Palace Garden
The palace gardens were the newest addition to the Royal District.
Before this, the area had served a purely military purpose. The city itself had originally been designed as a fortress, built to withstand sieges rather than host beauty. Only later—after the House of Valangar seceded from the Surya Empire—did the city become the capital of the newly formed Valangar Kingdom, Vala.
With that shift came change.
The gardens were laid out symmetrically, with entrances on the front and left sides. The grounds formed a perfect square, centered around a large fountain modeled after the one at the palace entrance.
Stone paths crossed the garden, and shallow channels of water ran alongside them. These channels connected the fountains and various utilities above ground, while a larger underground system ensured a steady flow of water throughout the garden.
The fountains served a dual purpose.
They were not only decorative, but functional as well—used to mark the passage of time.
At the center stood a large stone bowl carved with small, precisely placed holes. As water filled the bowl, it drained through these openings at specific intervals throughout the day. Each hole connected to a series of underground pipes leading to stone elephant statues positioned around the garden.
As the hours passed, the elephants began to pour water one after another.
At noon and at midnight, the system reset.
A siphon hidden at the center of the bowl activated once all the elephants were flowing, draining the basin completely. After a brief pause, the cycle began again.
The garden had several open spaces spread throughout its grounds.
Between them, plants of many kinds were arranged with careful intent—not wild, not crowded. Flowering shrubs, low greenery, and taller plants were placed in neat patterns, each chosen and positioned to please the eye rather than overwhelm it.
Nothing felt accidental.
Everything had a place.
Two figures walked through the garden, followed at a respectful distance by a handful of attendants.
Rajkumar Hamsa and Raja Vijayadeva Varman.
Grandson and grandfather.
They moved along the stone paths in silence, passing between carefully arranged greenery and open spaces. When they reached one of the wider clearings, they sat opposite each other on low stone seats.
Attendants soon arrived, setting down refreshments chosen according to each man's preferences. Once everything was arranged, they stepped back.
The two drank and ate quietly.
The silence lingered.
After a moment, Raja Vijayadeva raised a hand slightly and motioned for the attendants to leave. Without a word, they bowed and withdrew, leaving the two alone in the open garden.
For a brief instant, everything felt calm.
Then—
The old Raja's hand moved sharply upward, then down.
Mana surged.
Hamsa felt it immediately.
Instinct took over. His mana flared as he began forming defenses—but in the rush, his control slipped.
A beam of condensed mana tore through the air toward him—
And then it stopped.
The energy vanished, dispersing harmlessly just before it could strike.
…Shit.
I didn't mean to show him that.
Raja Vijayadeva stared at him, visibly surprised. Then he spoke, his tone thoughtful rather than hostile.
"You can absorb that?" he said slowly.
"I had heard your talent surpassed Savithri's, but to take in an attack like that as if it were nothing…"
He lifted his cup and took a calm sip.
"Impressive."
Hamsa forced himself to relax.
"Grandfather, that was just a fluke," he said quickly.
"I can't do that consistently."
Why am I even trying to hide this?
The answer was simple.
In this world, offensive mana use followed a clear hierarchy.
The most common method was brute release—gathering mana into the body or a weapon and expelling it in one controlled burst, maintaining its shape long enough to strike before it dissolved. That was what the Raja had just done.
Elemental manipulation—the kind people imagined when they thought of magic—was far more difficult. It required time, precision, and skill. Unless someone was highly trained, it simply wasn't fast enough to matter in real combat.
That alone showed how uneven power distribution was in this world.
Most people possessed mana and could use it internally or along the surface of their bodies with ease—strengthening muscles, reinforcing skin, sharpening senses. External use, however, was difficult due to small mana reserves and low control.
Then came soldiers and temple practitioners.
They could use mana externally with relative ease, though their techniques were simple: emitting light, hardening weapons, launching raw mana like the attack just now. Soldiers, in particular, preferred reinforcement over flashy techniques—it was efficient and reliable.
The higher one climbed, the more complex their abilities became.
Yet true elemental control—freely bending natural phenomena—remained nearly impossible.
Even if someone had sufficient mana density and reserves, they still failed.
No one knew exactly why.
But I have a theory.
From what I've observed, those with greater mana perception tend to have a stronger connection between the brain and that organ beneath the diaphragm—the one I've started calling the Mana Organ.
It might be genetic.
It might be developmental.
I'm not sure yet.
For now, all I can do is wait.
Wait until I build enough standing in the temple to research it properly.
And until then—
I'll keep pretending that moments like this are just flukes.
Cause what I just did was absorb a mana attack directed at me.
As for why that was impressive—it comes down to how mana actually behaves.
Every person's mana is slightly different. I don't have a perfect way to explain it yet, but when two people clash mana directly, it's less like solid objects colliding and more like two bodies of water crashing into each other.
They resist. They churn. They push back.
If you're familiar with someone—if there's an emotional connection—things change. A kind of resonance forms between the two. The mana doesn't become the same, but it stops fighting as much. It flows together more easily.
I can actually see this.
When people are close—emotionally or physically—I see what look like faint threads between them. Not always strong, not always clear, but present.
My parents are the clearest example.
I've been told that even when they're far apart, they can sense that the other is still alive. And from what I can observe, that makes sense. When they're in the same room, the mana leaking from their bodies—whether intentional or not—merges naturally. It doesn't clash. It settles together, almost like it was always meant to.
That kind of interaction usually requires years of familiarity.
So the real question is this:
Why could I do the same thing with my grandfather—someone I'd known for less than a day?
Honestly… I don't know.
The best explanation I have, based on everything I've observed so far, is this:
My mana is absurdly dense. Not just in quantity, but in quality. It behaves less like a simple pool and more like a self-contained system.
When foreign mana enters it—whether through contact or attack—it doesn't collide the way it should. Instead, it gets pulled toward my mana organ, broken down, refined, and folded into my own flow.
The simplest way I can put it?
My mana is like a boat already filled with ocean water.
When more water comes in, it doesn't matter where it came from. It gets diluted, mixed, and becomes part of what's already there.
That's probably why I could absorb that attack.
And also why I really shouldn't let people see me do it too often.
"There's no need to lie," the old Raja said calmly."I know what I sensed."
He set his cup aside, eyes fixed on Hamsa.
"You absorbed my attack as if it wasn't an attack at all—more like mana drawn from the air itself."
He let the words sit for a moment before continuing.
"Even your mother could only manage that after extensive practice. And even then, it was inefficient. Unless she was absorbing natural mana, she would expend more than she gained."
His gaze hardened slightly.
"But you…""You didn't resist it. You didn't redirect it."
"You simply took it—and made it yours."
For the first time since they'd met, there was something unmistakable in his voice.
Not suspicion.
Not fear.
Recognition.
"You truly are just like your mother," the old Raja said.
There was warmth in his voice—but also a trace of sadness, as though he were looking past Hamsa and seeing someone else standing in his place.
"But that aside," he continued, leaning back in his seat, "enough of this for now. Tell me—how have you been faring? What do you do with your days?"
After that, they talked for hours.
Mostly, it was Raja Vijayadeva asking questions. About Hamsa's training. His studies. His thoughts on the temple, the palace, and the world around him. Hamsa answered as best he could, sometimes simply listening as the old king spoke in turn.
By the time the conversation slowed, the sun had already shifted far across the sky.
"Well," Raja Vijayadeva said at last, rising slowly, "I'm glad to see that you are doing well, Hamsa."
He paused, then added more quietly,
"If you ever need anything… you may depend on your grandfather."
He looked away for a moment, his gaze drifting toward the garden paths.
"I was not a good father to your mother," he admitted."I was harsh. Distant. By the time the war began, we had already grown apart. We spoke only when matters of state demanded it."
His jaw tightened slightly.
"When she was gone, I realized how empty my life had become. She had always been there—seeking my approval, my attention. And I brushed her aside, time and again.""Tough that displeased your grandmother greatly," he added with a faint, bitter smile.
Then his voice lowered.
"She even warned me we would lose that war. She was certain of it. And she was right."
He exhaled slowly.
"Afterward, she asked to marry your father, Raj Valangar. I was unhappy with the match.""But seeing her finally be herself again… seeing her smile the way she used to…"
He looked back at Hamsa.
"I gave my consent."
For a moment, Hamsa said nothing, still processing what the old man was saying and a bit confused.
"In short," Raja Vijayadeva said quietly,"I failed as a father. And now your mother is no longer with us."
His voice steadied.
"So at the very least… I intend to be a good grandfather."
There was no pride in his tone.
Only sincerity.
Rajkumar Hamsa though for a moment before he spoke.
After which they talked for a moments.
Hamsa making his request and the Raja accepting it.