Younes stood in the courtyard behind his home, sweat trailing down his brow, his chest heaving. The morning sun had barely risen, but he'd already been training for two hours. Each failed attempt to summon mana was met with gritted teeth and clenched fists. The more he tried, the more distant the dream seemed.
He recalled the tales. Mages in ancient texts who had mana coursing through them like blood. They spoke to elements. They bent the world. They were heroes. Younes had always believed those stories weren't just myths—but signs of something dormant. Something waiting.
But now, three weeks since his first attempt, all he had to show for his efforts were bruised hands and disappointment.
"Again," he muttered.
He closed his eyes, slowing his breath. He pictured the energy within, imagined it flowing like water through his veins. He raised his hands, trying to sense the invisible force. Silence. Emptiness. Nothing.
Then—a small flicker of warmth in his chest.
Younes gasped. The sensation was faint, like the heat from a candle several feet away, but it was there. Something had shifted.
He repeated the process, slower this time, careful not to panic. He focused on the warmth. Nourished it. Encouraged it to spread.
A sudden gust of wind blew past him, rustling the dry grass. His eyes snapped open. The wind stopped. For a moment, everything was still.
"Was that... me?" he whispered.
But before he could celebrate, the warmth vanished completely.
The silence of failure returned.
Inside the house, his mother watched him through the window. Her brows furrowed in concern. She hadn't said anything, not openly. But she knew. She saw it in the way Younes spoke to himself, the restless energy in his eyes, the sleepless nights.
"Mana," she had scoffed once when he was younger. "A fairy tale told to poor boys to give them hope."
Younes had believed otherwise. He still did. But the doubt—it was growing louder.
Later that evening, he visited the local library, one of the few buildings in the city still maintained despite the crumbling economy. The librarian, a hunched man with thick glasses, raised an eyebrow when he saw Younes with yet another stack of forgotten tomes.
"Looking for magic again?" he asked, only half-joking.
"Looking for truth," Younes replied, his voice low.
Hours passed. He buried himself in manuscripts, old journals, diagrams of energy flows and forgotten techniques. Most were nonsense. But one passage caught his eye:
"True mana cannot be taught. It must be remembered. All living beings have touched it, once—at birth. The problem is not learning it, but remembering it."
He reread the lines again. And again.
Remembered?
The next morning, Younes returned to the courtyard. But instead of the usual routine, he sat still. Cross-legged. Eyes closed.
He didn't try to summon mana. He didn't force it.
He searched his memories.
He traveled backward—through every moment of failure, of frustration, of doubt. And then further, to the day he first heard the word "mana." A children's book. A golden figure touching the sky. A symbol between the eyes glowing like a star.
He didn't know why—but that memory made his heart race.
Suddenly, a pulse.
Not from within—but from the earth.
The wind trembled.
Younes's eyes opened wide, glowing faintly blue for a fraction of a second before fading. He didn't notice. He was too stunned by what he felt: a thread. A connection. Thin as spider silk. Fragile, but real.
And then, pain.
A sharp strike of nausea hit him. He collapsed forward, clutching his stomach. The connection snapped. The warmth disappeared.
But he had felt it.
He wasn't crazy.
He had touched mana.
Younes spent the next week refining the feeling. He skipped meals, avoided sleep, and ignored the growing concern in his mother's eyes. He had discovered something no one else had. No school had taught him. No mentor had guided him. But it was there.
Mana wasn't fire to be kindled. It was memory to be retrieved.
And each time he remembered a piece, his body responded. Stronger reflexes. Heightened awareness. Once, he accidentally shattered a glass with a single thought while reaching for it.
But with each success came greater pain. His body wasn't ready.
By the end of the week, he could barely stand.
One night, as he lay on his back, staring at the cracked ceiling of his room, the golden message appeared.
Not in his mind.
In reality.
Floating.
Glowing.
Burning.
"Congratulations. You are the first human on Earth to control mana.
The reward will arrive on the Promised Day."
Younes blinked. The letters shimmered in the air above him, between his eyes. He reached up to touch them. His fingers passed through light.
"What… what is this?"
He sat up, heart thundering in his chest.
Had anyone else seen it?
Was it real?
He stumbled out of bed and ran outside. The streets were quiet. No one around.
"No, no, no—this can't be just me…"
He returned inside, breathing heavily, the golden letters burned into his vision.
And then they faded.
But he would never forget them.
For the first time in his life, Younes wasn't chasing mana anymore.
He was holding it.
And everything was about to change.