Zora was never merely a servant.
At twelve, when the Patriarch's recruiters found her scrubbing the grimy floors of a roadside inn, they sensed what the world had overlooked: a magical resonance that thrummed in the air around her, and a will that bent to nothing and no one. Most would have dismissed a girl so small, so seemingly ordinary—but not them.
At sixteen, she became the current Patriarch's shadow, serving him in ways few could fathom. Her hands, delicate as a healer's, wove miracles: mending battle-torn flesh, knitting shattered bone, soothing spirits with a touch that whispered of ancient, buried power. Yet her gentleness was a mask, a gossamer veil draped over a gathering storm.
She was not the fragile sort of healer bards sang of. Those who mistook her for one discovered their error in blood. Zora's true strength revealed itself in motion—in the way her body moved like violence made art. She fought as though combat were a language she had been born speaking: every strike, every step, an elegant phrase written into the fabric of reality. She read her opponents as if their intentions were scrawled in ink, dismantling them before the thought of action had even rippled across their minds. Her defenses never faltered; her attacks flowed like water over stone, relentless and precise.
When wounded, she wove her healing magic with breathtaking speed mid-battle, wounds closing as swiftly as they opened. This made her nearly invincible—damage her a hundred times, and she would mend herself a hundred times, returning each moment with the same lethal grace. She weaponized her gift, healing transformed into an instrument of attrition. Her stamina and mana were her only limits to invincibility. In hand-to-hand combat, she was unmatched, a living legend who made her opponents' strength irrelevant.
To bear the title of Head Maid was no mere honorific. It was a testament, a crown forged in blood and merit. At only eighteen, she challenged her predecessor—an iron-willed veteran who had served three generations of Patriarchs. The duel lasted one minute and eleven seconds. Zora claimed the title, becoming the youngest Head Maid in Wolfhard's storied history. Some claimed she won because the woman had grown old, but none have dared to test her since.
Only two held the Patriarch's absolute trust in battle: Zora, the living wand, and Reginald, the stoic Head Butler—the Patriarch's sword incarnate. Their loyalty ran deeper than blood. Together, they were blade and shield made flesh.
Yet, in a single, bewildering act, Grael had cast Zora aside—not to his first wife, nor his second or third, but to a concubine, as if she were a trinket to be bartered, a possession to be passed from one hand to another.
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That night, as Sushila wept herself to sleep, her pillow wet with grief, I lay awake, my mind a storm of its own. The character of Sushila was my tribute to my grandmother, whose boundless love had shaped my sister and me. Through Sushila's gentle devotion to her son, Arthur, I honored the woman who had been both anchor and refuge in my first life.
But sleep eluded me. Each time my eyes closed, the day's horrors replayed: the screams, the glint of steel, the blood. Heads rolling, limbs strewn, crimson pooling on the ground—images no child's mind could bear, yet they were carved into mine. No film, no story from my old world could compare to the visceral terror of this reality. My young body trembled beneath the weight of it.
Questions gnawed at me like carrion birds circling a corpse. What had become of Grandma when she heard? What of my sister? Were Blake, Natalie, and his pack in chains, or did their wealth shield them from justice?
Yet beneath these questions lay a deeper wound: my own rebirth. I was cursed to wear the skin of a secondary character, an antagonist doomed to court death at every turn. If only I had been reincarnated as the heroine—yes, even the shift in gender would have been a small price to pay for a scripted triumph. At least her path was already written in the stars, her survival guaranteed. I could have learned to navigate a different biology, explored what it meant to inhabit the opposite sex in this second life. Instead, I was trapped in a role fated to end in tragedy.
The bitter irony burned: I had written this world, line by line, crafting this nightmare with my own hand. Now I was forced to live it.
In Chapter **, a scene awaited, etched in ink, one I longed to erase. But could an eraser ever truly obliterate ink? No. If I were to survive, I had to prevent that scene from unfolding—the moment that sealed Sushila's fate. Overwhelmed by the incidents that transpired, her depression deepens, culminating in the tragic decision where Sushila's own hand would claim her life, her despair a poison that tainted her very soul. And with her death came the beginning of Arthur's descent into darkness. Bereft of his mother's love and abandoned by a father who no longer cared, Arthur would fall victim to the cruelty of his father's other wives, trapped in a nightmare of neglect and malice—a grim echo of Cinderella, but far more bitter, far more tragic.
If that moment came to pass, it would open the door to the Demon Lord. And when that door swung wide, my own end would be sealed. The heroine's sword would strike him down—strike him down.
Strike me down.
I had written it. Now I had to unwrite it.
Exhausted, my fragile new body surrendered to sleep, a fleeting escape from the crushing weight of my reality.
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The Mana Core System:
In this world, where magic and steel wove together like fire and blood, every living being carried a nucleus of power within their chest—the Mana Core. A luminous ring of energy, it encircled the heart in eternal orbit, like Saturn's halo. With each heartbeat it pulsed in perfect rhythm, flickering on and off in the color of the wielder's strength, as though the thrum of life itself were the switch that kept it alive. Gravity seemed to suspend it in place, spinning ceaselessly, a silent engine of existence. A heart might beat a hundred thousand times a day, and with every pulse the Core stirred—glowing, revolving, channeling raw essence through flesh and bone—transforming pure potential into reality.
Universal Principles:
The Mana Core governs every living being in this world. Its color reflects the individual's mastery, potential, and danger, ranging from fragile beginnings to godlike power:
1. Transparent – The default state, the mark of fragility. Every newborn, infant, and toddler begins here. Unstable, unformed, a whisper of potential. The mana barely circulates, making them susceptible to injury, illness, or magic backlash.
2. Light Cyan – The beginner stage, where the Core stabilizes, raw mana beginning to circulate. Common among commoners, it marks those slightly stronger than Earth's humans, limited by circumstance. Most who have never studied magic or trained fall here.
3. Emerald – The intermediate stage, where mana circulates in harmony, boosting stamina and strength. Capable fighters emerge, able to join guilds and slay A-rank monsters with confidence.
4. Violet – The advanced stage, where the Core burns brighter, mana density increases, and techniques sharpen. Those who reach this level are considered talented enough to enter the academies.
5. Crimson – The expert level, radiating destructive power and an overwhelming aura. These warriors could topple Earth's mightiest armies and live to tell the story. They can join knight orders, magic towers, or serve as academy professors.
6. Silver – A second ring forms around the heart, interlocking with the first, spinning along a different axis. Few reach this pinnacle, and those who do are considered legends—walking calamities who shape history with every battle, capable of splitting mountains or toppling entire kingdoms single-handedly.
7. Gold – Legendary stage. Near perfection. Pure mana. Possessing mastery over the highest forms of magic. Nearly untouchable and awe-inspiring—gods in mortal form. Only Dragons, destroyers of worlds, carry such power.
8. Prismatic/Ever-shifting – Perfection. Transcendent. Divine or creator-tier, the domain that belongs only to gods themselves. Their mana is ever-changing, limitless, and reality-altering.
Black – A mana core tainted by forbidden or corrupted magic, often associated with entities like the Demon Lord or other abominations. Those who bear it are feared; having one is considered a crime punishable by death. Its presence manifests as a dark, oppressive aura, cold and ominous, seeping into every spell the caster wields.
Essence Stones: are crystallized Mana Cores extracted from beasts. Unlike humans, elves, and other races, monster cores belong to creatures hunted by adventurers for a living. When a human kills a slime, for example, inside its chest—wherever its heart lies—is this crystallized stone, believed to be the beast's heart or soul. These stones are sold at adventurers' guilds for use in jewelry, weapon and armor enchantments, crushed into dust for alchemy and potions, and more.
The Mana Core is essentially strength, resilience, magic, luck, and in rare cases, chaos itself. Think of it as a battery storing infinite possibilities—if you know how to draw from it safely.
Energy Output (E) = Core Strength (C) × Conduit Efficiency (tool) × Control Precision (P)
Whether called mana or aura, the energy is the same. Only the application differs.
Mages: Channeling Mana
Mages draw power from their core and channel it through wands or staffs, which act as conduits and amplifiers. The alignment between core and wand determines efficiency—a perfect match rewrites physics itself, while a poor match produces weak spells or chaotic backfire.
Without a conduit: raw mana doesn't know where to go. Spells explode uncontrollably. Injuries range from burns to permanent magical scars. Unintended effects—portals, magical storms, harm to allies—become deadly possibilities.
Warriors: Wielding Aura
Warriors channel the same core energy as aura into weapons. The blade becomes an extension of their essence—mundane steel transforms into force that slices through armor, bends elements, or leaves traces of spectral fire.
Without a weapon: unchanneled aura can tear ligaments, break bones, or turn inward to damage the core itself. Energy surges create unintended explosions, making the battlefield dangerous for everyone.
The Fragile Foundation:
The Mana Core's greatest vulnerability is its tie to life. Unlike beastly Essence Stones, a human Core shatters when the heart stops, scattering like dust on the wind. This fragility makes every practitioner mortal, no matter their strength.
Those rare few who channel energy without conduits—masters of pure will—are revered as geniuses, living weapons unbound by tools.
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The following day, at Grael's command, the empire's finest healers gathered. Their prognosis was unanimous and grim: Sushila would never walk again, her body cursed by malevolent magic. As for me, a shattered Core should have meant death, yet I lived—a miracle. They called me a living corpse, my body teetering on the edge of an inevitable end.
The curses woven into our wounds bore the signature of a specter long thought vanquished: the Fallen Demon Lord, a shadow from a millennium past. But how? Grael had slain the mage responsible, yet the mystery of his power lingered, unanswered, with no one left to question.
Grael knew the truth would break Sushila further, yet he could not shield her. The truth struck Sushila like a hammer to glass. Grael's words, though carefully measured, carried a weight that shattered what little resolve remained in her. Her face etched with grief, her soul unraveling thread by thread. He saw it—the moment she broke, her spirit collapsing beneath a burden no heart could carry.
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Raina visited often, her presence a fleeting but cherished light in the quiet rhythm of our lives. Each time, she carried with her the fruits of her labor—handcrafted wooden toys, little swords and shields, their rough edges a testament to her dedication. Her hands were always scarred with the marks of her work, as worn as the tools she used to carve them. I never knew whether those cuts came from her relentless training with Zora or the endless hours spent shaping wood, but they told a story of someone who had long since grown accustomed to pain.
Sushila never saw her as anything less than a daughter. Her care for Raina was tender, a soft contrast to the sharp edges of the world that had broken her. Every time Raina came, Sushila would fuss over her wounds, murmuring words of comfort, even as Raina's smile—fragile and fleeting—hid the deep ache that lingered in her eyes.
I knew it was there. The weight of loss. The absence of the mother she could never quite let go of.
Zora, too, watched over Raina, though she never spoke of it directly. "She's talented," Zora would say quietly, almost to herself. "At this rate, in ten years or less, she might take my place."
Her voice, though steady, carried something unspoken—a deep attachment to the girl. "She's a mage," Zora would murmur, "but she insists on holding onto an attachment in the form of her mother's dagger instead of a wand, a weapon that could never truly match her gifts. Her magic should be her focus."
And so, under Zora's watchful eye, Raina trained, learning not only magic but the art of combat—a dance of survival that would shape her into something more than the sum of her past. It was a delicate balance, one that tethered her to the present, to the person she was becoming, while the ghosts of her past lingered at the edges of her every movement.