The horn blared, honk, honk, honk!!!
Issac Rye barely had time to think, the truck was too close, its headlights searing white in the rain-slick street, wet asphalt reflected the chaos, he froze, every instinct screaming to move but the world slowed, bending in a horrifying way and then…impact, BOOM…
Pain tore through him for a brief second and then he was die, no tunnel, no bright light, no god waiting with judgment, just darkness pressing against him and then, silence.
When Issac opened his eyes, he did not see a street or a truck, he saw rough wood overhead, dim light spilling from a single lantern, he felt small, fragile, and wet, a cry tore through the room. His own, but weaker, higher, a newborn's cry.
His body… did not belong to him, a woman leaned over him, her hair matted, face streaked with dried tears. "He lives!" she gasped, her hands shook as they clutched his tiny body.
A man, rough and sunburned, backed away, laughing in disbelief. "He's alive… by the gods, he's alive."
The room was a shack, straw littered the floor, mud smeared the walls, a broken window rattled in the wind, Issac tried to move, his fingers twitched, tiny and fragile, his chest heaved, he screamed again but the sound was more than a cry…it was something wrong, why was he little, and where the hell was he?
The man stumbled back. "What in…"
Issac's chest burned, heat pooled inside him, thick and endless, it surged without command, pressing against his skin, his bones, his mind. He felt… everything at once.
Mana!
Not the weak, pulsing life force humans used for magic in this world, something older and stronger It was the type they heard about from their ancestors and top sorcerers used, why was Mana coming out from their new born.
The woman gasped, clutching him tighter. "It's… just a cry, it's fine…" she didn't believe it, neither did Issac.
The air wavered, the floor trembled, straw moved and then, just as suddenly, it stopped, silence returned but something had changed, Brask Hollow, muddy fields, a broken shack, this was his home now, poor, forgotten, and quiet except for him.
The first days passed in confusion, every touch, every breath, every cry released tiny pulses of power, birds flew too close and flinched, water from the bucket shivered when he wailed, the wind bent unnaturally, ruffling the roof.
His parents noticed little to them, he was fragile, sickly, maybe cursed with weakness.
No one could guess the truth, he could not tell anyone, not yet.
By the time he was seven, the chapel's summons came, every child in Brask Hollow was tested, no exceptions.
"Take him," the guard said, yanking him from his mother's arms, she protested, but the rules were absolute, seven-year-olds who failed the test became commoners forever, the village could not risk them.
The chapel was tall, larger than any building he had ever seen, candles flickered along stone walls, glinting off a cracked relic at the center.
Every child placed a hand on it, some hands glowed others faltered, Issac stepped forward.
He had been warned: suppress every impulse, hide the power, let the relic judge him false but his chest burned again, heat and pressure, mana surged, tighter than a fist around his soul, he touched the stone, it trembled.
The altar cracked faintly, a ripple of ancient magic passed through the chapel, none of the overseers noticed, too distracted by the other children, none saw the faint aura pulsing around him like a heartbeat.
Then came the old drunk, no one paid him any mind he had the right to pick one trainee per year as his guide but he had never picked anyone. Years had passed without a single selection, he staggered into the room, smelling of rot liquor and ash his eyes, half-lidded, scanned the children until they landed on Issac.
"Take him," he said, pointing a trembling finger.
A murmur ran through the overseers, one shrugged. "Fine. Let it be."
No one blinked, they expected nothing, a weak child, a broken drunk…perfectly useless.
The old drunk bent closer, his lips were barely a whisper. "You… you are different, too dense."
Issac did not understand, but the sensation was clear, someone had recognized him.
From that day, he was no longer just a child.
Training under the old drunk was not like the others there were no formations, no chants, no neat spells.
7–10: Control, endurance, and survival, Issac learned to compress the endless mana into nothing, to let it pulse silently, to exist without breaking everything around him, pain was constant, mistakes were punished but each lesson made him stronger.
10–14: Basic magic, reinforcement, survival, injury tolerance, the old drunk never taught him normal spells, instead, he taught him how to let intent move power, how to survive, how to make ancient magic obey without exposing it.
14–18: Specialization, battlefield thinking, subtle magic control, hiding his presence, Issac was trained to survive first, winning would come later.
Outside, the world remained unchanged, villages fought endlessly children trained, commoners died, crops failed, leaders plotted.
And far away, in Valmere Crest, Kael Veyren watched, he had already mastered his village's system, already learned to manipulate outcomes, already understood the flow of the endless war. He did not know Issac yet but he would.
When that day came, everything would change, for now, Issac Rye lay on a straw mat, small, fragile, breathing quietly, his body was weak, his family poor, his village weak but the faint pulse of infinite mana throbbed inside him.
The old drunk whispered once more:
"You're the first I've ever chosen, don't waste my training and don't die."
The chapel relic pulsed in the distance, unnoticed, reacting ever so slightly to his presence. Something old stirred beneath the Ash Circle, sensing a soul it had long forgotten and somewhere far away, a shadow changed in Valmere Crest. Kael Veyren had felt it, faint but undeniable, a wild card had appeared in the wrong village.
The war had just gained a new player.