A long time ago, people said the Earth's core held all the mana. Quiet and deep, breathing under the rock and soil. It leaked out slowly — fed the forests, the rivers, the air. Some trees turned strange. Some rivers glowed at night. The oldest one — the Tree of Life — was the first place people said humans came from.
It was peaceful for a while. Mana stayed small—a spark in a hand, a warm flame in winter, a healer in a village. Heroes were rare — folks with a little more of the core's breath in their veins.
Then everything cracked. December 20, 2016.
It started as a tremor under dinner tables, in train stations, under old houses that were never built for shaking ground. Nobody panicked at first — small quakes were normal by then. But this one didn't stop. The ground didn't just shake — it split. It roared like a beast. Monsters clawed up through the cracks — shapes nobody had names for.
Towns fell apart. Streets caved in. People ran. Some never made it far enough. The mana core under all that dirt had too many souls to swallow at once. When they died, it was supposed to keep them. But there were too many, so the core spat them back out.
That's when the strongest survivors pulled together — they called themselves the Supreme Heroes Security of Earth, or SHSE. They learned fast: measure mana, train the gifted, fight monsters, patch up cities, stop people from getting wiped out.
Years passed. The world didn't heal fully. But humans hung on — inside walled towns, under watchtowers, in safe zones. Heroes got strong. But they always needed new blood.
Willow K. Damion wasn't part of any story like that. Not really. He was just a kid who'd been found in the woods once — alone, dirty, no name. Lola Minda, old and stubborn, brought him home, fed him, gave him a roof and a blanket, and called him Willow. Like the tree that bends but doesn't snap.
By sixteen, Willow was just another stray trying to pass his classes at Genesis Magic Academy — a fancy school in town for kids whose parents paid big to keep them behind safe gates. Heroes came out of Genesis. Big talk. Big dreams. Big money.
Not for Willow. His uniform was secondhand. His shoes were patched. He kept his head down, went home every day to help Lola Minda peel vegetables before the sun went down.
Then came that morning. The day the ground reminded him it still breathed.
He was on the forest trail — bag loose on his shoulder, stomach empty because he skipped breakfast again. Halfway to town, the dirt under his feet started to hum. He stopped by an old tree. Pressed his hand to the trunk. The roots felt warm. Then they got hot — so hot he almost pulled back.
But he didn't get the chance.
The ground shuddered — deep, hungry. A rush of mana shot up through the tree roots, straight into Willow's hand. A burning flood slammed into his chest, too fast to scream about. His knees hit the dirt. His eyes rolled back. The forest went quiet except for the quake's growl and the sound of his breath stopping for half a second before the world knocked him out cold.
The surge didn't drip into him — it dumped in. One million souls' worth of leftover power, packed tight in his bones. The core's spill found a home it wasn't supposed to have.
When Willow woke up, he was in the town clinic. Two days had gone by. The ceiling was cracked and smelled like soap and boiled rice. He turned his head. Lola Minda was there, asleep in a plastic chair, her thin shawl sliding off her shoulders. He pulled his blanket off his legs and covered her with it.
He didn't feel strong. Just tired. Just hungry. So he got up when they let him, picked up his old bag, and walked back to Genesis the next morning, as if nothing had happened.
The halls at Genesis smelled like wax and old polish. Rich kids in neat coats stood around whispering when Willow passed — the stray kid, the forest leftover. They said he'd flunk out for sure.
Monday was Mana Check Day. Every week, the same thing. Students lined up at the scan machine — a metal box with a cracked glass pad. Heroes needed numbers. A normal adult pulled 200–390. Good students scored 260–500. Trainee heroes bragged about 600 or higher. Nobody hit 900.
Willow always got 190. Just enough to stay enrolled.
He lined up near the end like always. Didn't look at anyone. Didn't listen to Jamie Howard behind him — the rich kid who loved to push him around. Jamie said nothing yet, just waited with that smirk.
One kid stepped up: "441."
Another: "510."
One kid got a loud cheer for hitting "610." Big deal.
Willow's turn. He stepped up, pressed his palm down. The glass was cold. His hand still tingled, the same spot where the tree roots burned him.
The machine hummed. The teacher squinted. A faint spark flickered under the screen.
"…90."
Kids laughed. "Dropped again? Weak forest stray."
The teacher frowned. He tapped the side — that wasn't right. Willow's last scan was 190, not 90. But the machine only showed the last numbers — …90. The rest was buried inside him, too much for old wires to read.
Jamie stepped up behind him. Shoved his shoulder. "Move, dead battery." He slapped his palm on the pad.
The hum turned into a sharp whine. A low buzz rattled the metal shell. The teacher stepped back.
Crack.
A spark shot out. Bang.
The machine popped. The plastic snapped off the side. A piece slammed into the wall. Smoke poured out of the vents. A small flash hit the ceiling tiles. Kids screamed, backed up fast. Jamie yelled and fell on his butt, his sleeve scorched at the edge.
Willow just stood there, staring at his palm. He didn't feel strong. But the machine did. It felt like everything hidden in him — too big to fit in an old school box.
The teacher called for staff. Kids whispered fast. Jamie's eyes shot hate at Willow like it was his fault. Maybe it was. Willow didn't know.
He just bent down, grabbed his old bag, and stepped away from the smoke.