The Flood

"So… how should I do this?" Icariel asked, his voice quiet.

"Sit again. The next part won't be pleasant," the voice said calmly.

He nodded, lowering himself to the ground and crossing his legs like before. The forest air was cold again—morning mist curling lazily between the trees.

"But first," the voice said, thoughtful. "Do you remember how you managed to refine your senses enough to see mana in the air… even when you had so little of it inside your body?"

Icariel blinked, surprised by the question. "Yes. I guess I was curious."

"Explain."

"Well…" He scratched the back of his head. "Back in Mjull, whenever I had free time—you know—I read everything I could get my hands on." Some mentioned mana. So I started trying to feel it… just my own, at first. Inside me. Anyone can do that if they focus."

He looked down at his hands.

He drew a breath and continued, calm and focused.

"I kept doing it—day after day. Then I tried to expand it, to let it out, to feel it in the air. Bit by bit, I learned to guide it. Eventually, I could even change its direction. That's when it happened—my senses reshaped. If I really focused without distractions, I could see mana. Not just feel it. In the air. In living things."

"Exactly," the voice said, a note of satisfaction in its tone. "That same principle applies now."

"But this time, you won't push it outward. You'll keep the pure mana inside. And you'll guide it—upward. Toward your mind. Toward your eyes. Slowly. Carefully. Just like before."

Icariel's brows furrowed slightly. "…And if I mess up?"

"Don't mess up," the voice answered flatly.

He didn't laugh. Didn't nod. Didn't blink.

The boy inhaled deeply. The cold morning air filled his lungs. He let the silence wrap around him like a second skin. His eyes closed. The world faded.

Inside his body, the gathered pure mana pulsed—glowing like a ball of liquid light at the center of his being, the size of a handball. It shimmered with a soft blue radiance, nestled just beneath his ribs.

"Move it," the voice whispered.

He focused, his thoughts sharpening to a blade's edge. The mana flickered—then shifted.

Like a living thing, it responded.

Gently, he began to guide it upward.

And the moment it touched the base of his spine—a jolt ripped through him.

Like lightning striking marrow. His hands clenched into fists. His teeth ground together.

The mana crawled—inch by inch—up his spine, slow and deliberate, like fire wrapped in silk. It burned, not with pain, but with intensity. A heat that was alive. A storm beneath the skin. As it neared the back of his skull, Icariel's body began to shake.

"Don't stop," the voice urged, calm in the chaos.

The pressure mounted.

And then—Boom.

A pulse exploded behind his eyes, a flash of white-hot pressure flooding his skull. It felt like a second heartbeat had ignited inside his mind.

His senses exploded open.

His mind erupted.

Colors—blue, white, black—surged through him. Light twisted in every direction like lightning bolts crashing through a void. His eyes—shining faintly with a pale, eerie glow—burst open.

And the world…

The world was different now.

The trees weren't just trees. They shimmered—wrapped in faint auras of green and gold, pulsing softly with hidden life. The rocks radiated a dim glow, nearly imperceptible, yet there. Every single thing breathed, buzzed, existed with a layer of unseen motion.

"I… I can see it all," Icariel whispered. "I can feel everything."

"Good," the voice said, calm, almost proud. "Now you understand."

But the beauty didn't last.

First came the ache. Then a throb. Then a scream inside his skull.

His mind burned.

Too many signals. Too many colors. Too much life. The world wasn't silent anymore—it was screaming, singing, pressing against him from every direction. He grabbed his head and fell to his knees.

His heartbeat thundered in his ears like war drums. Every flicker of movement—every shifting leaf, every crawling insect—seared into his vision like firebrands.

"Please make it stop," he gasped.

"No. It can't anymore," the voice said coldly. "Now you will see."

He groaned. The trees. The bugs. The birds overhead. He felt them all—every trace of mana around him: warm, cold, subtle, sharp.

Even his mouth was dry. His eyes ached. His brain felt like it was going to split open from the weight of it all.

But he didn't black out. Not this time.

His body, hardened by training, accepted the flood. He stayed conscious—trembling, hunched, breath ragged—but awake. Because now, every last drop of pure mana he had gathered had been sent to his mind and eyes.

His awareness had been awakened.

Permanently.

He was empty now—drained—but even without realizing it, he had already started pulling mana back in.

Still absorbing.

Just as the voice had said. Mana seeped into him with every inhale, like invisible mist drawn into his blood. The boy was burning out from the inside.

This… this was the price. The cost of always being ready.

Of never being caught off guard again.

Of survival.

"Don't let it overwhelm you."

"I… I can't," he choked, hands gripping his head. "It's too much!"

"Even when I focused before—I could only see mana in the air… or in living things," he cried. "But this… what is this? What is this?! It's making me—sick!"

It was true.

Even with his training sharp mana sense, Icariel had only ever seen the mana in living beings and in the scattered orbs that floated through the air only when he wanted only when he focused.

But now?

Now he was seeing it everywhere. In the dirt. In the stone. In the bark of trees and the rustle of leaves. In the breath between heartbeats. In everything without doing anything.

Icariel started to vomit.

"Khehh—" His body curled forward, rejecting the pressure, the flood, the everything. His hands trembled. His breath came in harsh gasps.

Still, he fought to focus. Even through the chaos, even as his senses screamed.

The voice urged. "Close your eyes. Focus only on your new senses. Get used to them now. Then, once you've adjusted, open your eyes again. Step by step."

"I… No…" Icariel groaned, voice hoarse, mind splintered.

He tried. He really tried—but the noise, the sensation, the flood of perception was too much.

His body slumped forward, and darkness took him.

"Wake up."

The voice called to him from the dark. A cold ripple across his thoughts, dragging him back.

His vision returned slowly—dim, hazy, shimmering with blue-white light.

Icariel blinked.

He was still in the forest clearing. Still seeing mana—everywhere.

Tiny orbs drifted through the air like fireflies. Threads of light pulsed beneath the soil. His senses reached out instinctively, brushing against everything: trees, birds, even insects crawling beneath the leaves.

But this time…

This time it didn't hurt as much.

"What… happened?" he muttered.

"You fainted," the voice said. "Overload. But… from the looks of it, your body started to adjust."

Icariel sat up slowly. His vision still pulsed with light, but the pain wasn't unbearable anymore. The pressure had dulled. He could breathe.

"Yeah… It's still really bad," he admitted, "but not like before."

"Good. Now you'll train to make this as natural as your heartbeat. To see and feel everything—and not collapse from it."

Icariel looked around, taking it all in. The shifting colors. The trails of mana. The way even the smallest creatures left impressions on the world.

"Wait… I'll always see like this?" he asked, voice quiet. Awed. Maybe even a little afraid.

"Yes," the voice replied.

A pause. Then, slowly, a smirk tugged at Icariel's lips.

"It'll take a long time to get used to this."

"Yes," the voice said again, almost warm this time. "But it will be worth it."

Icariel stood, swaying slightly as his body adjusted to the weight of the new senses. His arms still ached, cuts still healing. But the hunger in his chest—the desire to grow, to become more—burned stronger than ever.

"Yeah… I can tell," he muttered.

He glanced around once more. So much had changed.

[End of Chapter 12]