It began as a dream.
A dream of the formless being who had given him this new life.
"In this world ruled by cultivators," the being had said, "you shall walk a path none have dared. You shall wield Mana. Others will temper their bodies and spirits with Ki and Aura—but you, Alen, will awaken the unseen forces between worlds."
"Shine bright, and live for yourself."
Those words echoed in his young mind, faint but powerful.
---
Mana: A Forgotten Joy
Even at the age of four, Alen felt something stirring inside him—something no other child around him mentioned. It pulsed quietly in his veins, humming with possibility.
And one day, while lying beneath the shade of a spiritwood tree, he remembered something... from his past life.
Magic World.
A game. A world inside a screen. Back then, it had been his only escape—his only joy.
He remembered the chants. The rituals. The hand signs. The logic of elemental flow. He recalled the mechanics: mana concentration, rune etching, energy weaving. It was all fictional, yet oddly... familiar.
What if... it wasn't just a game?
With childlike curiosity and a glimmer of his former self, Alen began copying the gestures he once used. He imagined the mana, the flow, the elemental links. He visualized himself as a novice mage channeling his first spell.
Then, it happened.
A sudden warmth surged through his chest and raced into his fingertips. His skin glowed faintly. The air around him shimmered as invisible energy danced through his tiny body.
Mana.
Real. Alive. His.
He gasped—not from fear, but exhilaration.
For the first time, he felt power. Not to harm, but to create. Not to fight, but to rise.
His journey had begun.
---
A Morning to Remember
A knock on the door startled him from his trance.
"Alen?" a deep voice called.
His father, Darius Crimsonflame, entered the room with his usual prideful aura. His long crimson robes swept across the wooden floor, and his greying red hair was tied in a dignified warrior's knot.
"There you are, my little lion."
Darius bent down to pick him up, but Alen squirmed in protest.
"I can walk by myself now, Daddy! I'm four!" he declared in his tiny, proud voice.
His father raised a brow and smirked playfully. "Oh? My son has grown so strong he doesn't need his father anymore?"
He pouted dramatically, pretending to wipe an invisible tear. "You wound me, Alen."
Alen giggled. "Just this once, Daddy…"
And as Darius lifted him up with strong arms, he whispered, "Don't grow up too fast, son. Grow slow… and live."
Alen didn't understand all of it, but he felt the weight in his father's voice. So he nodded and hugged him close.
---
The Lion's Heir
That morning, Darius brought Alen to the Grand Hall of Flames—a vast chamber within the heart of the Crimson Lion estate, where matters of the clan were judged and discussed.
Today, Darius would introduce Alen to the Flame Council as the future heir of the clan.
The room was carved from volcanic stone, lit by magical torches that never dimmed. Sitting atop thrones of obsidian were five elders, cloaked in red and gold—veterans of a hundred battles.
Among them sat a towering man with a thick lion's mane of red hair, sharp eyes, and the presence of a mountain.
The former Patriarch. Darius's father. Alen's grandfather.
The moment the old man saw Alen, his gaze turned stern.
"You bring him only now, Darius?" he barked. "Your son, the future of our blood, and you parade him before the Council like a hidden secret?"
Darius frowned, bowing his head. "Forgive me, Father. I—"
But before he could explain, a small sniffle filled the hall.
Alen, sitting quietly in his father's arms, had begun to cry.
"Bad man…" he mumbled, tears rolling down his cheeks.
The room went silent.
The old man blinked, stunned. "What did he say?"
Alen pointed at him with a trembling finger. "Don't scold Daddy… he's good…"
Even the battle-hardened elders softened.
One of them chuckled. "He's defending his father already. That's a Crimson Lion if I've ever seen one."
The old man—stone-faced only moments ago—suddenly cracked into a broad, toothy grin.
He walked down from his throne and knelt before Alen.
"I am no bad man, little cub. I am your grandfather."
Alen's tears paused. "Grandpa?"
"Yes, my precious child," the old warrior said, opening his arms. "Come here."
Alen reached out, uncertain, and wrapped his tiny arms around the man's thick neck.
"I like Grandpa…" he whispered.
The mighty Flame Council was silenced once again—not by force, but by the simple, pure love of a child.
---
The Spark Beneath the Flame
That night, as Alen lay in bed, he stared at his hands—tiny, delicate, but holding a secret no one else in the clan could imagine.
The mana flowed through him like a silent river.
He knew then that this path—the path of magic—was his alone to walk. In a world ruled by martial strength and Ki, he would become something... different.
Something the world had never seen before.
Not because it was his duty.
But because it made him feel alive.
E-N-D