Chapter 3: A New Life
Warm, soft light filled the small room. It came from an oil lamp on a wooden table, flickering gently and making shadows dance on the walls. The air smelled clean, like fresh herbs and dried flowers.
A young woman lay on a bed, breathing slowly. Her hair was the color of silver and moonlight, spread out around her on the pillow. Her face was pale and damp with sweat, but her eyes were calm. Her fingers held tightly to the bedsheet.
Next to the bed, a woman with light brown hair tied in a neat bun stood holding a small bundle wrapped in white cloth. Her hands shook a little, but she smiled.
The bundle made a sound—a small, healthy cry. "Wah! Wah!"
"Congratulations, madam," the maid whispered, her voice full of joy. "It's a healthy boy."
The woman on the bed slowly turned her head. Her lips, pale from effort, curved into a wobbly smile. Tears gathered in her eyes.
"Give him to me," she said softly, her voice rough but warm.
The maid carefully placed the tiny baby into the woman's waiting arms.
The woman—Sara Scytes—looked down at her newborn son. His skin was soft and pink. His little hands were curled into tight fists. He had a small patch of black hair on his head. And when he blinked open his eyes, they were a deep, dark black, like two pools of quiet water.
Tears began to roll down Sara's cheeks. They fell slowly, one after another, landing on the baby's face.
"This is my child," she whispered, her voice shaking. "My son."
Just then, the door opened quietly.
A tall man stepped inside. He had black hair and sharp, kind eyes. His body was strong, the kind of strong that comes from hard work. His hands had bruises and old scars, but his face was gentle.
He was Jonathan Scytes. He was twenty-two years old, with a handsome face and a strong build.
"Sara," he said softly, closing the door behind him. "Is it a boy or a girl?"
Sara looked up, smiling through her tears. "It's a boy."
For a moment, Jonathan didn't move. He stood perfectly still, as if time had stopped. Then he walked quickly to the bed, his steps careful. He knelt beside it and reached out with hands that trembled slightly.
"A boy," he repeated, his voice full of wonder and pride. Gently, he took the small bundle from Sara's arms and looked at the tiny face.
"You are my son," he murmured, his own eyes growing shiny. "You will be healthy and strong. You will be our happiness."
He leaned down and pressed a soft, gentle kiss on the baby's forehead.
The baby—Aiden, though he did not know his name yet—felt the warmth of that kiss spread through his small body. It was a warmth he had not felt in a very, very long time.
His soul, which had drifted between worlds, seemed to recognize this touch. It was not like the coldness and cruelty he had known before. This touch held something he had almost forgotten.
Love.
In that moment, Aiden thought he must be dreaming. *Is this a dream?* he wondered.
But the days passed, and he did not wake up.
Days became weeks. Weeks became months. Slowly, Aiden understood. This was not a dream. This was real. He had been born into a new world.
At first, he was distant and quiet. The memories of his lonely past life were still there, like shadows in his mind. He rarely cried. He rarely laughed. He mostly watched the world with quiet, serious eyes.
But his new parents never gave up on him. They took care of him every day.
His mother, Sara, would hold him near the window and hum soft songs that sounded like a gentle morning.
His father, Jonathan, would come home from the forest every evening. His clothes were often stained with dirt or sometimes blood from hunting, but his smile was always real and warm when he picked Aiden up.
Little by little, Aiden got used to the warmth. It began to seep into his heart. He learned to smile again—small, shy smiles at first, but they were real.
He started to act like a child. He did it so his parents would be happy. He pretended to cry when he wanted attention. He pretended to laugh at silly things. He acted affectionate and childish. Inside, he felt a little embarrassed—he was seventeen in his mind, after all. But he did it for them.
By the time he was four years old, Aiden could speak the language of this world fluently. It was called the Common Tongue of Eldoria.
His sharp mind and quick learning surprised his parents and the other people in the village. He learned by watching, by listening, and by feeling.
As more time passed, Aiden learned about magic. He saw his mother and father use strange and wonderful powers to do things that should be impossible.
To Aiden, it was amazing. Sometimes at night, he would sit by the window and watch tiny silver lights drift in the moonlight outside.
He saw his mother place her glowing hands on Jonathan's wounded arm and watch the skin heal right before his eyes.
He saw his father snap his fingers and make sparks appear to light the fireplace. He saw him pull water from the air to fill a bucket.
It was strange. It was wonderful. It was real.
The more he saw, the more curious he became. A deep desire grew inside him—a desire to understand this power. To hold it in his own hands.
By the time Aiden was six, the house had grown quieter. His mother spent more time in her garden with her herbs. His father went on longer, deeper trips into the forest to hunt. The maid was busy with chores.
So, Aiden began to explore the house on his own.
One evening, his curiosity led him to a locked door at the end of the hallway. It was a small wooden door with fancy carvings on it. He had seen his father go in there many times, but he was never allowed inside. It was his father's private library.
On this day, the door was open just a crack.
Aiden pushed it open and stepped inside.
The room was full of shelves. Old books and scrolls covered them, smelling of dust and old paper. Aiden walked in and began to look around. He was sure the secret to using magic was in this room.
He searched through the big library with its hundreds of books. He read every title he could. Days passed as he looked.
Finally, he found a book with a title that made his heart beat faster:
***"The Foundations of Mana and the Birth of the Mana Heart."***
Without thinking, Aiden pulled the book from the shelf and opened it.
He read for hours. The next day, he came back and read more. He grew more and more curious.
He learned about breathing techniques—special ways to breathe that pulled the world's energy, called mana, into your body. You had to guide it to your heart to form something called a **Mana Heart**.
The method was clear:
**Five short breaths. Three long breaths. Five normal breaths.**
You had to repeat this rhythm. You had to guide the mana flow inward, through your veins. When your heart began to pulse with mana, a seed would form inside it—a bright, light-green heart. It meant purity and balance.
Aiden's eyes shone as he read. His heart pounded with excitement.
*So this is how it's done*, he thought.
One day, just as he finished reading a chapter, he heard footsteps. The library door swung open.
Jonathan Scytes stood in the doorway, his face hard to read. Behind him, Sara peeked in, looking worried.
For a long moment, no one spoke. Then Jonathan's calm, firm voice broke the silence.
"Aiden," he said. "What are you doing here… and with that book?"
The boy froze. He could hear the seriousness in his father's voice.
After a pause, Aiden lowered his head. *Have I done something wrong?* he thought. Then he decided to tell the truth. "Father, I wanted to know how you and Mother use your powers. No one else in the village can. I thought… maybe the secret was here. I didn't mean to disobey you."
Jonathan's look softened a little, but his voice stayed steady. "And what did you learn?"
"I learned about the Mana Heart," Aiden replied eagerly. "About how you can absorb mana and store it in your heart. I was going to try it soon."
Sara let out a quiet gasp. Jonathan's eyebrows drew together.
"Aiden," he said after a moment of silence. "You shouldn't have read that book without asking me. But… I suppose it's our fault for showing you our powers so openly."
He sighed deeply and sat down beside his son. "Listen to me carefully, Aiden. You cannot form a Mana Heart yet. No one can before the age of twelve. The most gifted cultivator in all of history did it at twelve. Some do it at thirteen. The talented ones at fourteen. Normal people are around seventeen. Anyone who tried before twelve… died."
Aiden looked up, his eyes wide. "But Father, I—"
"No buts," Jonathan said, his voice sharp. "It's too dangerous. Mana can destroy you from the inside. You must not try it."
His tone left no room for argument. He took the book gently from Aiden's hands and locked it inside a small wooden box.
Then, seeing his son's disappointed face, his expression softened. He put a hand on Aiden's head.
"I know you're eager," he said warmly. "And I'm proud of that. When the time comes—when you turn twelve—I will teach you how to use mana myself. Until then, live your life. Learn. Enjoy being a child. You have time."
He stood up. "I'm going to the forest to hunt," he said to Aiden and Sara. Then he walked out the door.
After he left, Sara came over. Her gentle hands pulled Aiden into a warm hug. "Your father is only worried for your safety, my love. Now come—I've made your favorite meat pies."
As they walked to the kitchen, the good smell of baked meat and herbs filled the small house.
That evening, Aiden sat at the table, his small hands holding a fork. He looked up at his smiling mother. For the first time in both his lives, he felt truly safe.
"Mom," he said suddenly, his eyes bright. "Next month is my birthday. Can you make beef stew, meat pies, and a cake?"
Sara laughed softly. "Of course, sweetheart. I'll make them all, and this time, even better."
The boy grinned, his dark eyes shining.
A few hours later, his father came home. He carried a large boar over his shoulders. He put it down, got a knife from the kitchen, and began to skin it with skilled hands.
Aiden sat beside him and watched, learning just by observing.
Later, they all had dinner together. When they were done, Aiden stood up. "Good night," he said. "I'm going to sleep."
His parents smiled at him together. "Good night," they said. "Have good dreams."
That night, after his parents were asleep, Aiden lay in bed staring at the ceiling. His father's warning echoed in his mind—but he had not given up on creating a Mana Heart.
*I'll be careful*, he thought. *If it hurts, I'll stop. It should be safe… right?*
He sat up cross-legged on his bed. He closed his eyes and began the breathing pattern from the book:
**Five short breaths. Three long breaths. Five normal breaths.**
At first, nothing happened. It was hard to keep the rhythm. He repeated it again and again until he got used to it. An hour passed before he had it right.
Then he started the complete technique in earnest.
After a few moments, he felt a faint tingling on his skin. It felt like tiny bugs were walking on him.
Slowly, the feeling grew stronger. Then it began to feel sharper, like the bugs were trying to dig into his skin through his pores.
It started to hurt. His whole body ached. But he remembered the book said this would happen when mana first enters the body. He endured the pain.
As time passed, the pain faded to a dull ache. Now it felt like the bugs were crawling *under* his skin, moving through his flesh like invisible threads.
Seconds turned to minutes. The tingling became a warmth, and then a deep tiredness. His arms and legs shook. Sweat soaked his nightshirt.
And then—he felt it. A faint, new pulse deep inside his chest.
He kept breathing. The mana began to flow through his veins, his vessels, as if making a path inside him. But after a few more minutes, his body felt terribly weak, as if he had worked all day in the fields.
He knew he had reached his limit. He had only made a small path for the mana and created a few mana veins. He knew it would take at least a month or two to form a full Mana Heart.
He had also learned one more important thing: the process had gone exactly as the book described. There was no hidden danger he could feel.
Aiden smiled a tired smile to himself in the dark.
*There's no problem… I can do it. I can make a Mana Heart in a month or two. I'll be the first person ever to do it at age seven. I'll be the youngest mana cultivator in history.*
With that thought, his body finally relaxed. He drifted into a deep sleep, the first whisper of mana curling quietly inside him, like a tiny, newborn flame.
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**Author's Note / Disclaimer:** This story is an original work created and written entirely by me. Tools were only used for minor editing, proofreading, and grammar corrections — not for generating story content. All characters, worldbuilding, and plotlines are my own creation.