Darkness.
Not the kind you get when you close your eyes, but a weighty, endless black. Warm. Silent. A cradle of nothingness.
Then—light.
It wasn't gentle. My infant eyes, raw and unused, fought against the sudden blaze of shapes and colors searing into my retinas. Blurs swirled before me—dancing shadows, wavering golds, and warm reds—until my vision began to stitch them together into something coherent.
The air smelled strange. It smelled thick with incense, candle wax, and the faint bite of dried herbs hanging from the walls.
The man looming above me wasn't wearing anything like a white coat. Instead, a hooded robe of earth-brown linen draped over his thin frame, charms and talismans dangling from leather cords across his chest. His beard, long and streaked with silver, seemed to flow like a waterfall under his chin, and his sharp eyes glinted behind lenses so thick they could probably stop an arrow.
This was no "doctor." In our village, they called them Life Keepers—keepers of breath, wardens of the first cry. Men and women who brought life into the world not with scalpels and machines, but with herbs, chants, and old magic carried down through centuries.
He muttered something in a language my newborn brain didn't yet understand, dipping his fingers into a shallow wooden bowl of shimmering liquid before pressing his damp fingertips gently to my forehead. The cold bite of it made me squirm.
Blessing. That's what it was. I didn't know how I knew, but I did.
I turned my gaze—or at least, my wobbly head—toward the woman beside me. The one who'd just… well… shoved me into this bizarre candlelit room.
Calling her mother felt right, even then.
She was beautiful—not in the jeweled, queenly sense of the word, but in the way a sunset over a quiet field can steal your breath. Auburn black hair clung to her sweat-damp cheeks, framing gentle black eyes that looked at me like I was the only thing in the world. Her lashes were long, her nose small and slightly upturned, and her lips curved into a trembling smile that radiated warmth despite the exhaustion in her face.
Even with my vision hazy and my mind an unfinished puzzle, I felt it—this pull toward her. This instinct to cling to her, to bury myself in her scent, to never let go.
And then… him.
A shadow moved on my right, and I turned—slowly, clumsily—to see a tall figure leaning over me. The grin on his face was ridiculously wide, eyes glistening with pride.
"Hi, little Jae," he said, voice warm but deep enough to make my tiny chest vibrate. "I'm your daddy. Can you say 'dada'?"
...?
I couldn't speak, obviously. Still, the Life Keeper and my mother both rolled their eyes in perfect synchrony. My mother scoffed weakly.
"Honey," she said, her voice soft yet firm, "he was just born."
My father didn't seem the least bit embarrassed. In fact, he looked downright smug, like my silence was a dramatic pause before my first word—spoiler, it wasn't.
With my still-blurry eyes, I studied him. The square jaw, freshly shaven, made him look like the kind of man village kids would pretend to be when playing heroes. His hair was black, kept short, and his eyebrows were sharp, almost blade-like, meeting in a subtle V above his black eyes.
Those eyes… fierce in shape, but softened by something gentler.
As I watched, the Life Keeper straightened and addressed my mother.
"Rest well, Lady Arin Hoon," he said, bowing slightly. Then, to my father, "And you, Lord Daewon Hoon—take care of your heir. He has a long road ahead."
He paused, looking at me again. For a brief, almost unsettling moment, his gaze deepened, like he was peering far beyond my tiny form into something only he could see. His lips curved into a faint, knowing smile.
"He will walk a path of light… and shadow."
Before I could process what that meant—before I even knew what light or shadow really were—he gathered his things and slipped quietly into the dark hallway beyond the room.
The candles flickered. My mother pulled me closer to her chest. My father's hand rested lightly on my head.
And in that dim, warm room, my new life began.
Eight years passed faster than I could have imagined.
Our village, Haneul's Rest, was a pocket of peace tucked between the rolling green hills and the looming shadow of the great Yongma Forest. The air always smelled faintly of pine, the rivers sang even in the stillest nights, and the soil was rich enough to make every garden overflow.
For most of my childhood, life was simple. Days were spent chasing friends through the fields, helping Father carry wood, or watching Mother weave cloth at the market stall. But the best story—the one I never got tired of telling—was how I met Liora.
It was three years ago, on a late summer afternoon. I was playing near the edge of the forest when I heard crying. Not the kind of crying that meant scraped knees—it was the kind that sounded… lost.
I found her sitting on a fallen log, pale hands clutching the hem of a dress that looked far too fine for our village. The fabric shimmered faintly, and a golden emblem was stitched at the collar—a blooming lotus surrounded by stars.
I didn't know much about royal crests at the time, but I knew enough to realize she wasn't from here.
"You're not from around here, are you?" I asked.
She sniffled. "No… I was traveling with my mother's guards. But I ran off to follow a fox and…" she glanced around the trees, "…now I don't know where I am."
Helping her find her way back was an adventure in itself. By the time we reached her caravan—filled with knights in silver and banners that screamed important people here—I learned she was Princess Liora of Eryndale.
For reasons I still don't fully understand, she decided I was her friend from that day on.
Two years ago, when I was six, another major change came—my baby sister, Mira, was born.
If you've never had a sibling, it's hard to explain the feeling. She was tiny, loud, and somehow managed to make everyone in the house revolve around her without even knowing what day it was. But from the first moment I held her, I knew I'd do anything to protect her.
She's two years old now. Talks in short bursts, runs faster than she probably should, and has a habit of sneaking into my room to curl up next to me when she's scared of storms. She calls me "bra-bra." I let her.
Today… is different.
Today, my father is going to help me awaken my mana core.
I woke before sunrise, excitement buzzing in my veins. I sprinted down the hall to my parents' room, barely knocking before shoving the door open.
"Dad! Mom! Today's the day—you're gonna train me, right?!"
Father cracked one eye open, then grinned. "Awake before the rooster, huh? You really are my son."
Mother groaned softly. "Try not to break anything before breakfast, please."
"Where are we going?" I asked, bouncing on my heels.
Father swung his legs over the side of the bed. "Somewhere special. The tallest cliff in our village—the Great Rise."
We dressed for the occasion. My outfit wasn't rich, but it wasn't rags either—a cream linen tunic with leather cord ties, dark brown trousers tucked into sturdy boots, and a cloak the color of forest moss. Worn, patched in a few places, but clean. Father wore similar clothes, his cloak more faded, his boots more scuffed.
When we stepped outside, the morning sun spilled gold across the grass. The air was cool, fresh, alive.
"Let's race," I said, grinning.
Father smirked. "Don't cry when I beat you."
We ran.
The wind whispered through the trees, dandelions swayed, and my laughter echoed through the forest path. My feet pounded against the dirt, heart racing—not just from the run, but from what was coming.
By the time we reached the cliff, the sun was sinking, painting the horizon in streaks of orange and violet. The valley stretched out endlessly below, the forest swaying like a living ocean.
Father knelt, tracing runes into the soil with his palm. The lines glowed faintly, like embers beneath ash. The wind stilled. The world felt… aware.
"Are you ready?" he asked, eyes glowing faint orange.
I swallowed hard, then nodded. "I'm ready, Dad."
The air was different up here.
Thinner. Colder.
The wind didn't just blow—it circled, almost testing me, brushing against my skin like it was curious about who had come to this place.
Father stood a few paces ahead, hands on his hips, scanning the horizon like he was greeting an old friend. Then he turned to me, his expression shifting from playful to serious.
"Alright, Jae," he said, his voice lower now, steadier. "Before we start, you need to understand what we're doing."
I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat.
"Your mana core," he began, kneeling to draw a rough circle into the dirt, "isn't a physical organ. It's not like your heart or your lungs. It's a spiritual vessel. Think of it like a seed, planted deep inside your being the moment you're born. For most people, it stays dormant forever. But for those with the will—and the guidance—it can awaken."
He tapped the center of the dirt circle. "Right here, in the center of yourself, that seed waits. Awakening it isn't about forcing it open—it's about giving it what it needs to grow."
I leaned forward, hanging on every word.
"To awaken it," he said, "you must do three things. First—still your mind. Mana is everywhere, but it won't respond to chaos. If your thoughts are scattered, you'll be like a fisherman thrashing in the water—you'll scare away the fish before you ever catch them."
He closed his eyes, exhaling slowly. "Breathe with me. In through your nose… out through your mouth."
We repeated the breath together. Once… twice… until my heartbeat matched the slow rhythm of the wind.
"Good," he said. "Second—you must sense the mana around you. It's in the air, in the earth, in the roots of the trees, in the clouds above. But to feel it, you have to stop looking with your eyes and start listening with everything else."
I frowned. "Listening?"
He smiled faintly. "Not with your ears. With your… self."
He pressed his hand against the ground. "Close your eyes. Feel the grass against your fingers. Feel the tiny vibrations of the earth. Feel the warmth of the sun on your skin. The mana isn't separate from those things—it is those things."
I obeyed. Slowly, faintly, I felt… something. A hum, deep and low, like the world itself was breathing.
Father's voice dropped to a near whisper. "Good. Now—third step. Draw it in. The mana wants to move, to flow. Guide it toward the seed inside you. Imagine pulling threads of light from the world, weaving them into yourself."
I pictured it—threads of gold drifting from the air, the soil, even the fading sunlight—sliding toward a single glowing point in the center of my chest.
"That's it," Father said, and I could hear the pride in his voice. "Don't force it. Invite it."
The threads grew brighter, faster. My chest felt warm, then hot—not painful, but intense, like standing too close to a fire.
"Now," Father said, "when the seed is ready, you'll know. It will feel like it's going to burst. Don't hold it back—let it bloom."
"Now",Father continued "I don't expect you to awaken your core today because that is impossible, but from everything I told you today you should be able to awaken it in about a week."
"Do you understand jae?" He asked then looked at me with concern when I didn't respond, "jae?"
The warmth in my chest flared. Light rushed up through me, out of me, into the sky. My eyes snapped open as a surge of power shot through my veins, making the wind whip into a spiral around us.
The ground trembled. The air roared.
My father stood there shock
As he saw deep inside me… my mana core awakened.