Chapter 1: Prana Deficit
A deep discomfort invaded the young man's body, his mind clouding as his thoughts gradually slowed down. Coldness wrapped around him while dizziness and doubts alike faded away, pulling him into profound darkness.
As his senses dimmed one by one, the young man could only perceive fragments of his surroundings. Sight, touch, taste, and smell abandoned him, while even his hearing slipped away little by little—barely catching the sound of footsteps, followed by a startled, worried exclamation.
— "Master Beltrán!" — cried a slightly aged voice, before everything disappeared from his senses.
At some uncertain time later, Beltrán slowly opened his eyes, cold sweat running down his body. Struggling, he turned over, his drowsy mind suddenly flooded with information.
"Another world, Science, Technology, History, Geography, Science Fiction…
…Fantasy, Video Games, Memes.
Why is all of this suddenly coming to me?"*
Trying to focus on himself, Beltrán felt a sharp pain in his body—a splitting headache, as if a searing iron rod pierced straight through his temples. The nausea was the least of his problems when his body suddenly convulsed. Once again, he heard a familiar cry of alarm, but this time his eyes caught sight of a woman's silhouette rushing toward him.
— "Master Beltrán! …"
"Beltrán… it's true…"
His consciousness faded once more, the severe pain dulling along with his perception of self, dragging him back into immeasurable unconsciousness. In that darkness, Beltrán felt as if he were swimming in endless nothingness. With no sense of space or self, images began flashing through his mind, with no clear beginning or end.
These visions showed countless different scenes: a small child playing happily, his face glowing with youthful joy. He chased insects, played with a stick, rode a little wooden horse, and spent time with a woman. The images streamed rapidly before his eyes, like a video playing too fast.
The boy grew older, taught by others—how to behave, to read, to write, and to play with other children. Yet everything twisted once he was forced to attend an institution. There, older children mercilessly trampled his happiness, mocking his interests, exposing and humiliating him before others.
Once his fragile side was revealed, they shattered it over and over again—slipping insects into the classroom and blaming him, beating him during recess, even stealing his belongings and scattering them across the school. The young boy was forced to retreat into himself.
Broken time after time, the insects he once loved became detestable. The joy of playing outside turned into a source of fear. Other children rejected him, some even joining the bullies, while the teachers turned their gaze away. Soon, even the thought of going to school made him sick. His stomach would twist in burning knots, as if molten lava churned inside him.
The final sequence of images showed the boy at a vast training field. Surrounded by the stares of others, he managed to conjure a faint, trembling orange flame in his hands and cast it toward a target. Yet the fire barely made it halfway before dissipating—no bigger than a finger. The others laughed, and the burning in his stomach rose with his nausea. Forced to try again and again, he launched the tiny flame over and over, never achieving real success.
Frustrated, the boy slipped away from his home at night, returning to the training grounds. He raised his arm, summoning the weak flame again and again without rest. Exhaustion and crushed pride drained the color from his body until he finally collapsed to the ground, completely unconscious.
— "Master Beltrán… open your mouth."
Weakly, the boy's eyes fluttered open. Through blurred vision, he could make out the silhouette of a woman—her age somewhere between thirty and forty. She held a silver object close to his lips. Hunger clawed at his stomach, and he weakly opened his mouth, sipping at some kind of soup.
Even in his weakened state, he kept eating, unable to reject the warmth seeping into his cold body. After finishing, he felt slightly better—enough to think more clearly.
"All these memories… they're not mine. Do other worlds exist? …"
Beltrán drifted away once more, caught in the cycle of waking, being cleaned with a damp cloth, and fed. Gradually, his strength and his sense of color returned as he managed to keep his eyes open for longer. During these days—however many they might have been—Beltrán wrestled with a severe identity crisis.
"I still remember everything I've lived so far. I am Beltrán—yet all this knowledge and these experiences surpass my own by far… it feels as though my life is being overwritten. At times, I feel as if I am someone else."
Finally well enough to stand and walk a little, Beltrán found himself wandering aimlessly, his body slowly warming up as his once-stiff joints recovered from weakness.
"If my body and mind hold my memories… but now I carry other memories and experiences too, what does that make me? I think I once heard of an expression about this… something regarding the ship of an ancient hero."
As he walked, Beltrán recalled—or perhaps usurped—the memories in his mind. After only a few steps, fatigue set in, and the young man decided to sit. But with his muscles still fragile, he stumbled, falling backwards against a bookshelf near his bed.
"Damn it, I'm still too weak," Beltrán groaned, just before something heavy and hard tumbled onto his head. He winced, nearly cursing in words that didn't feel like his own, clenching his eyes shut against the pain and possible bruise. Yet as he sat there, he felt an additional weight settle on his legs.
"Hmm?"
Curious, Beltrán looked down at what had fallen on him. A book had slipped from the top of the shelf.
"Fundamentals of Thaumaturgy and an Introduction to Prana," he read silently off the cover.
Before he could reach for it, the door to his room burst open. A woman with dark hair, somewhere in her thirties or forties, entered, her face etched with deep concern.
—"Master Beltrán! Are you alright? Did you hurt yourself? Let me see your head!" —Eliette exclaimed, rushing to him.
She checked him over, then lifted him in her arms with surprising ease, laying him back on the bed. Her worry carried a maternal weight.
"To think she behaves more like a mother than my real one…"
Memories of the woman filled Beltrán's head—his personal maid, assigned to him even before he could reason properly. Her name was Eliette. She had been at his side as far back as he could remember, teaching him the basics, listening to him, reading him bedtime stories, and caring for him both at home and outside of it.
Though Beltrán had never consciously thought of her as a mother figure, the expansion of his knowledge and memories left no doubt: Eliette had truly grown fond of him, caring for him like a mother even when it was not her role. She had tended to him through his illness, and he could not have been more grateful.
—"Eliette." —Beltrán called, sitting up in bed.
—"Yes, young master?"
She was still surprised at how quickly her young master was recovering. For days she had cleaned his body, fed him, and kept his room spotless, rarely leaving his side. Sometimes, she had even slept on the floor just to make sure she could tend to him if he relapsed during the night. Only on rare occasions would she leave—for her own needs or to fetch him food, as she had been doing just before hearing the sound of his fall.
"The young master looks far more energetic than before. I'm so glad for him," she thought.
—"What happened to me?"
Eliette's pupils shrank slightly, and she averted her gaze. Beltrán's eyes, however, followed hers, refusing to let her avoid his honest look.
—"Well… that is…" —Eliette faltered.
Beltrán narrowed his eyes but held his gaze on her. It was clear she knew something.
He truly had no idea why he had felt so ill. For days, he could barely stay conscious for more than a few minutes, yet today he felt well enough to finally demand an answer to his greatest doubt—the cause of these new memories.
—"Is it something bad?" —he asked, worry creeping into his voice.
At that, Eliette's hesitation cracked under the weight of his concern. She could not lie. His recovery had seemed like a miracle; she had almost believed he would not survive. To hide the truth now felt wrong.
—"That night you ran away," Eliette began, "the doctors who came to examine you told me you collapsed and fell ill from overexerting your prana… I don't know exactly what that means, but it left your body dangerously weakened. A few hours later, the persistent fever began."
"Prana…"
The word was not unfamiliar. Beltrán knew it as one of the fundamental forces of this world. In simple terms, prana was a form of energy possessed by all living beings, most often drawn in through breathing. Just as with oxygen, every living creature absorbed and released small amounts of prana, and it was essential for physical vitality and energy. Without enough prana, one would feel tired or lethargic.
A portion of the population, however, could manipulate prana to perform what was commonly called "magic." Beltrán didn't yet fully understand it, but here it was as natural as walking or speaking—something a child might not grasp in theory but would never question in practice.
—"But…"
The sharpness of Beltrán's mind pieced together what this meant. He didn't know the limits of high prana usage, but he could imagine the consequences. His memory of that night was blurred—he recalled only his frustration and exhaustion, then attempting to practice prana before everything went dark.
Still, Eliette's reaction told him she wasn't saying everything. She seemed to be hiding something, and though he pressed her, she remained unwilling to reveal more. That alone fed his suspicions. Eventually, he stopped insisting.
"Damn it. All these memories make me distrust adults… I suppose I know too much now to afford being innocent."
Weariness swept over him again, forcing him to close his eyes. He believed it would not be long before he recovered enough to investigate properly—once Eliette wasn't around.
"Whatever happened… it's definitely tied to my current situation."
Days passed quickly, and Beltrán's recovery was finally complete. His frail state became little more than a memory. Stronger now, he ventured outside for the first time.
"Being born into privilege… in the stories I've read, it's rarely a blessing. Yet I must admit, it comes with far more advantages than drawbacks."
He strolled through the gardens of his residence, accompanied by Eliette. Beltrán belonged to a noble family of high standing. His father, Bedivere, had arranged for him to attend a prestigious academy, far from the family's main territory. One of their estates near the academy had been set aside for Beltrán as his residence.
The memories—both his own and those he had inherited—shaped his personality. Subtle shifts emerged: new tastes, sensations, and psychological patterns, altering not only his trust in others but also his behavior. Among these inherited inclinations was a deep love for flowers. Thus, when he stepped into the garden, he immediately asked Eliette to walk him through it.
"I must say, Master Beltrán hasn't looked this spirited since leaving the Leonhard estate," Eliette thought, watching him.
Kneeling on a stone path, Beltrán studied peculiar flowers. Their petals curled into spirals like tufts of fur, resembling the hide of some beast. As he brushed one lightly, the petals shed fine hair-like strands that wove together into a delicate film, drifting onto his nose with a sweet nectar-like scent.
—"Interesting," he murmured, smiling faintly as he brushed the strands away.
When he turned, he found Eliette watching him, her maternal smile and bright blue eyes radiating warmth—love that only a mother could give.
—"Young Master Beltrán, that's enough for today. Night will fall soon. An Alba has been predicted for tonight and the next two days," Eliette said gently.
"Right… there's also that."
Beltrán glanced at the darkening sky, lit not by stars but by glowing red, green, and blue sources of energy. As Eliette turned, he hurried to catch up.
"Even the climate here is a mystery to me. Perhaps this broader knowledge has made me less indifferent to the nature of this world."
Later, in his room, Beltrán sat at his desk by the window. Outside, heavy fog rolled in, swallowing the streets and blotting out the sky. Striking a match, he lit a lamp.
"The Albas… I don't know what they really are, but they come every two weeks or so. There's even a measure for them, called 'cycles.' But why must we hide from them? What lies beyond the mist?"
Curiosity and unease stirred in him as he drew the curtains. Turning back to his desk, his eyes fell upon the heavy book.
"Finally, Eliette has left me alone. It's not normal for a child to read such complex texts… though technically, I'm still a child. Confusing."
Sighing, he opened the book. Its introduction was dense with tiny letters, page after page without pictures.
"This feels like university all over again."
Hours later, he rubbed his tired eyes.
"Everything would be easier with a highlighter," he muttered, running his finger along the lines.
Then, a phrase caught his attention.
Prana Deficit.
He read on. The condition struck thaumaturges who overexerted their prana reserves. Prana flowed through the body like oxygen, vital for life. Overusing it was like having the very air stolen from one's lungs, with no way to recover it quickly.
Symptoms varied—fever, weakness, and in severe cases, weeks or months of bedridden exhaustion. Without improvement, death could come within days.
A chill ran down Beltrán's spine. He had danced on the edge of death.
"This is something they should absolutely forbid children from attempting. I'd plaster skull-marked posters everywhere just to warn them."
Closing the book, shaken, he marked the page. But his suspicion grew: why had he never heard of this before?
Opening it again, he found another passage. The body naturally regulated prana usage, creating a "limit" that most thaumaturges could not exceed. Only under extreme stress or mortal danger could experienced thaumaturges bypass this limit.
"So even adults can't reach that state easily… yet I did. I'm mediocre with prana. That must mean… there's an external factor. One mystery solved, only to find another."
Beltrán sighed. He knew now why Eliette had been so hesitant. She must have known, but telling a child so fresh from the brink of death was unthinkable.
"Especially since it could have killed me."
At last, fatigue overcame him, and he fell asleep atop the book.
Meanwhile, in the main hall of the estate, Eliette stood before a man. His short brown hair was slicked back, his chiselled face scarred—one long gash running from his nose bridge to above his brow, with smaller scars scattered across his features. His appearance was rugged yet mature, his studded leather clothes marked by military-quality medallions.
—"There's been no word from Lord Bedivere?" Eliette asked.
—"My lord expressed relief at young Beltrán's recovery," the man replied simply. "But he also insists that his illness cannot delay his studies any further. Once this Alba ends, he is to resume them immediately."
Eliette pressed her lips together, then exhaled slowly. Forcing a polite smile, she inclined her head.
—"As Lord Bedivere wishes."
The man—Sir Aliss—nodded, his boots leaving bits of mud on the carpet as he strode into the hall and sat at the central table.
—"Shall I prepare your temporary quarters, Sir Aliss?" Eliette asked, still smiling faintly.
—"I'm afraid one of the main rooms will be necessary," he said, watching her carefully. "Given what happened to the young master, Lord Bedivere has decided Beltrán requires a private instructor. In the afternoons, after academy lessons, he will train with me."
Though his tone was casual, Eliette's false smile nearly broke. She knew too well what those words meant.
"This man will destroy master Beltrán."