By the time twilight deepened into full night, the manor's lanterns sputtered weakly in the courtyard. Wind whispered across the trench, tugging at the tall grass that framed its edges. The faint shimmer of mana had faded completely, leaving behind only still water and compact soil.
Dojin crouched again, pressing a fingertip into the ground. Firm. No seepage. A simple trench had become a stabilizing conduit — primitive, but functional.
He sat back on his heels, exhausted but satisfied.
"Not bad for day one," he murmured. "If this place doesn't collapse by morning, I'll call it a success."
Behind him, Gerald cleared his throat.
"My lord, the servants are… concerned."
"About?"
Gerald hesitated. "The glowing. And the digging. And, ah, you personally moving earth like a common worker."
Dojin turned, expression flat. "Which part worries them most?"
"…All of it, my lord."
"Good. Fear builds discipline."
Gerald blinked. "Does it?"
"It does if they think the next trench is for their graves."
The butler paled.
Dojin sighed, rubbing his neck. "Relax. It's a joke."
"Yes, my lord." Gerald did not relax.
***
Inside, the manor's corridors were dimly lit, their sconces filled with oil that smelled faintly rancid. He walked through the halls, tracing his fingers along cold stone. Cracks formed thin maps on the walls — fractures that told stories of neglect and misplaced pride.
Every so often, a flicker of mana glowed between stones — faint threads of energy trapped from old enchantments. They pulsed unevenly, unstable. The magic was decaying, leaking like a failing capacitor.
He knelt, focusing.
Mana reacted faintly to his presence again — not obedience, but curiosity. Like a creature sniffing a stranger.
Fascinating.
In his old life, energy followed equations. Here, energy listened.
"Mana isn't physics," he whispered. "It's persuasion."
And persuasion, he could manage.
***
He eventually found himself in the estate's west wing — a section so neglected it could have qualified as an archaeological site. Dust cloaked every surface. The ceiling sagged in protest. A faint trickle of water echoed somewhere distant.
When he pushed open the door at the end of the hall, the stench hit him first. Damp earth, mold, rot. The walls were wet, dripping faintly into puddles that reflected candlelight like dull mirrors.
"Wonderful," he muttered. "The basement's auditioning as a swamp."
He crouched near one of the puddles, dipping a finger in. The water was cold but faintly tinged with mana again. The source wasn't magical — it was misdirected.
Somewhere beneath the manor, mana and water converged into the same channels. A disaster waiting to happen.
He reached for a loose stone and pried it free. Behind it, blackened mortar crumbled to dust. He could see faint veins of blue light — leaking mana flow, twisting through the cracks like roots seeking freedom.
"So that's where the runoff went."
He set the stone aside and studied the wall more closely. The foundation was absorbing ambient mana from groundwater. Without a stable containment layer, the structure was weakening itself from the inside.
An elegant kind of suicide.
***
Dojin stood, brushing off his hands. His mind was already racing through possibilities — waterproofing layers, reinforcement spells, controlled mana lattices.
He needed a full model of the estate's substructure. But first, he had to find where the water entered.
He followed the damp trail deeper into the west corridor, boots squelching softly. The air grew colder, heavier. Somewhere ahead, he heard a faint humming — low and rhythmic, like breath.
When he turned the corner, the corridor opened into a collapsed chamber. Rubble littered the floor, and in the center stood a half-buried mana conduit — a crystalline pillar cracked along its length. Faint light pulsed within, bleeding energy into the floor.
"Found you," he said quietly.
The conduit was supposed to channel ambient mana into the estate's wards, stabilizing them during storms or high fluctuations. But with the damage, it was leaking straight into the foundation — turning every wall into a sponge for unstable energy.
He approached cautiously, feeling the air tremble. Mana distorted light here; even shadows shimmered faintly.
Touching it directly would be unwise. But theory demanded risk.
He extended a hand, not to touch but to listen. He felt the pulse of mana — erratic, uneven. Not unlike a damaged circuit.
"You're bleeding pressure," he muttered. "Let's patch you up before you bring the house down."
He knelt and pulled from his coat the same small core from earlier — now dim, drained of power. Still, it might act as a stabilizer if tuned correctly.
He placed it near the crack and closed his eyes, visualizing the flow of energy as water under pressure. Then, slowly, he pushed his will into it — imagining barriers, rerouting streams, balancing force.
The light wavered, flickered, then steadied. The air vibrated softly.
A tremor ran through the floor. For a moment, he thought he'd overdone it.
Then — stillness.
The conduit's light stabilized, pulsing evenly once more.
He exhaled, sweat beading his brow. "Mana management achieved," he whispered. "Structural load reduced. Congratulations, me — I've officially fixed a magical pipe."
***
Footsteps echoed behind him. Gerald's voice, hesitant.
"My lord? Are you down here? The staff grew worried when they saw light through the floorboards."
"Good timing," Dojin said, standing. "Tell them to stop worrying. The estate isn't haunted — it's just hydraulically stupid."
Gerald peered at the conduit, eyes wide. "What… what is that?"
"The reason your ceilings leak mana instead of water."
Gerald's expression twisted into polite incomprehension. "Ah. I see."
"You don't."
"No, my lord."
Dojin sighed. "Then write this down. We're sealing the western foundation tomorrow. I'll need lime, ash, and crushed mana quartz."
Gerald blinked. "To… build?"
"To survive."
***
When he finally returned to his study, the clock struck midnight. A single candle flickered beside his notebook, its wax pooling like molten ivory. He sat heavily, stretching his sore shoulders.
The day's sketches and notes covered the desk — messy lines, annotations, cross-sections. Half of them were theories about mana flow density. The other half were reminders to fire everyone and start over.
He picked up his pen and wrote:
Project Log: Day 1 — Initial Structural Survey•
Trench stabilization successful. Mana integration possible through guided flow.
Western conduit located; minor containment achieved.
Hypothesis: Mana behaves as fluid and energy simultaneously. Responds to intent and structure.
Next Step: Containment seals using composite mana-lime mixture.
Personnel competence: critically low. Must compensate with diagrams and threats.
He paused, tapping the pen against his chin. Then added:
Note: The staff may be incurable. Consider re-education via shovel.
A faint smile tugged at his lips. The sarcasm helped him think — the rhythm of wit against frustration kept him sane.
Outside, the night wind sighed through the cracks in the walls, as if agreeing with him.
***
When he finally leaned back, exhaustion pulling at his eyelids, the faint hum of mana filled the air again. It resonated from beneath the floor — calm this time, almost like a heartbeat syncing with his own.
The estate was alive. Wounded, unstable, but alive.
"You want to be fixed, don't you?" he murmured. "All right then. Let's rebuild you from the bones up."
As he closed his notebook, a soft flicker of light pulsed across its surface — faint, almost imperceptible. Like the echo of a system waiting to be born.
It vanished as quickly as it appeared.