The sky was a dull, gray sheet above the city of Qarun—unmoving, colorless, and endlessly indifferent. It was the kind of sky that made dreams feel foolish.
Younes stood on the rooftop of a crumbling apartment complex, hands in the pockets of his worn-out jacket, staring out at the labyrinth of steel and smoke that stretched as far as the eye could see. From up here, the city looked like a mechanical graveyard, pulsing with artificial life. Drones zipped through the air, neon billboards blinked soullessly, and people hurried like shadows below, chasing things they didn't understand.
But Younes wasn't like them. Not really.
He closed his eyes, trying to feel it again—that strange pulse. That breath of something other that had brushed his skin weeks ago, like the whisper of a forgotten god. It had been fleeting. Almost imaginary. But it had left a mark on him. Since that moment, he had known: the world was not as it seemed.
And he was not who they thought he was.
At school, they called him crazy.
"Still playing with magic, Younes?" one of the boys sneered as he shoved past him in the hallway.
"Be careful," another girl laughed. "He might cast a spell and turn you into a frog."
The laughter always echoed louder than the truth.
Younes didn't respond. He never did. Words were cheap. They didn't know what it was like to wake up at night with burning eyes and trembling hands, visions of floating symbols and glowing circles etched into his dreams.
They hadn't heard the voices.
They hadn't felt the mana.
The teachers weren't much better.
"Younes," his science instructor said with a sigh one afternoon, "you're a bright boy. But you need to focus on reality. Mana doesn't exist. It's a myth. A story from the ancient world. Let it go."
But how could he let go of something he knew was real?
He'd read every banned manuscript he could find, scoured forums buried deep within the net, even spoken to the old beggar outside the temple ruins who claimed to have once seen "the light of the beyond." All signs pointed to one conclusion:
Mana had existed.
And it could return.
If only someone was brave—or foolish—enough to seek it.
At night, his small room became his sanctuary. The walls were covered in hand-drawn runes, sketches of magical circles, and translations of ancient texts. His only light was a flickering lamp, and his only company were the pages he obsessed over.
He trained himself to feel the world in silence. To sit still and listen—not with ears, but with something deeper. Sometimes, for a few seconds, he felt it: a hum beneath reality. Like the world itself had veins, and mana was its blood.
That was when he knew—he was meant for more.
Not to chase grades.
Not to build machines or code in a corporation.
But to awaken something lost.
To bring mana back into the world.
One evening, while practicing breath control and reciting the words of an old spell fragment he had pieced together, something changed. The air around him grew heavy. The light flickered, then died, plunging him into darkness.
But he didn't panic.
He welcomed it.
And in that silence, he felt something touch him.
It wasn't physical. It was deeper. Like a thread connecting his soul to something vast and infinite. His body shivered. His mind screamed. But his heart… his heart was calm.
It was mana.
He had found it.
Or perhaps… it had found him.
Younes collapsed to the floor, gasping, sweat clinging to his skin like a second layer. But his eyes were wide open, glowing faintly with a light that hadn't been there before.
The world had shifted.
Everything had changed.
And even if no one else believed him… he had taken the first step.
He had dared to believe in the impossible.
And now, the impossible had begun to believe in him.
He was the first to touch mana.