Ryan stumbled through the door of his small home, his heart thundering in his chest. His legs buckled, unsteady, and the air grew heavy, clotting in his lungs. Gasping, he slammed the door shut and collapsed to the floor. A chill lingered in his body, icy and relentless. His vision dimmed, edges fraying, until darkness swallowed him whole.
In that void, a voice emerged, old and steady, resonant as a bell in a quiet valley. "Breathe in," it said. "It's the first step of every living thing."
Ryan lay still, unable to move or speak, his body adrift in a formless expanse. He could only listen, the words seeping into him like rain into parched earth. They weren't meant for him—not directly—but they carried a weight that anchored his racing mind.
"Mana flows around us, like breath in the air," the voice continued, gentle yet commanding. "To touch it, you must steady your heart with deep breaths. Each soul sees it differently—colors, shapes, a fleeting warmth—and each body holds it in its own measure."
Faint echoes stirred—children's voices, curious and bright, as if from a distant classroom. One piped up, eager.
"If it's so simple, Master, why can't we do it?"
A chuckle followed.
"Patience, little one. It's not simple. You must know yourself first—your fears, your strength. Mana is like water in your hands: grasp too tightly, and it slips away."
The words settled over Ryan, heavy with meaning. He didn't stir, didn't breathe by choice—just listened, caught in the rhythm of the lesson. Another fragment came: "Think of mana as a river. You cannot force its path. Learn its current, move with it, and it will carry you."
A long silence fell, vast and expectant.
Then, something shifted within him. A hidden door, long sealed by grief and time, yielded ever so slightly, admitting a thread of light. It wasn't a sensation of the flesh but something deeper, a stirring in the quiet core of his being.
His breath caught, unbidden, and the world changed.
His eyes opened, but not to the familiar confines of his home. He stood in a shimmering expanse, a mirror dimension where fragments of his life hung like scattered prisms. Each shard reflected a moment, angled in ways that revealed truths he'd never seen.
He saw himself as an infant, cradled in his mother's arms, her lullaby a soft hum that wove calm into the air. Another mirror showed his father, broad-shouldered, guiding his small hands to knot a rope under the orchard's golden boughs, their laughter blending with the rustle of leaves. "You're braver than you think," his father said, the words echoing not from memory but from this moment, as if time had folded in on itself.
The reflections turned darker. Smoke rose from the orchard, consumed by plague-born flames. A funeral pyre cast shadows over a sunless day. Ryan stood alone, a boy in a scorched world, his heart learning to lock away its pain. He saw the years that followed: blood on his hands in the butcher shop, nights spent swinging a wooden sword, each motion a defiance of despair. He'd thought himself mature, hardened by necessity, but the mirrors showed a boy who had buried himself to survive.
Tears welled, sharp and unbidden, spilling over in silent torrents. He wept not just for his parents but for himself—for the child who had believed in simple joys, worn away by a world that demanded strength over softness. In Aurelia's selfish streets, where the rich wielded blades without consequence, and people passed by like nothing happened, he had sealed every door to hope, to memory, to the boy he'd been.
Yet one thing had endured: the memory of his parents. Their love had been his anchor, guiding him toward the Academy of Awakening, a goal that burned brighter than his grief.
In the mirror's glow, they appeared—not as mere reflections, but as presences, vivid and near. His mother knelt, her hand brushing his hair, her voice a melody of comfort. "It's alright to remember, my sweet boy," she whispered. "You've carried us always."
His father crouched beside her, his steady gaze unwavering. "Strength isn't silence, Ryan," he said. "It's knowing who you are and holding fast."
Their words pierced him, unraveling the numbness he'd worn like armor. He reached for them, fingers trembling, but they were both real and intangible, a memory made flesh by this strange place. Tears fell anew, not in pain but in release, as he saw himself clearly for the first time in years.
His mother pressed a kiss to his cheek, warm as a winter hearth. "Cry no more," she murmured, wiping a tear away. "You've kept us close, even in the dark."
His father's kiss followed, rough and grounding. "We're proud of you," he said, voice deep as the earth. "Don't forget who you are."
A ripple surged through him, gentle yet profound, like a current stirring still waters. It bloomed in his chest, a warmth without form—neither light nor heat, but a quiet wholeness. It flowed through him, soft as a lullaby, vast as a starless sky. He knew it without seeing it: mana, the river beneath all things, touching him for the first time.
The mirrors faded, their light softening to a whisper. Ryan was alone again, lying on the worn mat of his home, the cold hearth beside him. His limbs ached, his breath shallow but steady. Yet his eyes were open, truly open, seeing the world anew.
Through a broken window, the full moon hung in quiet splendour, its silver light spilling across the stone floor like a gentle promise. Ryan sat up, drawing his knees to his chest, and gazed at it. The moonlight seemed to hold him, calm and constant, as if it knew the weight he carried.
For a long time, he sat there, wrapped in the stillness. The boy who had locked away his heart was gone, replaced by someone whole—someone who remembered not just his goal, but who he was. The path to the Academy lay ahead, but now, it was lit by a spark of mana and the enduring love of those he'd lost.