The duel with Mina had bought him a reprieve, but it came with a price: two weeks of relentless, soul-crushing training. It was a baptism by fire, and Hiruko was failing spectacularly.
Mina proved to be a merciless instructor. She wasn't just teaching him magic; she was drilling it into him with a kind of brutal efficiency that left him exhausted and frustrated. Every day after school, she would be waiting for him at a secluded clearing in the woods, far from the prying eyes of the Tross estate and the North Gate School.
"Again," she'd command, her voice as sharp as a whipcrack. "You're not even trying to channel the mana. You're just thinking about it."
Hiruko would close his eyes, picturing the intricate diagrams from his scrolls. He'd imagine the mana as a warm river flowing from his core, up his arm, and into his hand. He'd focus, he'd concentrate, he'd will it to happen, but nothing. No flicker of light, no warmth, no sign of power.
"Lukas Tross has the mana reserves of a small country," Mina would sigh, pacing back and forth in front of him. "It's a wonder your mana doesn't just burst out of you on its own."
The words, meant to be a show of her exasperation, were a cold reminder of his incompetence. The real Lukas had this power, this immense, raw energy, but he was a black hole for it. He couldn't use it. Hiruko, with his modern-world brain and his desperate drive, was still nothing more than a fraud.
Days bled into one another, a blur of failures and harsh words. Hiruko's hands were raw from practicing the basic cantrips. He couldn't create a spark, couldn't make a leaf float, couldn't even manage to light a simple candle. He was a complete and utter failure at magic.
But he was a quick study. While his hands failed him, his mind was a sponge. He listened to every word Mina said. He learned the theory of mana flow, the principles of elemental manipulation, and the incantations for the most basic spells. He might not have been able to do them, but he understood them on a level that few people, even talented ones, ever did. He knew the theory of a fireball spell so well, he could recite its components in his sleep.
Finally, one night, after a week of relentless failure, something clicked.
He was sitting on a fallen log, his head in his hands, utterly defeated. Mina was a few feet away, her own shoulders slumped in exasperation. She'd given up for the night, letting the silence settle between them.
Hiruko looked down at a small, dry leaf on the ground. He took a deep breath and, without thinking, without trying to "channel mana," he just did it. He felt a sudden, familiar warmth in his palm, a feeling he'd only ever experienced when he'd first touched the stone with Clarissa. He extended his hand over the leaf and muttered the words, not from a book, but from his own, instinctual understanding. "Ignis."
A small flicker of light, a spark the size of a firefly, appeared over the leaf. It wasn't a fireball, but it was magic. It was a spark.
Hiruko looked up at Mina, a stunned look on his face. He had done it.
Mina's eyes widened, a look of genuine shock on her face. "You... you did it," she whispered, a hint of awe in her voice. "You actually did it."
The next few days were a different kind of training. Hiruko had unlocked the "how." Now, he had to perfect it. He and Mina worked tirelessly, their time together a strange, silent dance of teacher and student. His progress was slow, agonizingly so, but it was there. He moved from a single spark to a flickering ember, then to a tiny, thumb-sized flame. He was mastering the most basic of cantrips.
A week before the exams, Mina presented him with a new task.
"This is the most fundamental of all offensive spells," she said, her voice serious. "A fireball. It's a simple cantrip, but it will be all you have in the duels. You have seven days to perfect it."
The challenge hung in the air between them, a weighty promise and a terrifying deadline. A fireball. The words themselves sounded powerful, but in Hiruko's hands, it felt like an impossible dream. He had a week. Seven days to go from a thumb-sized flame to a full-fledged offensive spell.
He started that very night. He read every word in the scrolls about the Ignis cantrip, the one he had instinctively cast. He learned about the components: the ignition, the containment, the propulsion. It was a complex dance of mana control, and his body, which had barely managed a single spark, felt wholly inadequate.
The first few days were a frustrating replay of his earlier failures. He could summon a spark, a tiny, almost-invisible flicker of light that died the moment it appeared. It was as if his mana, now a familiar warmth in his core, simply refused to be shaped and propelled forward. It would ignite, but then it would dissipate, a wisp of smoke in the night air.
Mina watched him, her patience wearing thin. "No, Lukas, you're trying to push the mana out. You need to pull it. Imagine it's a string, and you're drawing it from your core to your hand." She would demonstrate, a small, perfect orb of fire appearing in her palm, a miniature sun, before she would extinguish it with a snap of her fingers. "Like that."
Hiruko would try again, picturing the string, the pull, the focus. Nothing. His frustration was a tangible thing, a knot in his stomach that tightened with every failed attempt. He could feel the countdown to the exam, the ticking clock of public humiliation. He had to succeed.
On the third day, a cold rain began to fall, turning their practice clearing into a muddy, miserable bog. Mina, surprisingly, didn't call off the training. "Mana is a force of nature," she said, her voice dripping with mock-seriousness. "It doesn't care if you're cold or wet."
Hiruko, shivering, tried to summon a spark, but the dampness seemed to snuff out his efforts before they even began. He was a complete and utter failure. He slumped against a tree, his head in his hands, rain plastering his sandy hair to his face.
"I can't do it," he mumbled, the words a confession of utter defeat. "It's just… it's not working."
Mina knelt in front of him, her face serious. "It's not working because you're fighting it. You're fighting your own mana. You're trying to make it do what you want, but you need to let it do what it does best. Tross mana isn't for a precise little flame. It's for power. For raw, explosive power. Stop trying to make a firefly, Lukas, and make a supernova."
The words hit him like a jolt of electricity. Tross mana. Power. He had been trying to make his mana into a delicate, controlled thing, a tiny, elegant flame, but that wasn't its nature. It was like trying to use a sledgehammer to drive a thumbtack. He needed to be a sledgehammer.
He closed his eyes and, for the first time, he didn't picture a river or a string. He pictured an explosion. A controlled, focused, beautiful explosion. He pictured the fire that had taken so many lives in his old world, the fires that had been born of raw, uncontrollable power. He would not just ignite the mana. He would release it.
He opened his eyes, raised his hand, and muttered the incantation. "Ignis."
The warmth in his palm was no longer a string or a river. It was a pressure. A deep, violent pressure that built and built. He didn't try to contain it; he tried to focus it. He pointed his hand at a small, dead tree stump a few feet away. The pressure in his palm reached a crescendo, and then, with a pop, a small, thumb-sized ball of fire shot from his hand. It was misshapen, flickering, and pathetically slow, but it was a fireball. It hit the stump with a soft thud and a tiny puff of smoke. The stump was barely singed, but the fire had been contained, and it had been propelled.
Mina's eyes widened, a slow, appreciative smile spreading across her face. "Now we're talking," she said, her voice filled with a hint of genuine awe.
The final four days of training were a furious, relentless push. Hiruko's fireballs were still pathetic by Mina's standards, but they were no longer sparks. He could now consistently produce a thumb-sized ball of fire, a miniature projectile that traveled a good ten feet before fizzling out. He wasn't a prodigy, but he was no longer a complete failure. He was learning to be the sledgehammer he was meant to be.
The night before the exam, he and Mina stood in their muddy clearing, both exhausted, both covered in soot and grime. He had just managed to produce a fireball the size of his fist. It had traveled a decent distance, but it had wobbled and spun in the air before hitting its target. It was a far cry from the perfect spheres of fire Mina could create.
"It's not enough," he said, his voice flat with exhaustion. "It's not good enough for the exam. I'll be a joke."
Mina stepped closer and placed her hand on his shoulder. "Lukas, listen to me. This isn't about being a prodigy. It's about being better than you were before. You went from nothing to something. You went from a boy who had given up to a man who is fighting for his life. That's what matters. That's what will get you through."
He looked at her, at her kind, unwavering eyes, and for the first time since he had arrived in this world, he felt a flicker of hope. He had a weapon now. It wasn't a great one, but it was his. He had his cunning, and he had his newfound ability to cast a clumsy, pathetic, but functional fireball.
He stood there for a moment, the cold mud seeping through his boots, his body aching with exhaustion. He looked at Mina, her face illuminated by the faint moonlight, and felt a surge of genuine gratitude. The words came out with a sincerity he hadn't known he possessed. "Thank you, Mina. I couldn't have done this without you."
A small, tired smile touched her lips. "Get some rest, Lukas. The real test is tomorrow. You've earned it."
He nodded, a sense of quiet determination settling over him. "I'm heading to my room. I have a few things to go over." He knew he couldn't rely on tricks this time. No stones, no vines, no misdirection. This was about him and his magic. He had to face his fear head-on.
The walk back to his room felt like a hundred miles. Each step was heavy with the weight of the coming day. He entered his room, the grandeur of the space no longer feeling alien, but simply a stage for the performance he had to give. He sat on the edge of his bed, his mind already a whirlwind of plans and strategies. He knew he couldn't win by force. His fireballs were too small, too weak. He had to be smarter.
He pictured the dueling grounds, a wide, open space. The duels would be one-on-one, with a simple goal: hit your opponent with a spell. He couldn't rely on a direct hit. He had to think of a way to use his pathetic little fireballs to his advantage. He pictured them not as weapons, but as tools. A series of feints, a diversion, a way to control the flow of the fight.
He wouldn't be able to hit anyone head-on, so he would make them move. He would use his fireballs to create a chaotic pattern, to force his opponent to constantly dodge and reposition. He would wear them down, exhaust them, and then, in a moment of their fatigue, he would strike.
His father wouldn't be there. That was both a relief and a source of pressure. He wouldn't have to face his father's cold, scrutinizing gaze, but he knew the results would reach Lord Tross's ears. Winning would be a statement. Losing would be another stain on the family name.
He lay back on the bed, the soft silk of his nightshirt a stark contrast to his grimy hands. He closed his eyes, his mind running through every possible scenario, every possible opponent, every possible strategy. The anxiety was still there, a low hum in his veins, but it was overshadowed by a new, more powerful feeling: a quiet, burning resolve. He had a weapon. It wasn't great, but it was his. And he would use it to win.
He was no longer just Hiruko, the office worker. He was no longer just Lukas Tross, the failure. He was something new, something in between. He was a man with a plan, and tomorrow, he would prove it.