"That was…"


    Cain and Aldric exchanged a glance, then turned back to him.


    "…Something," Cain exhaled.


    Aldric merely shrugged. "Is help required, Young Lord—"


    "No," Revan cut in, raising his right hand as he groaned. "No…"


    Without waiting for further discussion, he pushed himself off the floor, dragging his pained body back toward the bed. His muscles screamed with every step, but he ignored them, collapsing onto the mattress with a heavy sigh.


    Aldric, ever at ease, dragged a chair closer and settled into it. Cain remained standing, arms crossed, watching the knight with something akin to exasperation.


    "Seriously?" Cain asked.


    Aldric only shrugged.


    Cain sighed and turned back to Revan. Moving with a scholar''s precision, he placed the books he had carried onto the oak table, straightening them absentmindedly before shifting his focus back to his new pupil.


    Standing at Revan''s right, he gave a short bow. "As the gracious lady has already spoken," Cain began, his tone light, practiced. "I am Cain Spillion of House Spillion, hailing from the capital, Evandria. By the command of Lord Otto, your father, I have been sent, bearing his letter to the Academy Oracle. My task is to instruct you in the fundamentals of mana application, and by your performance, you shall be placed within a fitting class in the Academy." He smiled, every syllable carrying the air of well-rehearsed formality.


    Still in pain, Revan groaned, nodding halfheartedly.


    "We may halt for a while and have you tended to," Cain offered. Then, almost too casually, he added, "Sir Aldric—though he may not have spoken of it himself—is quite skilled in the art of massage."


    Aldric turned toward him with the slow precision of a man realizing he had made a grave mistake.


    "I really shouldn''t have told you about the vomit girl incident," he muttered, shaking his head.


    Cain only shrugged.


    "Oh, I do know the last bit," Revan groaned, his fingers trailing over the searing pain along his spine. "In fact, the skill he possesses is precisely what caused this."


    Cain mused thoughtfully, casting a glance toward Aldric. "Wonderful."


    Aldric lifted a hand, waving off the conversation entirely.


    Cain sighed again, this time rubbing his temple. Then, shifting back to Revan, he straightened his gloves. "Since we cannot have our time wasted, let me aid you, Young Lord Elphonse."


    He tugged off his right glove, placing it carefully on the oak table before stepping forward.


    "Please turn back and remove the shirt," he instructed. "I need to see the wound."


    ''Woah. Shit''s getting sexual.''


    Suppressing an exhausted chuckle, Revan exhaled sharply through his nose before complying. He turned, lifting the shirt over his back, letting the fabric rest above his waist.


    Silence.


    A long, unnerving silence.


    Then—


    "That wound…" Cain''s voice lacked its earlier lightness. "It cannot be healed by me." A pause. Then, almost as an afterthought, "It has gone far too much."


    Revan stiffened slightly.


    "A shame, really," Cain continued, his tone shifting back to something almost casual. "If you had mana perception with the help of the wound, we could have had you create a mana core. That would''ve made the process of your wound healing faster too, in fact."


    Revan''s mind stalled.


    What the fuck is a mana core?


    He turned slightly, looking over his shoulder. "Conjurer Cain, may I ask—what exactly is a mana core?"


    Cain''s expression lifted, pleased at the question. "Ah, it would be my pleasure."


    He stepped back, raising his right hand as he spoke.


    "There is ambient mana all around us, yes? But in order to command it, a mana of your signature must first be released, so that the threads may become familiar with your presence before they can be directed." He twirled his fingers, the motion precise, deliberate.


    ''So I am mama virus, spreading my child, corrupting other kids...Huh...''


    "A mana core is formed when the threads of mana circulating around us are drawn inward, accumulating just beneath the heart," Cain continued. "They move through channels—veins, arteries—creating a flow, a circulation. When sustained long enough, this process forces an involuntary second organ to form beneath the heart."


    His fingers curled slightly, forming a small sphere.


    "A second heart."


    Revan remained quiet, absorbing the information.


    ''Neat.''


    "Let''s do it, then," Revan said at last.


    Cain let out a soft chuckle. "I apologize, but you cannot simply will it into existence. You lack mana perception—"


    "I have it."


    Cain''s words halted.


    Revan turned his head slightly, the exhaustion in his body fading beneath his irritation. "Test me."


    Cain hesitated for only a moment before lifting his right hand, raising a single index finger.


    Revan followed the motion.


    And saw.


    The threads moved, shifting in delicate, intricate patterns, forming a circle then a rotating sphere. Other threads from the ambient air joined it, shaping into semi-circles around the center. The longer he watched, the clearer it became—the flowing lines, the near-perfect symmetry.


    "A flower," Revan murmured.


    Cain stilled.


    A blink. A glance toward Aldric.


    If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    Then, back to Revan.


    "How long have you been enlightened in mana, Young Lord?"


    Revan exhaled sharply. "Half a day."


    Cain tilted his head slightly, as if processing the absurdity of that statement.


    "And how did you gain mana perception again?"


    Revan did not answer immediately. Instead, he reached toward his bedside, retrieving The Steps of Conjuration—the book he had been sitting behind, hidden from plain sight.


    Cain''s brows furrowed as he took the book, flipping through the pages with expert familiarity.


    "You gained mana perception… from an outdated published book?"


    ''Evidently.''


    Revan nodded.


    Cain let out a breath, rubbing his hand over his face before dragging it back through his smooth, glossy hair. Then—


    He chuckled.


    Soft at first, then fully amused.


    He shook his head.


    Then, with a slow exhale, he smiled.


    "Never in my twenty years…"


    Cain chuckled as he spoke, amusement laced in every syllable. There was no restraint to his reaction, only genuine thrill. "I have encountered many noble prodigies and gifted minds, yet none who could attain mana perception in less than a day—without prior training, no less—merely by familiarizing themselves with mana and studying from an outdated tome."


    He exhaled, finally calming, but the astonishment still lingered in his expression.


    "Truly, I am baffled beyond words."


    ''Well… I was somewhat an A-grade student. My useless ability to geek out over something finally came in handy. That''s cool.''


    "So can we start?" Revan asked, impatient.


    Cain nodded immediately. "This wound is conveniently placed just slightly below where your heart should be," he began, stepping closer. "I will pour mana through the wound, and Young Lord, it will burn quite a lot. You must remain calm and stable, lest the flow of mana breaks."


    Revan swallowed. His body was already screaming at him, and now he was about to deliberately subject himself to more pain.


    "Well then," Cain murmured.


    His fingers pressed against the wound.


    The pain flared instantly.


    Revan gritted his teeth, his breath hitching. He turned his head slightly, catching a glimpse of Aldric nodding toward Cain before standing from his chair. Then—


    The mana flowed in.


    A deafening white noise swallowed the room.


    Sound vanished. The voices of Aldric and Cain faded into nothingness. The pain—Gods, the pain—was like fire and steel, sinking its teeth into his back, raking up his spine with relentless force. His fingers curled into the bedsheets, nails digging into the fabric as he struggled to not pass out.


    And then—


    A warmth.


    It settled beneath his heart, curling deep, wrapping around his ribs like tendrils of something alive. The mana circulated, moving, a foreign yet strangely intimate sensation.


    Another jolt.


    Too much.


    His body gave out.


    Darkness swallowed him whole.


    —


    When Revan''s eyes opened, the world felt wrong.


    He was alone.


    The chamber was the same. The books. The table. The mirror by the wall. But—


    His body.


    He knew this body.


    With growing dread, he dropped his gaze, stepping forward—only to see his own reflection. His real reflection. His body from his past life.


    He flexed his fingers. It felt real.


    Reaching up his chin to pinch, he hesitated. What if…?


    What if everything had been a dream? What if none of it had been real? The mansion. The magic. The pain. What if—


    The door creaked open.


    Revan''s head snapped toward the entrance.


    A boy stood there.


    His own age.


    Wearing the same noble attire.


    Wearing El Ritch''s face.


    "Did you have fun playing nobility?" the boy asked, stepping inside.


    Revan''s brows furrowed.


    El Ritch''s voice was even, but there was something beneath it. Something bitter.


    "Did you have fun in my stead?"


    The way he said it, the way he looked at Revan—there was no confusion. No hostility. Just—resentment.


    Revan took a slow breath. If this was a dream, best to go along with it.


    "I''d say no," he answered.


    El Ritch''s expression did not change.


    "Your cowardice towards reality made it harder, I''d say."


    For the first time, Revan noticed—the words they spoke were in modern tongue.


    A dream, then. Or something else.


    El Ritch''s lips curled. Not a smirk. Not quite anger. Something close to grief.


    "Cowardice?" he scoffed. "You expect me to fight back against those? My elder sister is a tyrant. You expect me to simply say no?"


    "Yes," Revan said simply.


    El Ritch''s face twisted.


    "Just like I did today," Revan continued. "Yes, you should have done it."


    A breath. A sharp inhale through clenched teeth.


    Then El Ritch lunged.


    Revan barely had time to react before he was knocked onto his back, El Ritch''s hands wrapping around his throat.


    Weak.


    He was weak.


    Revan could see it clearly. Even in this dream, even in his anger, El Ritch''s hands trembled.


    "You expect me to say no after all this?!"


    And then—


    The visions struck.


    Memories that did not belong to him.


    El Ritch—crawling on all fours through the halls of the mansion, Anneliese behind him, forcing him forward as the maids and guards watched.


    Laughter.


    Mockery.


    Her hands breaking him in sparring matches, beating him within an inch of his life.


    Her voice—calm, pleased—handing him a strip of purple cloth he had hanged with. Telling him to kill himself with it.


    Sad.


    Yes.


    But—


    Revan kicked him off.


    El Ritch hit the ground, gasping, hands scrambling against the stone floor.


    Revan did not give him a chance to recover.


    A step forward. A boot to the stomach.


    El Ritch gagged, curling in on himself, clutching his ribs.


    Then—


    A fist.


    A sharp, brutal punch to the jaw, knocking his head back.


    Revan grabbed him by the throat.


    Held him there.


    His grip firm.


    Not choking. Not killing. Holding.


    "I do empathize with you," Revan murmured. "But I have lost too much to be afraid of a person bullying me into submission."


    The visions shifted.


    This time—his memories.


    A machete.


    Revan running after three grown men, their terrified shouts echoing in the countryside.


    A storm.


    The news—Category Five Hurricane.


    A phone call cutting off.


    No bodies to bury.


    A scholarship.


    A life rebuilt, piece by piece, through sheer force of will.


    Revan exhaled sharply, his throat tightening. He would''ve cried, yes. To his memories but not in front of El Ritch. He was there to prove a point.


    He released El Ritch.


    The boy''s eyes were wide. Red. Teary.


    "Why…?" El Ritch''s voice cracked. "How do you not think about your parents? They died talking to you—"


    "They died." Revan''s voice was steady. Cold.


    "The story ended."


    "There is nothing more to it."


    He swallowed against the lump in his throat. "I cried for them. I gave them a funeral, even without their bodies. I gave my best, as I promised I would. And I promised their son would never be bullied again."


    El Ritch coughed, swallowing thickly. His right hand covered his face, his palm over his eye, but the tears still slipped through.


    "I really…" he gasped between breaths. "I couldn''t do it… I am weak—"


    His shoulders trembled.


    "I tried, Raven. I tried my best."


    A ragged inhale.


    "If only my parents noticed me once… just once—"


    His voice cracked.


    "Maybe I would have… Maybe I would have been close to you."


    Revan stayed silent.


    For the first time since arriving in this body, since taking this life, he didn''t know how to answer.


    After a moment, Revan finally spoke.


    "You tried your best when you were alive. You gave it your all. Yes, maybe you could''ve done better. Maybe you could''ve fought harder."


    His gaze was cold, unwavering.


    "But now, you''re dead."


    El Ritch flinched.


    "I have no more words of sympathy for you," Revan continued. "No apologies, no pity. You lost. That''s the truth."


    A pause.


    "Except…"


    Revan took a step back.


    "Give me your life, and I will make it better."


    He watched as El Ritch''s breath caught, watched as the boy''s tear-stained face twisted in quiet disbelief.


    "My promise to you—" Revan''s voice was steady, resolute, "—I will make you the strongest Conjurer in history. The most famous to have ever walked the Empire of Evandria. I will take on your mantle." He said betraying his first three aims of this life. He had to do it.


    El Ritch stared at him, eyes wide, unreadable.


    Then, slowly, Revan reached out.


    A hand extended between them.


    An offering.


    A silence stretched.


    Then—El Ritch''s gaze dropped, flickering to the outstretched hand.


    For a moment, he did not move.


    Then—hesitantly, almost reluctantly—he lifted his own hand, grasping Revan''s.


    "No more fake words of sympathy," he muttered, rubbing at his face with the sleeve of his tunic.


    Revan nodded.


    "No more sympathy," he agreed.


    "For you. For me. I will make sure your name is known in every reach of Evandria."


    El Ritch exhaled, long and slow.


    And then, for the first time—he smiled.


    The world darkened.


    —


    When Revan''s eyes opened, his vision was blurred, unfocused. A heavy haze still clung to the edges of his consciousness. His body felt wrong—too light, too unsteady.


    Then, he felt it.


    A hand.


    Firm and steady, pressing against his shoulder, keeping him upright.


    His vision adjusted. His body settled. He turned his head to the side.


    Aldric.


    The knight''s left hand was braced against Revan''s shoulder, supporting him up.


    The warmth under his chest pulsed—alive, thrumming beneath his ribs.


    Revan exhaled, closing his eyes once more.


    He could see it. Even without looking.


    The white rotating sphere of threads.


    A mana core.


    They had done it.


    His body swayed slightly, exhaustion overtaking him, but he did not fight it. His mind was calm, steady.


    For the first time since waking in this world—


    He let himself rest.


    His eyelids grew heavy, his breathing slowed, and the world darkened once more—this time, into a soft, dreamless sleep.