The night Garfield met the Being, the world seemed to still.
The training hall was cloaked in silence, save for the faint hiss of the torch against the cold marble walls. The air was heavy—too heavy, as if even oxygen hesitated to linger around him. His hands trembled as he pressed his palms together, trying to will his mana into some kind of shape, but it only burned him from the inside, wild and untamed.
"Why?" he whispered, his voice breaking, raw with years of futile struggle. "Why am I so weak when I have so much?"
A sound answered him—not a sound of this world, but a vibration within his bones. At first, he thought it was the crackling torch, but then it deepened, resonant, as though the stones themselves were chanting. His knees weakened. The hall darkened, shadows stretching unnaturally across the marble.
And then he saw it.
A figure stepped forth from the darkness. Its body was draped in tattered robes that seemed to devour the light, its face hidden, its presence oppressive. For the first time in his life, Garfield's heart stuttered—not with fear of his family, not with shame, but with awe. The Being radiated an authority beyond comprehension.
His mouth dried. He forced words through his throat.
"Who… who are you?"
The Being did not answer with its mouth. Its voice unfurled inside his skull, like ink seeping through water.
"Do not fear, my child."
The words struck harder than any insult from his father, sharper than any cold glance from Rose. Child. For once, Garfield was not addressed as a failure, a disgrace, a liability. The voice acknowledged him.
But before he could respond, his body betrayed him. His chest tightened. A sudden surge of mana erupted within him like a storm, tearing through his veins. He staggered forward, coughing violently. Blood sprayed across the marble, bright crimson under the torchlight. He fell to his knees, clutching his throat.
The Being stepped closer. Its shadow covered him completely, as if the hall itself had vanished. And then, the cloth around its forehead split open, and a third eye, black and radiant, opened.
The sight crushed Garfield. The instant his gaze met it, pain exploded behind his eyes. He screamed silently as his body convulsed. His mana went berserk, howling through his flesh like fire trying to escape a furnace. He would have torn himself apart—if not for the Being.
A hand, pale and long-fingered, extended toward him. Power spilled from it, not warm, not cold, but absolute.
"A child blessed with oceans of mana and yet unable to wield it. Such irony. Such waste. No more."
The hand touched his forehead.
Garfield froze. Every thought in his mind scattered as something foreign entered him. It was not mana—it was heavier, older, something that defied the cycle of magic itself. His body screamed in agony, his veins tearing open under the strain, but beneath it was a strange clarity. For the first time, his mana bent, not fully, but a fraction. Like a stubborn beast forced to kneel.
His vision darkened. Symbols spun in his mind—runes he could not yet comprehend. He felt something burn into his skin at the base of his neck, branding him with a mark. He could not see it, but he knew it was there.
The Being's voice reverberated.
"This is my blessing. It will not grant you mastery, not yet. But it will give you a path. Three days from now, you will see the first fruit of it."
Garfield's breaths came ragged. His body trembled. Sweat poured down his face, blood still dripped from his lips, but his eyes had never been clearer. He stared up at the towering shadow, unable to suppress the question burning inside him.
"Why me?"
The Being leaned close, and for the first time, Garfield saw beneath the hood. Not a face, but a void, an endless abyss staring back.
"Because you are not meant to be weak."
The words shattered something inside Garfield. For years, he had heard only scorn. For years, he had been told he was nothing. Yet here, in the hollow of night, this Being—this impossible existence—declared otherwise.
Garfield clenched his fists against the floor. His lips twisted into something he had not worn in years: a smile. Cold, sharp, unyielding.
"I will not waste this."
The Being's third eye flickered shut. Its voice echoed once more.
"Remember, child. The blessing is only the key. The door, you must open yourself. Fail, and you will drown in your own power. Succeed… and you will transcend."
And then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the Being dissolved into shadow. The hall brightened, the torchlight flickering as if nothing had disturbed it. Silence returned, but Garfield knew better. The silence was no longer empty.
He pushed himself to his feet, wiping blood from his mouth. His body still ached, every vein seared as though molten iron had been poured through them. But beneath the pain, there was strength—an unfamiliar strength, small, flickering, but real.
He lifted his hand. Mana stirred. A spark flickered between his fingertips—tiny, unstable, but it existed.
For the first time in his life, Garfield had bent his mana.
And so he laughed, quiet and broken at first, then sharper, crueler. It was not the laugh of a boy, but the laugh of someone who had been shown a glimpse of destiny.
Three days.
He had three days before the blessing revealed its true nature.
Garfield wiped the last of the blood from his lips, his eyes like frozen steel.
"I will never be weak again."