Chapter 1 – The Young Master Without Mana
The first thing Luke noticed was the ceiling.
Carved from dark wood and painted with gold filigree, it was nothing like the fluorescent panels of his lab. The scent of polished oak and fresh linen replaced the sterile tang of chemicals he'd known all his life.
He sat up slowly, heart pounding.
It wasn't a dream — the explosion had been real. The surge, the flash, the crushing wave of force… he had died.
And yet, here he was.
"Luke, my son…"
He turned. The woman by his bedside had soft chestnut hair and warm, noble features. Her clothes were woven with threads of silver, and a jeweled pendant rested at her neck. Beside her stood a tall man in a black military coat, his expression severe but not unkind.
His mind spun. Who are these people?
Memories — alien and unfamiliar — began to surface.
A sprawling estate called the House of Valcrest.
A boy with the same name as him — Luke Valcrest — a pampered young master born into nobility.
A world where magic wasn't a legend but a birthright.
The two sets of memories — his life as Dr. Luke Arvens, Earth's youngest quantum physicist, and his life as the noble child — collided in his mind. His breathing quickened.
He remembered the countless nights in the lab, working on Project Agust, a dream to fuse the unexplainable with the explainable — a science-born magic. He had been on the verge of success when the reactor overload took his life.
And now… somehow… he'd woken in this body.
"You've been asleep for three days," the woman — his new mother — said gently. "Your mana evaluation is soon. Rest while you can."
Mana.
As she left, Luke sat in silence. He could feel a strange energy in the air, like a faint static hum, yet when he reached for it instinctively… nothing happened.
No spark. No warmth. No flow.
The next morning, a young servant boy named Eliot came to escort him to the Head Mage's study. The corridors of the estate were lined with velvet carpets and glowing crystal lanterns — all powered by magic.
The Head Mage, an elderly man with silver eyes and a staff carved from blue stone, placed a crystal orb in Luke's palm.
"Focus," the mage ordered.
Luke concentrated. On Earth, he'd manipulated electrons, coaxed atoms into fusion. This should have been easy.
But the crystal stayed dull.
Again. Again. Again.
Nothing.
The mage's voice was heavy. "You have no mana flow. Without it, you cannot cast spells. For a noble… this is a tragedy."
Eliot lowered his gaze in pity.
But Luke? He simply smirked.
They didn't understand — he didn't need their magic.
That night, by candlelight, Luke began to draw. Runic circles fused with scientific diagrams, equations twined with magical symbols. It was the rebirth of the very thing that had killed him.
Agust.
In his old world, it had been a project.
In this one… it would be his power.
---