When the palace finally slept—when the guards' armor no longer clinked down the halls, when the maids whispered their last gossip and the candles burned out—I began.
I wasn't Adrian the toddler then. I was me. The me who remembered another life. The me who refused to waste this second chance.
I sat cross-legged on the cold floor, the moonlight cutting across my small frame. My hands rested on my knees, and I inhaled deeply.
The book had described it so simply: Focus inward. Draw the river out. Shape it with intent.
Simple? No. Torture.
Every night I searched inside myself, and every night it was like scraping against stone. But after days of failing—of nearly falling asleep mid-meditation—I had finally felt it.
A pulse.
A faint thrum that wasn't heartbeat, wasn't breath. Something deeper.
Now I hunted for that pulse again.
I pressed inward. Concentrated until my head felt tight, until my childish body trembled under the strain. And then—there it was.
Thrum.
Warm. Golden.
My fingers twitched as sparks of light gathered at my palm. They flickered like tiny fireflies, weaving between my small fingers.
I grinned despite the sweat dripping down my forehead.
"I found you again."
The light fizzled out too quickly, but it was progress. More than progress—it was proof.
I tried again. And again.
Sometimes it ended in nothing, leaving me sprawled on the floor, panting. Other times I could keep the sparks dancing for seconds, even long enough to draw small patterns in the air before they collapsed.
But always, exhaustion came first. My body simply wasn't ready.
That didn't matter.
I'd push it. Slowly. Carefully. Secretly.
Because no one could know.
If Mother or Father saw, they'd smother me in lessons, restrictions, expectations. They'd try to "guide" me before I even understood myself.
But this was mine. My secret river.
A week passed like this. My room had grown… suspiciously messy. A singed scrap of curtain hidden under my bed. A cracked wooden toy where a spark had landed wrong.
I cleaned what I could. Hid the rest.
One night, I managed to hold the light for almost a full minute. My whole body shook, my vision swam, but I couldn't let go.
The golden threads spun around my palm like a tiny sun.
For a moment, I felt powerful.
Not as a child. Not as a helpless prince. But as someone who had lived, died, and been reborn into a world of mana and beasts.
Finally, the light blinked out, leaving me gasping, chest heaving.
I collapsed onto my bed, arms trembling.
But my lips curved into a grin.
I was getting stronger.
Night after night, I would chase this light until I could hold it, shape it, become it.
And no one—not even my parents—would know until I decided to show them.
Nights became my true kingdom.
By day, I was the doted-on three-year-old prince. My cheeks were pinched, my food was cut too small, and every attempt to act beyond my years was brushed off as "cute."
But when the palace fell silent—when even the guards outside my door nodded off and the moon cast its pale glow across my room—I stopped being "Adrian the toddler."
I became me.
The me who remembered another life. The me who refused to waste this second chance.
I sat cross-legged on the floor, the cold stone biting into my small legs. My breathing slowed, my childish chest rising and falling steadily.
The book from the library echoed in my head:
Mana is the river within. The body is the vessel. Draw it forth with will, guide it with focus.
Simple words. But simple words often hide cruel truths.
I had been trying for weeks. At first, nothing. Only frustration. Only exhaustion. But then, one night, something had stirred.
A pulse.
Not my heart. Not my lungs. Something deeper.
Now I hunted for that pulse every night.
I clenched my fists and pressed inward, as if my mind could reach into my chest and grab that warmth. My head throbbed, my tiny body trembled… and then—
Thrum.
There it was.
A faint spark of golden warmth trickled into my palm. My eyes widened as specks of light bloomed between my fingers like fireflies escaping a jar.
I nearly laughed, but clenched my teeth instead. If I broke concentration now, it would vanish.
"Come on… just a little more…"
The lights flickered, then fizzled out.
I collapsed backward, breathing hard. Sweat slicked my forehead, my arms felt heavy. My body wasn't ready for this.
But my lips curved upward anyway.
I'd done it again.
Progress was slow. Painfully slow. Some nights, I failed completely. Some nights, I only managed a brief spark.
But each time, it became easier to find the pulse. The river.
And once I had that… I began to experiment.
The first experiment was with a toy sword. A clumsy wooden thing with chipped paint, something a servant had given me to "play knight."
I pressed my palm to the blade. Focused. Drew on that golden warmth.
At first, nothing. Then—
Thrum.
The wood hummed faintly beneath my hand.
I jerked back. The toy was glowing—faint, but enough to cast a pale shimmer against the wall.
My heart pounded. I picked it up, waved it. The glow lingered for a few seconds, then vanished.
I laughed quietly to myself. "So this is enchanting, huh? Crude, but… not bad for a three-year-old."
Of course, the sword cracked in half the next day when I pressed too much mana into it. I hid the broken pieces under my bed before anyone noticed.
Lesson learned: too much mana overloads the vessel.
Another night, I tried water.
A small bowl sat on the floor. I cupped my hands above it, letting sparks drip into the surface like drops of sunlight.
The water rippled. Warmed. Steam rose faintly.
I touched it—it was warmer than before.
I grinned.
"Mana conduction. I could boil water with this. Or freeze it, if I shape it right."
The thought of cooking my own food with mana amused me. A three-year-old sneaking into the kitchen at night to make tea with glowing hands. Ridiculous—but possible.
Then came the eyes.
One night, while staring into the mirror above my dresser, I felt the pulse surge stronger than usual.
I pressed it upward—into my head, my eyes.
The mirror shimmered. My reflection stared back, but not quite the same.
Blue eyes… laced with streaks of gold.
My breath caught. The sight was surreal, otherworldly.
For a brief second, I saw not just the child I was—but the man I had been, staring back at me through a boy's face.
Then the glow faded, leaving only blue again.
I stumbled back from the mirror, clutching my chest.
"…So it's true. The bloodline's power is real."
It wasn't just sparks anymore. Not just toys and water. It was seeping into me. Into who I was.
But every discovery came with risk.
The singed edge of a curtain hidden beneath my bed. A wooden toy with blackened marks where sparks had misfired.
Evidence.
I cleaned what I could. Hid the rest.
If Mother or Father ever saw, they'd smother me in lessons and restrictions. They'd treat me not as a child, but as a weapon to polish.
And I wasn't ready for that. Not yet.
This power—this secret river—was mine. Mine to explore. Mine to shape.
Weeks turned to months. My body grew a little stronger, my sparks lasted a little longer.
Sometimes I could make the glow dance for almost a full minute. Sometimes I could trace lines of light across the air, like painting constellations with my fingertip.
One night, I even managed to form a tiny sphere of golden flame. It hovered in my palm for three glorious seconds before exploding in a harmless puff of smoke.
I coughed, eyes watering, waving away the haze.
"Okay. Maybe not indoors."
But I laughed all the same.
Despite the exhaustion, the failures, the childish weakness of my vessel, I refused to stop.
Because every spark reminded me of why I was here.
I had been given a second chance.
And I would not waste it.
Not as the pampered prince. Not as the naive child.
But as Adrian—the boy who held an entire lifetime's worth of determination in his tiny hands.
Night after night, I would chase this light.
Until it became mine.
Until the world itself would see what I had been building in secret.