The Veins of the World
David rose with the first light of dawn — not because he needed rest, but because he had learned to keep pace with the world. The mana that pulsed through him had transformed sleep into meditation, and dreams into insight. While others slept to recover, David's body simply grew stronger.
And this morning, he felt it again — the subtle thickening of the air, as if something was drawing near. Not a presence, but a shift, like wind shifting before a storm. He stood at the edge of the woods beyond Orinel, the village still quiet behind him, his breath steady.
The three men who tried to take him hadn't returned, nor had they sent another. But David knew they wouldn't be the last.
He began to walk east, through the forest paths no one dared to tread. The elders called it "The Grove That Remembers," a place where the ground whispered to those who listened and roots grew where no trees stood. But for David, it was the only place he could go without drawing eyes — or fear.
Birds watched from above. Leaves bent toward him in unnatural ways. The mana in the forest pulled toward him as if it recognized something.
He stopped near a ring of ancient stones — a forgotten altar overgrown with vines. Here, the air was denser. The pulse of his mana quickened.
Then it happened again — that voice, not with words, but with sensation. It didn't speak to his ears, but to his core.
You are the living vessel.
He closed his eyes, letting the flow within guide him. The mana in his limbs moved not like water now, but like light through crystal. It had grown sharper, clearer, more refined.
Suddenly, the earth beneath his feet cracked — a thin, glowing line snaking from the altar to his feet. The light traveled upward, wrapping his legs in energy before seeping into his core.
The world responds to you now.
David opened his eyes, and for a breath, he saw it — the veins of the world. Blue and gold streams of mana webbing through the land, invisible to all but him. They ran beneath mountains, rivers, villages — and straight toward something deep in the east.
He staggered back, overwhelmed.
Then he heard the rustling — real this time. A figure approached, not cloaked like before, but robed in gray linen, staff in hand, hair white as ash.
"You've awakened early," the old man said, his voice calm but distant. "Earlier than the scripts ever foretold."
David took a step back instinctively, though he didn't feel danger. "Who are you?"
"An observer. A keeper of the broken laws. I've watched the flow of the Well for many years… waiting for it to return to flesh."
"You speak of this power… like it's a thing apart from me."
The man nodded slowly. "Because it is. And because it isn't. You are the Well's vessel — but not its first."
David's heart stirred. "Then where are the others?"
"Gone. Their bodies could not withstand its endless growth. Their minds shattered, their spirits consumed. You are the first in an age to carry the Well without breaking."
David looked down at his hands, the faint glow now more visible beneath his skin. "I've felt nothing but strength."
"Then you are different. But strength without direction becomes a flood. The Well is not only a gift — it is a burden that will draw every seeking hand to you."
David's breath slowed. He thought of his mother, his village. The path he was walking was no longer about mystery. It was survival.
The old man turned, pointing east. "There is a place where the first Wellspring was carved — an ancient place called Myndros, beneath the bones of the world. If you wish to understand what you are, and what's to come, go there."
"Will it give me answers?"
"No," the man said with a faint smile. "But it will show you the right questions to ask."
By evening, David had returned to Orinel for the last time. The sky burned orange, casting shadows across the valley. He stood before the small wooden house where his mother still lit herbs by the fire.
She stepped outside before he could speak.
"You're leaving," she said gently, not with sorrow, but with a kind of quiet pride.
"I have to."
"I know. The way you've grown… it's not something that belongs to this place anymore." She placed her hand on his chest. "But this heart — this still belongs to something greater. Don't forget that."
David embraced her one last time. He left with nothing but the tunic on his back, a waterskin, and the Well growing endlessly inside him.
The first week of travel was uneventful — until the second moon.
He crossed plains where beasts fled from his scent alone. He climbed ridges that should have torn his legs, but his mana-born strength carried him. The more he moved, the more he realized that his body no longer merely held mana — it harmonized with it.
He could push off a single stone and leap ten feet. Hear insects miles away. Heal in minutes what would've taken days. Yet every time he used mana, he noticed something deeper:
It didn't just grow.
It refined.
Each moment of movement, of breath, of conflict — the Well inside him evolved, shifting his body into something more efficient, more precise.
He wasn't just getting stronger.
He was becoming perfect.
But perfection drew eyes.
On the eighth night, firelight danced along a cliffside. David, cautious, approached silently — and saw them. A dozen cloaked figures around a chained man, their chants foreign, dark.
He could've walked past. This wasn't his fight.
But the mana in him stirred, almost like it rebelled at the sight. As if injustice itself called it forward.
He stepped from the shadows.
The cultists froze. The fire dimmed as David walked into its glow.
"Unchain him," he said simply.
A tall woman, eyes painted red, stepped forward. "You carry a heavy power," she hissed. "We serve that power's opposite. The Hollow. The End of Flow."
David's brow furrowed. "Then you'll understand when I say this…"
He raised his hand, palm outward.
"…I cannot let you live."
What followed wasn't a fight. It was a demonstration.
The moment they rushed him, the Well opened wider. His muscles moved with impossible fluidity, his strikes cracking the very ground. Every movement gathered mana. Every second refined him further.
They tried to bind him with chains of anti-magic — they shattered.
They tried to stab him with blades dipped in void — he caught them barehanded.
In less than a minute, they lay broken or dead.
David stood in the firelight, the chained man groaning behind him. The cultist leader gasped, her body crushed but her voice defiant.
"You can kill us… but the Hollow watches. The deeper you grow, the more it will seek to swallow you."
David stepped over her as she faded into unconsciousness.
"Let it try," he said.
That night, as the fire died and the saved man slept, David sat alone under the stars. He looked down at his hands, now visibly glowing with the light of the Well.
He understood now. This path wouldn't just be about survival or mystery. There were enemies — dark forces with names and faces. There was a Hollow. An End.
But where others faded… he only became more.
He looked east again. Toward Myndros. Toward truth.
Toward everything yet to come.