With the new morning, a new day arrived. A new beginning, or so they say. But in this world, some things never truly reset. They just… heal.
I stood in front of the mirror, quietly watching my reflection. Yesterday's bruises, the cuts, the bone-deep soreness—all of it was gone. My body looked almost untouched, like I hadn't been beaten down at all.
My knuckles, which I had splintered against a stone pillar, were unblemished. The gash on my chest, a wound that had bled freely just hours before, was now nothing more than a faint, pink line. That wasn't luck. That was my blessing.
You might be wondering—what blessing?
In this world, the church doesn't simply preach—it governs. Faith is its weapon, its shield, and its leash on society. Every healer worth their salt bends the knee to it, serving under the cathedral's shadow.
The reason is simple: the power to heal is said to be granted not by talent, not by mana, but by the grace of the divine. That makes every healer, whether they like it or not, a servant of the goddess and her institution. They are a tool, and the church holds the handle.
Now, what does that have to do with blessings? Everything.
See, when a child is born—especially one carrying a noble's surname—their life is immediately tethered to the church. They don't get to crawl, stumble, or speak before a tradition drags them to the altar. The ritual has a name: Balpashim.
The name sounds holy, heavy, like something carved into ancient scripture. To peasants, it's awe-inspiring. To priests, it's a performance. But strip away the incense, the chanting, the theatrics, and it's just a gamble in divine roulette. A high-stakes game played with a baby's fate as the prize.
Here's how it goes:
A child, sometimes no older than a year or two, is carried into the cathedral. The place reeks of incense so thick you can choke on it, sunlight pouring through stained glass as if the goddess herself were spying on the ceremony. The air is heavy with the weight of expectation.
White-robed clerics kneel in a circle, voices droning in practiced hymns that have been sung for centuries. At the center lies the child, laid on a velvet cushion like a lamb at slaughter, while the High Priest raises his staff and calls down the goddess's gaze.
And then… they wait.
The silence that follows is a thick, tangible thing, broken only by the priest's chanting and the frantic prayers of the family. If fortune smiles—or if the goddess deigns to notice—the divine light descends, marking the child with a "blessing." It could be anything: a body that makes swordsmen weep with envy, senses sharp enough to detect lies, an affinity for flames, shadows, storms. The possibilities are endless, and the more powerful the blessing, the brighter the light.
That moment is everything. It is a declaration of destiny.
For commoners, Balpashim is a coin toss with loaded dice. Most leave with nothing but a priest's hollow reassurance—"the goddess has plans even for the ordinary." Empty words to console empty hands. They return to their homes with nothing, their hope crushed beneath the indifference of the divine.
But for nobles? It's destiny written in gold. Families crowd the cathedral with trembling anticipation, praying that their heir receives something grand, something worthy of their lineage. And when a child does awaken with a powerful blessing? The celebration lasts for weeks. Banners are raised, wine flows, and the house's prestige skyrockets overnight.
A single child with the right blessing can change an entire family's fate. It can elevate them from a minor house to a major one, secure their future, and cement their place in the annals of history.
And so the church thrives. After all, it alone holds the stage where fate is decided. It is the gatekeeper of power, the one institution that can truly claim to hold the keys to a prosperous life.
Me? Mine's not nearly that flashy. My blessing is called Vital Flux.
A simple recovery-type gift. My body heals faster than most. Bruises fade overnight, cuts stitch themselves back together while I sleep, and so long as the wound isn't fatal, I wake up fresh. It doesn't make me stronger, sharper, or more brilliant—it just makes me… durable. It's a passive, subtle blessing that doesn't scream for attention.
Some might scoff at it, call it
underwhelming. And maybe they're right. It's not the kind of blessing that makes you a hero. But after last night? After feeling like my body had been torn apart and stitched back with fire… waking up like this almost feels like cheating.
Roselyn likes to insist I take recovery potions just to be safe—"to support the blessing," she says. I let her win that argument most of the time. Maybe she's right, maybe not. Either way, the results speak for themselves.
I traced a finger along my arm. Smooth, unmarked skin. Not even a scar. I looked more like a newborn than someone who'd been beaten in combat yesterday.
A rebirth, every morning. That's what Vital Flux gives me.
That's the reason why I don't usually rely on healers. Not because they're bad at their job—far from it. Most healers trained under the church are diligent, precise, almost obsessive with their craft. No, the problem lies in the blessing itself.
Blessings aren't static. The more you use them, the more they sharpen, refine, evolve. A dull edge becomes a blade only through constant use. And I've been honing mine for quite a while.
Back at the Ravenshade estate, though, it was impossible. If I so much as nicked my hand on a practice sword, the staff would swarm around me like moths to a flame, each of them eager to patch me up before I even realized I was bleeding.
They were quick to spend an expensive healing potion on me. It wasn't care—it was control. Keeping me comfortable, polished, untouchable. They wanted a young master who never had to lift a finger, never had to scar.
But here? Here I finally have the choice. Every scratch, every bruise, every sting—I've deliberately let them linger, chosen to heal them myself. It hurts, yes. But pain is the price of refinement. It's the cost of getting stronger, of pushing my blessing to its limits.
It's not like the academy doesn't provide healing facilities—they do, and they're more than capable. I simply don't go. The teachers don't push it either because I simply don't follow if it's absolutely necessary. A broken limb, life-threatening wounds—then they'll intervene. But anything less? That choice is mine.
And so, with that thought, the matter closed in my mind. The reflection in the mirror was no longer just a face, but a testament to a chosen path. My feet felt lighter now, almost like I was just walking on an ordinary day. Step by step, I drifted back toward the academy.
Today, I walked with my ever-cheerful persona, a smile plastered on my face as if nothing in the world could bother me. The sun shone on my face, and I met every passerby with a polite nod or a wave. I even joked to myself that I wasn't stepping on the grass today—just kidding, I absolutely was. I walked over the manicured lawn, leaving a trail of dew-dampened grass behind me.
Along the way, I greeted every student I passed. Didn't matter if I knew them or not—smile, wave, nod. By the time I reached the classroom, my grin was wide enough to look almost genuine. Almost.
Ryan, ever the observer, looked uneasy, and so did his little trio. They watched me, their eyes filled with a mix of concern and confusion. Eventually, they couldn't hold it in anymore.
"Hey, man… are you alright?" Ryan's voice was low, tentative.
"Lord Evan, are you feeling alright? Is there not something wrong with you?"
"Buddy, what happened yesterday? Why'd you do that?"
"And why'd you suddenly announce your surrender? What about the condition after the duel?"
The questions came in a torrent, a cascade of worry and confusion that I had no interest in answering.
I chuckled lightly, like their questions were a puzzle I had no interest in solving. "Haha, you know… a great man once said not every question has an answer. Sometimes the answer is more complicated than the question itself."
They stared at me blankly. "Okay… but what does that even mean?"
My smile sharpened, a cold, predatory thing. "Haha—simple. It means shut the fuck up and mind your fucking own business, you fucking people."
Honestly, it was getting ridiculous.
I mean, look at me. I'm sitting straight, breathing fine, not foaming at the mouth or coughing blood. Perfectly fine. There's nothing wrong with me, man. In fact, I'm the picture of discipline right now.
Listening to the lecture with full focus, like some ideal student they could put in a textbook illustration.
The teacher—what was his name again? Benjamin? Benzamin? Something along those lines—stood at the front, pacing with that deliberate rhythm teachers seem to think makes them look important. His voice was a calm drone, a steady stream of information that I was actually absorbing for once.
He raised his chalk, voice steady. "Just as a cell uses energy to perform its natural activities through ATP, living beings, too, rely on energy to surpass ordinary limits. That energy—what we call mana—functions as the very currency of the extraordinary."
I leaned back in my chair, suppressing the urge to yawn. Great, the energy currency speech. Everyone gets this one at some point.
Benzamin adjusted his spectacles and gestured toward the diagram he had drawn. "Now, before we discuss how mana works, a more fundamental question must be asked: where does mana come from? Has it always been present here on Earth, unnoticed until our awakening? Or does it flow from some deeper source, beyond what we perceive?"
"If we are to answer the question of where mana comes from, then we must step back… far back. Thousands of years ago, long before people even had the word mana.
The world back then was ordinary. Life followed its course. No beasts, no sorcery, no miracles. Until it happened.
The sky… tore open. Not like a storm or an eclipse, but as if the heavens themselves cracked. A tear in the silken fabric above, a wound across the dimension. And from that wound leaked something unseen, something foreign—a presence that did not belong.
That was the First Catalyst.
Some called it God's warmth. Others, the essence of evil. But it was neither. It was not divine nor infernal. It was simply… different. A strange energy, slowly seeping into the world, unnoticed at first, like roots spreading under soil.
For a time, nothing changed. The energy simply lingered, settling, weaving itself into the air, the rivers, the stones. But then came the shift—the drift, as scholars call it. The moment when the world began to change.
At first, it was the animals. Creatures that had once been harmless—deer, wolves, even insects—began to twist, mutate.
Their bodies could no longer remain as they were. The strange energy forced evolution upon them, changing them into things unrecognizable. Some became stronger, larger, more vicious. They became the first beasts… the first monsters.
But the beasts were not the only heralds of change.
The land itself answered. Mountains split open, caverns deepened, and strange labyrinths—places that defied nature—erupted from the ground. Not natural caves, no… these were dungeons. Vast, maze-like structures crawling with the unknown, as though the world itself had birthed gateways into something deeper.
That was the Second Catalyst.
And from there, history itself was broken and rewritten. Humanity's fate would never again return to what it once was.
So the question remains—how did humanity survive, when we could not wield that foreign energy, the force we now call mana?
Yes, you there. Speak."
A hand rises timidly. "Because of the birth of the first miracle children."
"Correct. Very good. Now listen well, for this is where history itself bent and mercy returned, however faintly, to our fragile kind.
They were called the Miracle Children. Infants born in that era of slaughter, when mankind teetered on the edge of extinction. Their birth was nothing short of divine providence—or so the desperate survivors believed. For while ordinary men and women remained powerless, fragile as dried leaves in a storm, these children were different.
Upon their skin bloomed strange markings—glowing sigils, patterns no human scholar could decipher. Their cries carried an energy that resonated with the very air itself. And when they grew, even as toddlers, they could do what no adult could: they touched that foreign essence. They could grasp it, shape it, command it.
That energy—the one that had twisted beasts into monsters and reshaped the earth into dungeons—answered to them.
And so, for the first time since the sky cracked, humanity had a weapon. Not steel. Not fire. But mana itself.
You must understand the weight of this. To those who lived through that age of despair, these children were not merely infants. They were salvation given flesh.
The priests of the old world declared them gifts from the goddess. The warlords called them heirs of destiny. The desperate called them the last hope.
And indeed, they were the reason humanity did not vanish into the bellies of monsters. They were the first wielders, the ancestors of every mage, knight, priest, and warrior you see today.
Without them, there would be no cities. No kingdoms. No world as you know it.
Remember this well, children. We are alive because once, in humanity's darkest night, a light was born not in the heavens, but in the fragile hearts of newborns.
When those children grew, they carried with them the wealth of survival—a flame rekindled in the ruins of despair.
The very energy that fueled the monsters, the same force that had dragged humanity from its throne, now coursed through their veins. With that power, they stood their ground. No longer prey, no longer fragile shadows fleeing through the dark, they became pillars of resistance.
And from then on, the fallen rose again. Step by step, battle by battle, humanity clawed its way back into the world. Villages became towns, towns became cities, and the first walls of civilization were built not from stone alone, but from mana—the new lifeblood of survival.
Thus began the second age of mankind, where the weak had perished, but those who bore the mark of mana carved the path forward. From their struggle, a truth was etched into history: to endure, one must wield the very power that once sought to erase them."
Riiing.
The bell's echo rang through the hall, signaling the end of the period.
"Alright, students," the teacher said, setting down the chalk with a faint clack. "That will be all for today. Remember—the class may be finished, but the lesson is not." His gaze swept across the room, lingering on the scribbled notes and half-awake faces.
"In our next session, we'll move forward to the third catalyst. We'll discuss how new races came into our world—the elves, beings born close to nature, gentle yet enduring; the beastkin, wild and fierce, yet capable of loyalty. We'll talk about how humanity took their hand, how alliances were forged, and…" He paused for weight. "…what kind of enemy we face even now, because of it."
Chairs scraped faintly as students began to stir.
"So, prepare yourselves. There's more history in those pages than mere words—it's the foundation of why we live as we do today. See you in the next class."
The quiet hum of chatter replaced his voice as the room emptied, the air still carrying the weight of his words.
"Man, that was a nice lecture," I muttered as I got up from my seat, stretching my back.
Rayan gave me a weird look, tilting his head like I'd just said something insane.
"Uh… Evan. You know, it's not too late, right? Maybe you should go get checked by a Healer priest. Or, hell, even a psychiatrist."
I raised an eyebrow. "And why would I do that?"
He gestured vaguely at me, half-exasperated. "Man, you ask why? Just look at yourself. You've been acting… weird. Like, really weird."
"How fucking rude," I shot back, narrowing my eyes. "How exactly am I 'behaving weird'?"
Ryan didn't even hesitate. His eyes, usually so light and carefree, were dead serious. "How you ask? I mean, look at you. You just sat there the whole period—actually taking notes. Notes, Evan. Since when do you do that? You're the type who just stares at the wall, waits for class to end, then complains about how boring it was."
He didn't stop there. He was on a roll, and my cold demeanor from earlier had apparently given him all the ammunition he needed. "And what's with that cheerful smile plastered on your face? Man, that's not you—that's creepy as hell. Drop it already."
"Man, fuck you," I snapped, leaning back with a grin. "My smile ain't weird—it's charming. Every girl's getting shy and looking away, all flustered."
"They're being creeped out, you freak," Ryan muttered with a sigh.
I frowned. "Tch, whatever." The joke was falling flat, and my carefully constructed facade was starting to crack.
He rubbed his face, then looked at me seriously. "Man, look, I'm really worried about you. I didn't ask what happened during that duel with Lucas—'cause you clearly didn't want to talk about it—but I know it's connected to why you're acting like this today."
I opened my mouth, but he cut me off. "I mean, hell, I saw it. When you walked out of the training hall halfway through, the teachers were whispering, and then Lady Emilia—your fiancée—chased after you looking desperate and guilty as shit. You think I didn't notice?"
I clicked my tongue. "Tch."
Ryan threw up his hands. "Man, I'm not the type to dig through someone else's mess, but whatever that is, it stinks of drama."
My eyebrow twitched. "Who the fuck are you calling drama?"
He stared me down. "What the fuck else should I call it? It's you, your fiancée, that fucking dork Lucas—and the circus yesterday afternoon. That's a goddamn love triangle if I ever saw one."
"…Well, if you put it like that—"
"Then shut the fuck up," Ryan snapped, jabbing a finger at me, "and tell me what the hell's going on with you."
I stared at him, surprised by how serious he suddenly sounded. Guess I should tell him, huh?
"You know, Ryan," I said, forcing a crooked smile, "a great man once said that not every question has an answe—"
Before I could even finish, his chair screeched across the floor. Ryan lunged at me, fist gripping my collar so hard my shirt stretched. "You rotten motherfu—"
The door slammed open.
The sharp bang echoed off the walls.
Everyone jumped, the chatter cutting off like someone had stolen the air itself.
She stood there, framed by the doorway, chest heaving like she'd sprinted the entire hall. Strands of her hair clung to her flushed cheeks, her hand still gripping the doorframe as if it were the only thing keeping her upright.
Her eyes darted across the silent classroom—scanning, searching, desperate.
Until they found me.
The tension hit like a weight dropped on everyone's shoulders. My classmates shrank in their seats, exchanging side glances but not daring to speak. Even Ryan's grip on my collar slackened, his rage dissipating into stunned silence.
And me? I sat there, staring back at her, an odd smile tugging at my lips.
"Man…" I muttered under my breath, almost amused. "Looks like Ryan's right. I really am a walking drama right now."