Influx

Black.

The world returned slowly—like a candle flickering back to life in a suffocating room. Icariel's eyelids fluttered, and his breath came in ragged bursts as the dizziness faded from his chest. His fingers twitched against the cool earth beneath him, damp with dew and the faint scent of blood.

He groaned, eyes half-lidded. "What… happened? Did I fail?"

"You did not," the voice in his head answered calmly.

Still lying in the middle of the woods, Icariel blinked, then sat up, his body sluggish but not broken. His heartbeat echoed in his ears—slower now, but heavy, like drums after war.

"Expand your senses. See what changed."

He closed his eyes again, steadying his breathing. And when he looked inward, his brows rose.

Where there had once been a faint flicker—a dull, yellow spark of mana—there was now a slightly larger orb, softly glowing with a light blue hue. It pulsed gently near his stomach, like a lantern in the fog.

"…It worked," Icariel whispered, wonder creeping into his voice.

"Of course it worked," the voice replied, not unkindly. "You now carry pure mana within you. Your body is beginning to adapt."

Icariel looked down next. The ground where he had sat—the blood circle he had drawn before beginning—was gone. Not a trace of red remained.

"It's… gone," he muttered, frowning.

"Yes. The circle you drew with your own blood exists to ground your sanity, to absorb the backlash when your body takes in what it cannot hold. Without it, you'd be a screaming husk by now."

Icariel's expression darkened with awe. "So the blood... it takes the consequences for me?"

"Exactly. It's the price. Until your body learns to bear the burden alone, it will be paid with pain and blood. That is what it means to force your shell to change."

There was a pause. The boy took it in quietly, staring at his trembling hands.

"…I never asked why you had me draw it," Icariel said softly. "But I get it now."

"Why didn't you?"

He smiled faintly. "Come on, you already know it's because I trust you. You're the only one I really do. A hundred percent. So what's the point in questioning?"

Silence. Then, the faintest murmur—like something ancient and unreadable shifting beneath the surface. But the voice said nothing.

"So… what now?" Icariel asked.

"You cut yourself again. Draw the circle once more. We do this until your body holds more mana than ever thought possible. And only then… will we go to the next step."

Icariel gave a half-laugh as he reached for the axe again.

"Hah… you know I hate you sometimes," he muttered, teasing through gritted teeth.

The axe hissed through the air again. The sting returned.

And the boy bled for strength once more.

Icariel sat cross-legged in silence, eyes closed, his breathing steady and shallow.

He searched inward—past the dull ache in his limbs, past the sting of reopened wounds—and reached for the mana he'd stored. The faint glow had grown.

Twice as large as it had been the first time.

"Nice…" he whispered with a weary smile. "This method really is working."

But before he could celebrate, the strength drained from his body. His spine slackened, and he collapsed back onto the grass, staring at the pale orange sky bleeding through the treetops.

The circle beneath him, drawn in his own blood, faded away—vanishing as if it had never been there.

"You've reached your limit," the voice said as the last light of day slipped behind the hills. "Four times in one day was already pushing it. Any more, and you risk more than just passing out."

Icariel looked down at his arms. Both his left and right forearms were crisscrossed with fresh cuts—still raw and swollen, red etched into flesh like war paint. He winced as he moved them.

The walk back to the small cave nearby was slow. Fatigue weighed on him like a blanket soaked in ice. When he reached it, he slumped against the wall, grabbing what food he'd taken from Groon's home before leaving.

Dried deer meat. Tough, salty, but enough to keep him moving.

As he chewed in silence, he spoke aloud to the voice in his head. "How long… will I have to keep doing this?"

"It depends as long as you need to rely on your blood to draw the circle, you're not ready. Each cut is a price. Each circle, a shield. Until you can contain the mana yourself, without losing consciousness, this is the only way."

He sighed, slumping lower against the cave wall. "Hey. It's not like I want to pass out."

A quiet beat passed between them.

Then Icariel's voice returned, softer, thoughtful. "What if I used someone else's blood for the circle? Like animals around here?"

"I told you before," the voice said, more serious now. "It has to be yours. That circle isn't just a drawing—it's a sacrifice. A pact. You're demanding something from the world that your body isn't capable of handling, so you give a piece of yourself in return."

Icariel frowned. "Yeah, I get that. But… at this rate, it'll take forever."

"Why are you so impatient?" the voice asked.

He hesitated, biting down harder on the last piece of meat. Then, eyes narrowing slightly, he answered.

"Because… what if another dungeon appears? Like last time. What if it's closer? What if I'm not ready? What do I do then?"

Silence.

A moment passed. And then—

"You're safe. For now. No dungeon will appear here. Not until your training is done."

Icariel's brows furrowed. "Huh? How do you know that?"

No response.

"Tch. You're always like this—dodging questions."

He sighed, letting the silence settle once more. The cave grew darker with every breath.

"…So how much blood can I safely lose before it's a risk for my life?" he asked quietly.

"Enough for four circles a day," the voice replied. "No more. Beyond that, you won't recover in time."

"Yeah… I'm pretty worn out already."

The boy leaned back fully, eyes flickering shut. His body still throbbed, but the pain was distant now—dulled by exhaustion and resolve.

"Rest now," the voice murmured.

He didn't answer.

He was already asleep.

Seven days. Twenty-eight cuts. Four circles daily, each a silent scream into the void. And now—

Cross-legged inside the blood-drawn circle, he took a deep breath—as if it were the last breath he'd ever take—and let his senses expand outward.

The mana came again.

Tiny orbs of glowing blue drifted toward him from the surrounding air, pulled in with every inhale, every pulse of his lungs.

Inside him, near his core, the mass of pure mana had grown once more. No longer the size of a pebble, or even a coin—it had swollen to the size of a handball, gleaming softly like crystallized energy.

"It increased again," Icariel said, his voice low with a mixture of awe and pride.

"Of course it did," the voice replied as the circle beneath him faded, the last traces of blood vanishing into the dirt. "And not just that—your body's tolerance has increased too."

"What do you mean?"

"It's the first time you didn't pass out after absorbing mana."

Icariel blinked. Realization struck. His head wasn't spinning. His vision wasn't fading. He was still sitting upright, breathing normally—even if he felt like he'd run a marathon barefoot.

"You mean… I'm ready for the next step?" he asked, cautious but hopeful.

"Yes."

A grin tugged at the corner of his lips. "Finally. Thank the gods… I was going insane, cutting myself every single day. My arms and legs look like they've been through a war."

Relief flooded through him. He let out a slow, heavy breath, shoulders sagging.

"So what now?"

"Before we move to the next step, you need to understand something. Your body can now hold far more mana than the average human. But you're still nowhere near the threshold of a true mage."

"So that will be for your next step."

"All the pure mana you've gathered so far… you're going to transfer it to your senses—your brain, your eyes."

"Huh?" Icariel frowned. "What do you mean? How does that even work?"

"Now that your body can hold mana without collapsing, you're going to train it to constantly absorb mana from the air with every breath. Like you've been doing this past week. Only now… you'll keep your mana sense active at all times, even in your sleep."

Icariel's eyes widened in shock.

"That's right," the voice continued. "Your ability to detect and sense mana near you—it will always be on. You'll breathe it in naturally, like oxygen, and your perception of mana will sharpen every day until it becomes second nature."

"But…" Icariel hesitated. "Won't that be exhausting? Keeping that kind of focus always?"

"You've been a hunter half of your life," the voice said. "Think of it like this: When you hunt a deer, your focus is absolute. Your senses sharpen. Your heartbeat slows. One wrong move, and the prey escapes. You're locked in—alive to hunt it successfully."

"After you success in hunting it.You consume it. You rest."

"And the next day, you hunt again. You consume what you hunted, you rest. The cycle never ends."

"Mana is the same. It gets consumed. No matter how much you gather, it always depletes after using it. So unless you want to be the fool begging an enemy to stop mid-fight because your mana's gone dry, you have to learn to recharge constantly. Inhale, absorb, replenish. Over and over again."

Icariel slowly nodded.

It made sense. It really made sense.

"So… if I master this…" he whispered, "I'll always be able to sense creatures, people… anything with mana, like Galien's Third Eye?"

"Exactly," the voice confirmed. "While the detection range won't be as vast as Galien's Third Eye, you won't need to sit and focus like he does , unguarded. You'll become a walking detector—your awareness stretching far beyond your sight. You'll never be caught off guard again. That's why you must train your body to absorb mana with every breath, constantly, without needing to sit, meditate, or draw circles."

"And you'll always keep your guard up, just like when you're hunting. You'll see more. Sense more. Survive longer."

Icariel smirked, blood drying across his arms. "That's perfect. That's exactly what I need."

[End of Chapter 11]