Six months had passed since Arya first stepped into the kitchen of the Drunken Pavilion.
Six months of flour-covered mornings, roaring ovens, and the constant rhythm of knives against wooden boards.
Six months of building something small yet stable.
But stability had never truly been his goal.
And now, as winter slowly gave way to early spring, Arya could feel a familiar sensation growing inside him.
Restlessness.
He sat on a low wooden bench outside the tavern, watching the evening street of Stoneford slowly quiet down. Lanterns flickered along the road while merchants packed their stalls for the night.
Behind him, the tavern hummed with laughter and clinking mugs.
A place he had helped transform.
A place where people now knew his name.
Arya exhaled slowly.
Six months.
Long enough to establish himself.
Long enough that people stopped questioning his story.
Long enough to observe this world carefully.
And what he had learned fascinated him.
This world, despite lacking mana, was far from mundane.
In fact, it was astonishing in its own way.
There were seven continents.
Seven.
The number made Arya smile faintly every time he thought about it.
Seven continents in this world.
Seven continents in his previous world.
Even the kingdoms here seemed to echo that strange symmetry.
Perhaps coincidence.
Perhaps something else.
From what Arya had gathered through tavern conversations, travelers' stories, and drunken ramblings of merchants, the world had once been unified by trade and uneasy alliances.
But everything changed around three to four centuries ago.
The event now remembered simply as The Great War.
No one seemed to agree on how it truly began.
Some said it started between two rival human kingdoms.
Others insisted it began when dwarven miners uncovered sacred elven territory.
A few even blamed the orcs.
Regardless of its origin, the conflict had spread like wildfire.
Alliance after alliance formed.
Kingdoms dragged their neighbors into the struggle.
Within a few decades, the war had consumed the entire world.
Every race had been drawn into it.
Humans.
Elves.
Dwarves.
Orcs.
Even the reclusive frost giants of the northern wastes.
By the time it ended, no side could truly claim victory.
Cities had burned.
Entire populations had vanished.
Trade routes collapsed.
Civilizations nearly shattered.
But one fact remained clear.
Humans emerged with the strongest political position.
Not because they were the most powerful.
But because they were the most numerous and adaptable.
When the war finally ended, the surviving powers made a grim decision.
Peaceful coexistence across the same lands was… impossible.
The hatred ran too deep.
The losses were too great.
And so the world divided itself.
Each race claimed a continent.
The human homeland became known as Caelmora.
A fertile land of rivers, forests, and plains—arguably the most balanced and resource-rich continent in the world.
The elves, who had allied with humans during the war, settled in Sylthara, a vast continent of ancient forests and silver rivers.
According to legend, the trees there were so tall they touched the clouds.
The dwarves withdrew into the mountainous continent of Vareska, where endless ranges of stone and iron-rich earth allowed them to rebuild their underground cities.
The orcs took Dravenhall, a harsh but powerful land of volcanic plains and black mountains.
Many believed the orcs preferred it that way.
Conflict thrived there.
The frost giants remained in the frozen north of Aethryl, a continent so cold that most other races could barely survive a single winter.
But the giants had always lived there.
And no one else wished to challenge them for it.
Then there was Thaldor.
A strange continent mostly inhabited by wild beasts and ancient creatures. Few settlements existed there, and many explorers claimed the land itself seemed… hostile to civilization.
Most people avoided it.
Arya had found these stories endlessly interesting.
But what intrigued him the most was the seventh continent.
Because almost no one spoke of it.
The only information Arya had managed to gather was vague and fragmented.
It existed somewhere far across the western oceans.
The distance was so vast that reaching it required months of travel.
And those who attempted the journey rarely returned.
Not because of monsters.
Or storms.
But because the return voyage seemed… impossible.
Ships that reached the continent either disappeared or never found their way back.
As a result, very little was known about the place.
Most scholars simply referred to it as The Lost Continent.
Arya tilted his head slightly as he gazed at the stars.
Seven continents.
Seven kingdoms in Caelmora.
Even his previous world had revolved strangely around the number seven.
Was it coincidence?
Or something deeper?
Perhaps fate simply enjoyed symmetry.
He chuckled quietly.
But the geography of the world was not what truly occupied his thoughts.
The real issue was something else.
This world had no mana.
Or rather…
It had none flowing naturally.
That fact alone made the world fascinating to Arya.
Despite the absence of mana, civilizations had flourished.
Technology, craftsmanship, agriculture, architecture—everything had developed through pure ingenuity.
In some ways, it was even more impressive than the magical society he once belonged to.
Yet the absence of mana also meant something else.
Power.
True power.
Did not exist here.
Not in the way Arya understood it.
And that presented a unique opportunity.
Arya leaned back slightly against the tavern wall.
This world is wondrous.
It would be a shame if it never experienced mana.
A faint smile formed.
Because Arya had already confirmed something important.
Mana did exist here.
Just not in the environment.
It existed within him.
The remnants inside his body were small.
But they were real.
Which meant something crucial.
Mana could be introduced into this world.
Slowly.
Carefully.
But doing so required something far greater than simple magical ability.
Arya closed his eyes briefly.
In his previous world, ascension to divinity followed a well-known path.
Mana accumulation.
Authority over a concept.
Recognition by others.
Power drawn from collective belief.
But belief alone was not enough.
Faith could amplify power, yes.
But what truly mattered was mana.
Without vast quantities of mana, even the greatest mage could never approach divinity.
And in this world…
Mana was almost nonexistent.
Which meant Arya faced a fundamental problem.
If he wished to rise again—
If he wished to reclaim even a fraction of the power he once possessed—
He would need to create mana.
Or find a way to generate it.
And that…
Arya opened his eyes slowly.
That was a question he had not yet solved.
He glanced toward the tavern door.
Inside, laughter echoed.
People eating food he created.
People slowly learning his name.
A small influence.
But influence nonetheless.
Perhaps…
Mana did not need to appear all at once.
Perhaps it could be cultivated.
Grown.
Like a seed planted in fertile soil.
Arya stood up from the bench.
The night air felt cool against his skin.
One thing was certain.
Remaining a tavern cook forever was not part of his destiny.
His foundation had been built.
Now it was time to think about the next step.
Because if Arya intended to reshape this world—
He first needed to decide where to begin.