Rhys began with the simplest of the cantrips, those listed at the very front of the tome. They were so rudimentary that even an Adept—or a mere Apprentice—was expected to cast them without effort. Bratos had written as much, though he could never resist sneering at both groups, insisting they were not “true mages.” In his view, that title belonged only to those who had climbed at least to the Troposphere tier.

  Rhys crossed the room to retrieve his notebook, where he had carefully copied the spell the night before.

  The spell was called Lumen. A modest charm meant to summon a small hovering light, nothing more. The incantation was short, almost deceptively so.

  The scientist trapped inside the body of a young mage stepped to the center of the room. Notebook in his right hand, he lifted his left arm and spread his fingers as though demonstrating something for a class of first-year students. Even as he adjusted his posture, he knew perfectly well that he looked like an actor who had forgotten his lines.

  “Lux mea, parum luceat.”

  Light of mine, shine forth, though only faintly.

  Silence.

  Rhys inhaled, collected himself, and repeated the incantation with clearer enunciation.

  Still nothing. The room remained obstinately mundane.

  Had he mispronounced something? Did the spell require a catalyst? Some sort of component?

  But Bratos had written that this cantrip demanded none. Even the greenest practitioners could manage it.

  “Lux mea, parum luceat!”

  “Luceat!”

  “Lux… parum… oh, come on—”

  Sweat dampened his shirt. He had recited the spell while shifting through at least ten different stances and gestures. If anyone had walked in on him, they would have assumed he was practicing aerobics rather than magic.

  Utterly humiliating.

  “Hold on… compatibility issues, maybe? Ingrid did say not everyone can use light magic or healing magic.”

  He flipped through more pages, testing water cantrips, fire cantrips, and every basic elemental charm Bratos had listed.

  Not a flicker. Not so much as a warm breeze.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me. Am I actually worse than the Apprentices Bratos mocks for fun?”

  He muttered the words, but he kept going. Stubbornness had carried him through years of failed experiments; it carried him now.

  Four relentless hours passed. His voice cracked, his limbs shook, and at last he collapsed onto the floor, panting.

  “Magic is harder than physics.”

  Leaning against the bedframe, he reviewed his notes once more. His eyes landed on a passage he had underlined the night before.

  "Mana perception," the professor wrote, "is the foundational act of all spellcraft. Before a practitioner may cast even the simplest cantrip, they must first learn to sense the ambient mana saturating the air around them. The method is deceptively simple: still the body, quiet the mind, and direct one's awareness inward toward the chest—toward the Core Mana Circle. Mana will make itself known. It always does."

  Rhys had followed the instructions precisely. Twice. Then a third time, with considerably more patience than the first two attempts deserved.

  Nothing made itself known.

  He had stared at the ceiling for a full twenty minutes, breathing with the measured discipline of someone who had once sat through eight-hour grant review panels without losing his mind.

  If mana was truly as pervasive as Bratos claimed—if it saturated every cubic meter of air in this world the way oxygen saturated his own—then by every reasonable metric, he should have felt something.

  He felt nothing.

  "It always does," he muttered at the page, with considerably less charity than Bratos deserved.

  Unless the problem was not the spell.

  Unless Rein’s body had been damaged by that mysterious event the night he arrived.

  Unless he simply could not use magic anymore.

  He rose, arms folded, staring at his reflection in the mirror. After a long moment he exhaled, let the frustration slide away, and headed for the bath.

  “We’ll deal with it later.”

  Ten minutes later he stepped out refreshed and changed into the academy uniform Ingrid had delivered that afternoon.

  “Huh. Fits perfectly. She must’ve used the old clothes for sizing.”

  The fabric was leagues better than the convalescent garb he had worn until now. First-year uniforms consisted of a crisp white shirt and black trousers, accompanied by a black leather belt. The parcel had even included a pair of polished shoes.

  The whole outfit resembled the sort of school uniforms his old world favored.

  A small golden sigil was fastened to the collar—clearly the year-level insignia, identical to those he had seen on students in the dining hall, one to three strokes indicating their standings.

  But the second emblem drew his eye far more strongly: a golden pin etched with crossed mage’s staves, beneath which gleamed a line of delicate script.

  Third Place, Arcadia Grand Magic Tournament, Sixty-Eighth Cycle.

  Rhys affixed it to the left side of his chest, exactly where he had seen it in the dream. When he returned to the mirror, the reflection staring back was unmistakable: tousled black hair, restored features, blue eyes bright and keen.

  “Well… the kid’s actually pretty good-looking.”

  He laughed at himself, mildly embarrassed.

  After lacing the black shoes and pacing the room—perfect fit, naturally—he sat at the edge of the bed. His fingers tapped a steady rhythm on the frame, an old reflex born from decades of wrestling with problems far more complex than stubborn cantrips.

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  He needed a different angle.

  And then memory stirred.

  Years ago he had taken yoga classes and meditation workshops, techniques that kept him sane during the worst periods of his research. When his mind hit a wall, stepping back often revealed a crack.

  Maybe magic was the same.

  Maybe he was simply trying too hard.

  Letting go might be what he needed—a quiet space for intuition to whisper. He could almost imagine himself shouting Eureka.

  “Worth a try,” he said softly.

  He settled cross-legged on the bed and drew a slow breath, letting stray thoughts drift away one by one.

  The room faded. The world followed. Soon there was nothing but breath. Then even that was gone.

  …

  How much time passed, he could not guess. Yet suddenly Rhys found himself standing in a place both strange and oddly familiar.

  A square chamber unfolded around him, shaped with the measured harmony of classical architecture. Tall windows lined two opposite walls, though nothing lay beyond their panes but drifting white mist, stretching into an indistinguishable nowhere. A chandelier hung above, perfectly proportioned to the room’s dimensions, its crystals glinting like frozen dew.

  A soft radiance suffused everything—gentle, steady, unnatural. The chandelier and wall sconces seemed decorative rather than functional, for the light did not originate from them but from the very air itself.

  At the center of the chamber stood a round table with two chairs arranged neatly around it. Upon the table rested a porcelain vase, a teapot, and two untouched cups, all pristine.

  What unsettled him most was the absolute whiteness. Floor, walls, ceiling, furniture—every surface bore the same immaculate hue, as if carved from a single block of untouched marble. The air was cool and perfectly still. Not even an echo of wind disturbed the silence.

  Near the table stood a young man dressed entirely in white. One glance at the familiar features was enough. Recognition struck sharply, and Rhys strode forward.

  “You… you’re Rein, aren’t you?”

  As he spoke, he adjusted his glasses—only to realize he now wore the body of Dr. Rhys Rattana once more. Tall, lean, dressed in his usual researcher’s attire, the lab coat resting on his shoulders like a long-forgotten mantle reclaimed.

  “Hello, Doctor,” the boy said, bowing his head with quiet politeness. “I have been waiting for you.”

  “What is this place? What’s happening?”

  The questions burst forth in rapid succession.

  Rein smiled faintly and gestured to the empty chair across from him. He poured tea into both cups with unhurried precision and extended one to Rhys.

  “Please, sit. I suspect this blend will suit your palate. Have a sip first, and then we can speak.”

  Rein settled into his chair with ease and familiarity.

  Rhys, on the other hand, wanted—very badly—to shout.

  He stood motionless for a few seconds, wrestled his breathing back under control, and finally took the seat offered. Lifting the cup, he tasted the tea.

  He froze.

  The flavor was unmistakable: the very tea he used to drink on Earth. Even the fragrance—soft, floral, faintly calming—was perfect.

  “Well?” Rein asked. “Teas from your world are surprisingly pleasant.”

  He brushed aside a loose strand of black hair falling across his brow.

  “You do realize I didn’t come here for a tea party,” Rhys said. Inwardly, though, he could not help wondering where this teenager from another world had acquired Earth-grade tea.

  “Impatient as always,” Rein laughed. He set his cup upon its saucer, and the porcelain chimed softly.

  “In that case, I will begin with the part you will like the least. Dr. Rhys Rattana—you are dead.”

  “What?”

  He had prepared himself for the possibility, yet hearing it spoken aloud still struck with the force of a hammer. No one alive hears such words without flinching.

  Rein observed him with tranquil composure.

  “I believe you sensed it already. With an explosion of that magnitude, did you truly expect to walk away unscathed?”

  He folded his hands upon the table, watching the renowned physicist with mild curiosity. Rhys offered no protest, wearing instead a strange, measured calm. Rein’s lips curved in a faint, almost sympathetic smile.

  Before Rhys could voice his next thought, Rein answered it—as if he had heard the question forming.

  “You are wondering where we are. To tell the truth, I do not know precisely. I call this place the Mana Realm.”

  “You created this?” Rhys asked.

  Rein shook his head. “As you know, I am dead as well. The dead are incapable of shaping a realm by sheer will.”

  “So we’re ghosts, then? One ghost inviting another to a tea party. Charming.” Rhys muttered the words under his breath, though Rein ignored the remark.

  The boy refilled his cup and inhaled the rising steam, drinking with quiet satisfaction.

  “If I must explain it,” he said, “this place likely formed on its own. A side effect of a Skill I possess.”

  “A skill?”

  So the world harbored not only spells but special abilities. Of course it did.

  “Yes,” Rein said. “It is called Mana Vision. To be completely honest, while I lived, I had barely unlocked even thirty percent of it.”

  A small laugh escaped him.

  “I had no idea it could manifest a Mana Realm where we might sit and drink tea. I discovered that only after arriving here.”

  Rhys frowned, uncertainty coiling in his chest.

  Rein noticed immediately.

  “It is only the beginning,” he said gently. “Do not trouble yourself. Mana Vision is something I inherited as a child, back in the orphanage.”

  His voice softened to a near-whisper.

  “I was fortunate. Someone entrusted this ability to me in the last moment of his life. It was originally the gift of a Hero. I never spoke of it to anyone. You are the first.”

  Should I be honored, or deeply worried?

  Rhys only inclined his head, urging him to continue.

  “It made me an exceptional student of the arcane. Mana Vision allowed me to learn magic with a speed that was… unnatural. While others needed years to perceive mana, to train mind and flesh until they could sense even the faintest currents, I could see them. Always.”

  He paused, letting the truth settle, and then smiled with calm assurance.

  “So when you tried casting spells earlier, you skipped the first and most fundamental requirement: perceiving mana. Without that, you could shout and flail your arms from dawn till dusk and nothing would happen.”

  Heat crept up Rhys’s cheeks.

  How on earth was he supposed to know there was a whole method behind sensing mana? Bratos had been gloriously vague—borderline useless—and Ingrid had compared it to breathing, which was even less helpful.

  Rein tipped his head slightly, as though overhearing the thought as it formed.

  “Mana saturates Arath far more densely than anything in your world. Those born here perceive it instinctively, the way fish breathe water the moment they hatch. It is an intuition woven into most of us.”

  He leaned back in his chair.

  “For someone like you, sensing mana is likely more difficult than it is for an apprentice. But do not feel too discouraged. Not everyone in Arath can wield magic. Many commonfolk could surpass you with training… though perhaps only a little.”

  He delivered this with perfect composure.

  Wonderful. Not only am I weaker than an apprentice, I'm being casually insulted by a dead teenager. Rhys released a slow breath. He was beginning to understand why the Warlock had found Rein so problematic.

  “And how exactly does this Mana Vision work?” he asked, redirecting the conversation.

  Rein brightened.

  “Simply put, it grants me the ability to see mana streams with the naked eye.”

  Rhys went still.

  That’s cheating.

  Rein’s smirk arrived right on cue, as though he had expected the accusation.

  “You may call it cheating if you like, but as I mentioned, I unlocked barely a fraction of its true potential. Mana Vision is a Heroic Skill passed down for thousands of years. No one truly understands how it works. I had to experiment for a decade just to manage the little I did.”

  “If you died,” Rhys said carefully, “shouldn’t the skill have disappeared?”

  “Not quite,” Rein replied. “If I die by the hand of that Warlock, the skill returns to the Divine Realm.”

  He placed his teacup upon its saucer with deliberate calm.

  “My death will cause him complications eventually.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Rhys pressed.

  “I have seen myself die at his hands many times through your memories,” Rein said quietly. “That man has killed me again and again.”

  As the words settled, a large screen flickered into existence on the wall behind him.

  Its rectangular frame, its glowing interface—Rhys knew it instantly.

  It was identical to the monitor in his laboratory.

  His jaw slackened.

  “This… this is insane. How are you doing that?”

  This glossary includes new magical terms, realms, and characters introduced in Chapter 8. As the story continues, future chapters will expand on these systems and concepts.

  Magic Tiers

  Cantrip (Update)

  Low-tier spells that demand minimal mana and are often taught to Apprentices or Adepts. While simple in theory, execution still relies on a caster's elemental affinity and foundational control.

  Core Concepts

  Mana Perception

  The essential first step in any form of magic casting. Without the ability to sense and interact with ambient mana, even the simplest spell will fail. Native inhabitants of Arath acquire this instinctively, much like breathing, whereas foreign souls like Rhys must consciously develop it through meditation and practice.

  Spells & Techniques

  Lumen

  A basic cantrip designed to conjure a small, hovering sphere of light. It requires no physical catalyst or advanced mana shaping, making it ideal for beginners.

  Mechanically, the caster must first gather a small quantity of mana at a fixed point in space, forming a condensed sphere roughly one inch in diameter—though more experienced mages may generate larger or brighter lights. Once concentrated, the mana is transmuted into the light element, producing a soft, steady glow.

  The duration and intensity of the light depend on both the caster’s mana reserves and the density of mana infused into the sphere. Those with strong elemental affinity toward light can produce longer-lasting and more stable Lumen spells.

  Spellcasting Mechanics

  Incantation Protocol

  In the world of Arath, most spells require a verbal incantation to activate—a spoken code that unlocks the underlying formula stored in the caster’s mana signature. These incantations act like passwords to access and safely release the magical algorithm.

  Master-Level Formula Inscription

  Mages who reach "Master" tier within a specific rank—such as the Troposphere or Stratosphere—can inscribe select spells directly into the Core Mana Circle embedded near their heart. This enables silent casting (no incantation needed) but is limited by capacity and complexity. Most mages reserve this space for only the most essential spells.

  Spell-Storing Artifacts

  Magical tools such as the Staff of the Sage allow a caster to pre-load a small number of spells. These stored spells can then be triggered instantly during combat, bypassing the need for incantation altogether. Such items are crucial for strategic combatants like Rein, who prepared his arsenal in advance before facing the Warlock.

  Realms & Planes

  Mana Realm

  A mysterious plane of existence accessible only under specific metaphysical conditions. In this chapter, it is revealed as a liminal space formed as a byproduct of Rein’s Heroic Skill, Mana Vision. The realm exhibits surreal architecture, radiant atmosphere, and a tea table where Rhys and Rein communicate across life and death.

  Heroic Skills

  Mana Vision

  A Heroic Skill that grants the wielder the ability to visually perceive mana flows. In Rein’s case, this skill allowed him to master advanced magic at an unnatural pace. Though he unlocked less than 30% of its potential in life, the skill passively created the Mana Realm after his death. It originates from a Hero of legend and is transferrable through spiritual inheritance.

  Key Characters

  Rein (Deceased)

  Once a prodigious first-year student at Arcadia Academy, Rein appears in the Mana Realm after his death. He serves as both a memory and guide to Rhys, offering cryptic insights about magic, the Warlock, and the greater cosmic system behind their world. He previously wielded Mana Vision and died at the Warlock’s hands.

  Dr. Rhys Rattana (Update)

  Now inhabiting Rein’s body, Rhys begins to confront the depth of his situation. Chapter 8 explores his early failures with basic magic and his emotional reaction to encountering Rein in the Mana Realm.

  Academy System & Artifacts

  Year-Level Sigil

  A golden insignia affixed to a student’s uniform collar. The number of strokes represents the student’s academic year.

  Arcadia Grand Magic Tournament Badge

  A pin awarded to top-ranking students in the prestigious Arcadia Grand Magic Tournament (AGMT). Rein's badge marks him as Third Place in the 68th Cycle. Rhys recognizes and wears it, signifying the inherited identity.

  Sometimes the strangest discoveries are the ones made in stillness.

  A realm without motion.

  A table without time.

  A presence waiting.

  See you in the next chapter.

  —Re:Naissance