The first lesson did not come from a mage.
It came from hunger.
Aurelian sat on the wooden floor, fingers wrapped around a piece of dry bread, chewing slowly while his parents spoke in hushed tones nearby. He listened without appearing to listen—a skill he had refined quickly.
"…prices are going up," his father muttered.
"Caravans don't come as often anymore."
"The forest?" his mother asked.
"Yes. And the road beyond it. Too dangerous."
Aurelian absorbed the information calmly.
Scarcity.
Instability.
The signs of a region approaching decline.
In his previous life, such changes had been precursors to war, monster outbreaks, or political collapse. In a small village, the effects were quieter—but no less dangerous.
"Survival," he thought. "Always the first concern."
That afternoon, something unexpected happened.
A visitor arrived.
Not a mage.
Not a soldier.
A teacher.
He sensed it immediately—not through mana, but through intent. The man walked with measured steps, eyes observant, posture relaxed but alert. His presence did not distort mana, but it did organize it subtly around him.
An educated man.
Perhaps a former scholar.
Definitely not ordinary.
The villagers greeted him with cautious respect.
"A tutor?" someone whispered.
"From the city?"
Aurelian watched from his mother's side as the man approached their home.
"I'm looking for a family with a young child," the visitor said. "Recently registered."
The Archmage's mind sharpened.
"So soon," he thought. "They move efficiently."
His parents exchanged glances.
"…That would be us," his father said carefully.
The man smiled gently. "I'm here to evaluate early development. Nothing formal. Just observation."
Aurelian met the man's gaze.
This one was dangerous—not because of power, but because of perception.
The tutor knelt, producing a small wooden puzzle from his satchel. "May I?"
His mother hesitated, then nodded.
The man placed the puzzle pieces on the floor.
"Show me," he said softly, "what you can do."
Aurelian stared at the pieces.
He understood the test immediately.
Not intelligence.
Not magic.
Control.
He reached out—not with mana, but with his hands—and assembled the puzzle slowly, deliberately. He made mistakes on purpose.
Paused. Corrected them.
A child learning.
The tutor's eyes narrowed slightly—not suspicious, but intrigued.
"Well done," the man said. "Very patient."
Patience.
Yes.
That was the word.
After the man left, Aurelian reflected deeply.
This was the next stage.
Observation.
Guidance.
Soft shaping.
"They're preparing foundations," he concluded. "For academies."
Which meant—
Time was accelerating.
That night, Aurelian resumed training.
But differently.
No circulation.
No resonance.
Instead, he practiced stillness.
He focused on maintaining absolute suppression while under mild stress—holding his breath, tightening muscles, allowing emotions to surface.
Fear.
Hunger.
Frustration.
Each emotion caused mana to stir.
Each time, he forced it down.
"Power leaks through emotion," he reminded himself. "A novice's mistake."
Days passed.
The tutor returned.
Again and again.
Sometimes with puzzles.
Sometimes with questions.
Sometimes just watching.
Aurelian performed consistently.
Never exceeding expectations.
Never falling behind.
Perfectly average.
Yet—
The man lingered longer each visit.
One evening, after the tutor left, Aurelian overheard his parents whispering.
"He asked about sending Aurelian to the city," his mother said nervously.
"Not yet," his father replied. "He's still too young."
The Archmage's thoughts churned.
The city meant opportunity.
Resources.
Libraries.
Mages.
It also meant scrutiny.
And danger.
Not yet.
He needed more time.
That night, he pushed slightly further.
Not in power—
—but precision.
He lifted a grain of dust.
Held it.
Stabilized it.
No tremor.
No pain.
The mana response was clean.
Controlled.
A perfect micro-manifestation.
"…Good," he thought. "This path is correct."
Weeks later, the forest reacted again.
Not violently.
Subtly.
Mana density increased.
Animals fled.
The Archmage sensed it before anyone else.
"Something is feeding," he realized.
Not a beast.
Not corruption.
A source.
A node.
Or—
A person.
The tutor returned that same day.
This time, he brought someone with him.
A woman in simple robes, her mana tightly coiled, eyes sharp and unreadable.
Third Circle.
At least.
"A colleague," the tutor explained. "She specializes in mana sensitivity."
The Archmage suppressed himself fully.
The woman knelt, eyes closing briefly.
She frowned.
"…There's something here," she said slowly.
His parents stiffened.
"Something?" his father asked.
"A fluctuation," she replied. "Not dangerous.
Just… unusual."
She opened her eyes and looked directly at
Aurelian.
For a moment, the world felt tight.
Compressed.
He smiled.
Babbling nonsense.
The woman studied him, then shook her head.
"No," she said. "Too young."
But she didn't look convinced.
After they left, Aurelian reviewed the encounter carefully.
"They're narrowing," he concluded. "But not fast enough."
He needed a shift.
Something to anchor expectations permanently.
That opportunity came unexpectedly.
A child fell into the river.
Panic erupted.
People shouted.
Aurelian's mother froze.
Without thinking, Aurelian reached out.
Not with mana—
—but alignment.
The water shifted.
Just enough.
The child drifted toward the shore.
Saved.
No spell.
No witness.
Just luck.
They called it a miracle.
They called it fate.
They did not call it magic.
Perfect.
That night, Aurelian sat quietly, watching the moonlight through the window.
"This world rewards restraint," he thought.
And for the first time since his rebirth—
He felt something close to satisfaction.
The 10th Circle had taught him dominance.
This life would teach him precision.
And precision, he knew, was far more terrifying.