So, at the age of five, my father decided it was time to move me from “adorably magical toddler” to “small, combustible apprentice.”

  Transtion:Magic lessons began.

  I’d spent the st few years refining the nguage, eavesdropping on noble drama, and learning basic etiquette without facepnting into soup. Mother was thrilled I wasn’t dead yet. Father? He treated me like I was a living project report waiting for a breakthrough.

  "Lucien," he said one morning, standing in our backyard that smelled like damp stone and medicinal herbs, "it is time you begin forming your core."

  Ah yes, the core. The magical equivalent of installing a GPU into your soul.

  Magic Core Theory 101 (as expined by a man who hasn’t smiled since the Cataclysm)“There is mana,” Father said, drawing glowing sigils in the air. “It exists in everything. Air, stone, fme, even the void. But to manipute it, you must house it—here.”

  He tapped my chest. I flinched. Still ticklish.

  “This,” he continued, “is where your Magic Core will be formed. The central anchor of your arcane ability. The more stable it becomes, the stronger you grow. You must breathe mana in, guide it to your center, and shape it.”

  Simple, right? Like air yoga with spiritual consequences.

  He went on to expin the stages:

  Magic Core Development Stages

  Stage I – Formation

  Substage A: Mana Sensing

  Substage B: Mana Gathering

  Substage C: Crystallization

  Stage II – Refinement

  Physical Sync, Elemental Resonance, Core Expansion

  Stage III – Stabilization

  Manifestation, Projection, External Control

  And beyond that? The realm of lunatics and living artillery shells.

  “I expect you to be in te Formation Stage by your sixth birthday,” he said casually, as if that was normal.

  Spoiler: it’s not.

  Breathing, Buzzing, and FireballsThe breathing techniques were standard anime-style fare: inhale mana-rich air, visualize glowing streams, make it swirl toward the center of your chest like spiritual whirlpool tte art. Do this every morning, even when the neighbors’ chickens are screaming like banshees.

  Took me two months just to feel mana without sneezing.

  But then came the buzz.A faint vibration in my gut. Warm, pulsing, like a heartbeat made of liquid fire.

  “That is your core forming,” Father said. “Now feed it.”

  And I did. Every day. Like a man quietly overfeeding a dangerous pet.

  By the third month, the buzz turned into a pulse. By the fifth? I could direct small strands of mana to my fingers. By month six?

  “Try this,” Kael said, handing me a firestone inscribed with glyphs. “Channel a spark. Say the word: Pyrras."

  I held the stone, said the word, and thought "don’t explode."The glyph fshed red——And a thin tongue of fme danced above my palm.

  It flickered, hissed, then died like my will to exercise in my past life.Still. A spark.

  My first spell: Ember Touch.Not exactly a fireball, but enough to toast a marshmallow. Or burn a goblin’s eyebrows off.

  Market Trip: Where All Side Characters Are IntroducedLater that week, my mother decided I needed “sunlight” and “social exposure.” I argued that I had books. She argued back with a hairbrush to the head.

  So off we went to the market.

  Wellstion’s capital market was a chaotic blend of cobblestone alleys, floating crystal nterns, half-automated carts, shouting vendors, and way too many smells at once—cinnamon, goat dung, and ozone from unstable mana coils.

  I stuck close to Mother, pretending not to be overwhelmed. Her robes shimmered as she moved, and people gave her space. Nobility aura, I guess.

  Then we ran into her.

  “Lyria!” a sharp voice called. “There you are!”

  A tall, sun-kissed woman in leather greaves jogged over, sword strapped across her back like she’d just walked out of a JRPG intro scene. Her blonde hair was messy, her grin cocky, and her eyes ocean-blue with that reckless sparkle I already hated.

  Her name was Serena Eltan. And unfortunately, she had a daughter.

  “Lucien,” Mother said, pcing a gentle hand on my shoulder, “This is my friend Serena. And this little girl is her daughter, Rielle.”

  Rielle was a miniature version of her mother: blonde, smug, and already wearing pants like she owned the street.

  I gave her a polite nod. She stuck out her tongue.

  “Why’s he dressed like a noble chicken?” she said.

  “Because I’m not a sweaty goblin in boots,” I replied, perfectly calm.

  Her eyes narrowed. “He talks weird. Reads too much.”

  “He swings sticks at rocks.”

  “I train, book-face.”

  “And I study, biceps-for-brains.”

  She gasped dramatically. Serena ughed. My mother sighed.

  Thus began the rivalry.

  Rielle was everything I wasn’t: physical, bold, sword-obsessed, and loud. I was quiet, calcuting, and very aware that fireballs were more elegant than filing bdes. She called me Bookworm, Fire-Baby, Lord Lectures, and once even Mister Incantation Pants.

  I retaliated with Sword-Goblin, Muscle-Fungus, and Training Arc Reject.

  She called our duels “practice.” I called them “acts of bullying.”

  Later That Night: Fire in the DarkI sat alone in the backyard, palm outstretched, staring at the tiny spark dancing over my fingertips. Ember Touch. Controlled. Breathing steady.

  Magic was beautiful.Fire obeyed me now.

  Even if the world was vast, chaotic, and full of smug sword-girls, I had something.

  And this time, I wasn’t wasting my second chance.

  Not because I wanted to be a hero.But because being strong meant not dying like a bug under a bumper again.