His gaze moved to the abilities section.
Low-mid regeneration. This was his safety net, the reason he could indulge in his reckless training methods without ending up permanently dead. Regeneration, like mana reinforcement, had tiers—a whole ladder of them, which the status screen had helpfully elaborated upon when he'd focused his attention on the entry. He was currently at Low-Mid, which meant he could regrow entire limbs and survive being sliced in half at the waist. He'd tested the limb part once, deliberately severing his left pinky finger with a clean axe cut. It had grown back in five seconds, complete with nail and fingerprint. He'd been tempted to test the "sliced in half" scenario, but the logistics were daunting and the cleanup would have been a nightmare. Still, he was confident. If he lost an arm or a leg, it would come back. If he was disemboweled, his intestines would knit themselves back together. He couldn't yet regenerate from a severed head—that was Mid-tier—and he certainly couldn't come back from a puddle of liquid or a pile of ash like the High-tier descriptions suggested. For now, he was mortal as long as the damage was catastrophic enough. No KitKat or donut deaths like Gojo, Rengoku, or Ace. He intended to keep climbing the tier ladder until that wasn't a concern anymore.
Mana Pressure. This was an ability he'd stumbled upon by accident. He'd been frustrated one day, his mana control slipping during a reinforcement session, and he'd lashed out with his intent—not his magic, but his sheer will. The result had been a pulse of invisible force that flattened the grass in a ten-foot radius and sent birds fleeing from the trees. It felt like what Yami had done to Asta during the entrance exam in the story, the crushing weight of a superior mage's presence that could make lesser opponents freeze or faint. Like Conqueror's Haki, his past-life memories had supplied. He'd been training it since then, learning to project his killing intent and mana signature outward in a wave of mana pressure. It wasn't a combat skill he could rely on against strong opponents, but against bandits, wild beasts, or anyone with a weak will, it was an instant victory button. And he sure loved to abuse this.
Underwater Breathing. The gills. He still found them slightly unsettling, a reminder that the Wheel was willing to rewrite his biology in ways that bordered on monstrous. And it was worth it. They were undeniably useful. He could stay submerged indefinitely, explore riverbeds and lake bottoms, and escape aquatic threats that would drown anyone else. Combined with water resistance, he was essentially amphibious now.
Mana Skin. The basic version was a thin layer of mana coating his body, a transparent second skin that absorbed impacts and deflected minor magical attacks. He'd mastered it within the first year. The Full Release version was the real prize—expanding that skin into a shimmering aura that could insulate him from extreme environments. With Full Release active, he could theoretically walk through a burning building or a blizzard without immediate harm. The volcano would test that claim.
Reinforcement Magic (Intermediate). This was the most technical ability in his arsenal, and the one he'd spent the most time refining. Reinforcement had clear tiers, which the status screen had broken down for him:
Novice level was basic stuff—channeling mana into a fist for a harder punch, coating the body for shock absorption, sharpening senses. He blasted through Novice in his first six months.
Intermediate was where things got interesting. Organ Fortification, his current level, meant he could flood his internal organs with mana to resist extreme pressure, survive concussive shockwaves, and filter out minor poisons. Vascular Regulation let him optimize blood flow and oxygen delivery to eliminate fatigue, which meant he could train for hours without hitting a wall. Structural Binding reinforced his bones and tendons against fractures, which was the only reason his self-destruction training hadn't turned his skeleton into gravel.
Advanced tier—Mana Skin Integration, Total Concentration, Kinetic Redirection—was still beyond him. Mana Skin Integration would merge his internal and external defenses into a seamless barrier that could neutralize harsh climates. Total Concentration was the holy grail of reinforcement: maintaining 100% full-body reinforcement indefinitely during combat with no blind spots and zero reaction delay. And Kinetic Redirection, the ability to absorb an enemy's momentum and channel it into a counter-attack, was the kind of technique that turned defensive fighters into offensive nightmares. He wanted all of them. He would get all of them.
And then, of course, there was the locked ability that had been sitting on his status screen since day one: Soul Slash. Still locked. Still taunting him with that little padlock icon. He understood the theory—his soul had been attacked during the merge, the Wheel had adapted by creating a counter-attack using the same energy signature, and the result was a slash that could cut spiritual essences. But he had no idea how to unlock it, or even if he was strong enough to survive using it. The lock remained, a mystery for another day.
He'd tried to develop Mana Zone as well, the advanced technique that allowed a mage to extend their control over ambient mana in a radius around themselves, manipulating spells and movement with absolute precision. Yami used it. Mereoleona used it. Every top-tier fighter in the kingdom used some variation of it. Ouga had spent three months attempting to replicate the effect, pushing his mana outward and trying to claim dominion over the jungle's ambient energy. He'd failed completely. Not because his control was poor, but because Mana Zone wasn't a matter of raw power or adaptation. It was a technique, a philosophy, a way of perceiving mana that couldn't be brute-forced. His Talent couldn't help him learn a skill from scratch. It could only adapt to phenomena that actually happened to him. Until someone used Mana Zone on him or taught him the principles directly, he was stuck.
The solution was clear: he needed to join the Magic Knights. Specifically, he needed to join the Black Bulls and get close to Yami Sukehiro. Yami was one of the few people in the kingdom who understood both ki and Mana Zone at a master level. If Ouga could learn ki sensing from Yami, his combat effectiveness would skyrocket—ki reading bypassed magical cloaking and predicted movements based on intent, a perfect counter to the kinds of enemies that mana sensing couldn't track. And if he could observe Yami's Mana Zone up close, experience it, have it used on him, the Talent might finally have the data it needed to start adapting.
He closed the status screen with a flick of his will and stood, stretching his arms over his head until his spine popped. The jungle around him felt smaller than it used to. He'd outgrown it. The cliffs weren't high enough, the fire pits weren't hot enough, the pool wasn't deep enough. The village was his home, but it had become a cage, a comfortable cage lined with love and warmth that he was genuinely reluctant to leave. But the world outside wasn't going to wait for him. Lucius Zogratis was out there, scheming. The devils were stirring. The Spade Kingdom was sharpening its knives. If Ouga wanted to protect this village—protect Father Aldric, Sister Maria, little Elise and the rest of the orphans—he had to become someone who could make armies hesitate.
He turned and began the walk back to the village.
The jungle path was worn smooth by years of his own footsteps, a narrow trail that wound through the undergrowth and emerged at the edge of the wheat fields. He stepped out of the treeline and into the golden afternoon light, the village spread out before him like a painting. It was small, barely a dozen buildings clustered around the church's bell tower, but it was alive in a way that cities never were. Smoke curled from chimneys. Chickens scratched in the dirt. Old man Henrik was sitting on his porch, whittling a piece of wood with the same patient concentration he'd had for as long as Ouga could remember.
"Afternoon, Ouga!" Henrik called, raising a gnarled hand in greeting. "Any luck in the jungle today?"
"Just scouting," Ouga replied, his voice easy and warm. The smile that spread across his face was automatic, natural—a smile that belonged to this village, to these people. "I'll head out for a hunt tomorrow. The boars are getting fat this season."
"Good lad. Bring me one if you get a big one, and I'll trade you some of my wife's apple preserves."
"Deal."
He walked on, past the well where two young women were drawing water, past the small forge where Duran the blacksmith was hammering out horseshoes, past the baker's shop where the smell of fresh bread made his stomach growl. Everyone greeted him. He greeted everyone back, by name, with a smile that reached his grey eyes. He knew their troubles—Duran's daughter was sick, the baker's oven was cracking, Henrik's arthritis was getting worse—and he'd quietly helped where he could, using his hunting income to buy medicine, hire a stonemason, pay for a healer's visit. The village thought he was just a hardworking orphan who'd grown into a fine young man. They didn't know about the Wheel, about the flames, about the things he'd done to himself in the dark of the jungle. They didn't need to know.
He reached the church just as the bell was ringing for evening prayer. The building was old and weather-beaten but solid, its stone walls draped in ivy, its stained-glass window catching the sunset in fragments of crimson and gold. The front door was open, and he could hear the children's voices spilling out—laughter, a squeal, Sister Maria's gentle scolding. He paused on the threshold, letting the sound wash over him.
This was what he was fighting for. This was the thing that made the pain worth it.
He stepped inside, and Elise spotted him first. The six-year-old launched herself across the room with a shriek of delight and attached herself to his leg like a limpet. "Ouga! Ouga! You're back! Did you fight a bear? Did you fight a dragon?"
"No dragons today," he said, scooping her up with one arm and settling her on his hip. "Maybe tomorrow."
"You always say that!"
"One day it'll be true."
Father Aldric appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, his broad frame silhouetted by the hearth light. His rust-red hair had more grey in it now, and the lines around his eyes had deepened, but his smile was the same as ever—steady, warm, the smile of a man who had never doubted that his miracle boy would come home. "There you are," he said. "Maria's made stew. The children already said grace without you."
"I'll say my own," Ouga replied, carrying Elise toward the dining hall. "Save me a big bowl."
"I always do."
The meal was loud and chaotic and utterly ordinary. Ouga sat among the orphans—twelve of them now, ranging from Elise's six years to Tomas's thirteen—and ate his stew while they chattered about their lessons and their games and the stray cat they'd found in the garden. Sister Maria fussed over everyone, refilling bowls and wiping faces with the relentless efficiency of a woman who had raised more children than she could count. Father Aldric told a story about the first Wizard King, his deep voice filling the room with magic and wonder.
Ouga listened. He laughed at the right moments. He ruffled Tomas's hair and promised to teach him sword drills in the morning. He was present, fully present, in a way that would have been impossible for the bitter, detached soul he'd been four years ago.
When the meal ended and the children were herded off to bed, he helped Maria with the dishes, drying bowls while she washed. She didn't say much, but her presence was comforting, a quiet maternal warmth that asked nothing of him. He'd never had a mother in either life that he could remember, but if he had, he imagined she would have been something like Sister Maria.
Later, standing alone in the church's bell tower and looking out at the star-strewn sky, he let the mask slip just a little. The smile faded. His grey eyes went cold and calculating, the way they did when he was planning a hunt or mapping out a new training regimen. The volcano. The exam. The Black Bulls. Yami. Mana Zone. The list of objectives was long, and the timeline was uncertain. But the path was clear.
He'd leave in the spring, when the roads were dry and the capital was bustling with exam applicants. He'd tell Father Aldric the truth—or enough of it—and he'd promise to come back. And he would come back. When he was strong enough that nothing could threaten this place, he would stand in this tower again and know that he had earned the peace he'd found here.