The sun had barely risen when Leo, puffed up with a kind of teenage bravado that only comes from a growth spurt and a freshly sprouted patch of chin fuzz, stood proudly next to a rather nervous-looking village horse.
"I call him Thunder," he said, patting the animal's flank with what he must have thought was an impressive air. "Fastest horse in the region. Probably."
I blinked at the horse. It blinked back, as if asking to be left out of this narrative.
"You know," I said slowly, wiping grease off my cheek with a smudged sleeve, "if you're trying to impress girls, Thunder might not be your best bet."
"Pfft. It's not about girls," Leo huffed. "It's about proving that real speed comes from skill and connection. Machines are... soulless."
"Says the guy who helped me build a chicken-chasing golem."
"That was different. That had character."
And just like that, the challenge was born.
A three-week timeline. One custom-built mana-powered vehicle versus one teenage boy's equestrian pride. Winner gets bragging rights and a week's worth of Mira's fresh-baked honey rolls.
"You're on," I said, already mentally sketching blueprints.
The workshop became a hurricane of activity. I scavenged parts from old wagons, deconstructed a malfunctioning plow, and repurposed half of Leo's spare copper wiring stash (with permission... mostly).
The design was simple, in theory: two wheels, a lightweight mana-conductive frame, and a battery array powerful enough to provide consistent thrust without incinerating the rider.
Mira, curious as ever, took over aesthetic decisions.
"It needs streamers! And a horn! And maybe a little flower basket?"
"It needs to function," I muttered, adjusting the mana vector ring on the front fork.
"Function and flair," she countered, sewing a pink and white flag with the words "Zap Bike" embroidered on it.
By the end of the second week, the frame was holding. The battery core was stable. I had even integrated a primitive regenerative mana circuit to reduce the need for constant recharging.
There were... incidents.
The first test drive resulted in me crashing into the barn wall. Twice.
"You okay?" Leo asked, barely hiding a grin.
"Fine," I grunted, peeling hay out of my braids. "The wall, however, has seen better days."
By race day, the whole village had heard about it. A few dozen people gathered at the south pasture, where Mira had set up colorful ribbons and makeshift starting lines. Someone was even selling candied apples.
Leo strutted confidently, helping Thunder adjust to the noise. I, on the other hand, was checking the Zap Bike's mana alignment for the third time.
"You sure this is safe?" Mira whispered.
"Define 'safe'," I replied.
"Elara..."
"It won't explode. Probably."
Just before the race began, I felt a presence behind me.
"Interesting frame design," said a voice. Deep, aged, amused.
Tolan.
He watched silently as I adjusted a secondary stabilizer, his eyes narrowing not in suspicion but in realization.
"Those aren't just decorations," he said. "You built this. Not your parents. Not the elder. You."
I hesitated.
"You're smarter than you look, old man."
He chuckled. "Flattery will get you everywhere."
The race itself was chaos.
Thunder got a strong start, and Leo waved triumphantly. But the Zap Bike hummed to life, quiet and deadly, and surged forward with a burst of energy. By the halfway point, I had passed him.
"No fair!" he shouted. "You have rockets or something?!"
"Mana efficiency, baby!" I called back.
I crossed the finish line in a blaze of mana trails and flying streamers. Mira threw confetti. Leo dismounted in defeat but shook my hand like a true sportsman.
"Fine. You win. I want a rematch when I have a dragon."
"Noted."
That evening, Tolan visited my parents.
I only caught snippets through the floorboards (not spying, just... acoustically curious).
"She's extraordinary."
"She's a child."
"Exactly. That's why she needs guidance. Not limitations."
"We just want her to be safe."
Tolan's voice dropped, serious.
"Then let me teach her. Let me protect her the right way. I have no heirs. No family. Let her be both."
There was a long pause.
"We'll think about it."
They agreed a few days later. The contract was drawn. Tolan would become my mentor—and in time, I would become his legal heir.
"No pressure," he said when we signed. "Just don't invent a doomsday device before you're thirteen."
"Define 'doomsday'."
He laughed.
And just like that, a new chapter began.