In the world of Alesto, mana flows like veins beneath the earth—an invisible river of power drawn by those who rule and ignored by those who strive to survive. Empires rise on its abundance. Bloodlines are forged in its flames. And in the heart of it all lies Ythia: the cradle of nobility, ambition, and the relentless hunger for more.
But for Lucian Alaric, son of a minor noble lost among the Empire's vast hierarchy, none of that mattered.
A shaft of pale morning light spilled through the tall window of his cluttered room. Books were everywhere—stacked on the nightstand, scattered across the floor, wedged haphazardly into an aging shelf. The smell of parchment, dust, and old wood clung to the air.
Lucian rose from bed in silence, dressed quickly, and stood before the mirror. He tried to tame his messy blond hair, but his hands paused as he caught sight of his reflection—thin face, sleepless eyes, and a weariness far too deep for his fifteen years.
From somewhere beyond the stone walls, a child's cry echoed faintly.
He froze. The sound was distant, but haunting—sharp and sudden, cutting through the silence like a knife. Then it was gone. Just like that.
He blinked. Was it real?
Without another thought, he left his room, head lowered as he moved down the marble corridor. As always, breakfast would be taken together.
In front of the tall double doors to the dining hall, he hesitated. His fingers trembled slightly, and his body tensed with instinctual caution. Then, quietly, he pushed the doors open.
No one looked up.
Not his father. Not his brothers. Only the servants. Everyone was too focused on their plates, engaged in light conversation, exchanging smiles and casual remarks—like he wasn't even there.
Lucian took his seat, and a servant brought him his food without a word.
"Thank you," he said softly.
Suddenly, the room fell quiet. Dozens of eyes turned toward him.
"He just won't drop those ridiculous habits, Father," his older brother said with just enough volume for the entire table—and the servant—to hear.
No one spoke. Heads simply shook in quiet disapproval.
"…Sorry," Lucian thought, and kept his eyes on his plate.
Time passed, though for him, it dragged like lead. When breakfast ended, the nobles dispersed for their daily affairs. Alone with the staff, Lucian stood and walked to the kitchen.
"Good morning, Oswald."
"Good morning, dear. What would you like today?"
"Some bacon, maybe," he said with a faint smile.
At least here, he could breathe.
As he enjoyed the crispy, delicious bacon, Lucian chatted with the servants in the room—making light jokes and commenting on recent events. Unlike his family, the staff treated him like a human being, not a long-term investment expected to yield returns.
In the Monianus Empire, noble families strive to cultivate their offspring to the fullest—cause each new generation is seen as an opportunity to expand the family's power and influence.
And even though the world of Alesto is a place of wonder, where mana flows freely through nature, there is no magic strong enough to turn Lucian's house into a home. Because where there is no love, not even magic can mend what is already broken.
After finishing his breakfast and exchanging a few more quiet laughs with the kitchen staff, Lucian excused himself and made his way back upstairs.
His room greeted him with its usual cluttered warmth—the scent of old paper, dried ink, and sun-warmed wood still lingering in the air. He knelt by the side of his bookshelf and pulled out two worn volumes: "Introduction to Elemental Conduction" and "The Art of Inner Flow."
With both books pressed to his chest, he left the house and walked toward the garden.
The estate's garden was one of the few places Lucian felt truly at peace. A stone path meandered through soft moss and silver-leaved trees that shimmered faintly under the morning light. Flowers with faint magical properties grew in small clusters—though none were powerful, they emitted a calm, almost musical hum.
He sat cross-legged beneath an old willow tree and placed the books beside him. Closing his eyes, he drew a slow, measured breath.
Focus.
Mana in Alesto flowed like mist—subtle, ambient, and ever-present. It wasn't something one could simply seize. It had to be invited, coaxed into the body with calm intention.
Lucian slowed his breathing and extended his senses. Soon, he felt it—the soft hum of energy in the air, delicate as a breeze against the skin. He coaxed it inward, letting it flow gently into his chest, where it settled within the quiet rhythm of his heartbeat.
In Alesto, a mage's core wasn't some distant, mystical construct. It was the heart itself—the living vessel where mana gathered, condensed, and gave birth to power.
Within Lucian, that mana swirled in a constant, gaseous current. Wisps of translucent energy coiled inside him like vapor beneath his ribs. Floating amidst that mist were the first signs of transformation—tiny droplets, dense and heavy, shimmering like dew suspended in starlight. Each one a promise of progress.
Surrounding it all was the mark of his path: the First Circle.
Not a physical object, but a metaphysical ring—a band of intricate glyphs, sigils, and ancient symbols—etched in the fabric of his essence. It spun slowly around his core, resonating with every pulse, whispering silent truths only mages could hear.
Lucian had long reached the first milestone: a complete gaseous core. Now, as his body refined what little mana it could absorb each day, he was pushing forward—awakening the liquid stage.
Progress was slow. Painfully so. But it was real.
Stillness. Clarity. Harmony.
Lucian lingered in that state, absorbing mana and losing track of time. When he opened his eyes again, he picked up his book and began to read. Paragraphs blurred into one another, the words weaving theory and practice, symbols and sigils, flows and transmutations.
He closed the book and rested it beside him on the grass. Then, he extended his right hand.
Time to test himself.
He closed his eyes again—not to seek peace, but precision.
In essence, magic is a conversion system.
Mana served as the raw input.
The mage's heart acted as the battery, storing accumulated energy in many forms.
The Circles—etched into the mage's very essence—were the processors, giving instructions to mana, like shaping, density, directing, and others.
The result was the spell: a calculated, shaped, and condensed output, refined by will, memory, and precision.
In his palm, a flicker ignited.
A fireball.
Small, volatile, flickering between control and chaos. It hovered above his skin, rotating slowly, sparks dancing across his fingertips.
Lucian furrowed his brow. He exhaled and focused.
Let's try to shape it.
He visualized a spear. The glyphs adjusted. The fire twisted.
The ball rippled, stretched... then snapped back into a sphere with a harmless pop, sending a pulse of heat up his arm.
He winced. "Too much compression. Not enough stabilization," he muttered to himself.
Even with perfect theory, real execution demanded razor-sharp control, refined instinct, and a will firm enough to sculpt chaos.
He sighed, letting the fireball dissolve into nothing.
Still, for a brief moment... it had obeyed.
…
Then it came again.
A cry.
Louder than before.
Not from the distance.
But from within.
The sound tore through him—raw, pained, and terrifyingly human. Lucian dropped his book. His vision swam. The garden twisted, melted, became unrecognizable.
He was no longer sitting. He wasn't even sure if he was breathing.
Images flashed behind his eyes—flames, shadows, a pale sky cracked open.
And through it all, the wail continued.
Only this time, he knew: it was his own voice.
Lucian gasped, jolting upright with a start. His chest was tight, and cold sweat clung to his skin. The book lay on the grass beside him, forgotten.
He looked around.
Everything was quiet again.
Too quiet.
…
Time passed, Lucian skipped lunch, though no one noticed or asked. He returned to his usual rhythm—rotating between thick tomes of magical theory and precise mana control exercises. Afternoon light filtered through the windows of the estate, casting golden streaks across the stone floor as he scribbled notes on glyph composition and spell layering. Every so often, he'd take a deep breath and resume mana circulation, refining the liquid trace forming within his heart-core.
By evening, the garden had shifted hues. Shadows stretched longer, insects hummed softly in the hedges, and the air had cooled with a hint of autumn's arrival. Lucian sat cross-legged beneath the old sycamore tree, a blanket of fallen leaves beneath him. Open books surrounded him like silent witnesses, their pages fluttering in the breeze.
He attempted the fire spell again. This time, it wasn't just to test control—it was to assert something to himself. A need to feel present. Real.
"Please work" he whispered, dragging mana upward from his core.
The spell formation flared to life.
The glyphs carved into his first Circle pulsed as if responding to a silent rhythm. Like gears, each symbol shifted into place, calculating, stabilizing. In an instant, a sphere of fire emerged in his palm—bright, hot, and almost weightless. It hovered, its surface trembling with suppressed force.
Lucian smiled. He tried compressing it, shaping it—maybe a flame dagger, or even a bird like the illustrations. But the spell resisted. The flame flickered violently, then burst into smoke.
He coughed and waved the soot from his face, smirking. "Too much input… again…"
Still, there was pride in his failure. He was close.
Twilight came.
Servants began to close the outer shutters. He thanked Oswald for bringing a tray of bread and dried fruit—just enough to quiet his stomach—and remained outside under the stars for a little longer.
That was when it started again.
A sound.
Distant. Muffled. The cry of a baby.
Lucian's hand froze above the page. The quill scratched a meaningless mark across the parchment.
The cry grew louder.
It wasn't coming from the estate. It was inside his head.
High-pitched. Broken. Inconsolable.
Lucian clutched his chest, not from pain, but confusion. The cry was coming from within him.
He could feel it vibrating in his ribs, echoing from the very core that had moments ago been calmly cultivating mana. His vision blurred. The world spun—and suddenly— Stillness.
Darkness.
Then—Fire.
Not real fire, not magical. Just… red. His entire world turned crimson, the sound of the baby's cry now joined by whispers—words without meaning, voices overlapping in a storm of language he didn't understand.
He couldn't breathe. His knees gave out. He fell to the garden ground.
And then…Nothing.
Just silence.
Lucian's eyes snapped open.
But he didn't see his room. Not the garden. Not the estate.
A ceiling made of cracked stone loomed above him, the smell of smoke and damp moss invading his nostrils.
He tried to move—his limbs felt small, weak. His breath trembled in his throat. He turned his head with effort and saw shadows flickering against the walls, a fire burning low in a pit of stones.
And then Lucian looked down—and froze. His hands… they were no longer his. They were the hands of a newborn.
This wasn't his body. He was sure of it now.
Lucian screamed, but no sound came. Only the cry of a baby echoed in the dark.
His own.