The first spell he ever cast in this life was not meant to exist.
It was not written in any grimoire.
It was not taught by any master.
And it was certainly not something a child should have been capable of performing.
Yet it happened all the same.
The Archmage—still trapped within the small, fragile body of a child—sat alone in the dim light of early dawn. The village had not yet awakened. Smoke did not yet rise from chimneys. Even the birds remained silent, as if the world itself were holding its breath.
He sat cross-legged on the wooden floor, back straight, breathing slow and shallow.
Not because he needed to.
Because discipline demanded it.
His mana core pulsed weakly.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
Each pulse was shallow, unrefined, almost pitiful compared to what he had once possessed. Still, it was his. And more importantly—it was alive.
"This is the limit of this body," he assessed calmly. "For now."
He had waited months for this moment
Not for power—but for readiness.
His muscles no longer trembled when he sat upright. His organs had strengthened. His nerves could endure small surges of energy without collapsing into shock.
Barely.
That was enough.
He reached inward.
Carefully.
Gently.
He did not force the mana to move.
He invited it.
In his previous life, mana had obeyed him like a loyal servant. It surged at his command, shaped itself instantly, bent reality without hesitation..
Now—
It hesitated.
The faint thread of mana responded slowly, as if unsure whether it was allowed to move at all.
"That's fine," he thought. "I'll teach you again."
He guided the mana along a single path—no loops, no expansions, no pressure. Just a straight, simple circulation through one meridian.
The pain came immediately.
His teeth clenched.
His vision blurred.
The mana felt like molten glass scraping against the inside of his veins.
Too much.
He stopped.
The thread dissipated.
His body slumped forward as he sucked in shallow breaths, sweat clinging to his skin.
"…Still too early," he concluded.
But something had changed.
The mana core pulsed again—slightly stronger this time.
Not by much.
But enough to matter.
A faint smile crossed his lips.
"Progress."
From that day forward, he repeated the process.
Once a day.
Never twice.
Never more.
He treated mana circulation the way a master smith treated fragile metal—heat applied slowly, patiently, without haste.
Each attempt burned.
Each attempt exhausted him.
Each attempt left him closer to something stable.
Weeks passed.
His parents noticed changes.
"He's quiet," his mother murmured one night. "Too quiet."
"Smart, maybe," his father replied. "Some kids are like that."
The Archmage listened without reacting.
He had learned the rhythms of the household. When people slept. When they talked. When they argued. When they feared.
Fear was common these days.
The village had been uneasy ever since rumors began to spread.
"Another caravan attacked."
"People disappearing near the forest."
"They say something lives there."
Monsters.
Bandits.
Or worse.
The Archmage listened carefully.
This world was not peaceful.
Good.
Danger sharpened growth.
One night, as rain battered the roof and thunder rolled in the distance, he sensed it again.
That familiar distortion.
Mana displacement.
Closer this time.
Stronger.
He opened his eyes.
Something had crossed the village boundary.
Not a mage.
Not human.
Its presence was crude, violent—like a knot in the flow of mana rather than a part of it.
"A beast," he identified. "Low intelligence. High aggression."
His body tensed.
This was not like the bandits before.
This thing was not cautious.
It was hungry.
The village dogs began to bark.
Screams followed.
"Something's attacking the livestock!"
"Get inside!"
His father grabbed a spear.
His mother clutched him tightly.
"Stay inside," his father said, gripping the spear tightly. His knuckles were white, his jaw set with forced calm. "No matter what happens."
The door closed behind him with a dull thud.
Silence followed.
Too heavy.
Too deliberate.
The Archmage felt it instantly—the shift in the ambient mana grew sharper, more distorted, like a wound tearing open in the fabric of the village. The beast was closer now. Much closer.
His mother's heartbeat accelerated. He could feel it through her arms, rapid and uneven. Fear radiated from her in waves, thick enough to be almost tangible.
"It's going to be fine," she whispered, though the words were meant more for herself than for the child in her arms.
The Archmage did not share her optimism.
The creature outside was stronger than
he had first estimated.
Not powerful in the way a mage was powerful—but dense, brutal, overflowing with instinctive mana. A monster born not from spellcraft, but from mutation, corruption, or evolution.
A low-tier threat.
But against villagers?
A massacre.
He listened.
Wood splintered.
An animal screamed.
A man shouted in pain.
The sound cut off abruptly.
His mother gasped, clutching him tighter.
"Gods…" she whispered.
The Archmage closed his eyes.
"This body is still unfit," he calculated rapidly. "Mana circulation is unstable.
Spell construction is impossible."
And yet—
Doing nothing was also a choice.
One that led to outcomes he did not favor.
He reached inward.
The mana core trembled at his touch, responding faster than before. Weeks of conditioning had not been wasted.
Still fragile.
Still dangerous.
But no longer dormant.
He did not attempt a spell.
Not even a simple one.
Instead, he focused on resonance.
Mana was not merely energy—it was intent given form. Even without shaping it, one could influence how it behaved.
He reached outward.
Not far.
Just beyond the walls of the house.
The beast's mana was chaotic, poorly controlled, spilling out of it like blood from an open wound. That excess was
its weakness.
He nudged it.
Ever so slightly.
The effect was immediate.
Outside, the creature roared—loud, confused, enraged. Its mana surged violently, destabilizing its own movements.
Someone shouted.
"It's thrashing!"
"Watch out!"
The Archmage bit back a gasp as pain lanced through his chest. His vision darkened at the edges. Blood filled his mouth—metallic, warm.
Too much.
Too fast.
His mother felt his body tense.
"What's wrong?" she whispered desperately. "What's wrong—?"
He forced himself to relax.
The pain faded slowly, leaving behind a deep, bone-level exhaustion.
Outside, steel clashed against flesh.
A final, thunderous impact shook the ground.
Then—
Silence.
Heavy.
Uncertain.
Moments stretched.
Finally, voices returned.
"We… we killed it."
"By the gods… that thing…"
His father's voice emerged among them, ragged but alive.
Relief washed over the house.
His mother collapsed to her knees, tears streaming down her face as she hugged him tightly.
The Archmage allowed himself a slow breath.
"…Acceptable losses avoided," he concluded internally.
But the cost had been real.
He could feel it now.
A fracture.
Not in his mana core—but close.
A warning.
If he had pushed any further, the damage might have been permanent.
That night, he did not attempt mana circulation.
For the first time since beginning his training, he rested completely.
Sleep came easily.
The aftermath lingered for days.
The village gathered what remained of the creature's corpse. It was massive—twisted muscles, blackened veins, eyes clouded with feral madness.
"A corrupted beast," someone said.
"Came from the forest."
"That forest again…"
The Archmage observed from his mother's arms, gaze calm, unreadable.
He memorized every detail.
The mana density in the corpse.
The signs of mutation.
The crude way its power had grown without refinement.
"This world allows strength without wisdom," he noted. "A dangerous imbalance."
His father returned home wounded but alive.
A deep gash across the arm.
The Archmage watched carefully as a healer applied herbs and bandages—no magic, no chants. Either the village mage had been absent, or magic was too scarce to be wasted on a mere wound.
That told him something important.
Magic was not abundant here.
Which meant those who possessed it held influence.
Which meant his growth would need to remain hidden.
For a long time.
That night, as the household slept, he tested himself again.
Not mana.
His soul.
He focused inward, examining the faint fracture left behind by his earlier interference. Slowly, carefully, he smoothed it out—not repairing it with power, but with structure.
Understanding.
The imprint of the 10th Circle stirred faintly.
Not as strength.
As knowledge.
The fracture stabilized.
No further damage.
"…Good," he thought. "My limits are clearer now."
He had learned several things.
First: external interference was possible even without spellcasting.
Second: his body could survive minor resonance manipulation—but only once in a while.
Third: this world was far more dangerous than it appeared.
And finally—
He smiled faintly in the darkness.
"I can protect what's mine," he concluded. "Even like this."
The child rolled onto his side, breathing slow and steady.
Outside, the village returned to uneasy peace.
Inside, something ancient, patient, and immeasurably dangerous continued to grow—thread by fragile thread.
End Of Chapter 3