My morning routine changed, and with it, the shape of my days.

  Each morning, I was brought to the training grounds where Sir Alric Vane the knight oversaw my instruction.

  Alric Vane was a man who carried no unnecessary ornamentation—neither in speech nor in movement. A minor noble sworn to this house, he had risen through merit alone, and it showed in the way he handled his sword. Even with my untrained eyes, I could tell.

  There were no advanced techniques—only stances, footwork, balance. How to hold a blade without straining the wrist. How to breathe without wasting strength.

  Fundamentals.

  Everyone learned them, regardless of whether they would one day wield a sword, a staff, or neither.

  “Again,” Sir Alric said. “From the beginning.”

  When I faltered, he adjusted my posture and moved on. When I succeeded, he expected me to do it again.

  It was not difficult.

  It was relentless.

  Evenings found me back in the library.

  Training filled my mornings, but it didn’t erase the truth. I was still searching—for anything that could halt my condition before it reached its conclusion.

  __

  Before long, the day of my brother’s departure to the Academy arrived.

  The carriage waited at the front gate, its insignia already polished, the luggage secured with practiced efficiency. Servants stood in orderly lines, offering final checks that were more ritual than necessity.

  Father spoke to him briefly—final reminders, expectations, the kind that didn’t need repeating but were spoken regardless. Mother adjusted his cloak with a precision that lingered a second longer than required.

  Then he turned to me.

  “I’ll be waiting at the Academy,” he said. Not encouragement. Not a challenge. Just a statement.

  “I know,” I replied.

  He studied me for a moment, as if weighing something unsaid, then gave a small nod.

  “Don’t fall behind.”

  “I won’t.”

  That seemed to satisfy him.

  The carriage departed soon after, its wheels disappearing beyond the gates, taking with it the future that had already been decided for him.

  I watched until it was gone.

  I resumed my daily routine. The following day, the instructor hired by my family arrived.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  The woman who entered the hall did not look like someone on official duty.

  Her robe was worn loosely, travel-creased rather than ceremonial, and she carried no staff in hand. What stood out instead was the way the air around her shifted—subtle, restless, as if it responded to her presence without conscious effort.

  She moved with unhurried confidence, eyes sharp despite her obvious irritation.

  “I knew taking leave was a mistake,” she muttered, adjusting her robe. “I was on vacation. Actual vacation. And that old man is already piling work on me again.”

  I lowered my gaze and pretended not to hear the last part.

  Judging by how casually she complained, this “old man” was someone I was very much not supposed to comment on.

  “So,” she said, finally looking at me. Her eyes narrowed—not critically, but attentively. “You’re his second son.”

  I nodded.

  She straightened slightly. “I’m Lyra.”

  Then, with absolute seriousness, she added,

  “From now on, you will address me as Master.”

  I blinked.

  Well, it didn’t hurt to call her that—after all, she was the one teaching me.

  “…Yes, Master.”

  Is it just my imagination or

  …She looked far too pleased with herself.

  “Sit,” she said, pointing toward the open space near the window.

  I obeyed without question, lowering myself onto the polished floor.

  “Good,” she muttered. “At least you know how to listen.”

  She leaned against the wall instead of taking a formal stance, arms crossed. There was nothing ceremonial about her posture—this wasn’t a lesson meant to impress.

  “Most instructors start by teaching children how to pull mana,” she said. “Idiots. That’s how you teach bad habits early.”

  Her gaze sharpened.

  “Mana isn’t something you grab. It’s something you acknowledge.”

  She tapped her temple lightly. “Close your eyes.”

  I did.

  “Don’t search for it,” she continued. “Don’t imagine light. Don’t imagine warmth. If you’re picturing anything at all, you’re already doing it wrong.”

  Silence followed.

  At first, there was nothing—just the steady rhythm of my breathing, the faint sounds of the estate outside the window.

  “Your body is the anchor,” she said after a moment, her voice lower now. “It keeps you in this world. Your soul is the vessel. Mana merely flows through it.”

  Her words struck something deep.

  “You don’t need to move mana,” she went on. “If it exists within you, it will respond when you’re ready.”

  Time passed. I wasn’t sure how long.

  And then—

  I felt it.

  Not warmth. Not light.

  Something present.

  A pressure that wasn’t oppressive. A density that wasn’t heavy. It simply was, resting deep within me, vast and disturbingly quiet.

  My breathing faltered for a fraction of a second.

  “There,” she said instantly.

  “Good,” she said after a moment.

  I opened my eyes.

  She was watching me, but there was no tension in her expression—only mild approval.

  “You’ve already awakened,” she said. “Earlier than average, but not unheard of among noble children.”

  I relaxed slightly.

  “We’ll start with fundamentals,” she continued. “Mana circulation, basic wind, water, fire manipulation, and theory. No spellcasting for now.”

  “For now, just get a feel for mana.”

  She turned toward the door.

  “If you train properly, you’ll be well prepared by the time you enter the Academy.”

  Then, as if remembering something, she added with a scowl,

  “Which means I’m stuck here longer than I planned.”

  With that she left.

  Wind, water, fire hm

  You might wonder why I could learn wind, water, and fire manipulation despite having the highest affinity for dark attribute.

  It wasn’t because I was special.

  Affinity didn’t decide what I could use. It decided what I could master.

  Anyone with enough mana could use any attribute.

  That much hadn’t changed from the novel—or from common sense.

  Magic wasn’t a set of locked doors where one key fit and the rest were forbidden. It was closer to scholarship. You could study many fields, grasp the basics of all of them, even apply them competently.

  But mastery was different.

  Basic spells were repetition and discipline—formulas carved shallowly into the mind. Anyone with mana and time could throw a fireball or shape a gust of wind.

  Intermediate magic demanded more. Efficiency. Intuition. A deeper alignment between thought and mana.

  And afterwards… that was doctoral work.

  It was extremely difficult.

  But not entirely impossible.

  I knew that better than most.

  Because I had seen someone master it all.