Chapter 4: Spar

The book was clear about one thing: mana cores were the foundation of power in this world. They were ranked from Level 1 to Level 7, with most people never even reaching Level 1. Soldiers, knights, and nobles trained rigorously to awaken and strengthen their cores, but for commoners like my father, Level 1 was the ceiling.

My father, Gerro, was a Level 1. As a knight's retainer, he could enhance his strength and speed with mana, making him a formidable fighter. But he'd hit his limit years ago.

"The higher your level, the more enhancements you get," he explained one morning, while training in the house yard. "But it's not just about raw power. Skill matters too. A Level 1 with good sword art can beat a Level 2 who's sloppy."

I nodded, absorbing every word. But there was a problem.

I didn't have a mana core.

What I had was something I called a "mana heart."

While others channeled mana through natural pathways in their bodies using the meridians and mana channels, I'd forged my own system—a network of mana vessels that mirrored my blood vessels. My heart pumped mana just as it pumped blood, saturating every cell in my body.

The advantages were clear:

Control: I could enhance my body 24/7, something even Level 1s couldn't do.

Sensitivity: I could feel mana in the air, like an extension of myself and exchange my own mana with the outside whenever i want.

Adaptability: My system was based on anatomy, not tradition.

But there were drawbacks:

Progression: I had no idea how to advance. The book was vague, and my method was unprecedented.

Projection: Expelling mana outward was harder for me. I had to rely on scientific principles—ionizing water for lightning, compressing air for wind—but if I didn't understand the physics behind what I wanted to do,then I would be stuck.

At seven, my father began teaching me the army's sword art.

It was practical and efficient, designed for group battles and duels. The basics were simple: footwork, parries, and strikes aimed at vital points. But when we sparred, I couldn't land a single hit.

Even with my mana-enhanced speed and reflexes, my father moved like a shadow. His sword flicked out, tapping my shoulder, my ribs, my thigh.

"You're too predictable," he said, stepping back. "You need to predict your opponent's moves otherwise you won't have the chance to react.

I gritted my teeth, frustration bubbling up. "Then how do I get better?"

He smirked. "Practice. And use your big head for predictions not overthinking."

After the spar, he made an offhand comment that stuck with me.

"Maybe you will get your mana core one day if you keep are consistent," he said, wiping sweat from his brow.

The words sparked an idea.

"Dad," I asked innocently, "can you teach me how to make a mana core?"

His expression darkened. "It's not that simple. Making a mana core requires guidance from a Level 3 mage or higher. If you try it on your own—or with someone like me—you could cripple yourself. Or worse."

"Worse?"

"Explode," he said bluntly. "Mana's not something to play with. And even if you succeed, you'd have to register your mana signature with the Magic Ministry."

I frowned. "Why?"

"Because magic is controlled by the nobles," he said, his voice bitter. "They don't want commoners like us getting too powerful. If you're not under their watch, you're a threat."

The conversation left me uneasy.

I pressed him further. "How did you learn, then?"

He sighed, setting his sword aside. "I was part of Count Zodek's household. As a guard, I had to learn Level 1 enhancements. Same with the army—if you prove yourself, they'll teach you. But it's not enough to reach higher levels."

"Why not?"

"Age," he said simply. "The older you are when you make your core, the lower your potential. I made mine at twenty. The best I can hope for is Level 2, and that's with elixirs and training. Nobles make theirs at thirteen, when the body's ready. Any earlier, and you risk destroying your mana channels."

I leaned forward, my mind racing. "What if someone made a core before thirteen? Like at eight or nine?"

His eyes narrowed. "Don't even think about it, Alex. Your body isn't ready. You'd either fail or—"

"Explode," I finished, my voice flat.

He nodded, his expression grim. "Exactly."

Age 8

The training yard smelled of iron and sweat, the morning sun glinting off Gerro's sword as he leveled it at me. A year of daily spars had turned the dirt patch beneath our feet into a random drawing of bootprints and blade marks—a testament to my failures. Today felt different.

"Same rules," Gerro said, his voice gruff but tinged with pride. "First touch wins. And No mana from my side."

I nodded, adjusting my grip on the wooden practice sword. My palms were sweaty, but my mana heart pulsed steadily, threading energy through my veins like a second heartbeat.

He lunged—simple, direct, meant to test my reflexes. A year ago, I'd have stumbled. Now, I sidestepped, mana sharpening my vision until his swing seemed to crawl. My counterstrike aimed for his ribs, but he pivoted, his elbow grazing my temple.

Too slow.

"Better," he grunted. "But you're still too slow."

Second Exchange

This time, I attacked. My strikes were shorter now, borrowing from the dagger techniques I'd watched hunters use in the forest. Slash high, feint low, pivot—

Gerro's blade met mine with a crack, the impact shuddering up my arms. He pressed down, his strength forcing me to one knee.

"Strength isn't everything," he said, but I'd already shifted tactics.

The Gambit

I stopped resisting. Let his sword slam mine into the dirt.

As he staggered forward, off-balance, I pushed mana into my legs and shot upward, leading with my shoulder. The tackle caught him mid-chest, knocking him back a step—the first time I'd ever moved him.

He laughed, low and surprised. "Cheeky brat."

Third Exchange

We broke apart, circling. Sweat stung my eyes, but my mana kept my breath steady, my muscles humming. Gerro's movements were tighter now, no longer holding back.

He feinted left, then swept right, his blade a silver blur. I ducked, feeling the whoosh of air as it passed. My counter was instinctive—a thrust toward his exposed side.

He blocked, but I'd anticipated it.

As our swords clashed, I pulled mana from the air around us, just enough to form a tiny vacuum between our blades.

Gerro's sword jerked forward, thrown off by the sudden pressure change. For half a second, his guard dropped.

I struck.

The wooden blade tapped his ribs with a hollow thunk.

Silence.

Gerro stared at the sword pressed to his side, then at me. His expression flickered—pride, disbelief, then unease.

"Did you just... manipulate the air?"

I lowered my sword, suddenly aware of the villagers watching from the garden fence. "Only a little. It's not real magic, just physics."

He sheathed his sword, voice low. "You used external mana. Without a core."

"Not exactly. I—"

"Enough." His hand clamped my shoulder, rough but not unkind. "You're clever, Alex. Too clever. But that trick? It's magic. If anyone saw—"

"I didn't use a spell! I just—"

"It doesn't matter." His grip tightened. "They'll call it magic anyway. And if they think you're a mage without a ministry seal..."

He didn't finish. He didn't need to.

That night, Metha bandaged the blisters on my hands, her touch gentle but her eyes distant. From the hearth, Gerro spoke without turning:

"You'll stop sparring. For a month."

"What? Why?!"

"Because you're reckless," he snapped. "Because I taught you sword art, not... whatever that was."

I opened my mouth to argue, but Metha silenced me with a look.

Later, as I lay in bed, I heard them arguing in hushed tones:

"—need to send him to the city," Gerro said. "Someone with real training—"

"And let the Zodeks find him?" Metha's voice broke. "He's eight*, Gerro. He's just a boy.*"

A boy who'd touched a world they couldn't protect him from.

That night, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling.

I think my dad kept a secret from my mom that i can use mana.

My "mana heart" was powerful, but stunted. To grow stronger, I needed a real mana core.

But Gerro's warnings haunted me:

Age 13: Nobles awakened cores then, when the body was "ready."

Risks: Too early, and you'd cripple yourself. Too late, and your potential died.

What if I combine both? I thought, pulse quickening. A core to store mana, a heart to wield it.

The idea was reckless. Suicidal.

But as mana hummed in my veins, I smiled.

I'll find a way.