The headache finally faded away.
Not all at once.
More like a tired tide pulling back, leaving behind something strange: a soft echo that didn't hurt, but didn't fully disappear either.
The atlas was still closed on the table.
I stared at it for a few seconds longer, as if afraid that if I opened it again, something would come back.
The voices.
The pressure.
That not yet lodged in my mind.
I didn't open it.
"Done?" Sofía murmured, sitting across from me with her chin resting on one hand.
I didn't answer.
She'd been restless for a while. Rocking in her chair, sighing, looking around as if the library were a silent prison.
"Jhosep…" she insisted.
"What?" I finally replied.
She puffed out her cheeks in an exaggerated pout.
"We've been here for a long time."
I looked around.
It was still a library.
Quiet.
Silent.
"Not that long," I said.
"Yes, that long," she shot back. "Everything hurts."
I didn't respond.
"I want to show you the place," she said then. "Seriously, it's really pretty."
I glanced at her for barely a second.
"No," I said. "I don't want to see the place."
Sofía puffed her cheeks again, clearly annoyed.
"This place is huge," she insisted. "And it's beautiful, even if it doesn't seem like it at first."
"Just for a bit," she added.
"No."
"Jhosep…"
I sighed.
Something in me wasn't as tense anymore. The pain was gone, and sitting there didn't feel as heavy as before.
"A bit," I gave in at last. "But just walking."
Sofía's eyes lit up.
"Really?"
I nodded slightly.
I didn't even get to say anything else.
Sofía sprang up and grabbed my hand, dragging me toward the exit with an energy that didn't fit the silence of the place at all.
"Sofía!" I whispered.
"Shhh," she shushed me. "Library."
Before we could cross the door, a voice stopped us.
"One moment."
We turned.
Mr. Luis stood behind the counter, watching us with that attentive gaze that seemed to see everything.
"Did you put the books back where they belong?" he asked.
I nodded.
"Yes, sir."
Sofía nodded too, a little faster.
Luis studied us for a few seconds, as if weighing the sincerity on our faces. Then he opened a drawer, pulled out a small folded pamphlet, and handed it to me.
"Unit information," he said. "For the newcomers."
I took the pamphlet.
"Thank you," I said.
Luis nodded once and returned to his place.
We left.
The moment we stepped outside, cold air hit my face. I breathed in deeply.
And this time… I looked.
I really looked.
The unit wasn't a single building. It was an entire cluster of constructions laid out with care, connected by stone paths, open courtyards, and small wooden bridges.
Everything had a rustic, almost ancient style, as if the place had been built to last.
Stone houses.
Slanted roofs.
Wide windows.
Open spaces.
It felt more like a small village than an institution.
When I arrived the day before, I hadn't been able to notice any of it.
Fear.
Crying.
Lauren.
All of it had blurred my sight.
Not now.
As we walked, I opened the pamphlet carefully.
New Horizons Unit.
The name was printed in simple letters.
I read as we moved.
The unit had been founded thirteen years ago—long before I was born. Its purpose wasn't to lock children away or shape them like tools.
It was to guide them.
To broaden their horizons.
To help them find their usefulness… not as objects, but as people.
They taught the basics of mana.
Magic.
Aura.
They also taught martial arts—weapon handling from an early age.
Not for war.
For survival.
I looked up.
I saw children training in the distance. Others walking in groups. Some reading under the trees.
Everything seemed to have a natural order.
I kept reading.
The mission and vision were clear.
Noble, even.
I closed the pamphlet.
Lauren.
The idea that someone like her—proud, narcissistic, incapable of looking at anyone without judging—had created something like this… was hard to believe.
But there it was.
New Horizons.
Maybe the name wasn't a lie.
Sofía walked ahead of me, hopping from stone to stone along the path, clearly happy to be out of the library. I followed behind in silence.
Watching.
We kept going along the paths when something made me stop dead.
It wasn't a building.
Or training.
It was them.
A group of kids not far away, gathered near one of the open courtyards. Laughing, running, talking with total ease.
But they weren't… normal.
My eyes fixed first on the ears.
Animal ears.
Some pointed, others rounder. They twitched slightly with their expressions, reacting to sounds, to laughter, to voices calling them.
Then I saw tails.
Real tails.
One caught my attention in particular.
A dark-haired boy with long, drooping ears covered in short fur. They weren't small or compact—nothing like that. They were clearly the ears of a big dog, maybe something like a shepherd or a retriever.
And behind him, swaying openly, a thick, living tail that wagged with energy every time he laughed.
I just stared.
Still.
Too still.
I felt my mind lag behind what my eyes had already accepted.
It wasn't a costume.
It wasn't an illusion.
It wasn't temporary magic.
It was part of them.
"Jhosep," Sofía said, turning when she noticed I wasn't following. "What are you doing?"
I didn't answer right away.
Sofía followed my gaze and smiled, like she'd just figured it out.
"Oh," she said. "Those kids are Zorais."
I blinked.
"Zorais…?" I repeated.
The word felt strange in my mouth, like it didn't belong to any language I knew.
"Yeah," she said with a shrug. "Zorais."
I looked at them again.
The ears.
The tails.
The way they moved naturally, without shame, without hiding.
"And why do they have… that?" I asked finally. "The ears. The tails."
Sofía looked at me like the question was obvious.
"Because they're Zorais," she said. "Duh."
I frowned.
"That doesn't answer anything."
Sofía tilted her head slightly.
"How does it not?"
"I mean why," I insisted. "Why are they born like that?"
She watched me for a few seconds, thinking, and then answered with total calm.
"Because their parents are Zorais too."
I stared at her.
Waited.
Nothing else came.
"…That's it?" I asked.
"Yeah," she said. "What else would it be?"
I sighed.
"That doesn't explain anything," I muttered.
Sofía shrugged again, completely unbothered.
"It explains it to me."
She didn't give me time to say more.
She grabbed my hand again and started walking faster, like she was afraid I'd change my mind.
"Come on," she said. "I want to show you something. It's… really pretty."
"I don't want to go anywhere else," I answered without much energy.
"Yes you do."
"No."
"Yes."
I sighed.
"Where are we going?"
Sofía smiled, like she loved that question.
"We have to go through the forest."
I stopped short.
"Go through… what?"
"The forest," she repeated, pointing at the path that disappeared between the trees.
I shook my head immediately.
"No."
"Relax," she said quickly. "I've been there lots of times. Even with my little brother. Nothing happens."
That didn't reassure me at all.
"I don't want to go into the forest."
Sofía looked at me for a second… and then smiled in a dangerous way.
"Then I'll drag you."
And she did.
It wasn't a threat.
It was a promise kept.
I let her. I didn't have the strength to argue, and I knew I wouldn't win anyway. So I walked behind her, resigned, expecting the worst.
But it wasn't what I imagined.
The forest wasn't dark or oppressive.
It was… calm.
The trees were tall, lush, but not tightly packed. Light filtered through the leaves, scattering golden patches across the ground.
The air was fresh and clean, smelling softly of damp earth and living leaves.
The sound of the world changed in there.
No shouting.
No hurried footsteps.
Just wind, rustling leaves, and a distant bird now and then.
I thought crossing it would be uncomfortable. Maybe even unsettling.
But it was comforting.
Like the forest didn't want to scare anyone.
We walked for a while, until the trees began to thin out.
And then I saw it.
The forest ended abruptly… and the world opened up.
A massive lake stretched out before us.
"Look, Jhosep," Sofía said, letting go of my hand. "Isn't it beautiful?"
I didn't answer.
The lake was perfectly round.
Not almost.
Not roughly.
Perfect.
Like someone had drawn a giant circle with a compass and then filled it with water.
The color left me speechless.
It wasn't green like grass.
It wasn't dark green.
It was a bright, deep, warm green.
Like an immense jewel fallen from the sky.
The water was so still it looked like a mirror. It reflected mist-covered mountains, the pale sky, the forest ring around it like a protective halo.
I stepped closer.
The color reminded me of something very specific.
Emerald.
Not just any emerald.
A pure, intense, living emerald, as if someone had dissolved a giant gemstone into the water and let it breathe there.
It didn't look natural.
But it didn't look dangerous either.
Just… ancient.
"It's called Lake Guatavita," Sofía said proudly. "Isn't it gorgeous?"
I nodded slowly.
I didn't know what to say.
The world kept showing me things that didn't fit my memories…
and yet… they were real.
Too real.
Innocently, I moved closer to the shore.
I crouched carefully and dipped my hands into the water. It was cold, but not unpleasant. It felt clean—almost gentle.
I let the liquid pool in my palms and, without thinking too much, murmured:
"Can you drink it?"
Sofía answered immediately, totally calm.
"Yeah. I've drunk it before."
I glanced at her.
"And?"
"It tastes like metal," she said with a shrug.
I frowned.
"Metal?"
"Mm-hm." She waved a hand. "But my little brother said it tasted like dirt."
I blinked.
"Dirt… and metal?"
"Yeah," she nodded. "It tastes different for everyone."
That sparked something in me.
Pure curiosity.
Without thinking further, I brought the water to my lips and took a small sip.
I expected something weird.
Bitter.
Heavy.
But no.
The taste was soft.
Sweet.
Not an exaggerated, cloying sweetness. Not sugar. Not honey.
A controlled, clean sweetness—almost natural—like the water had absorbed something good from the world and saved it for that moment.
I swallowed slowly.
"It's sweet," I said.
Sofía looked at me like I'd just said something absurd.
"Seriously?"
Before I could answer, she crouched quickly, scooped water in her hands, and tasted it.
The moment it touched her tongue, she made an exaggerated face.
"Pff!" she spat a little. "Pff, pff!"
She looked at me, offended.
"You liar!"
"I'm not lying."
"It doesn't taste sweet!" she protested, spitting again. "Pff! Pff! It tastes like metal. Metal!"
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, still making disgusted noises.
"Pff, pff!"
I watched her in silence.
The same lake.
The same water.
Different tastes.
Metal.
Dirt.
And for me…
Sweet.
I looked back at the lake's calm surface.
I didn't say anything else.
Time passed without us noticing.
Not slow.
Not fast.
It just… passed.
The sky began to change, and that's when I noticed. Orange tones leaked between the mountains and reflected across the still surface. The emerald green began mixing with soft gold, as if the water welcomed the sunset without resisting.
We'd stayed too long.
Watching.
In silence.
Without speaking.
The lake was just as impressive as when I'd first seen it. Maybe more. There was something about it that made it hard to look away—something I couldn't put into words.
It wasn't just beautiful.
It was… hypnotic.
Like the place wanted you to stay.
"Sofía," I said at last, breaking the silence. "When did you find this place?"
She turned her head, surprised by the question. Then she smiled, proud.
"I didn't find it," she said.
I frowned.
"What do you mean you didn't?"
Sofía gestured broadly at the lake, almost solemn for someone her age.
"This place has always been here," she said. "It's the center of the unit. Well… more like its heart."
I went quiet.
The heart.
I looked again at the lake. Its perfect shape. Its stillness. Its impossible color. Everything was too… precise to be random.
I thought. Used the logic of this world—the logic I'd learned in only a couple days, but that was already starting to settle.
"So…" I murmured. "Is this lake magical?"
Sofía looked at me like I'd asked the most obvious thing in the universe.
"Of course it is," she said, without hesitation.
I blinked.
For some reason, I'd expected her to laugh. To say no. To call me dramatic.
But she didn't.
"Why do you think it's the heart of the unit?" she continued. "It's blessed by mana."
I was stunned.
A lake. Huge. Blessed by mana.
The idea settled slowly in my mind—heavy, overwhelming. It wasn't just water.
It wasn't only a pretty place.
It was something else.
Something ancient.
Something important.
I stared at the calm surface as the sun kept sinking.
If this place was blessed by mana…
then maybe it wasn't a coincidence the water tasted sweet to me.
And that thought, more than calming me, planted something strange in my chest again.
Not long after the sunset fully settled, Sofía and I went back to the room.
The air was cold—not unpleasant, but constant. The kind that seeps into your skin if you stay still too long.
We ate together, and this time I was hungry. Truly. I ate without thinking, like the day's exhaustion had finally caught up with me.
When we finished, Sofía looked at me with curiosity.
"So where are we going tomorrow?" she asked.
I looked at her for a few seconds before answering. It wasn't anxiety I felt.
It was curiosity.
"To the library," I said.
"Aaaah!" she complained immediately, flopping back onto the bed. "The library again, Jhosep? Why is it always the library?"
I sighed.
"That was the deal, Sofía," I said. "If you want to go out with me, we go to the library first. And then… wherever you want."
She made an exaggerated pout.
"Hmph… fine," she gave in at last, clearly resigned.
She settled into her bed without saying anything else. I did the same.
To say I slept would be a lie.
My body rested, but my mind didn't.
I kept drifting.
The lake.
Was it really magical?
If it wasn't… why did it taste different to Sofía and her little brother than it did to me?
And why, specifically, did it taste sweet to me?
And before that…
Those kids.
The tails.
The ears.
Zorais, Sofía had said.
But what were the Zorais, really?
Were they like Liora and Selene, who were elves?
Were there more races in this world besides humans and elves?
The more questions I asked myself, the clearer one thing became:
This world, even if it looked the same as my previous life's world… was not the same in essence at all.
Mana.
Different races.
Blessed places.
Things without simple explanations.
I wanted to know.
I wanted to understand.
That curiosity kept me awake, turning thoughts over and over, until I finally forced myself to close my eyes.
And to my surprise…
the next morning, I slept better than the first time I arrived here.
The morning routine was the same as the day before.
Shower.
Change.
Breakfast.
Nothing special.
Sofía was already dressed when I came out. She sat at the table, eating calmly. I did the same.
This time I didn't have to fight my appetite; I ate without trouble, almost without thinking.
When we finished, we didn't say much.
We just left.
The path to the library didn't feel strange anymore.
In fact, it was starting to feel… familiar.
When we entered, the silence wrapped around us immediately.
"Good morning," Mr. Luis said from behind the counter.
His tone was friendlier than the day before.
That surprised me a little.
"It's rare to see the same children two days in a row in the library," he continued, watching us closely. "Most come only to pass time… or because they're forced. But you two come on your own, right?"
Sofía answered before I could, puffing her cheeks slightly.
"He comes because he likes it," she said, pointing at me. "I came almost against my will."
I looked at her.
Sofía immediately looked away, pretending to be interested in anything else.
Mr. Luis stayed quiet for a second… then let out a short, sincere laugh.
"Alright, alright," he said, still smiling. "Go ahead."
We nodded.
But before moving on, I stepped forward.
"Mr. Luis," I said.
He looked at me with interest.
"Yes, little one?"
I hesitated for only a moment.
"I wanted to know if there are some books… or if you could recommend something so I can understand the world's history better," I explained. "And also about the beings that make it up."
I paused briefly before adding:
"And if possible… something about the history of this unit."
Mr. Luis watched me for a few seconds longer than normal.
Not suspiciously.
More like calm curiosity.
"Well," he murmured. "That's not a common request for someone your age."
He turned and checked a shelf behind the counter, running his finger along several spines.
"If you're looking for the world's history and its races, the third floor has general records," he said. "Not the deepest, but good to start."
Then he pulled out another book, thinner.
"And this," he added, handing it to me, "talks about the founding of New Horizons Unit. It's not long, but it's honest."
I took the book with both hands.
"Thank you," I said.
Luis nodded.
"Remember the rules," he added, glancing at Sofía. "And you can stay as long as you need."
Sofía sighed under her breath.
"Again…" she muttered.
I didn't respond.
I just looked at the books in my hands.
World history.
Races.
The unit.
Everything that had sparked my curiosity the day before was there, waiting for me.
And this time…
I knew exactly where to start.
I slipped between the shelves.
The third floor felt different from the rest of the library. Not darker, but more serious—as if the air carried an ancient weight; a stillness that didn't come only from silence, but from what those books held.
I walked slowly, reading titles, brushing my finger along worn spines, until I chose one.
Then another.
And another.
In the end, I had five books stacked against my chest.
The first one caught my attention immediately.
Racial Diversity.
Just seeing it gave me a strange relief, like it would finally calm—at least a little—the curiosity that had been beating in my head since yesterday.
I sat at a table off to the side and opened it carefully.
The book didn't start by describing ears, tails, or magic.
It started by clarifying something more important.
Something that left me frozen.
It said the first of each race had come from the same origin. That no matter the name, appearance, or how mana responded to them, all races shared one point in common.
All were created from the blood of the Kings.
I read that line more than once.
The shock wasn't small.
That meant the first humans, elves, Zorais… all of us… had been a direct product of those Primordial Kings.
Not a metaphor.
Not a pretty legend.
A creation.
I swallowed without realizing it.
To me… that made the Kings more than just "ancient figures."
It made them gods to this world.
And the book stated it with an almost academic coldness, as if it were a normal fact everyone should accept from childhood.
I breathed in and turned the page.
After that clarification, the text began breaking down the intelligent races inhabiting Earth. It also clarified something basic: that the world held countless living beings, but the book's classification focused only on species with consciousness, language, culture, and social structure.
Not animals.
Peoples.
Races.
The first section was the one I'd been waiting for ever since I'd seen those tails moving openly in the courtyards.
Zorais.
I read more slowly.
The book described them as a predominantly human race, marked by visible animal traits.
Ninety percent human.
Ten percent animal.
Ears.
Tails.
In some cases, fur patterns, more noticeable fangs, or different pupils.
But the text made it clear that even with those features, their anatomy was mostly human, and their intelligence and cultural development didn't differ from other races.
I thought again of the boy with drooping ears and a thick tail.
It wasn't an illusion.
It wasn't an effect of the place.
It was his nature.
And then a sentence made me pause:
The Zorais—according to the text—weren't "humans with animal parts."
They were Zorais.
A complete race, with their own lineages, clans, traditions… and a particular relationship with mana that varied depending on the dominant animal trait in their blood.
I stared at that part, feeling something in my head finally click.
Sofía had said it like it was obvious.
"Because their parents are Zorais too."
For her, it was as natural as breathing.
For me…
it was the beginning of understanding that this world didn't just look different.
It was built differently from the root.
I turned the page, ready for the next race.
The book continued.
It mentioned that beyond visible traits, the Zorais inherited something deeper from their lineage.
Instincts.
Senses.
Depending on the predominant animal blood, some Zorais possessed sensory abilities superior to other races.
Sharper hearing.
A sense of smell capable of distinguishing presences, emotions, or traces of residual mana.
Faster reflexes.
A perception of the environment that, in specific situations, could surpass even that of elves.
The text clarified that this didn't occur in every case or in the same way. It wasn't an absolute rule, but a genetic tendency. Some Zorais showed barely any difference, while others developed senses so refined they could be considered natural gifts.
It wasn't magic.
It wasn't mana.
It was genes.
Pure inheritance.
I thought about that longer than necessary.
It explained a lot.
How those kids moved without bumping into each other.
How they reacted before anyone even called them.
How they always seemed aware of what was happening around them, even without looking directly.
I closed the book for a moment.
The Zorais didn't just look different.
They experienced the world differently.
And for the first time since I arrived here, I understood that each race didn't merely occupy a different place in the world…
It experienced it in its own way.
I opened the book again.
The text added something else about the Zorais I hadn't overlooked.
Longevity.
The Zorais were described as a long-lived race. Not at the level of elves, but still far above the human average. Their aging was slow, gradual, and depended greatly on the balance between their animal heritage and their affinity with mana.
Some lived for centuries.
Others barely surpassed a few extra decades beyond an ordinary human.
It all depended on lineage, health… and how much they accepted their own nature.
They weren't eternal.
But time didn't rush them in the same way.
I turned the page.
The next race was the elves.
The book described them as a long-lived race too—more so than the Zorais. Their lifespan was measured in centuries, and for some ancient lineages, in something close to a millennium.
But unlike the Zorais, elves didn't stand out for superhuman physical senses.
Their strength lay elsewhere.
The spiritual.
Elves were presented as beings deeply connected to mana—not as a tool, but as a natural extension of their existence. For them, mana wasn't something you learned to use; it was something you felt, breathed, and understood intuitively.
The text described a different perception of the world.
They didn't just see shapes.
They felt currents.
Flows.
Resonances.
Elves could perceive changes in the spiritual environment, in the balance of mana, even before those changes manifested physically. Where a human saw a forest, an elf felt a living organism. Where others heard silence, they perceived whispers.
They weren't necessarily stronger.
But they were more aware.
I read carefully, unable to stop certain faces from surfacing in my mind.
Liora.
Selene.
Now I understood a little better why they always seemed to know things they never said out loud.
The book continued with a more detailed description of elves, this time focused on physical and biological traits.
At first glance, they weren't so different from humans.
Their height was similar, though their build tended to be more slender, lighter, as if their bodies were made to move with less weight on the world. Not fragile, but not robust either.
One of their most recognizable traits were their slightly pointed ears. The text clarified that not all elves had the same ears: shape, size, and angle varied by genetics and lineage. Some barely showed a point; in others, it was more obvious.
Aging was slow.
Very slow.
An elf's lifespan easily surpassed a human's, and time marked them gradually—almost imperceptibly for decades. They weren't immortal, but time treated them with a different patience.
They also had slightly sharper senses. Their sight and hearing were finer than a typical human's, though not as extreme as the Zorais. It wasn't animal instinct, but heightened perception, naturally developed through their connection to the environment.
What caught my attention most was their diversity.
The book emphasized that elves weren't a homogeneous race. There was a wide variety of skin tones, hair colors, and eye colors—from light to dark hair, bright or muted eyes, pale or deep skin.
They didn't match a single image.
Each lineage, region, and community had developed its own variations over the centuries.
I closed the book for a moment.
Elves weren't just long-lived or spiritual.
In many ways, they were a reflection of balance between the physical and the intangible.
The book moved on to the next race.
Humans.
The description didn't present them as inferior or lacking—just different.
Humans were defined as practical and deeply adaptable. Unlike other races, they weren't born with a strongly marked affinity for mana, nor with extraordinary senses as a common trait. Nor did they generally possess extended longevity by nature.
But the text made one thing clear: that didn't mean a disadvantage, just a different condition.
Humans weren't confined to a specific way of interacting with the world. Their strength lay in their ability to learn, to change, and to redefine themselves over the span of a single life. Where other races expressed their nature from birth, humans built theirs over time.
It wasn't that they lacked a connection to mana.
It was that their relationship with it wasn't fixed.
The book explained that the human body possessed an unusual plasticity. Through training, discipline, understanding of mana, and constant adaptation, some humans managed to develop abilities not given at birth, but forged.
This included, in exceptional cases, the extension of life.
The text clarified that not all such cases depended on artifacts, external rituals, or artificial methods. There were records of humans whose longevity couldn't be attributed to any object, contract, or known intervention.
One of the most cited examples was the Sovereign of the Primordial Continent.
According to historical records, Eunhwa had remained alive for nearly six hundred years—not as a spiritual entity, nor as a mana construct, but as a woman of flesh and blood. A warrior. A resident of an era before the modern structuring of the world.
The book noted there was no consensus on how she had achieved such longevity.
No known artifacts.
No recorded rituals.
No evidence of permanent external alterations.
Her extended life was cataloged as an unexplained human case, used as reference to show that human biological limits were not absolute, but variable.
The text didn't try to glorify the case.
It simply presented it.
As proof that, on rare occasions, a human could walk paths even long-lived races didn't fully understand.
Humans, the book concluded, were not defined by what they inherited at birth, but by what they were capable of building throughout their lives.
They were not described as better or worse than other races.
They were described as changing.
Able to defy expectations, break averages, and exist outside the statistical margins that defined most.
I closed the book slowly.
Maybe that was the essence of humans.
Not an innate advantage.
Not a lack.
But the constant possibility of becoming something else.
And near the end, the book spoke of a race that sparked more curiosity in me than any other.
The Aedrath.
It wasn't a name I'd heard before—not in conversations, not in stories, not even in passing. That alone made them different.
I read more carefully.
The text began by describing them as a race of giants.
Giants.
My mind raced ahead on its own. Absurd images formed immediately: beings the size of mountains, shadows covering entire cities, footsteps that made the ground tremble.
I thought that was what the word meant.
But that idea collapsed after only a few more lines.
Despite being known as a race of giants, the book clarified that most modern Aedrath were not colossal in size. They didn't walk like titans, nor did they tower disproportionally over the other races.
The reason was simple.
Over the centuries, Aedrath blood had diluted.
Unions with humans.
With elves.
With Zorais.
The constant mixing had reduced the extreme size that characterized pureblood Aedrath. However, the text was emphatic about one thing: even if their appearance had changed, their nature had not.
They were still Aedrath.
Height could vary. Some were only a little taller than an average human; others were notably larger. But all shared certain traits impossible to ignore.
First: strength.
Aedrath possessed innate strength far above the average, even without training. It wasn't just muscle, but body density, bone structure, and a natural resilience that allowed them to endure impacts, loads, and effort that would be devastating to other races.
Second: endurance.
Their bodies were built to last. To endure. To stay standing when others would have already fallen.
The book attributed these qualities to their primordial origin. Most Aedrath possessed a natural affinity with earth. Not always conscious. Not always active. But present.
Earth mana.
Stability.
Weight.
It wasn't an absolute rule. The text mentioned exceptions: Aedrath with different affinities, or even none.
But the general tendency was clear.
I paused again.
Giants who weren't always giants.
I couldn't help thinking of Norse myths. The jotunn. Beings not always enormous, but always powerful. Some colossal. Others almost human.
All fearsome in one way or another.
The comparison wasn't exact… but it felt close.
This world…
had changed too much.
Zorais.
Elves.
Aedrath.
I sighed, almost smiling to myself.
What next?
Dragons?
I let out a small, silent laugh at the thought.
And then I kept reading.
The smile vanished immediately.
Because yes.
In this world…
dragons existed.
I set the book down on the table.
I no longer knew whether to laugh, sigh, or simply accept that my old references were useless here.
Dragons?
No.
It couldn't be.
I let out a low, almost incredulous laugh.
Dragons…
That already sounded too absurd. Literally like the bedtime stories my grandfather told me in my previous life. Stories full of exaggeration, impossible heroes, and winged monsters that breathed fire.
I thought it would be a metaphor.
A symbolic name.
Something the book would use poetically.
But no.
I kept reading.
And yes.
Dragons.
Or, as the text called them more often: draconic.
The book explained that dragons were real living beings, as ancient as the world's earliest eras. Like elves, they possessed a deep and natural connection to mana, but in a different way. Where elves felt it like a spiritual flow, dragons dominated it as part of their own existence.
Mana didn't surround them.
It passed through them.
There were different classes of dragons.
Different forms.
Different colors.
Some tied to fire, others to wind, earth, water… even more abstract concepts of mana.
But that wasn't what surprised me the most.
The truly impossible part came after.
Dragons could adopt a human form.
Hence the term draconic.
I blinked, rereading that part more than once.
In their humanoid form, dragons were almost identical to ordinary humans. The difference was subtle… but impossible to fully hide.
Their eyes.
They weren't normal. They had a different shine, an unnatural depth, as if they were always seeing something beyond the visible.
And then there were the horns.
Horns rising from their heads in different shapes and sizes depending on the lineage: curved, straight, branched. Some small. Others impossible to ignore.
And the tail.
A large, powerful tail that never disappeared completely, not even in their humanoid form.
The book clarified that this form wasn't an illusion or a temporary spell.
It was a real transformation—part of their nature.
They weren't pretending to be human.
They simply… could be.
I kept reading carefully.
The book made an important clarification, correcting a common misconception: draconic beings didn't go unnoticed.
Not entirely.
Even when dragons adopted a humanoid form, that form was never completely human. No matter how diluted their blood was, draconic individuals always retained visible traits of their lineage.
Slitted eyes, with an unnatural gleam that didn't belong to any common race.
Horns—visible in larger or smaller size—whose shape varied by lineage.
And a tail.
Always a tail.
Some could partially hide it with clothing or adjust it with posture, but it never vanished completely. It was an undeniable mark of what they were.
They weren't pretending to be human.
They never could—completely.
The book made it clear that the true difference between ancient dragons and modern draconic descendants wasn't appearance, but blood purity.
And that's where the most unsettling fact appeared.
The dragon race was declining.
Not a guess.
A recorded fact.
Pureblood dragons no longer existed… or, if they did, they were so few they could barely be counted.
It was the same phenomenon affecting the Aedrath.
Over the centuries, blood had diluted through crossbreeding between races—unions with humans, with elves, with Zorais. Descendants who were still draconic, but no longer carried the full original lineage.
The inheritance continued.
But fragmented.
The book did mention, however, extremely rare exceptions.
Cases that bordered on the impossible.
One had a name.
Raqem.
Raqem, the earth dragon, located in Petra, Jordan.
The text described him as one of the last—or perhaps the last—pureblood earth dragons. A being whose existence defied the trends of the modern world.
His power was such that he was placed near the level of the Sovereigns.
He wasn't one of them.
Not for lack of strength, but by his own decision. Motives not detailed, as if even recording them were improper.
I read that part more than once.
Raqem.
Petra.
Jordan.
A real dragon.
Alive.
Existing somewhere in the world as an anomaly impossible to ignore.
The book added one final detail—more unsettling still.
Approximately three hundred years ago, there was record that Raqem had managed to meet an earth dragoness.
After that…
nothing.
No more information.
No records.
No sightings.
As if she had vanished from the world.
I closed the book slowly.
That confirmed something I was already beginning to understand.
Dragons, like the Aedrath, hadn't disappeared.
They had changed.
Their blood was still there, passed down generation after generation—mixed, fragmented… but alive.
This world wasn't only full of different races.
It was full of ancient inheritances that refused to die.
I closed the book slowly.
Not carefully because I feared damaging it, but because I felt that if I shut it too hard, something inside me would break.
Five books.
Five different worlds condensed into words.
And yet the heaviest thing wasn't the Zorais, nor the elves, nor the Aedrath, not even the dragons.
It was a single idea, repeated again and again with the coldness of a historical record:
All races were born from the blood of the Kings.
I leaned back in my chair and stared at the ceiling, letting that sentence settle.
In my previous life, all of this was only possible in fiction.
Fantasy stories. Impossible worlds. Things you read to escape reality for a while.
But here there was no escape.
Here it was real.
Different races walking along the same paths.
Mana flowing like an invisible law.
Ancient inheritances still shaping bodies, senses, and destinies.
And the Kings…
They weren't just mythical figures.
They were the origin.
Humans. Elves. Zorais. Aedrath. Dragons.
All of them.
As if the entire world had been molded directly by something that bled… and chose to create.
Just thinking about that sent a stab through my temple.
It wasn't a normal pain.
It was that same echo I'd felt before.
That pressure that came with voices.
With memories that weren't memories.
I clenched my teeth.
Why did my head hurt every time I thought about the Kings?
Why did those voices appear right before I died?
And the most dangerous question of all pushed through, slow and poisonous:
Did they have something to do with me?
The pain spiked the moment I thought it, like my mind was forcing a door it wasn't meant to open.
Damn it.
Every time I answered one question, two more appeared.
This world was fascinating…
and at the same time, cruelly intriguing.
I exhaled sharply and lowered my gaze to my hands.
Then the doubt I didn't want to face surfaced.
Me.
Where do I fit in all this?
I don't have mana.
I don't feel it.
I don't use it.
I don't perceive it the way others do.
I'm in a world where mana is as natural as breathing…
and I'm the only one who seems to be holding my breath.
Do I have a place here?
Or am I the only error in a perfectly designed system?
Anger surged up all at once.
Hell…
I'm reborn.
I promise myself I'll do better than in my previous life.
Not give up.
Not hide.
Not be miserable.
And it's like life answers with a slap.
A world full of mana.
And me—with nothing.
It's almost like it always wants me to fail.
As if the universe looks me in the eyes and says:
"Let's see how much you can take now."
I clenched my fists.
My head hurt.
My chest hurt.
But beneath all of that was something worse.
Fear.
Fear that the answer was simple.
Fear that in this world blessed by mana, I was the only one not blessed.
And still…
another question appeared, inevitable:
If the Kings created all races with their blood…
what did they do with me?
And why is it that every time I get close to that answer, something inside me screams not to remember?
Damn it.
I hadn't even finished reading one book.
And I was already trapped in another.
One without pages.
One I couldn't close.
One that, whether I wanted it or not…
was being written inside me.