Chapter 7: The Breaking Point

The Breaking Point

One year under Sir Krow's tutelage had stripped me of everything soft. At ten years old, I stood 150 centimeters of coiled muscle and scar tissue, my red hair cropped short to avoid giving opponents a handhold, my golden eyes sharpened to a predator's glint. The village girls' whispers—"He looks like a storybook prince!"—meant nothing. Stories didn't survive Krow's training yard.

But neither would I, if I failed today.

The pressure had been building for weeks, a tectonic ache deep in my bones. My Mana Heart, that wild anomaly thrumming in my chest, had begun devouring ambient mana like a starved beast. Every breath seared my lungs; every heartbeat pulsed with molten energy. Krow's warning echoed in my skull: "You're a cracked flask, boy. Pray you don't shatter."

I didn't pray. I acted.

The Birth of a Core

The abandoned barn reeked of hay rot and desperation. Moonlight speared through cracks in the walls as I knelt, hands pressed to the dirt like an anchor. Inside me, the storm raged—a hurricane of mana tearing at sinew and bone.

A core isn't a reservoir, I thought, teeth gritted. It's a singularity.

I drove my consciousness inward, visualizing the chaos: swirling galaxies of mana, supernovas of pain. With surgical precision, I began compressing it, layer by layer, into the space where my heart roared like a forge.

Resistance.

The mana fought, lashing against my will. Blood trickled from my nose, hot and metallic. My joints screamed as if dislocating.

Amygdala. Hippocampus. Prefrontal cortex. I recited the anatomy like a mantra, grounding myself in science. Fear is biology. Pain is signals. This is just energy.

Compression.

The storm collapsed inward, atoms screaming. For an instant, I hung in the void—

Ignition.

A crystalline snap echoed through my being. Light erupted—not golden, but pure white—as the mana crystallized into a core the size of a walnut, its surface etched with fractal patterns no human hand could design.

The pain vanished.

I exhaled, watching the air ripple with residual energy. My veins glowed faintly beneath my skin, mana flowing in perfect harmony—no longer a flood, but a controlled torrent.

Level 1 Mana Core—yet unlike any the world had seen.

Soul Drifter: The Scalpel

I turned to the barn's sole witness—a mangy rat gnawing on moldy grain.

Fear isn't magic. It's chemistry.

My core pulsed. Golden light seeped from my eyes as I pushed mana outward, threading it into the rodent's primitive brain.

Amygdala stimulation: 72%.

The rat froze, pupils dilating.

Dopamine suppression. Adrenaline surge.

It began convulsing, squeals rising to ultrasonic shrieks.

Terminate.

I severed the connection. The rat fled, leaving a trail of urine-soaked sawdust.

A laugh tore from my throat—harsh, guttural, alive.

Nobles weave nightmares. I engineer them.

Krow's Reckoning

The barn doors exploded inward.

Krow stood silhouetted against the dawn, his scarred armor dusted with frost. For once, his eyes betrayed him—widening as they locked onto my still-glowing hands.

"Impossible," he breathed.

I rose, dusting hay from my trousers. "You said I'd explode without a core."

He crossed the space in three strides, calloused fingers digging into my wrist. His own mana—a Level 3 core's steady thrum—probed mine like a soldier testing fortifications.

His face paled.

"This isn't a core," he hissed. "It's a reactor."

"You're ten." His voice was edged with something rare—disbelief. 

"No one forms a stable core before thirteen. Even prodigies only manage fragments. Without one, you should've exploded by now." 

He exhaled sharply. "But yours is whole. Stable. Strong."He pulled back, staring at me like I was something alien. 

"What the hell are you?"I didn't answer. 

Because I wasn't sure yet.But I intended to find out.

The Merchant's Caravan

The next morning, the village square buzzed with rare excitement. A merchant caravan had arrived, its wagons painted in garish colors, bells jingling like mocking laughter. Villagers clustered around, bartering for spices and tools, but Alex's gaze snagged on the iron cage lashed to the last cart.

Inside sat an elf girl.

She couldn't have been older than twelve, her silver hair cascading like molten starlight down her threadbare shift. Her eyes—wide and luminous as moonstone—locked onto Alex's, and for a heartbeat, the world stilled. Her beauty was ethereal, haunting, a dagger wrapped in silk. But it was the marks that chilled him: bruises on her wrists, a collar etched with runes that glowed faintly, painfully, under the sun.

"Pureblood forest elf," the merchant boasted, jabbing a stick at the cage. "Rare as dragon's tears. Perfect for... refined tastes."

The villagers murmured, some in pity, others in hunger. A noble's toy. A trophy.

Alex's mana heart pulsed, a drumbeat of rage. He stepped forward, but a hand clamped his shoulder—Jol.

"Don't," she whispered, her voice frayed. "It's cruel, but... it's the world we live in."

He turned, searching her face. Her deep brown eyes shimmered, not with indifference, but something heavier—grief, regret. "That doesn't mean we have to accept it," he said, his voice barely more than a breath.

She bit her lip, hesitating, then touched his cheek lightly, the warmth of her fingers grounding him. "You always see the world like it should be, Alex." Her thumb brushed his jaw. "I love that about you. But if you keep reaching for something so far away... you'll break."

"I'd rather break than let this happen."

Her lips parted, her breath unsteady. "And what if you do?"

His fingers curled around her wrist, holding her there. "Then I need you to remind me who I am."

For a moment, the world around them faded—the jeering merchant, the murmuring villagers, the iron bars glinting in the sun. There was only her warmth, the scent of wild jasmine in her hair, the way she swallowed hard before whispering, "I don't want to lose you."

He exhaled, forehead resting against hers. "Then don't let me go."

The Scout's Gaze

Across the square, a man in a traveler's cloak watched. His face was nondescript, but his eyes—sharp and calculating—lingered on Alex, then the elf. A silver pin glinted under his collar: a serpent coiled around a sword.

Noble house sigil. Scout.

The elf girl's gaze never left Alex's. Her lips moved silently, forming a word that echoed in his mind like a struck bell:

"Run."

Metha's Discovery

That night, Metha slipped into Alex's room, a candle clutched in her shaking hand. She'd seen his golden eyes glowing through the dark like embers, a sight that had haunted her since his birth.

But tonight was different.

His eyes weren't just glowing—they were burning, molten gold pooling at their edges, dripping like tears. His skin shimmered faintly, mana threading through him like a second skeleton.

"Alex," she whispered, reaching to shake him awake.

His hand shot out, gripping her wrist with inhuman strength. His eyes flew open, fully gold, fully alien.

"Mom," he rasped, her name a question, a plea.

She recoiled, her heart splintering. This wasn't her son. This was something... other.

The Spark

By dawn, the scout was gone—and so was the elf girl.

But in the dirt near the abandoned barn, Alex found a single silver hair, glinting like a promise.

Or a warning.