Meanwhile, on the other side of the palace, Celestia sat at Adrian's bedside, her arms folded and her lips pressed into a thin line. Adrian avoided her gaze, fiddling with the blanket like a guilty child caught sneaking sweets.
"Do you realize what you did?" her voice came, calm but sharp as a dagger.
Adrian flinched. "…I was just trying—"
"Trying?" Celestia cut him off, leaning forward. "You nearly tore yourself apart!"
Her blue eyes glistened—not with anger, but with something far worse: fear. "Do you know what it feels like, Adrian? To walk into a room and see your child unconscious on the floor, blood on his face?"
Adrian shrank under her gaze. His chest tightened. He had died once before in his past life—he knew what death felt like. He hadn't thought about how terrifying it must've been for her.
"…I'm sorry, Mother," he whispered.
Celestia sighed, running a hand over her face. Then she cupped his cheek, her thumb brushing gently across his skin. "I don't care if you're a genius, if you're destined for greatness, or whatever nonsense the scholars will one day whisper. To me, you're just my son. And I won't lose you."
Adrian's throat tightened. He wanted to argue, to tell her he needed strength, that he couldn't waste time. But seeing her eyes—wet with unspoken tears—he could only nod.
"…Okay."
Celestia straightened, finally letting out a breath. "From now on, no more reckless experiments. If you want to learn, you'll do it the safe way. The library. Books. Knowledge first. Nothing else."
Adrian blinked. "The library?"
"Yes." She narrowed her eyes. "But only what I allow you to read. Understood?"
Adrian hesitated—then gave a small smile. "Understood."
Celestia raised a brow at his too-innocent tone. "…Adrian."
"Yes, Mother?" he asked, voice all sugar.
She sighed, shaking her head. "I should've known you'd be trouble the moment you were born."
And despite herself, she smiled.
The scent of parchment and dust clung to the air, heavy but strangely comforting. The library was quiet—too quiet. My small steps echoed against the marble floor as if the shelves themselves were judging me.
Mom's words replayed in my head.
"No more practicing mana. You'll rest. You'll read. Only what I approve."
She had said it so firmly, her voice half anger, half fear. I'd nodded obediently, but inside I had already decided otherwise. She should know better—knowledge is more dangerous than mana if used right.
I dragged a stool across the floor, climbing to reach the thicker books stacked high. The stool wobbled under my weight, but my small hands gripped the shelf tightly. At three years old, I was still tiny, but mentally? I was much older, and this world's library was my playground.
The title of the first book caught my eye.
"Introduction to Basic Mana Circuits."
I smirked. Basic? Perfect.
Opening it carefully, my eyes scanned the old ink. The words glowed faintly, reacting to the presence of mana within me. Almost like the book itself knew I wasn't just another curious toddler.
"Mana flows like water. It requires vessels to contain it, paths to guide it, and gates to regulate it."
My fingers traced the diagrams—lines branching across the sketch of a human body, points glowing at the chest, head, and limbs. Nodes. Circuits. Channels.
"So that's how it works here…" I muttered under my breath.
In my past life, I had read about mana systems, but this one was structured differently. Here, mana wasn't just a tool; it was alive. The book explained how even the smallest imbalance could overload a child's body.
Which explained the nosebleed. And the blackout.
"Figures. I nearly fried my circuits." I whispered, closing the book halfway.
Still, curiosity burned inside me. I moved to another shelf, dragging another thick tome.
"The History of the Four Great Elements."
The cover shimmered faintly with enchanted ink, and when I flipped it open, an illustration of fire, water, earth, and wind leapt from the page, glowing softly.
Fire was destruction and warmth.
Water was healing and adaptation.
Earth was endurance and creation.
Wind was freedom and speed.
The text was clear—everyone was born with an affinity, but only those with strong mana veins could manipulate it well. I bit my lip, remembering Kael's reaction when he saw my mana. Shocked. Almost… afraid.
Did I really have that much?
I shook my head. Dwelling on that wouldn't help. Instead, I flipped faster, devouring the knowledge.
Hours slipped by. My legs dangled off the stool, books piling on the table in front of me:
"Foundations of Enchantments."
"The Royal Bloodlines and Their Mana Traits."
"Bestiary of the Northern Mountains."
Each page filled in the blanks of this world. How enchantments needed precise symbols drawn with mana ink, how royal families inherited unique traits, how monsters were born from corrupted mana.
The more I read, the more my mind spun. This world wasn't just magic—it was layered, complicated, dangerous.
I leaned back, letting out a quiet sigh. "No wonder they don't want me touching this stuff yet. Even reading it feels heavy."
But even so, I couldn't stop. I wouldn't stop.
A sudden creak at the door made my heart jump. I quickly shoved the nearest book closed and pretended to be flipping through something light—"Children's Tales of the First Heroes."
The footsteps grew closer, echoing slowly down the marble floor. My heart thudded. If Mom saw me buried in the advanced sections, I'd be dead.
The steps stopped right behind me.
"Your Highness."
I stiffened. It wasn't Mom. The voice was calm, even respectful, though hushed as if not to disturb the silence of the library.
Kael stepped in, his robes brushing the floor, his eyes sharp yet… amused. His gaze swept over the table, where thick tomes were stacked far higher than a three-year-old should ever reach.
For a long moment, he just stared. Then his lips curved faintly upward. "So this is where you've been hiding."
I pressed my palms against the open book, half tempted to slam it shut. "I was… just reading."
His eyebrow arched. "'Just reading,' Your Highness? These are not fairy tales. This—" He lifted one tome with a single finger. "—is a scholar's reference guide on mana veins and elemental affinities. Not something a boy your age should even be able to read."
I shrank under his gaze but didn't look away. "…I understand some of it."
Kael studied me, and instead of scolding, he crouched low so our eyes met. His tone softened, almost carrying a hint of curiosity.
"You are full of surprises, Your Highness. Most children cry for sweets or toys, yet you chase secrets older than the empire itself."
Heat crawled up my neck, though I kept my expression steady. "…Because I don't have time to waste."
For a moment, silence. Then Kael chuckled, low and quiet, shaking his head. "Spoken like a man, not a child." He set the book back down and rested a hand lightly on the table.
"Still… knowledge can burn brighter than fire, if taken in recklessly. You've already learned that the hard way." His eyes flickered knowingly toward me, recalling my earlier collapse.
I bit my lip, nodding reluctantly.
Kael straightened. "If you must read, then read. But do so as if wielding a sword—with care. And if you stumble…" His eyes gleamed faintly. "…you may call on me, Your Highness."
He turned toward the exit, cloak swaying. But before leaving, he paused and glanced back, almost conspiratorial.
"As for Her Majesty… perhaps she doesn't need to know exactly how many shelves you've touched today."
My eyes widened. "…You're not going to tell her?"
Kael smirked. "That depends. Will Your Highness promise me you won't collapse again?"
I sat straighter, nodding furiously. "I promise."
"Good." With that, he left, his footsteps fading into silence.
Left alone, I stared at the pile of books, heart racing. It wasn't just about knowledge anymore. I wasn't just some kid with mana—I was their prince. And every step I took, every secret I uncovered… would ripple far wider than I could imagine.
I touched the page again, whispering under my breath.
"Then I'll read as a prince should… and fight as one too."