Aldric finally snapped.
"What in the hell are you two even talking about?" he barked, whipping his head between Lyriana and the maid. "Creating a mana pool? Do you hear yourselves?"
He jabbed a finger toward Draven, his voice rising with every word.
"Humans have imitations. Arrays. Ruins. Vessels carved with formations, artifacts, external anchors. All of that garbage is just copies—cheap substitutes inspired by something they can't naturally possess."
His hand curled into a fist.
"A real mana pool is something you're born with. It's innate. Racial. Fixed."
His eyes narrowed, sharp and unyielding.
"And only a handful of races even have them. One of them being vampires."
He shook his head hard.
"I've never—never—heard of anyone creating one from nothing. Not in ancient records. Not in forbidden texts. Not even in lunatic human experiments."
His gaze locked onto Draven, jaw tight.
"And even if—even if—someone somewhere managed it, it wouldn't look like this."
He gestured violently at the twisted, folded mana.
"This isn't formation. This isn't technique. This is you trying to explode yourself and hoping you survive."
Silence followed his words.
The mana around Draven continued its slow, grinding rotation—folding, compressing, obeying.
Draven didn't look at Aldric.
Instead, he spoke quietly.
"…That's exactly why I'll make it work."
Aldric's eyes widened. "What?"
Draven finally turned. His red eyes were steady, despite the blood still tracing down his face.
"Everything you just described," he said, voice low and deliberate,
"assumes I'm starting from the same place as everyone else."
He tapped his chest once.
"But I wasn't born with mana. Or a pool to hold it."
Another beat.
"And I wasn't born normal."
The air shuddered.
"If a mana pool is something given," Draven continued,
"then of course I can't create one the right way."
His lips curled, just slightly.
"So I'll do it the wrong way."
The maid lowered her gaze, murmuring, "A pool born from survival rather than design…"
Lyriana whispered, almost to herself, "…A forged core."
Aldric stared at Draven, dread creeping in despite himself.
"…You're not trying to make a mana pool," he said slowly.
Draven's mana tightened once more, compressing until the air itself screamed.
"No," Draven replied.
"I'm trying to make something that even mana can't tear apart."
But—
Draven exhaled slowly, forcing the grinding rotation to stabilize.
"…Not yet," he said at last. "It's not possible now."
No one spoke.
"I need to study it first," Draven continued, eyes half-lidded as his focus turned inward. "Watch it. Learn how it moves. How it reacts."
A brief pause.
"And I don't have enough mana to push it any further anyway."
Blood still traced his jaw, but his voice was steady.
"But this…" he muttered. "…this is enough."
For now.
Carefully—carefully—he loosened his control by the smallest fraction.
A single strand of mana slipped free from the endlessly folded mass.
The instant it escaped, pain spiked—but Draven didn't flinch. He guided it instead, threading it through his veins, muscles, bones. Letting it spread.
Let's see what this thing can do.
The effect was immediate.
His vision sharpened, the forest snapping into brutal clarity—individual leaves, distant insects, the faint heat signatures of the others. Sounds layered over one another: heartbeats, breathing, the slow shifting of mana within Aldric's body.
His body felt lighter. Stronger.
As if gravity itself had loosened its grip.
The pain didn't fade.
It ran with it—a constant tearing pressure beneath his skin, like his body was being stretched past its limits and held there.
Draven clenched his jaw, steadying his breath.
"So this is it," he murmured. "Mana enhancement."
Aldric stared. "You're insane. That's not enhancement—that's self-harm with benefits."
"Fuck off," Draven replied calmly.
The cat tilted its head, purple eyes reflecting the faint glow now tracing along Draven's skin.
Lyriana swallowed. "Your Highness… your aura—it's unstable."
"I'm aware."
Draven flexed his fingers. The mana followed, obedient yet violent, like a blade barely kept in its sheath.
"But now I can move. Fight. Protect them."
His gaze dropped to his sleeping siblings, the red barrier pulsing faintly around them.
"That's enough for me."
Draven stood still, eyes half-closed, listening to the violent rhythm inside his own body.
If I can circulate it… can I use magic too?
He tried.
He shaped the mana the way Elira's memories showed—intent first, structure second. A spark. A reaction. Anything.
Nothing happened.
No response. No resonance. No spell formation.
"…Figures," he muttered.
Magic required precision. Control. A pool to draw from.
He had none of that—only a raging current barely chained together.
His gaze lowered.
What about Shadow Step…
He'd done it once. Not learned. Not trained. Just felt it and moved.
Draven inhaled slowly.
He pushed mana into his legs, copying the sensation from memory—the sinking pull, the sense of space folding, of stepping between shadows rather than across the ground.
He took a step.
Nothing.
The world didn't blur. The shadows didn't answer.
His foot landed normally.
Draven let out a dry breath, almost a laugh.
"Yeah… didn't think so."
He straightened, jaw tightening.
"I can't even manipulate this shit properly," he growled. "Barely holding it together, and I thought I could pull off a technique."
His hands clenched.
"That was fucking stupid."
The truth settled in—cold, heavy, and undeniable.
Magic was out of reach. Techniques were out of reach. Anything that required finesse, structure, or elegance was impossible right now.
The only thing this mana would obey…
…was force.
Draven let the energy surge through his muscles again, feeling his strength spike, his senses sharpen, his body reinforce itself like living steel.
"…So that's it," he muttered.
"No spells. No tricks."
He looked forward, eyes burning with quiet resolve.
"Just my body… and how far I can push it before it breaks."