For weeks, I stayed in my crate. Eating. Sleeping. Thinking. Thinking was the main thing I did—because it was all I could do. And what I thought about most were only two things: magic, and how to do it. Watching my mother wield magic. Watching my father move with a sword as if it were an extension of his own body. It lit a fire in me I never knew I had.
I had always been competitive. In jail, if someone was stronger than me, I made sure I became stronger than them. But seeing my father's strength—seeing my mother's skill with magic—shattered my confidence. And yet, it only made my determination burn brighter.
I wasn't just thinking. I was training. Not fighting. Not casting spells. But simple things. Mobility.
Being a baby was torture. My body was almost useless. It took weeks before I could move my hands and arms at will, before my neck would support itself without wobbling. Progress came slowly, painfully. After an entire month, I finally crawled. My parents were startled at first. They called a doctor—a man who seemed more like a magic practitioner than a physician. He declared me healthy, a genius even. I didn't know when babies normally crawled, but I knew I was ahead.
With mobility came freedom, and I needed it. I memorized my father's daily routine—when he left, where he went, what he likely did. My mother was harder to read. She moved through the house like a quiet tide, taking care of me, doing housework, disappearing for hours at a time. I wondered if she was sleeping, but watching her magic told me otherwise—she was training, meditating. And she moved in and out of a certain room constantly. I had a hunch it wasn't a pantry. I needed to see it for myself.
Crawling was exhausting. My arms shook, my bones felt fragile, my muscles screamed. At first, I didn't even consider that the doorknob was too high to reach. I had to think. Plan. Strategy.
The plan took an entire day. I grabbed a toy my parents had given me—something I never thought to use, since deep down, I wasn't really a kid. I wedged it between the door so it wouldn't close all the way. Then I crawled back to my crate, pretending nothing had happened.
When my mother left the room carrying a book, the door knocked back slightly against the toy. Perfect. I crawled to the door while she was inside her room.
Inside, my eyes widened. Hundreds of books lined every wall. My heart raced. I didn't know where to start. Overwhelmed, I focused only on what I could reach—the lowest shelf. A single book. Its title glimmered with promise: Elements and Essence: The Study of Mana. The word "mana" stirred something familiar from a story I had once read in a fantasy book.
I grabbed it, dragging it in my tiny hands back to my crate. Every crawl felt like climbing a mountain. By the time I slid the book under my crate, hidden from sight, my body trembled with exhaustion. I fell asleep immediately, clutching it like treasure.
When I woke, my thoughts immediately returned to magic. That single word lived in my head from dawn until sleep. I'd never had a desire like this before. Never had something burn inside me so strongly.
I turned my head toward the corner where my book was hidden—wedged under an old cloth—and reached for it clumsily. My body was weak, uncoordinated, but I managed to pull it close.
The first pages were simple, filled with names I didn't recognize—likely the author and others involved in its creation. But as I flipped through, the childish details vanished. The drawings disappeared. Now it was just pure text. Dense. Endless.
I wasn't used to that. In my old world, every book I'd read as a kid had pictures. Something to make the words easier to swallow. This felt heavier. More real.
So I read.
Magic, the book explained, was rare. Only ten percent of people could use it, and most of that came down to bloodline—genetics passed from parent to child.
Some parts reminded me of the fantasy novels I'd read. Others were completely foreign. "Mana," for example. It was described as the power that sustained the world. The easiest way for me to understand it was like electricity. Back in my world, people depended on electricity for everything—food, warmth, survival. Without it, everything stopped.
Mana was the same. It existed everywhere. It powered homes, tools, even the smallest things like lights and water. But not everyone could harness it.
And then came the line that crushed me:
"Not everyone can use magic. You know you can once you reach the age of five. This is when your mana core develops."
Five years? I wasn't even one yet. Five years of waiting in a world full of magic—unable to do anything but hope? And even then, there was a chance I wouldn't have any talent at all.
The thought burned through me.
Then I noticed something else—another line beneath it:
"Certain gifted children may awaken earlier than others."
I traced the words with my tiny fingers. A spark flickered in my chest.
If there was even a chance I could be one of those children—if I could awaken sooner—I'd do anything.
I kept reading. Every person possessed mana from birth, though most never felt it. The mana core allowed that energy to flow freely, to take shape. It began forming around age five, and from there, one's true journey began.
The book also mentioned something strange—how the mana core could grow stronger, changing color as it evolved. Each color represented a new stage of power, but the details were too complex for me to grasp yet. Still, the idea of colors glowing within the body fascinated me.
I closed the book slowly. The cover pressed softly against my hands. My eyes were wide, thoughtful, restless.
I couldn't move well. Could barely talk. But in that tiny body, a fierce, determined will had already begun to grow.
Weeks passed, and I stayed in my crate, which I didn't mind. It let me watch. Observe. Plan.
Eventually, boredom set in. Reading wasn't enough. I'd never truly understood the magic—I was a visual learner. I even tried to hurt myself, falling off my crate in hopes my mother would use her healing magic, just so I could learn. But my father's inhuman reflexes caught me every time.
So I started thinking differently. If I couldn't learn from my mother, maybe I could learn elsewhere. I wanted to leave the house. Normally, I relied on her to take me outside. She did so every day, but never far. I pointed to the door, and she understood.
"Aw… Rain, you are so smart!" she said softly, smiling. She carried me outside, but still only a little ways. I wanted more. I pointed farther. At first, she thought I was playing a game, but then she caught on. Her expression dimmed slightly—she realized she hadn't truly shown me the world yet.
Quickly, she went inside, and when she returned, she was dressed properly. My baby face was blank, expressionless—but inside, I was glowing with joy at the possibilities ahead.
A carriage waited outside. I didn't understand how it arrived so quickly, but I twisted my head and noticed neighbors in the distance. Some had multiple horses, like a small farm. I presumed we were using one.
The ride lasted a full hour. Walking would have taken far too long. The horse didn't need guidance—it was trained perfectly, familiar with the path.
As we approached the town, the air felt denser. People. Strong people. Magic users.
Walking through the streets (my mother holding me), I realized the town wasn't like the fantasy stories I'd imagined. Normal people, normal faces. But weapons were everywhere—swords, daggers, staffs. Not just tools—they were necessities. The justice system must be entirely different here.
Stores were clean, the streets organized. Hundreds of people, but the town wasn't crowded.
Then I saw him.
An old man stood behind a wooden booth, performing what he called entertainment magic for a small crowd. He was probably seventy, maybe older, but still sturdy, shoulders squared like someone who'd worked his whole life.
The sign in front of him read: 5 copper for entertainment magic.
I didn't know how much that was.
But I knew I needed to see magic.
I had to.
He lifted his hand, sparks bursting from his fingertips. They shot into the air, crackling into bright little fireworks. The crowd clapped. I didn't. It was flashy, harmless—nothing like what I wanted.
I needed combat magic. Something real.
Then a voice cut through the noise behind me.
"Hey, buddy. That's my chair. If you don't get out, I'll make you."
I peeked around my mother's arm. Two men.
One was older, maybe fifty, with a belly and tattoos crawling up both arms. The other was younger—twenties, tall, dressed head to toe in black.
The older one shoved him. "Get out my seat while I'm still being nice."
The younger man didn't move. He drew his sword slowly, the scrape of metal quiet but sharp enough to silence everyone.
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
Is that… the Black Swordsman?
My chest tightened. Even my mother stiffened beside me. The entertainer froze mid-performance.
The older man swung first—clumsy but strong. The black swordsman didn't counter. He blocked. Effortless. And then I saw it: a faint, dark purple light creeping up his blade.
Mana.
He was an Augmenter.
I remembered what I'd read before—how an Augmenter wasn't just a mage. They used magic to strengthen their bodies: speed, endurance, force… even their weapons. But it wasn't easy.
Anyone with mana could try, but most failed. To truly become one, you had to know your weapon like a limb, to train until pain became instinct.
My father was one.
That's why he moved like he did. Why his strikes were so heavy—and why I knew in my past life I would never stand a chance against him.
The swordsman's weapon glowed fully now, purple light pulsing. My heart hammered. The wind shifted. For a second, I imagined being like him—strong enough to silence a crowd with a single step.
The older man lunged. The swordsman vanished.
He reappeared in front of him, blade already sheathed. A blur.
I barely saw it happen. The next thing I knew, the old man was on the ground, gasping. The swordsman crouched, one leg extended from the sweep that had dropped him.
He pressed the tip of his sword against the fallen man's throat.
The message was clear.
Run.
The man scrambled to his feet and bolted. Half the onlookers did too. Chairs toppled, voices shouting. The swordsman just sat back down, calm as ever, and took a drink from his cup like nothing happened.
My mother pulled me away, holding me tight as the crowd scattered toward the street.
But I couldn't look away.
I wasn't afraid.
I was amused.
He didn't just blow my mind—he obliterated it.
Back on Earth, I'd been the strongest. In jail, no one could touch me. It got boring.
But now…
Now I had someone worth chasing.