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I opened my attribute panel. A transparent window appeared in front of me, and it clearly read:
[Character: Roya Greyrat]
Age: 2
Strength: G
Agility: G
Stamina: G
Intelligence: D
Talent: Immaculate Body (First Stage), Fool (First Stage), Greed
Skills: Intermediate Magic Knowledge, Swordsmanship (Not Yet Started)
Evaluation: You have high potential, but currently, you're useless except for magic.
I tapped on the world capture interface, and a line of text appeared.
[Power of Space and Time: 50/100 (Unable to capture the world)]
This was the most crucial function: world capture. According to the system's explanation, it would split a small piece of my soul and send it into another world as a sort of stowaway. If I completed certain tasks or significantly altered the world's direction, the system would start stealing that world's original power and feed it back to itself. Done well, I could unlock the next world faster.
Most of the system's minions, or "workers," got things like points and redemption rights. But in my case, I could recall the split soul afterward and pick out a few powers from the target world depending on how things played out. I didn't know all the exact mechanics yet—after all, I hadn't even started the first world capture.
This so-called "Power of Time and Space" would grow naturally over time, but it was painfully slow. In two years, it had only increased by fifty points.
Magic in this world was diverse: healing, attack, summoning, and more. It was divided into elementary, intermediate, advanced, holy, king, emperor, and god levels. You could cast spells using chants or magic circles. If you reached a high enough level, you'd earn titles like "Saint-level Magician" or "Emperor-level Magician."
Swordsmanship was another path. There were three main styles: Sword God Style, Water God Style, and Northern God Style. Each founder had "God" added to their title, and the ranking system was the same as for magic.
Even though I had ridiculous talent in magic, I was limited by the books in the house. The best I could study was intermediate-level stuff.
Magic itself is fascinating. It's flexible and full of potential. You channel the mana in your body and convert it into specific effects through chants. It can become fire, wind, water, earth, or even divine healing energy. Think of mana as the fuel and the chant as the engine blueprint.
In my case, "genius" doesn't even begin to cover it. I remembered everything I read. At two months, I was walking. By four, I was babbling coherent words. At six months, I was flipping through magic books on my own. Lilia's face was frozen in shock when she caught me reading. Paul and Zenith, on the other hand, were just overjoyed.
Still, I somehow ended up with a default blank expression. Even when I was happy, my face barely moved. Maybe I'd smile a little, but it came off more like a smirk. At first, Paul and Zenith were confused, thinking I was upset. But over time, they realized that was just how I showed joy. Weirdly enough, my deadpan expression seemed to have a stronger impact than a real smile. Combine that with golden eyes and long blond hair, and yeah—I apparently gave off a serious vibe.
Despite my clearly abnormal intelligence and abilities, Paul and Zenith didn't question anything. They weren't the brightest couple. They just assumed they gave birth to a prodigy and were smug about it.
I didn't want to cause them trouble, so I mostly kept quiet and focused on training my magic.
The process was simple: cast spells, drain mana, and with each depletion, my mana capacity would increase. Even from the start, my mana pool was unusually large. I could cast several intermediate-level spells before running dry, which was nuts for a beginner.
Eventually, even intermediate spells weren't enough to push my limits. So, I started experimenting.
I developed something new: a technique I called the "Magic Sword."
See, everyone's mana has unique properties. Depending on those traits, the amount of energy required to convert it into a spell varies. That's what we call "mana quality." Some people have low-efficiency mana. Others, like me, have mana that's unusually potent—and a little strange.
Normally, mana needs to be converted through a spell. It doesn't exist as a standalone force. But my mana could manifest directly, raw and violent, without needing a chant. It was incredibly destructive and surprisingly malleable. The downside? It burned through energy fast.
So, I turned that into a weapon.
With a flick of my wrist, I conjured a dagger—black, unstable, but deadly. It was formed entirely from my dark mana, covered in strange patterns. Even by this world's standards, it rivaled king-level magic in sheer power.
High-level magic normally needs long preparation. You have to chant, gather mana, and sometimes the spell depends on the environment. You could use chantless casting like Rudeus, but that only works for lower-level stuff. Try using emperor-level magic without preparation and you'd pass out before finishing the spell.
But my magic sword? It was instant.
As long as my mana held out, I could summon it instantly. In theory, it could wipe out a town before anyone knew what hit them. That kind of destructive potential came with a price, though. After playing with the blade for an hour, my mana was gone. I didn't pass out—my mental strength was good enough for that—but I did feel exhausted.
I let out a long sigh and wandered toward the door.
In the living room, Lilia was cleaning. She looked tired. Paul had been spending all his time with Zenith lately. Zenith hadn't been doing well physically—clear signs she was pregnant again. With a house this size, and Paul being completely useless when it came to chores, everything fell on Lilia.
She handled it all without complaint, but even I could tell she was overwhelmed.
I didn't say anything, just leaned against the doorframe and watched her for a while.
In this strange new life, where I was a baby genius with deadly magic and a deadpan face, I had started to understand something important: even in a world full of swords and spells, the simple things—like watching someone quietly take care of others—still hit hardest.
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