Against all reason, against all his ideals, Revan had promised El Ritch a near-impossible thing.


    The strongest in the Empire Evandria.


    It had sounded good in the moment, a rallying cry, a convenient way to fuel his motivation. But now, in the dim solitude of his chambers, reality settled over him like a damp, heavy cloak. He did not even know what Conjuration truly was, nor did he understand what mana really brought to the table. He had seen the effects, felt the raw potential surge through his veins, but knowledge was different from mastery.


    And yet—


    He welcomed the challenge.


    A student, a geek, an obsessed idiot—he had always been the type to lose himself in problems that others abandoned. No matter how absurd the goal, no matter how insurmountable, if there was a puzzle to solve, he would solve it.


    The pain lingered, but it had dulled into a persistent ache. Cain and Aldric had left him to his own devices, the night stretching quiet and unbroken around him. The sconces along the walls flickered steadily, their warm light casting elongated shadows over the room''s heavy oak furniture. His gaze drifted to the table, where a familiar book rested beneath the candle''s glow—The Steps of Conjuration.


    Revan exhaled, reaching downward cautiously, testing the pain. It was there, but manageable. His body was adjusting, recovering. Slowly, he crouched, peering beneath his bed. The books were still there, hidden where he had placed them long before. History, fairy tales, culture—knowledge hoarded away from prying eyes. Even before his sister had come to torment him, he had tucked them out of sight, a habit born of necessity.


    He straightened, rolling his shoulders. No time for rest.


    ''If only dopamine release was a manual function. Goddamn.''


    With a quiet exhale, he pulled the book closer, flipping through the weary pages until he reached the next step.


    Chapter Two: The Fundamentals of Manipulation


    Once mana is perceived, it can be directed.


    Unlike Witches, who instinctively weave spells, Conjurers must break mana into measurable, predictable interactions.


    Mana follows intent, but intent must be structured.


    The first rule of manipulation is:


    "Mana follows the path of least resistance."


    Revan tapped his fingers against the table absently as he read. If one cannot control the flow, mana will disperse or backlash.


    The exercises that followed were meant to help a Conjurer understand the flow of mana. The first test seemed simple enough—create ripples in a bowl of water without touching it. A rudimentary task, meant to develop precision over mana''s direction and force.


    Simple in theory.


    But the execution was another matter entirely.


    Revan sighed, slipping from his room quietly, careful not to wake anyone. The mansion was silent at this hour, servants long since retired, and the guards who patrolled were either too inattentive or too accustomed to the young lord''s oddities to question his movement.


    He returned minutes later, a bowl of water carefully balanced in his hands. Setting it on the floor, he sat before it, legs crossed, posture relaxed.


    And then, he began.


    Extending his perception of mana, he focused on the water, willing something—anything—to happen.


    Nothing.


    Revan scowled.


    He tried again, visualizing the tendrils of mana, attempting to coax them outward like invisible hands. Still, nothing changed. The water remained as still as before.


    He clenched his jaw.


    It''s instinct, he realized. The process wasn''t manual. It wasn''t something he could force with conscious thought. It had to be natural, ingrained, something second nature.


    And that was the problem.


    ''No wonder this book is outdated. This book is shit.''


    Revan ran a hand down his face. ''But well, beggars can''t be choosers.''


    He needed another approach.


    Reaching for the bowl, he stretched his arm forward—but the movement pulled at his back, sending a sharp jolt of pain up his spine.


    "Fuck!" He hissed, recoiling immediately, his hand instinctively going to rub the sore muscles. He kneaded the aching spot absently, his mind still turning over the problem, when he noticed something.


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    Warmth.


    Not just heat from his body, but something else—a deeper warmth, blooming from his core and flowing toward the site of pain.


    Mana.


    Revan stilled.


    A theory formed in his mind, simple but promising. Mana—ambient or internal—seemed to seek equilibrium. It followed disruption, flooding to areas of stress or injury.


    He had to test it.


    Without hesitation, he pressed two fingers into the right side of his chest, near the joint of his shoulder. He applied pressure until pain flared—sharp, biting. His body reacted immediately, a dull throbbing following in its wake. But more importantly—mana reacted.


    A faint pulse, a flicker of warmth spreading into the area from his chest.


    Revan''s lips parted slightly, his breath evening out as he felt the movement. It works.


    Encouraged, he repeated the process.


    Pushing against different points—his right arm, his left—until the sensation of mana reaching the affected areas became undeniable. He continued, pressing along his legs, his wrists, each time watching for the telltale warmth that followed.


    Small dark spots formed where the pressure had been strongest, blood clotting beneath the skin. He ignored them.


    This wasn''t pain—it was progress.


    With every repetition, he adjusted his breathing, syncing it to the natural ebb and flow of mana, conditioning himself to the rhythm.


    This had to become passive.


    It will become passive.


    Because if he could control this—if he could shape it—then manipulating mana would no longer be instinct.


    It would be his.


    A silent daybreak.


    Crimson light seeped through the heavy folds of burgundy drapes, casting long streaks of red across the chamber. The dim illumination stretched over the polished wood of the furniture, flickering faintly where the candle sconces had long since burned out.


    Revan grinned through his exhaustion, his body trembling from exertion. His hands, damp with sweat, flexed weakly at his sides. Small black spots marred his skin—clotted blood, evidence of his relentless experimentation. His arms bore the same marks, as did his legs and even his chest. Yet, despite the bruises, despite the soreness lingering in his muscles, satisfaction coursed through him.


    He had done it.


    He could understand the flow of mana beneath his skin.


    With a deep breath, he exhaled, steadying his thoughts. The mana stirred, responding to his will, surging from his core like a tide breaking against the shore. It reached his right palm first, warm and fluid. Another breath—his left palm followed. A third—his legs awakened with the same current.


    Revan''s grin widened. The results were consistent. The theory, sound.


    But now came the true test—the sweet dish.


    If mana could exit his body through his extremities, then the opposite should also hold true. He could absorb it—draw it in. If a normal being carried an inherent wellspring of mana, then what if he, for just a moment, became an empty fake vessel? What if he forced himself into a state where his own reserves were locked away, creating a void?


    Mana, after all, followed the path of least resistance.


    The moment the idea solidified in his mind, he acted.


    His breath came slow, deliberate, as he pulled all the active mana back into his core, tightening it, compressing it, until it could no longer move freely through his limbs. It was extremely tough, making him repeat the process several dozen times but he was successful finally. His body became a void—a hollow space where mana should have been. A fake empty vessel.


    And just as he had hoped—


    The tendrils of mana in the air reacted.


    Revan''s eyes widened as he felt them, invisible strands in the atmosphere stirring, reaching toward him, seeking to fill the unnatural emptiness. His skin prickled, absorbing the ambient energy, and the moment it crossed into his body, it was sucked into the core—devoured by the white, rotating tendrils within.


    "Fuck?!" The words burst from his mouth in shock.


    ''A bat-shit theory had actually worked.''


    A sharp exhale left his lips, followed by laughter.


    A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts.


    "Young Lord, the bath is prepared for your use, and the breakfast is warm and ready to be served."


    Cayle''s voice, composed and measured.


    Revan blinked, his gaze snapping toward the window. The sun had risen fully, bathing the room in golden light.


    ''How many hours did I spend doing that?''


    He ran a hand over his face, rubbing at the exhaustion creeping in. "Yes, thank you, Cayle. I will be on it—"


    ''Fuck.''


    Again, the modern tongue slipped through.


    There was a slight pause outside the door, but Cayle made no comment. "As you say, Young Lord." Her footsteps faded down the corridor.


    Revan exhaled, rolling his shoulders. Today, he would learn mana manipulation—perhaps even manifestation—from Cain. Excitement hummed beneath his fatigue.


    But first, he needed to clean himself up.


    —


    The bathroom was a space of polished cobblestone, enclosed by high arched walls and a vaulted ceiling that allowed for better ventilation. A brass tub sat in the center, filled with steaming water drawn from the underground reservoirs, perfumed faintly with oils that masked the mineral scent. A copper pitcher rested on a low stone table beside it, its spout still dripping from when Cayle had poured the bath.


    Revan peeled off his sweat-soaked tunic, his gaze falling briefly to his bruised limbs. The darkened blotches stretched in uneven patches, remnants of his crude self-inflicted training. He clicked his tongue but thought little of it—his body would recover.


    But before the bath—his teeth.


    From a small wooden box near the basin, he retrieved a chewed birch twig, the end frayed into bristles. He pressed it between his teeth, grinding it slightly before beginning the meticulous task of scrubbing along his gums and enamel. The faint taste of wood and bitter sap filled his mouth. It was nothing pleasant, but it was effective. Once satisfied, he rinsed his mouth with the lukewarm water from the basin, swishing it before spitting it back.


    Finally, he stepped into the tub.


    The water stung at first—his bruised flesh protesting the heat—but soon, his muscles loosened, tension melting away with every breath. He washed quickly but thoroughly, ensuring the sweat and grime from the night''s training were gone before stepping out and drying himself with a linen cloth.


    Clothed once more, Revan made his way toward the dining hall.


    —


    The dinery was a grand chamber, its long oak table stretching across the center, flanked by carved high-backed chairs. Tapestries depicting old battles and hunting scenes adorned the stone walls, their deep colors faded with time. A grand iron chandelier hung above, though the candles had already been replaced by the morning light streaming through the arched windows.


    Cayle awaited him by the side, her posture ever-straight, hands folded neatly before her. At his arrival, she stepped forward, placing his meal before him—a plate of eggs, their edges crisped to golden perfection, alongside thick slices of bacon, still sizzling from the pan. A small loaf of bread, slightly torn at the side where it had been freshly broken, rested beside a shallow bowl of honeyed butter. The scent alone was enough to remind him just how empty his stomach had become.