The morning sun crept through the gaping hole in the wall, casting long, golden fingers over a room that no longer existed.
Where there had once been shelves, silk curtains, and toys—a crater now lay, blackened and cracked. The floors were scorched, twisted outward in a perfect ring, as if something had exploded from the very soul of the chamber.
At its center knelt a boy.
Alaric.
His small frame trembled, bare knees resting in the ashes of his own chamber. Smoke curled lazily around him. His hair fluttered slightly in the heat. His pajamas were torn—burned at the edges—but his eyes were wide, bright with something wild.
"Hehe..."
A laugh escaped him—soft, erratic, the kind that didn't belong on a child's lips.
Power surged inside him. Real, breathing power. Mana. It coiled under his skin like a living thing, a second pulse that made his hands shake with excitement. This... this must be what she meant, he thought. This is a mana heart...
The air stank of mana and burning wood. Dust floated like mist in the golden light.
Beyond the collapsed doorway, figures gathered—silent. Dozens. Servants. Maids. Palace soldiers. Even the knights. No one moved. No one spoke. Their faces were pale, some mouths slightly open, others whispering silent prayers.
Camilla stood among them, hand covering her lips. Her eyes didn't blink.
What was once a child's room now looked more like a battlefield—scarred, chaotic, and utterly unrecognizable
No one knew what to do. No one dared to enter.
The only sound came from the occasional crumble of plaster, the ticking of dislodged stone—tick... tick... crack...
But Alaric heard none of it. He didn't even notice them. His focus was turned inward, into the deep warmth bubbling inside his chest. It was perfect. Untouchable. Glorious.
Then, suddenly, his body swayed. A strange drowsiness crept in, heavy and warm like a thick blanket. His eyes fluttered.
"Master... haha..." he mumbled. A faint smile curled on his lips. "I did it... hehe... you're going to like this..."
His eyes closed. His body slumped gently to the side, still within the smoking circle.
A maid screamed.
Soldiers drew swords—not knowing why. Knights rushed in to form a ring around the boy. One of the maids dashed out to alert the Duke and Duchess.
Camilla didn't move.
She stood frozen at the threshold of the devastation, staring at the boy who had just become something else entirely.
The knock on the Duke's chamber door was hurried—almost a slap.
A maid stood outside, pale as milk, her chest heaving. In her trembling hands, she held a message that didn't need ink.
Inside, the ducal family had just begun to wake. Their nightgowns still hung loosely, hair messy from sleep. Moments ago, a loud explosion had ripped through the silence, strong enough to shake the whole palace.
Now, in the quiet that followed, the maid's words fell into the room like shards of broken glass. She spoke of the ruined corridor, the collapsed walls, and the scorched floor where young Lord Alaric had been found—alone, unconscious, surrounded by the wreckage.
Silence. A breathless, awful silence.
Then movement. Urgent. Wordless. Elysienne was the first out the door, gown flowing behind her like a ghost. Aldric and Serana followed closely from behind.
When they reached what had once been Alaric's room, they stopped.
It was no longer a room.
The walls were fractured, one side blown completely open, exposing the raw edge of the palace to the world beyond. Smoke clung to the air. Part of the wing had collapsed inward, shattered and burned.
From the streets of Sothastirith, people were already pointing upward, murmuring, gathering.
But Elysienne saw none of it. Her eyes locked only on one thing—her son. Alaric lay curled on the broken floor, soot marking his pale cheeks, unconscious and motionless.
She ran. She dropped to her knees beside him, her arms gathering him up.
"A-Alaric…!" she choked out. Her voice cracked like the stones beneath her.
Aldric turned to the stunned knights nearby. "What happened!? Why wasn't he—how did this—?!"
No one answered.
Serana swept her gaze across the wreckage, sharp and fast. Her fingers moved with practiced ease, lips murmuring in low rhythm as a soft white shimmer rose into the air—a wind elemental magic. Invisible tendrils of air rushed through the splintered wood and fallen stone, hunting for signatures, for threats, for truth.
Behind them, Camilla's legs finally obeyed her. She turned and bolted down the hall, yelling for the court magician and the physician, voice shrill with fear.
Aldric stepped forward, trying to take Alaric from his wife. "Let me carry him—he's hurt—Elysienne—"
"No!" Elysienne's grip tightened protectively around Alaric. "I will take him myself."
With surprising strength, she lifted the child in her arms, shielding his body from the rubble, from the whispers, from the eyes. She carried him out herself, heading toward the guest chambers.
Aldric stood frozen for a moment, then snapped back to action. He turned to the nearest knight. "Send word to my father. Tell him what you saw. I want to start investigating what happened. Now!"
The knight saluted sharply and ran.
Behind them, the whispers had already begun.
From maid to soldier, from cook to scribe, they rippled through the palace like smoke:
He did this.
The cursed child…
No… maybe… a genius? A monster?
No one said the words out loud yet. But the look in their eyes said enough.
**
Under the moonlit veil of Avalon's artificial sky, the lake shimmered with quiet starlight. In the center of it all, perched like a dreamy nest, was the gazebo—white colored, rune-etched, and surprisingly cozy.
Viviane sat at its heart, legs curled on a cushioned chair, sipping tea from a porcelain cup shaped like a lotus. Her glasses glowed faintly, reflecting the enchantment-strewn pages before her. She wore her favorite white-gold pyjamas, embroidered with constellations that subtly shifted as she moved.
A little white bird sat beside her on the table, pecking quietly at a bowl of seeds.
She didn't look up as she scribbled furiously in her notebook, humming a tune only she seemed to know. Her writing was swift and elegant—at least until one squinted at the content.
Day 1: Drop Satria into the middle of a goblin mating festival. Female goblins only. No weapons. No escape spells. Just him, a loincloth, and fate.
Day 2: Dump him into the Cursed Forest of Blooming Hunger — where everything tries to eat you, vines whisper your fears, and the trees flirt just before they bite. No gear. Just a butter knife and bad decisions.
Day 3: Force him to decrypt a cursed, sentient book that screams every time a word is mispronounced. Bonus: the book releases random hallucination fog every few minutes.
Viviane paused, chuckled into her teacup, and tapped her pen on the page. "Ooh, or maybe something with slimes. Slimes are classic."
The bird chirped in mild protest. Viviane ignored it, giggling as she added a footnote: Remember to enchant the slimes with armor melting ability.
She didn't notice the figure approaching from across the bridge.
A soft cough echoed at the edge of the gazebo.
Still scribbling, Viviane didn't even flinch—too absorbed in her writing to notice.
Then came a voice—dry, familiar, and annoyingly smug.
"Master."
Viviane froze. Her hand jerked. The quill slipped. Her teacup tipped. Hot tea splashed across her notes and onto her lap.
"Wha—?!"
She stood so fast her glasses slipped down her nose. Her pyjamas became a wrinkled mess, her hair partially undone, fabric strands hanging—but even flustered, she still looked astonishingly beautiful.
And in front of her stood Satria. Fully manifested. Smiling.
"You—how—what the fuck are you doing here?!" Viviane blurted, eyes wide as saucers.
Satria shrugged. "Finished the assignment. Cortex, heart, circuit, circle, essence. All of it."
Viviane blinked once. Then twice. She opened her mouth, then closed it, then pointed at him like he was some freakishly overachieving cockroach.
"That's impossible. It hasn't even been a day in Contraria! What the hell did you do?!"
He grinned, raising both hands in a shrug. "Maybe I'm just a genius."
She squawked—actually squawked—then pointed furiously at the bridge. "Out! Go! Get lost! I haven't even finished the first stage of the training plan!"
As she flailed her arm, a ripple of magic pulsed through the air.
Satria gave a lazy salute. "See you soon, Master."
Then, with a shimmer of dust and light, he vanished from Avalon—leaving behind only the echo of his laughter, and a sopping wet page titled:
Training Plan for the Little Shit Who Died Too Early.
Viviane groaned, sat back down, and buried her face in her hands.
"…That cheeky apprentice. I really should've started with the slimes."
**
Sunlight filtered softly through the high windows of the guest room, its warmth brushing against the pale walls and heavy curtains. The air was quiet—stilled by tension.
Alaric lay peacefully atop a bed of fine silks and woolen blankets, his breathing even, his small hands resting beside him. Around him, two men moved carefully: the court physician, aged and calm, and the court magician, sharp-eyed and tightly-wound with layered robes of deep emerald.
First came the physician's turn. With practiced hands and instruments blessed by minor healing charms, he checked Alaric's pulse, his heartbeat, his breathing, his temperature. Minutes passed in silence, the occasional murmur of "remarkable" or "unusual" the only sounds that stirred the room.
When he stepped back, he offered a small bow to the duke and duchess.
"Physically… he's unhurt," he said with relief. "In fact, he's adapting exceptionally well. I daresay I've never seen a child's body take to mana so smoothly. If anything—he's stronger than before."
Camilla, standing just off to the side with her hands clasped tightly, let out a quiet breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
Then the magician stepped forward.
He raised his staff, muttered a few incantations, and a faint magical glow enveloped Alaric's chest—centered right over where his mana core now pulsed. The magician frowned. His brow furrowed deeper. His lips parted, then shut again. Finally, he spoke, voice low with disbelief.
"There's… a mana core. Fully formed. Dense. Active."
A stunned pause filled the room.
"At four years old," he continued, "this is… impossible. Or should be. No recorded precedent in the entire kingdom. Not even among the royal bloodlines." He paced once in thought, then stopped abruptly. "But that's not what troubles me."
He looked back at the sleeping boy.
"His mana is… vast. Far too vast. And his structure—his 'mana ring'—is larger than what our teachings say it should be. Broader. More refined. It's almost… designed differently."
Elysienne looked up, pale. "Is it… dangerous?"
The magician shook his head, though uncertainty lingered in his expression. "I don't know. This structure isn't wrong—just… unfamiliar. It's unlike any I've ever seen."
He turned to the Duke.
"My lord. You must send word to Grand Magician Eadric. At once. If anyone can decipher this, it's him. Before this becomes something we cannot manage."
Aldric nodded grimly.
The physician stepped back in. "But again, physically, he is fine. His body is adjusting to mana circulation at a rate that defies logic—but it's not harming him. Still, precautions are necessary."
At the corner of the room, Camilla stood silent. Her eyes shimmered not just with worry—but awe. The boy she'd cared for, tutored, protected… had become something else entirely.
She swallowed, placing a hand over her chest.
"Alaric…"
Was it fear she felt? Or pride?
Maybe both.
A faint flutter of breath stirred the silence.
Alaric's fingers twitched against the sheets as his eyes cracked open, heavy with fatigue. His vision blurred for a second, then slowly cleared—revealing a soft, cream-colored ceiling above him. Not his room. Not the crater. Not Avalon.
"…Huh?"
The boy blinked, the velvet canopy and carved bed posts unfamiliar. As he turned his head, he froze. A crowd of figures filled the room—Duke Aldric, Duchess Elysienne, Lady Serana, Camilla, the court magician, and the court physician—all gathered around his bedside.
His breath hitched.
Did I… say something in my sleep? Did I mention Viviane? Avalon? Or worse—the Decay?
Panic fluttered briefly in his chest, but he forced himself to stay still.
The silence didn't last long.
"Alaric!" Elysienne's voice cracked as she rushed forward, falling to her knees beside the bed. Her arms wrapped around him in an instant, trembling. "Thank the goddess you're awake…"
The others chimed in, a chorus of concern tumbling over one another.
"What happened?"
"Can you speak?"
"Are you in pain?"
"Do you remember anything?"
Too many voices. Too many eyes.
Alaric didn't respond. He just looked around, half-lidded and dazed, catching each worried expression. The pieces started coming back slowly—the explosion, the mana blast, the rush of power. He blinked once, twice… and then, despite himself, a soft laugh escaped.
"Hehehe…"
It was faint, just above a whisper—but enough to make the room fall silent. Even Elysienne pulled back slightly, startled. The laughter was strange—too calm. Too self-aware.
Then Alaric caught himself.
He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, yawned with childish innocence, and gave them all a confused look.
"…Mother? Why is everyone here?"
The tension thinned, but it didn't vanish.
The court physician cleared his throat, stepping forward with a small smile. "He's fine. Likely a case of mana overload. His body absorbed far too much mana in a short span—it overwhelmed his consciousness temporarily."
The court magician gave a stiff nod. "It's consistent with my earlier findings. His mana reserves are… astonishing. What he did was impossible for most adults. And yet…"
His voice trailed off.
Camilla bit her lip, stepping closer, relief on her face. But she said nothing—just watching.
Alaric stayed quiet, a faint, innocent smile on his face. He sat upright on the bed, still a little groggy. As Elysienne gripped him tighter, her arms wrapping around him like a protective shield, his head tilted slightly, a soft frown beginning to form.
"You reckless little thing," she muttered, voice shaking—not with anger, but with something deeper. "You could've died."
Her grip trembled. Her words caught in her throat.
"You did it in secret. While everyone was asleep. Without guidance. Without protection…"
She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. Her expression was raw—shock, fear, love, all tangled into one storm.
"No more magic," she said suddenly. "You hear me? No more magic. Ever."
Alaric blinked, surprised. The quiet weight of her words pressed against his chest.
"You're only four," she continued. "You still have nightmares. You were cursed. And now… now this?" Her voice cracked. "What if this power destroys you? What if we lose you for good next time?"
Behind her, Serana stepped forward, arms crossed and eyes solemn. "She's right, Alaric. This level of power—especially at your age—it's unnatural. It's… dangerous."
Alaric opened his mouth slightly, then closed it again. He couldn't protest. Not now. Not with how they were looking at him—not like nobles, not like parents of a prodigy—but like a family who had nearly lost someone they loved.
He cast his gaze downward and nodded faintly.
Aldric remained quiet through it all. His hands were clasped behind his back, eyes low, brow furrowed in thought. He hadn't spoken a word—not during the scolding, not during the decree.
Then, after a pause that hung heavy in the air, he sighed.
A deep, resigned sound.
"…I agree," he said finally. His voice was even, but there was something hard behind it. "No more magical training. No study. No glyphs. No lectures."
He stepped closer to the bedside.
"Until your grandfather comes and gives his judgment, you will rest."
The air thickened, heavy with finality.
Alaric said nothing. He merely looked at the three of them—his mothers' stern and shaken faces, his father's quiet, distant eyes—and nodded once more.
Inside, his heart felt tight.
So this is fear, he thought. Not mine… but theirs.
A long silence followed, stretching thin across the room like glass just before it breaks. Footsteps shifted, breaths held, but no one dared speak.
Alaric lowered his gaze, letting their decision settle over him like dust. But beneath the stillness, something stirred.
Alaric sat still, his tiny fists clenched on the embroidered bedsheet. His eyes, still shimmering from recent wakefulness, now burned—not with tears, but with defiance.
"No," he muttered, shaking his head slowly. "I don't want that."
The room, already tense, grew taut like a pulled string.
"I won't stop," he said louder now, raising his voice. "I won't stop learning magic."
"Alaric," Aldric's tone turned sharper, warning in its edge. "You will listen."
"You don't understand!" Alaric snapped back. "I have to keep going!"
Elysienne stepped forward, worry etched across her face. "We do understand. That's why we're stopping you—for now. Just for now, until your grandfather—"
"No!" Alaric shouted. "You keep saying it's for my good—but you don't get it! I have to become stronger. Faster. I don't have time—"
He bit his tongue—he'd almost let too much slip. The Decay, Avalon... things they wouldn't understand. His gaze dropped, shifting away before anyone could read the weight behind his silence.
Camilla moved beside him, gently placing a hand on his arm. "Young Master…"
He needs to think of a solution—something that doesn't involve exposing Avalon or the Decay. Something they would understand. Then, like a spark, it came to him. A justification they couldn't deny.
"I'm not a child anymore," he muttered. "I'm not cursed. I'm not weak."
His voice grew louder with each word.
"I'm blessed."
That word hung in the air like a heavy stone tossed into a still lake.
Blessed.
Everyone froze.
The court magician's mouth twitched slightly, uncertain. Serana opened her mouth but found no words. Elysienne looked like she'd stopped breathing for a moment.
Even Aldric blinked, stunned by the vehemence behind his son's voice.
But Alaric thinks that wasn't enough. He needs to prove his determination somehow.
Then—
A faint pulse of light surged.
A thin, glowing circle formed around Alaric outstretched arms, arcing in quiet blue light. Symbols swirled faintly in motion—delicate, sharp, and unmistakably take forms. An Arcoglyph.
The room moved before their voices could. Serana reached out, eyes wide in alarm. Aldric surged forward a step, hand half-raised. Even Camilla gasped, frozen mid-motion. But none of them made it in time—no words, no commands.
A second glyph—more focused, more precise—spun to life just in front of Alaric's small hand. His arm raised slowly, defiant. "I'll prove it."
A compressed blast of mana burst forth.
CRACK—!
The windows exploded outward, the glass raining in jagged pieces to the gardens below. The curtains flail wildly. Books fell. The court physician ducked.
The entire room held its breath.
A simple spell. A small spell.
But the message had been loud.
Alaric lowered his hand, eyes still burning. "I'll keep going… Father… Mother…"
The silence that followed was not just fear. It was the recognition of a line that had been crossed.
Alaric wasn't just a child, not anymore—he is now a mage of the Argentvale family.
*
The room had settled. Light streamed in peacefully through the newly repaired windows, brushing against the quiet faces of his family. One by one, they began to move—returning to other matters, other duties.
Alaric exhaled softly.
Relief settled into his bones. His plan had worked. Despite the outburst, despite the recklessness, a quiet smile touched his lips.
They accepted it. I can properly learn magic now.
No more hiding. No more waiting.
But even as that relief bloomed in his chest, a cold thread of unease slid in.
Something… was off.
His eyes drifted to his hand—the same one that had conjured the spell moments ago. He replayed the invocation step by step, tracing the mana pattern in his mind.
That's when it struck him.
The casting process. The sequence. The formation.
It wasn't Contrarian.
The invocation he used followed Avalonian principles—a structure that didn't exist here. A different logic of flow.
He hadn't thought twice about it earlier. It came instinctively.
But now, the weight of that mistake settled over him.
He glanced toward the door where the court magician had stood just minutes ago. Thankfully, that man hadn't noticed.
Lucky.
If he had pointed it out—even just questioned it—his parents would've changed their minds. Fear, suspicion and harsher punishment.
But not everyone would be so oblivious.
Eadric.
Alaric's chest tightened. His grandfather, Eadric, would notice. Not just the outer layer, but the current, the channels, the mana logic inside. He would see through everything.
I need a cover.
I need a reason.
Or something that looks like a reason.
He lowered his gaze, already thinking through options. He couldn't stop using Avalonian methods—it's the best. But he had to hide them. Mask the flow. Adjust the surface. Mimic local methods just enough to avoid suspicion.
I've come too far to mess this up now.
And so, Alaric plotted in silence—not for rebellion, but for survival.
*
[Vaelminia Kingdom, Capital City of Vaelminia, Meridiael]
The moon hung high over Meridiael, casting silver light upon the spires of the royal palace. The hour was late, yet a quiet knock disturbed the stillness of the east wing. Two letters—each sealed with the red wax of House Argentvale—were handed with urgency to a waiting attendant.
Without delay, the documents were brought to the private study of Grand Magician Eadric.
He stood before a tall bookshelf, reading spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose, when the letters arrived. With a subtle gesture, he waved the courier away and broke the first seal.
Collapsed Ducal Palace wing. Magical surge of unknown origin. Structural damage extensive. No casualties reported.
Eadric narrowed his eyes. His breath slowed as he reached for the second letter, the wax softer, the handwriting more deliberate.
Young Master Alaric has awakened a mana core. Diagnosis confirmed by the court magician. The boy is unharmed, but under observation.
The candlelight trembled, as if reacting to the shift in Eadric's expression. He set the letters down on the table. His hand lingered on the parchment.
"Early," he murmured, "Far too early."
A mana core awakening at the age of four—no, it wasn't impossible. But it was abnormal. Without formal training. Without oversight.
And with the wing of a ducal palace torn apart?
His mind began connecting dots. Unpleasant ones.
Something about this was not right. Even if the diagnosis was correct, even if the child truly was stable—this bore the signs of something not native to their methods. Too clean. Too controlled. Too soon.
He moved to his desk and scribbled a brief reply to his son. Orders for continued observation. He also left a verbal note for the Royal Court to be briefed in the morning.
But in truth, his course was already decided.
Eadric folded the letters and slid them into a drawer. The flicker of his mana briefly lit the room before extinguishing the flame.
"If there's something they're not seeing," he whispered, "then I'll have to see it for myself."