By the time I turned four, I had learned how to pretend.
Pretend to be clumsy.
Pretend to be slow.
Pretend not to understand conversations meant to be beyond me.
It was harder than condensing mana.
My father was a merchant.
Not the flashy kind that dealt in jewels or mana crystals directly, but one whose trade shaped perception instead of goods. He was the head of a moderately successful newspaper publishing house—one of several in the city, but influential enough to matter.
Ink was his weapon.
Information was his currency.
Every morning, bundles of freshly printed papers left our building, carried by apprentices and runners to markets, guild halls, and noble estates. Politics, trade disputes, crime reports, rumors—everything passed through his hands before reaching the public.
We weren't nobles.
But we weren't poor either.
Our home was solid stone with clean wooden floors, shelves lined with books, and a constant smell of ink that never quite left the air. My father dressed plainly but carried himself with confidence. He spoke carefully, always weighing words as if they might be printed later.
I suspected that was why we hadn't been swallowed by higher society.
People noticed him—but didn't quite trust him.
At four years old, my body had grown enough to move freely, run short distances, and—more importantly—train without drawing suspicion.
My mana capacity had expanded steadily through careful exhaustion and regeneration. I never emptied it completely anymore. That was too dangerous. Instead, I pushed it to the edge, let it refill, then compressed it further.
Slow. Consistent. Invisible.
Mana pathways came next.
I worked them like muscles—sending controlled pulses of mana through my limbs, my spine, my senses. When I moved, I let just enough flow to strengthen the channels without altering my physical output.
I tripped on purpose.
Fell during play.
Cried when I scraped my knees.
All the while, my pathways thickened, clarified, becoming something far more refined than any four-year-old should possess.
Unused pathways degrade with age.
Mine were being sharpened from infancy.
Then my mother told me the truth.
It happened late at night, long after the printing presses fell silent and the city outside our windows settled into a restless sleep. She sat beside my bed, her hand brushing gently through my hair.
Her expression was tense.
Not fearful.
Resolute.
"There's something you need to know," she whispered.
I said nothing. Just listened.
"I… I'm a witch," she said.
The word carried weight.
Witch.
Mage.
Someone born with the ability to cast magic circles—magic that didn't rely on mana pathways, but directly consumed mana itself.
She bit her lip, eyes searching my face for any sign of reaction.
"I don't know if you inherited it," she continued. "Mage blood doesn't always pass on. Sometimes it skips generations. Sometimes it… manifests later."
Her fingers tightened slightly.
"But if you did—if there's even a chance—you must never show it."
I already knew why.
Mages were rare.
And rarity made them valuable.
Too valuable.
Kingdoms sought them out. Noble houses collected them. Military branches recruited them—sometimes politely, often not. A mage wasn't seen as a person first.
They were seen as a weapon.
That was why mages survived by hiding.
They formed tight-knit communities, shared information quietly, and avoided open displays of magic. They disguised casting as tools, artifacts, or accidents.
Those who failed to hide disappeared.
My mother squeezed my hand gently.
"I will teach you magic if you inherited it, only if you want to, and only the basics"
Her gaze hardened.
"But you're my child before you're anything else."
I nodded, playing the obedient son.
Inside, my mind was racing.
If I was a mage, then my foundation was already abnormal.
If I wasn't—
Then my path lay elsewhere.
Either way, secrecy was survival.
That night, as I lay awake, I felt my mana circulate quietly through my pathways—smooth, controlled, disciplined beyond my age.
Ink shaped the world.
Magic shaped fate.
And somewhere between a merchant's son and a witch's child…
I was becoming something neither of them fully understood.