Evelyn pov
It had been six months since I first started training, and finally, I broke through.
Stage One.
The mana flowed through me like fire and thunder, filling every vein with raw power. For a heartbeat I almost laughed at how unstoppable I felt—but I knew better. This wasn't true invincibility. It was my brain rewarding me with a flood of adrenaline for reaching a milestone. Dangerous, intoxicating… and deceptive.
This is where so many fall. They think Stage One makes them warriors. It only makes them reckless.
So I sat down, closed my eyes, and let the rush fade into calm through meditation.
Cultivation was no secret. In our world, it couldn't be. Too many dangers lurked in the forests, in the ruins, even on the roads between villages. Every child knew the basics of drawing mana, but most never pushed themselves beyond a few exercises a week. At my age, the usual pace was to reach Stage One after another year or two—if they were diligent.
Which made my progress… unusual.
Even Father, a man who had lived his whole life with bow and spear in hand, had only ever reached Stage Four. Not because of laziness—far from it—but because of the limits of our land itself. The mana here was thin, dispersed. Training was like drinking from a cracked cup: no matter how hard you tried, the flow could only take you so far.
That was why my brother's knighthood mattered so much. When Stevan was chosen, Father's relief had been palpable. A knight's family could relocate near the mountain, where mana was denser and cultivation thrived. And when I turned fifteen, I would even be allowed to attend the academy that rested higher still.
That was the future Father wanted for us—especially now, with Mother four months pregnant. Another child meant another mouth to feed, another soul to protect. In just a year and a half, when Stevan completed his oath as a true knight, the move would secure our family's future.
I had no intention of waiting idly for that day.
Drawing on the ambient mana, I decided to test my progress. I imagined the armor of my past life—the lion helm, the golden plates carved with heroic motifs. Piece by piece it appeared across my body, radiant and solid, though forged only of mana. Then I shaped the sword—broad, heavy, but scaled for my current frame.
The moment both were complete, I felt my strength double. With this, I could match a Stage Three fighter, at least in raw strength. That was the essence of our craft: a fighter didn't fling fireballs like a mage, but forged weapons and armor that turned their bodies into war machines. At Stage One, I still had to draw from the air itself to maintain these creations. By Stage Two, my own reserves would suffice, making the process quicker, smoother, deadlier.
Mages and fighters were different weapons of war. A mage could hurl destruction from a distance, while a fighter could cross the field in a blur and break their concentration before the spell was complete. One shielded the other, and together they triumphed.
Satisfied, I let the armor dissolve into golden sparks, washed myself at the well, and changed into clean clothes.
When I returned home, Father was waiting by the door.
"You're late tonight," he said, his voice calm but steady.
For a moment I froze. "…You knew?"
He gave a small chuckle. "Of course I knew. You think I wouldn't notice? You've been slipping out at night for months. I just… trusted you had your reasons."
"Then why wait now?"
"Because you stayed out longer than usual." His arms crossed, but there was no anger in his face. Only worry. "I won't stop you from training. Spirits know we all need strength in this family. But don't push so hard that you forget the risks. Even here, danger can strike when least expected."
I hesitated, then nodded. "…I'll be careful."
His expression softened. He reached out and ruffled my hair, his calloused hand warm and heavy. "That's all I ask."
I went to bed that night smiling faintly, a warmth in my chest.
Perhaps my secret wasn't as hidden as I thought—but maybe that was all right.