The scent of polished mahogany and old books always clung to Elian, a comforting, familiar embrace that filled the vast corridors of Duke Thorne's estate. From his window, the city of Eldoria stretched out, a marvel of interconnected magical circuits humming beneath the paved streets. Levitating trams glided silently along shimmering lines, their passengers engrossed in their luminous, mana-powered communication devices. Buildings, tall and gleaming, rose like crystalline growths, their upper floors often shrouded in the faint, ethereal glow of powerful defensive barriers.
At seventeen, Elian should have been preparing for military academies or magical apprenticeships, like any other son of a high-ranking noble. Instead, his days were a meticulously curated sequence of private tutors, advanced studies in history and philosophy (though conspicuously lacking in 'Magic Science'), and the quiet solitude of the family library. His world, while outwardly luxurious and replete with magical conveniences, felt oddly… incomplete.
"Another perfect day, young master," commented Lyra, his personal maid, as she arranged a vase of magically preserved hydrangeas on his desk. Her smile was warm, but her eyes held a subtle, ever-present watchfulness.
Elian nodded, absently tracing the intricate patterns on his mana-powered pen. "Indeed, Lyra. The sunlight is quite radiant."
Yet, a peculiar dissonance gnawed at him. He'd seen illustrations in history texts depicting knights in shining armor clashing with magic-wielding mages. He'd overheard hushed conversations about faraway conflicts, references to "mana exhaustion" and "attrition warfare." It baffled him. In a world with floating vehicles, instant communication, and glowing, energy-efficient lamps, why were armies still fighting with enchanted swords and elemental spells? It felt like using a quill to write a dissertation when a quantum processor was sitting right beside you.
His parents, Duke Alaric and Duchess Seraphina Thorne, were loving, attentive, almost doting. But their affection came with an invisible cage. "The outside world is dangerous, Elian," his mother would say, her hand gently caressing his cheek. "Your well-being is paramount." His father, usually stern and decisive in his political dealings, would soften only for Elian. "There are… sensibilities, my son. We wish to protect you from them."
Elian knew, deep down, it wasn't just about danger. There was something they were hiding, a reason for his isolation. He wasn't entirely naive. He knew the whispers about "non-magic users" – the rare individuals born without mana channels, deemed burdens in a society obsessed with magical capacity. Was he one of them? The thought, though unsettling, didn't bother him as much as the suffocating feeling of being kept in the dark, unable to prove his worth.
He yearned for agency, for a way to show his parents he could stand on his own, to earn the right to step beyond these walls. If the world was truly so dangerous, then he needed a way to defend himself—a real way.
One afternoon, while perusing an old engineering schematic (a relic from a forgotten, pre-magic era, perhaps?), a thought struck him with the force of a lightning bolt. It was crude, utterly primitive by this world's standards, yet undeniably effective in the one he vaguely recalled from a life he shouldn't remember, a world where mana was but a concept from fantasy novels.
Gunpowder.
A bullet.
It was simple mechanics, physical force, raw kinetic energy. No mana, no Spirit World manipulation, just pure, unadulterated physics. A weapon that wouldn't care about magical barriers or mana reserves. It was a ludicrous idea in a magic-powered world, but that was precisely why it was brilliant. It would be his weapon, built on principles alien to this realm, principles he carried from a life he'd somehow been granted a second chance from.
His mind raced, sketching designs on discarded parchment, calculating trajectories and explosive forces. The family blacksmith, Master Gremory, was a gruff but skilled artisan, renowned for his work on magically reinforced armaments. He was also one of the few outside the immediate family whom Elian was allowed to interact with.
The next day, Elian presented Gremory with his crude blueprints, drawn with painstaking detail. "Master Gremory," he began, trying to sound as confident as a seasoned inventor, "I require your expertise for a… unique project."
Gremory, a mountain of a man with hands scarred by centuries of molten metal, squinted at the drawings. His brow furrowed, then lifted in confusion. "Young master? What in the blazes is this? A… metal tube? And these strange, small slugs?" He picked up one of the diagrams, rotating it. "Where are the mana channels? The diagrammatic inscriptions for elemental projection? The barrier resonance points?" He looked at Elian, a mixture of bewilderment and concern in his eyes. "This… this looks like something a child would invent to play 'bang bang' with sticks, not a serious weapon. And what is 'gunpowder'?"
Elian took a deep breath. This was harder than he thought. But he wouldn't give up. "It's a new form of kinetic energy projection, Master Gremory. One that doesn't rely on mana." He tried to explain the concepts of combustion, pressure, and projectile force, using terms that must have sounded like gibberish to the blacksmith.
Gremory scratched his beard, a skeptical rumble escaping his chest. "No mana, you say? What use is a weapon that can't even punch through a basic mana-dampening ward?" He gestured vaguely towards the barrier-infused walls of his forge.
Elian, a determined glint in his eye, straightened. "This, Master Gremory, will go straight through it." He paused, a strange, almost mischievous smile playing on his lips. "It's a secret. For now."
Unbeknownst to Elian, his father, Duke Alaric, had already received a report from Lyra about her young master's "peculiar fascination with strange diagrams and loud, incomprehensible ideas." The Duke smiled faintly from his study, a flicker of pride and a heavy burden in his eyes. His son was indeed a genius, a mind unlike any other in this magic-bound world. And soon, that genius would be unleashed, not just on a simple target, but on the very foundations of their nation.