthright. Even those born with nothing may rise—should their actions prove worthy in its eyes.
Every mage begins equally: their first core, a Mythical Pinnacle in form but not in essence. It is the great equalizer, a token of fairness. For though all receive the same foundation, it is what one does with it that decides their fate.
Astra leaned back, eyes half-lidded as he processed the words. The faint glow of his inner sun reflected in his irises.
"So everyone starts at the top, but not really," he murmured. "The real climb begins after."
He knew only fragments of what lay beyond. The transition from Rank One to Two was said to be the simplest, a test of resolve and focus, nothing more. But the third… that was where most faltered. It required a ritual, something far deeper than meditation or training. The fourth? Even less was known, except that it marked the threshold between mortal and divine a stage reserved for demigods and legends.
He exhaled softly, gaze flicking back to the pulsing runes of his quest.
"Interesting," he muttered. "But none of this actually tells me how to become Rank Two."
He reached for the coin again, tracing the inscriptions with his thumb. The mana within it stirred, faintly responsive, almost sentient.
"Perhaps I have to figure it out alone without any real external help, some crap about walking your own steady path to receive the best benefits, it would explain a lot ," he said under his breath, voice calm but steady. "If mana rewards what's earned… then I'll make it see me."
Astra throughly guessed the correct reason to why it is never outright stated what needs to be done for one to advance to rank two.
The shadows beneath his feet stirred, rippling outward like dark water touched by light. His eyes hardened with resolve. Somewhere deep within him, his inner star pulsed, brighter than before.
Or perhaps its gate kept.
It was always the same, guidance on how to advance, but never what one needed to do. Rank theory, mana structure, cosmic philosophy: all of it described what a mage was or could become, but none of it explained the narrow passage between. The path to ascension remained frustratingly undefined, obscured beneath language that spoke in riddles and implication.
Every mage knew why.
The process was different for everyone. But more than that, the truth was guarded. The method to ascend was deliberately hidden behind mana-encrypted texts, closed-door lectures, private libraries, noble bloodlines, and shadowbound guilds.
Power was never simply earned.
Power was withheld.
Yet hoarding knowledge had never stopped the world from climbing. Even in secrecy, the teachings bled outward. Whispered between apprentices in candlelit halls. Scribbled into stolen scrolls. Passed from wandering ascetics to desperate hopefuls in hidden valleys.
The mana network held more than most could comprehend. Enough to guide one to Rank three, fragments of the four, subtle hints of the fifth. But true mastery, the kind of understanding that could shape an unbreakable core, never came from scholars. It did not belong to academies or noble sects.
The greatest method to forge a second core was accessible to everyone.
To anyone.
Even the path to Rank Seven, the threshold of a Seraph, was not barred by lineage or wealth. The knowledge existed. It was simply that most were too weak to use it.
The Tales of Atlas spoke of the first mortal to ascend in the Age of Gods.
A being who had no core but will.No backing but endurance.No destiny but the one he seized.
Pawn to Seraph.Mortal to Divine.
Some claimed the tale was allegory. A metaphor wrapped in reverence. They dismissed Atlas as a myth invented to inspire, a dream given voice.
But others those who follow his teachings and manas, point to the broken mountains in Alfheim where his fourth trial was said to have occurred. To the scorched plains of Dunya where a sky had once split open for his fifth. To the ancient scar carved across the Shaharan desert, where black glass stretched for miles, as if made by a flame not meant for mortal realms.
Reality remembered what history tried to forget.
Yet knowledge alone meant nothing without understanding. It was like placing the formula for celestial mechanics in the hands of a child who had never counted past ten. A mage could read a thousand scrolls and still know nothing of ascension. A prodigy could wield spells without ever touching upon truth.
Power was not simply held.
Power had to be grasped.Consolidated.Refined into something unbreakable.
Those who ruled the realms understood this. Which was why knowledge was layered in labyrinthine complexity, hidden behind metaphors, illusions, and half-truths.
Astra knew this. And yet, knowing did nothing to bridge the divide.
His thoughts drifted to The Tales of Atlas, Chapter Fifteen.
The moment Atlas ascended.The moment he shattered the wall between Rank One and Rank Two.The moment he became something more than mortal spirit and borrowed mana.
The moment he became a Squire of Mana.
The memory of the chapter unfolded quietly in Astra's mind.
.....
In the beginning of the world, when the winds carried the whispers of forgotten gods and the deserts knew the footsteps of immortals, there lay a vast, unyielding sea of golden sand. Dunes like mountains rose to kiss the heavens, and oases shimmered like jewels, bathed in the light of a relentless sun. This was the realm where life and death had once collided in a battle that shaped the very fabric of existence.
Here, where the air itself burned with ancient magic, the Great Devourer had long been set to guard the sacred heart of the desert—where the Goddess of Life and the God of Death had once waged their final war.
A mortal of all kinds, Atlas, who was neither man nor beast, but a legend born of ambition, journeyed across the realms. His coin—an artifact tied to the fate of all things—led him to this forsaken land, the heart of the desert, where gods had once fought. His heart, too, burned with a fire older than time: the hunger for power, for divinity.
The journey was long and treacherous. His feet sank deep into the shifting sands, and the heat of the sun pressed down upon him, searing his skin. But Atlas moved forward, step by step, knowing his destination lay at the heart of this endless wasteland.
The desert was a living thing, breathing with the winds and whispering secrets to those who dared listen. But as Atlas reached the center, the sands stirred violently. The winds howled, and from the earth itself, there rose a creature older than the world itself—a massive serpent-like being with scales that gleamed like molten gold.
The Great Devourer.
Its eyes, deep as the abyss, fixed upon Atlas as the air around him grew heavy with its presence. The earth trembled beneath the weight of the creature's enormous form, and a rumbling voice echoed through the very fabric of the desert.
"Mortal, why do you walk upon sacred ground, where gods once bled rivers of ichor?"
Atlas stood tall, unafraid. "I seek not to challenge the gods," he said, his voice steady. "I seek only to learn, to ascend, to seek the secrets that once shaped the world. Guide me to the heart of the battlefield, where Life and Death once clashed, and I will prove myself worthy."
The Devourer's great mouth opened, revealing teeth as long as trees, jagged and sharp. It bellowed, and the sand trembled.
"Many have come," it said, "and all have failed. Only those who can face themselves may pass."
With those words, the winds rose higher, and the desert itself began to shift. Atlas was swept into a sandstorm, the world around him turning into a vortex of blinding sand and suffocating darkness. He could no longer see, could no longer feel the ground beneath his feet. Only the roaring winds and the howling voice of the Devourer remained.
"Face yourself, mortal. Only then will you pass."
Through the swirling chaos, Atlas felt the very essence of his being unraveling. And then, as if summoned by the storm itself, a figure emerged from the darkness—a figure made of sand, twisting and shifting with every gust of wind. It was a reflection of Atlas, but darker, crueler, more desperate.
The figure grinned, its eyes glowing with the same fire that burned within Atlas's own soul. "So, you seek to become more than mortal, do you? To transcend your own limits?" The figure's voice was a mocking echo, a twisted reflection of his own thoughts.
Atlas's heart pounded as the storm intensified. He stepped forward, his feet sinking deep into the sand, his eyes locked on the reflection.
"Who are you?" Atlas demanded, his voice ringing with the weight of his journey.
The sandstorm howled around Atlas, a living thing, a force that sought to swallow him whole. But this was no ordinary sandstorm. It was the Winds of Doubt and the Sands of Loss, and they sought to consume more than just the body, they sought to devour the very soul. His heart beat like the drums of war, the air thick with the weight of his ambition. The sand figure before him shifted, its form more monstrous with each moment, growing taller, more twisted, more alive with the dark hunger that Atlas knew all too well.
The reflection, his reflection, grinned again, its eyes blazing with the same fire that burned within Atlas's chest. "So, you seek to transcend, mortal? To rise above the desires that churn within you?" The figure's voice was a mocking echo, a twisted reflection of his own thoughts. "You will never be enough. The more you chase, the more you will burn, until there is nothing left. You will lose everything, your soul, your ambition, your very reason for existing. The storm of doubt will swallow you whole, and the sands of loss will bury you."
Atlas's chest tightened, and for a moment, doubt seeped into his heart. The weight of his ambition had always pressed on him like a heavy stone. Could he truly rise above it? Was the fire within him nothing more than an endless, consuming blaze, destined to devour him? Would he lose himself on the way to his dreams, as so many others had?
The sand figure's lips curled into a cruel smile. "The flame that burns brightest burns the fastest. What do you think will be left of you once your fire is spent? You are but a fleeting ember, and your hunger will consume you, Atlas. You will burn, and all your striving will leave nothing but ashes."
The storm intensified, and Atlas felt the full weight of the winds of doubt tearing at his resolve. The sands pressed in from all sides, each grain whispering the failures of the past, the lost opportunities, all which for some reason he couldn't even remember, but the bitterness and sorrow remained. Each grain was a reminder of something he had left behind. Was this his destiny? To be devoured by the very hunger he sought to master?
He staggered, his strength wavering for the briefest moment, as the storm howled louder. The winds carried the whispers of his past mistakes, of the scars he had buried deep within himself. You are nothing, the winds seemed to say. You have lost too much. You will never be enough.
But then, amidst the suffocating storm, Atlas stood taller. His feet, though sinking into the sand, found steady ground. His eyes, once clouded with doubt, burned with renewed fire. "No," he said, his voice cutting through the wind, unwavering. Atlas has seemed to realize something "The strongest flame isn't the one that burns brightest, or the hottest. It is the one that burns steady, unyielding, even in the darkest storm."
The figure before him flickered, its monstrous form wavering in the fierce winds, but Atlas's voice grew louder, steadier. "The winds of doubt may howl, the sands of loss may threaten to bury me, but I will not be lost. I will not be devoured by the storm. I refuse to be consumed by my own fear. I will not let my past or my doubts define me. I will keep moving forward.Only by moving forward when I am afraid can I grow, that is why the act of walking while being afraid has a name....courage"
The sand figure recoiled, its mocking smile faltering as Atlas's words struck true. The winds of doubt began to weaken, the sands of loss slowly losing their grip on him. but they seemed to pick up and strengthen in a desperate effort as his reflection spoke and peered into his eyes "You cannot win," the reflection hissed, its voice trembled with the fear of something it could not understand. "You are nothing but a fleeting spark in the face of eternity. the failures of your past, the weight of your future, the margin of errors, the very possibility of even succeeding weigh on you and they will crush you, you shall falter you shall lose and you shall disappear why even try!"
"But it is the spark that keeps the darkness at bay," Atlas replied, his voice steady as stone. "The steady flame that endures, even in the night.." Atlas realized something once again "The failures of the past, the burden of the future are what make me...who I am...I cannot even remember my past...yet I can feel the lessons learned through the countless losses, I can feel the pressure of my future weighing in down and it propels me forward, for is one truly alive if they are constantly in the past or future, ?" Atlas didn't wait for the reflection to answer his rhetorical question
"No, I refuse to settle, I refuse to be blown away by doubt and buried in loss, I will stand steady in, front the harshest storms of doubt, I will climb above the deepest holes of loss, that is my perseverance!"
With those words, the winds that had once threatened to crush him began to recede. The storm, which had raged with such fury, began to settle. The sand figure crumbled, its form dissolving into the very sands that had birthed it. The desert itself seemed to exhale, the suffocating weight lifting from Atlas's shoulders.
"Every failure is a lesson, every moment of doubt is an opportunity" Atlas mumbled enlightened
His heart, which had once burned with a fevered hunger, now pulsed steady and sure—a quiet flame in the depths of his being.
As Atlas stood, his gaze still fixed on the horizon, he felt something stirring deep within him, something ancient and primal. The mana that flowed through the very air around him began to shift, as if acknowledging the transformation within his soul. The sands, once his tormentors, now seemed to retreat in awe, the desert itself recognizing the power he had unlocked.
The Devourer, its massive form coiled like a mountain of sand, watched in silence as the energy in the air around Atlas began to vibrate with an intensity that sent ripples through the very fabric of existence. The winds parted, and a strange stillness fell over the land.
Inside him, Atlas felt it—a powerful, searing heat rising from the depths of his being. His soul trembled, as if it had just been touched by the very hand of creation itself. Mana surged, coursing through his veins like a river of fire, its power filling him until it could no longer be contained.
Then, with a deafening crack, the air around him seemed to bend and pulse. The very ground beneath his feet shook as the mana, once a chaotic swirl of elements, now spiraled in perfect harmony. The energy within Atlas's body erupted, his form surrounded by a radiant blue light. It was as though the skies themselves opened in response to his will.
A brilliant light shot upward from his chest, piercing the heavens, while beneath his skin, something immense began to take shape, an entity of pure mana, a second core forming. It was not like any core Atlas had seen or heard of before. The first had been a symbol of his beginnings, a spark of his potential. But this new core, this mythical core, was a thing of legend, forged not through talent alone but through the very trials of his soul. It shimmered like molten gold, veins of light threading through it like threads of fate woven by the gods themselves.
The energy inside him reached its apex, and with a mighty roar that echoed across the desert, the core solidified, pure, untouchable, and burning with an intensity that rivaled the sun itself.
Atlas, feeling the weight of this new power within him, staggered for a moment, as though the sheer magnitude of the core was too great to bear. But his body, now attuned to this cosmic force, embraced it fully. His aura flared, and for a moment, the winds parted, as if even the desert itself had to step aside for the monumental shift taking place.
The mana coin also transformed and shimmered, now no longer a pawn of mana but a squire of mana. Atlas is now rank two.
"Only through self confrontation can one move forward unhindered" Atlas spoke
The Devourer watched with awe, its ancient eyes wide, reflecting the radiant light of Atlas's transformation. The massive creature, once an embodiment of doubt and darkness, now seemed to bow its head in respect, acknowledging the monumental achievement that Atlas had attained. The sands around them rippled with the power of the newly formed core, the air itself humming with the resonance of pure mana.
The Devourer spoke, its voice filled with awe and admiration. "You have done what many before you could not. You have faced yourself and emerged victorious. No mortal has ever stood where you stand now..to begin the ascension.....intriguing "
Atlas, now fully attuned to the power coursing through him, looked up, his gaze steady and determined. The Devourer, humbled by the power before it, stretched its vast form across the sands. "Climb upon my back, Atlas. You have earned your place. I will carry you to the heart of the battlefield, where your true journey begins. Your second core, forged from your very soul, will guide you through the trials yet to come."
With a steady hand, Atlas gripped the Devourer's massive scales and climbed onto its back, feeling the hum of magic beneath him. The great sandworm coiled beneath him, its body now a bridge between Atlas and the legendary battlefield that awaited him..
.....
Astra lay back on the soft pillows of his bed, the luxurious silks of the sheets brushing against his skin. The comfort of House Shadow's estate surrounded him, yet it felt strangely distant, like a hollow shell. The silence of his room was broken only by the soft, steady hum of mana in the air, and the occasional crackle of energy from the coin resting against his chest.
His eyes were closed as he connected with the mana network through the coin, feeling the subtle flow of information reach his mind. The ancient text of the Tales of Atlas unfolded before him like a living tapestry, its words vibrant and detailed as they appeared in his mind. Astra had long since become accustomed to reading through the network this way, but tonight, something felt different. Something about this chapter...
The passage flowed like a current through his thoughts: Atlas, alone in a darkened chamber, confronting the shadowy specter of his own doubts. The Devourer, a twisted reflection of Atlas's inner fears, stood before him, an embodiment of everything he wished to forget. The battle wasn't one of raw power but of will, a battle to face what lay hidden beneath the surface. As Atlas overcame his own fears and faced his shadow, his mana core transformed, a second core born from his newfound strength.
Astra's chest tightened, One of the requirements was self-confrontation.
He had always known that his path would demand sacrifice and introspection, but the meaning of those words struck him more deeply than he anticipated. To face one's own darkness, not to defeat it, but to understand it. It was a trial Atlas had faced, and now, it seemed, it was one that would come to define Astra's own journey.
His thumb absently traced the edge of his coin, the smooth surface of the mana-infused artifact cool against his skin. He had never considered the shadows within himself the way Atlas had. To him, the darkness was something to be avoided, something to be used but never acknowledged. And yet, here he was, reading about Atlas's journey, realizing that the true test wasn't just about overcoming external obstacles, it was about confronting the very parts of oneself that one feared the most.
Astra inhaled deeply, his breath steadying as he allowed himself a moment of reflection. His life had been a series of struggles, each one a step further from the boy who had grown up in the depths of Duskfall, where survival meant abandoning any sense of innocence. His mother's death, the loss of friends to the streets, the betrayals he had suffered, all of it had shaped him into someone cold, calculating, and detached. He had buried his pain, his fears, his doubts beneath layers of ambition and power. But now, as he lay in the comfort of House Shadow's estate, the weight of it all was beginning to surface.
Could it be that his next step wasn't about rising higher, but confronting what had always lurked beneath the surface of his soul?
Astra opened his eyes, gazing at the shadows that stretched across the room. The dim light from the candle flickered, casting fleeting shapes against the walls. For a moment, he could almost see it, his own shadow, not just on the floor, but standing beside him, staring back with eyes that reflected every choice, every regret, every part of himself that he had long ago buried.
Beating your shadow counts as a form of this, I wonder if thats why the founders of house shadow and most other noble houses have rites similar to this.... astra made the connection showing just how much of an effect the tales of atlas have on this world.
Astra shuddered, realizing that the shadow was not something to be cast away. It was a part of him, and only by understanding it could he truly grow. Just as Atlas had forged a mythical core by facing his deepest fears, Astra, too, needed to confront the darkness that had shaped him into the man he was today.
Closing his eyes again, he exhaled slowly, the soft hum of mana in the air grounding him. This wasn't just a lesson from Atlas's story. This was his own path unfolding before him, a path that would force him to confront not just the world around him, but the deepest parts of himself.
In that moment, Astra understood: to rise, to truly rise beyond his past, he had to face it. The shadows would not fade by simply avoiding them. He had to look them in the eye, embrace them, and in doing so, transform them into the strength he sought.
Self-confrontation.
It was no longer a distant concept, but the very core of what would define him. He didn't need to be afraid of the dark. He needed to understand it, control it, and then, like Atlas, forge something greater from it.
Astra sighed, as a strange sense of peace washed over him. The journey ahead would not be easy, but for the first time, he felt ready. The future was no longer an endless stretch of uncertainty it was something that he could shape.