It was a perfectly normal day at the Academy.
The training room was quiet, except for the faint hum of mana swirling in the air.
In the center of the floor, Aslan sat cross-legged in a yoga pose, eyes half-closed, his body surrounded by a faint blue glow.
Inner peace…
Inner peace…
…Inner cheese?
His brows twitched.
"This is annoying…" he muttered under his breath, forcing himself to hold the posture.
For a moment, the mana danced perfectly along his skin—calm, steady, beautiful.
And then… it vanished.
"—Tch. Damn it. I got distracted again," Aslan groaned, ruffling his hair.
"Why can't I do this properly?"
Across the room, the rhythmic clang-clang of steel echoed.
Eiren was practicing with a wooden training dummy, his movements swift and precise.
Noticing Aslan's struggle, he stopped mid-swing and glanced over.
"You need to focus, Aslan."
"I am focusing!" Aslan shot back. "I've already mastered aura sword, so why the hell can't I control aura and mana together? The moment I use aura, my mana just—" he snapped his fingers "—vanishes in seconds."
Eiren wiped his forehead with a towel, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.
"Because you're forcing them to work together. Mana and aura aren't tools—they're extensions of yourself. You have to let them flow, not wrestle them into place."
He paused, studying Aslan carefully.
"If I'm being honest… there's no one in history who's been both a mage and a swordmaster."
""Whaaat?" Aslan's eyes widened in shock.
"You didn't know that?" Eiren looked genuinely surprised, then shook his head.
"So… there's no technique to use both?"
"None."
"But why? Why can't there be both?" Aslan leaned forward, his tone sharp with curiosity.
Eiren's gaze stayed locked on him.
"You know, Aslan… in the entire empire, only about fifteen percent of people awaken mana, and around twenty percent awaken aura. The rest live without either. And no one—no one—has ever been able to use both at the same time."
"And why is that?"
"Because mana and aura consume each other. They're natural opposites. The moment you try to use both… they fight." Eiren's gaze stayed steady. "If you want to use both, Aslan, you'll have to find the solution yourself."
Aslan gave him a flat look. "That's nice advice, oh wise master. Too bad my mana doesn't listen to pep talks."
Eiren chuckled. "Then maybe it's not your mana that needs convincing."
Aslan frowned, unsure if Eiren was teasing or being profound. "…You're annoying."
Eiren tilted his head with a grin. "Says the guy who was meditating about cheese."
"I WASN'T—!"
Eiren waved a hand, cutting him off. "Anyway… listen carefully. Mana and aura consume each other. If you want to use both, you'll need a solution—fast. Otherwise… it will kill you."
"I'll get going," Eiren said, leaving the training room.
Aslan exhaled slowly, closing his eyes and settling back into position.
With Aura, you could sense the world around you—feel it. Every little detail, every flow, every weak point, without opening your eyes.
Within a few meters, the picture was clear in his mind: the fallen training dummy to his right, the chair a little further away. Aura traced them all like invisible threads connecting him to the world.
Mana… was similar, yet completely opposite.
With mana, you didn't reach outward—you turned inward.
You felt the energy moving inside you, flowing through every vein.
Aslan focused on his right hand, sensing mana gather at his fingertips, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat.
He had just begun guiding the flow of mana through his body when—
A sharp pain exploded in his chest.
Badump!
Thump!
His knees almost buckled. He clutched his shirt, gasping, as if someone had stabbed straight into his heart.
Crack—
"Shit… that pain… it's so freaking intense." His breath came ragged. "I have to find a solution—fast."
Gritting his teeth, he tried and tried… but failed.
Finally, he forced the mana inside him to surge—thick, burning red, flooding his veins.
Then, he unleashed his aura.
Blue light burst from him, aura spiraling through his body.
Then Aslan drew aura and mana into the same point.
He forced them to flow together—mana and aura, spiraling in a single loop.
Two forces that normally tore each other apart now twisted around each other.
Slowly, he guided both streams toward his heart.
They traveled in opposite directions in a circular motion, swirling faster and faster around his core—a twin spiral of red and blue.
Mana "injected" itself into the aura, increasing its density.
Aura "compressed" the mana, sharpening its potency.
A faint pressure swelled in his chest. His breathing slowed. The mana moved in harmony with the aura—flowing up his spine, down his arms, through his legs, and back to his core.
Again.
And again.
A perfect cycle.
When both flows synced, they formed a continuous feedback loop—mana boosting the aura, aura stabilizing the mana.
The pain dulled. His breathing steadied.
And for the first time, the two powers moved in perfect harmony.
He smiled.
"Haha… finally. I did it."
Collapsing to the floor in exhaustion, he lay there catching his breath. Both hands covered his face, pushing his hair back as he grinned.
One arm lifted lazily toward the ceiling, fingers splayed. In a soft tone, he murmured,
"Let's call it… Mana–Aura Circuit."
Not very poetic, but who cared? It worked. And as far as he was concerned, anything worth bleeding for was worth keeping.
---
Drexoria Empire
Night fell over the crumbling prison, drowning it in shadow.
From a small, cracked window high on the wall, a thin shaft of moonlight spilled in, cutting through the darkness.
Somewhere deep inside, the sound of a leather strap whipping against flesh echoed, followed by a hoarse, pained scream.
Slash!
"Aahhh!"
A figure in armor stood over a group of chained slaves. His posture and gear made it clear he was a knight—but there was no honor in his eyes, only cruelty.
He struck again, the iron-buckled strap snapping across bare skin. Blood smeared the stone floor.
Among the captives was one man with long silver hair, so filthy and matted that it half-covered his face. His clothes were torn, stained with dirt, and speckled with dried blood.
The knight stepped closer and kicked him hard in the face.
"You filthy slave."
The man's head snapped back, fresh blood trailing from the corner of his mouth. The clinking of chains echoed in the cold air—wrists, ankles, even his neck bound in rusted iron.
The silver-haired slave's back slammed against the cold stone wall.
He lifted his head slowly, strands of dirty hair falling aside just enough to reveal his eyes—cold, unflinching, a death stare that cut deeper than any blade.
The knight froze for half a second, startled… then his face twisted in rage.
"You have a death wish!"
With a snarl, he swung the iron-buckled strap again.
Crack!
Blood splattered across the floor and walls. Even the other slaves flinched at the sound.
"How dare you look at me with those filthy eyes!"
Each word came with another vicious strike, tearing skin, painting the slave's body in fresh crimson.
Blood trickled from his brow, his arms, his ribs—there wasn't a place left unmarked.
Another armored soldier rushed in, grabbing the furious knight's arm.
"Stop! We can't kill him—Commander will have our heads!"
The knight's breathing was ragged, eyes still locked on the slave.
But the silver-haired prisoner… still stared back, silent and unbroken.
---