My parents' grief was a heavy blanket in the small house, their quiet sobs gradually subsiding into the weary silence of shared sorrow. The depth of their despair over the missing mana core was a stark, visceral lesson in how fundamentally important mana, and the ability to wield it, was in this world. It wasn't just a skill; it was woven into the very fabric of identity and potential here. I remained near them, offering what little comfort a child with magically healed arms could, while my mind, the mind of a man forged in the brutal clarity of the arena, raced ahead with a singular focus.

  Information was my shield, my weapon, my absolute necessity. If magic was this vital, if its absence was this devastating, I needed to understand it. I needed to understand everything. My raw Ki power, my martial arts skills – they were tools, but without knowledge, those tools were blunt instruments in a world I didn't comprehend.

  The opportunity came the next day. My mother, her eyes still puffy but her demeanor returning to her quiet strength, suggested I might like to look at some of the old books they kept. Perhaps, she hoped aloud, seeing familiar things, things I used to enjoy, might jog my memory. I readily agreed, masking my desperate need for knowledge with a semblance of childish curiosity. What she saw as a path to recovering my past, I saw as a vital education in my present.

  Their collection was small, nestled on a dusty shelf near the hearth. Not grand, leather-bound tomes of ancient lore, but practical, well-worn books reflecting the concerns of a village tethered to the earth and the edge of the Wildlands. Histories of the local lord, guides to farming and forestry, and, to my immense relief, a few primers that touched upon the fundamentals of this world's energies and geography.

  I spent the rest of the day engrossed, perched on a low stool by the window, the soft sunlight illuminating the pages. My small body felt still and quiet, but my mind devoured the information.

  From what I gathered, the dominant energy of this world was called Mana. It was an external force, a vast, flowing current that permeated the land, the sky, and all living things. Mages, or those with a natural aptitude, could sense this mana, drawing it into their bodies through mana veins and store it in a central point – the mana core. By manipulating this stored mana, they could cast spells, producing a vast array of effects: elemental blasts like the bear's fire, healing like my mother's touch, and much more. Affinity seemed to play a large role – you could only manipulate elements you had an affinity with. Mana was described as a renewable resource, constantly circulating, but one's ability to draw and wield it was limited by the size and refinement of their mana core and the capacity of their mana veins. Humans and many other races were all born with mana cores, which must have been a survival adaptation. Losing a mana core, the books confirmed with clinical detachment, was catastrophic, rendering one incapable of wielding magic. Their heartbreak was entirely justified.

  Tucked away in a less prominent section, almost as an addendum, I found a brief mention of another energy type. It was called Ki. The books confirmed that, yes, Ki existed in this world too, and was called by the same name. It was described as a life energy, something inherent to all living beings, distinct from mana. The texts explained that Ki primarily resided inside one's body, a personal reservoir of vital force. Unlike mana, which was drawn from the environment, one's capacity for Ki was generated and resided inside their body, a personal reservoir of vitality and force. The common understanding, according to these texts, was that Ki could be used to enhance one's body – boosting physical strength, speed, endurance, and reflexes. However, it was consistently stated that Ki could not be used outside of the body; it could not manifest as spells, elemental effects (like the bear's fire, which the books would categorize as mana-based), or external projections. It was described as not a limited resource in the sense that it didn't deplete the world's energy, but its use was tied directly to one's own vitality; pushing it too hard could exhaust or harm the user. My own experience with the bear, the devastating recoil, made perfect, terrifying sense now. The books' definition of Ki felt both accurate based on their understanding, and yet, based on the sheer, uncontrolled power I had unleashed, potentially incomplete or even wrong in the face of its true potential.

  Amongst the practical guides, I also discovered a worn, fascinating map. It wasn't a map of the entire world, but it meticulously detailed the Eastern Continent, the vast landmass where this village was located. My finger traced its contours. The Kingdom of Arcadia was clearly marked, a significant territory. To the south lay Thurisgard, labeled as a collection of settlements and expansive, wild territories bordering the kingdom – my current location. To the north lay Drakkazan, and the small, isolated land of Maha Maya, home of illusionists. Dominating a large, eastern and western swathe of the continent was the vast, dangerous expanse of the Wildlands, where I had awakened. The map's edges faded into uncharted territory, with annotations hinting at distant seas and lands beyond. In one corner, a dashed line pointing westward, accompanied by the simple inscription "To the Western Continent," served as a tantalizing hint of another entire landmass, one not detailed on this chart, but implied to hold its own kingdoms and territories.

  My world, previously confined to the brutal simplicity of the arena and then the terrifying isolation of the forest, had just expanded dramatically into an entire continent, powerful kingdoms, different energy systems, and looming threats. The scale of my ignorance was vast, but now, at least, I had a foundation. I understood the basic lay of the land, the two primary energies, and my own unusual status. Information. It was my first weapon in this new world, and I would wield it to survive, to find my place, and to build the life I had been denied before.

  My theory hung in the air, a dangerous gamble I felt compelled to test. Gunnar's eyes narrowed slightly, a mixture of apprehension and intense curiosity on his face. He studied my small, still-healed arms, then looked back at me, a silent question in his gaze. Finally, he nodded, a slow, deliberate motion.

  "Alright," he said, his voice low. "Let's step outside. We don't want to break anything in here."

  We left the warmth of the small house and walked a short distance towards the edge of the village, away from the nearest homes and towards the quieter stretch that bordered the Wildlands. The morning air was cool on my skin. Gunnar stopped in a small clearing, a few isolated pine trees standing some distance away. He turned to face me, his expression serious.

  "Okay, son," he said, gesturing with a hand. "Show me. Just... just throw one punch. Like you hit the bear. But... focus that energy. Let it go out." He emphasized the word, echoing my own theory. "See if you can make it leave your body, like you think."

  I nodded, taking a deep breath to steady myself. My small body felt taut with a mixture of anticipation and dread. Could I do this? Could I truly control that overwhelming power, push it out instead of letting it channel into a devastating impact? Or would I just shatter my arm again, proving my theory wrong and terrifying my father?

  I focused inward, searching for the familiar, coiled energy deep within my core. It stirred at my call, raw and potent, eager to be unleashed. I guided it up through my right arm, the path now chillingly familiar from the bear fight. It surged, filling my limb with a blinding, explosive power that made the fine hairs on my skin stand on end. But this time, as the energy reached my fist, I didn't brace for impact. I imagined it flowing through my fist, bursting out into the air.

  With a grunt of effort, a sharp, controlled exhalation, I threw the punch – not at an imaginary target, but outwards, into the empty space before me. At the same instant, I pushed the surging Ki from my core, forcing it along the path I'd opened.

  A deafening crack ripped through the air, louder than any thunder. It wasn't the sound of bone breaking, but the violent expulsion of raw force. A visible shockwave erupted from my fist, a shimmering, distorting ripple that tore through the space in front of me. The ground beneath my feet shuddered.

  The shockwave slammed into the nearby pine trees. With loud groans and splintering snaps, several of them buckled and fell, their trunks splintering, their branches tearing away as if struck by an invisible, colossal hammer. The sheer, concussive force of the blast rippled outwards, rustling the leaves in a wide radius and kicking up a cloud of dust and pine needles.

  I stood there, my right arm aching but unbroken, the raw power still vibrating within me, the evidence of its force scattered across the clearing in fallen trees. My theory... it worked.

  Gunnar stood frozen, his jaw slack, his eyes wide with a disbelief so profound it seemed to have physically stunned him. He stared at the fallen trees, then back at my small figure, his face ashen. His earlier description of Ki – a power that enhanced the body, no more – felt ludicrous in the face of the destruction I had just wrought.

  "By... by the Elder Roots," he stammered, his voice barely a whisper. "What... what was that? Ki... Ki doesn't do that! That kind of power... it's... impossible from Ki! Not like anything I've ever heard!"

  A wave of cold regret washed over me, pushing aside the brief triumph of my successful theory. Shit. I shouldn't have shown him that. I hadn't just demonstrated a little bit of enhanced strength; I had unleashed a level of power that contradicted everything he, and likely everyone else in this village, understood about Ki. I didn't want to stand out. That was the whole point of feigning memory loss, of trying to blend in. And I had just literally knocked down trees with a punch of pure energy.

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  Gunnar finally seemed to find his voice, his shock giving way to a torrent of questions. He rushed towards me, his eyes searching mine with an intensity that made me uncomfortable. "When?" he demanded, grabbing my shoulders gently, his hands trembling slightly. "When did you discover you could do that, Nikolai? Was it out there? With the bear?"

  I had to come up with something, fast. Something plausible, something that explained this sudden, impossible power without revealing the truth of my past life. The bear. The trauma. Desperation. Those were elements he could understand.

  "The bear..." My voice was small, uncertain, playing the role of a child recounting a terrifying event. "When it... when it attacked me... I was so scared... so desperate." I looked up at him, trying to convey a sense of overwhelmed terror. "I just... I just threw a punch. I felt a power explode inside me... like something boosting me... pushing everything out... to my maximum output." I deliberately used language that hinted at an instinctive, uncontrollable surge rather than deliberate technique. "It just... happened."

  It was a lie, of course. A carefully constructed fabrication woven around a kernel of truth. The desperation was real. The bear was real. The explosion of power was terrifyingly real. But it wasn't a fluke triggered by desperation; it was raw Ki, channeled instinctively by the reflexes of a lifetime.

  Gunnar stared at me for a long moment, his expression a complex mix of fear, disbelief, and a dawning, unsettling understanding. He looked from me to the fallen trees, then back again. The story, the trauma, the desperation... it provided an explanation, however unbelievable, for the impossible power he had just witnessed. He wanted to believe it. He needed to believe it was a one-time, trauma-induced surge, not something I could just do.

  He pulled me into another hug, tighter this time, but also somehow more protective, more bewildered. "By the gods," he murmured into my hair. "My son..."

  I closed my eyes, leaning into his embrace, the scent of pine and his worn clothes familiar now. The ache in my arm was a dull throb. I had survived. I had demonstrated my power. I had spun a convincing lie. But in knocking down those trees, I had also taken my first step out of the shadows and into the spotlight of this new, dangerous world. And I had a feeling that standing out, however much I wished otherwise, was going to be unavoidable.

  Gunnar stared at me for a long moment after my explanation, his expression a complex mix of fear, disbelief, and a dawning, unsettling understanding. He looked from me to the fallen trees, then back again, wrestling with what he had just witnessed and the impossible story I had just told him. The story, the trauma, the desperation… it provided an explanation, however unbelievable, for the impossible power. He wanted to believe it. He needed to believe it was a one-time, trauma-induced surge, not something I could just do.

  Slowly, the fear in his eyes began to recede, replaced by a different emotion. Relief. Followed by something akin to awe, and finally, a profound, heartwarming happiness. He pulled me into another hug, tighter this time, but also somehow more protective, more bewildered. "By the gods," he murmured into his hair, his voice thick with emotion. "My son... you... you have power."

  He pulled back, his hands still resting on my shoulders, his green eyes shining with a mixture of pride and wonder, completely overriding the earlier sadness about the missing mana core. It wasn't magic, the kind of power he understood, the kind the village valued, but it was power nonetheless. Immense power.

  "I... I don't know much about Ki, Nikolai," he admitted, his voice a little shaky but earnest. "It's rare to see it used nowadays. Most people here... we focus on mana. Magic is... well, it's just how things are done. Martial arts and Ki... they fell out of favor a long time ago. It's not like the old tales, son. Back then, they say Brawlers who used Ki, and master Swordsmen, were the heroes. But since magic became something everyone could learn and practice more easily, well... most with talent aim to be Mages, or if they've a mind for a blade too, a Spellblade. Pure Swordsmen are still around, of course, but relying solely on Ki... that's something from the history books for most folk now." He sighed, a hint of regret in his tone for his own lack of knowledge. "I can't teach you techniques, son. I wouldn't even know where to start. But... I do know this much." He looked at my small, physically unimpressive body, then back at my face. "Old tales say that physical training... growing your muscles, building your body... and just growing, aging... that allows one to gain more Ki. To increase their life energy. It's not a limited resource, like the books said. It's tied to you. Your own strength."

  He didn't realize he was telling me something I already knew, something that was the bedrock of my past life's discipline. Physical training. Martial arts. Growing stronger, not just in skill, but in raw physical capacity. It was the path I had walked for decades.

  Physical training. Martial arts training. The words resonated deep within me, clicking into place with the knowledge I already possessed. He was right. That was the way. That was my path in this new world. To build this small, frail body, to temper its fragility, to make it a vessel capable of containing and controlling the immense Ki within. I was already a master of martial arts, my mind a library of techniques, strategies, and principles forged in the brutal crucible of the BFC. But that mastery belonged to my old body. Now, I had to translate that knowledge, adapt it, make it work for this new form.

  My arms might be small, my legs short, but the fundamental principles of leverage, balance, striking mechanics, and conditioning remained the same. I needed to get used to this body, to understand its limits and its potential, to build its muscles and bone to withstand the power I could generate.

  The confusion, the disorientation of the past few days, began to coalesce into a singular, clear purpose. My plan was set. I had my power source – Ki. I had a method for increasing it – physical training and growth. And I had the knowledge of how to fight – a lifetime of martial arts mastery that needed to be re-learned and adapted for this new vessel.

  No mana core? No magic? Fine. Their disbelief, their limited understanding of Ki... it didn't matter. They saw a child with a miraculous, untamed power. I saw a challenge. A path. A way to become strong, not in their world's way, but in my own. Strong enough to survive. Strong enough to protect the fragile, unexpected connection I had found with these strangers who called me son. Strong enough, maybe, to face whatever lay ahead. The training began now.

  The walk back to the house was different this time. The earlier tension, the weight of the missing mana core, had been replaced by a strange, hesitant energy. Gunnar walked beside me, occasionally glancing at me with that same bewildered awe, but also with a newfound, hopeful pride. He didn't fully understand the power he'd just witnessed, but he knew it was significant.

  We entered the small, familiar house. The scent of woodsmoke lingered faintly in the air. Gunnar moved towards the back, where a small counter served as a preparation area, and began to busy himself with preparing a meal. He pulled out a piece of smoked wild rabbit meat, likely caught earlier that day, its rich, savory aroma beginning to fill the room as he sliced it with a sharp knife. Their life here was simple, hard, but grounded in the direct reality of the forest and the bounty it could provide.

  As Gunnar worked, the door opened, and my mother, Freya, stepped inside, her arms laden with bundles of dried herbs and firewood. She paused, her eyes falling on me, then on Gunnar, sensing the unusual atmosphere in the room.

  "Freya," Gunnar said, his voice holding a note of barely contained excitement that cut through his usual calm. He put down his knife. "You won't believe... you won't believe what Nikolai just showed me."

  Freya set down her bundles, her brow furrowing slightly with curiosity. "What is it, Gunnar? What happened?"

  Gunnar recounted the events outside, his words tumbling out faster than usual – the request to see the Ki, the punch, the shockwave, the fallen trees. As he spoke, Freya's expression shifted from curiosity to astonishment, her eyes widening with each detail. When he finished, a radiant smile spread across her face, pushing back the lingering sadness from the mana core news. Excitement, pure and unbridled, shone in her brown eyes.

  "He has power!" she exclaimed, rushing towards me, kneeling down to my level. "Even without a mana core... you have power, little one!" Relief and joy flooded her features.

  But then, Gunnar added the part about how the first punch against the bear had shattered my arm. The excitement in Freya's eyes dimmed instantly, replaced by the familiar shadow of a mother's fierce, protective concern. Her hand reached out, hovering near my recently healed arm, her expression tightening with worry.

  "But... it injured you?" she asked, her voice suddenly soft, hesitant. "That's... that's not good, Nikolai. Power shouldn't... it shouldn't break you like that." Her gaze was serious, searching mine. "You need to figure out how to not make that happen. You understand? You need to control it, so it doesn't hurt you."

  I met her gaze, the adult mind within acknowledging the absolute truth and necessity of her words. Control. It was the next, crucial step. But something else resonated too – the genuine concern in her voice, the protective worry in her eyes. This wasn't just about power; it was about my well-being. From her. My mother.

  "Of course, Mom," I replied, the word feeling both strange and surprisingly natural on my tongue. It felt weird to call her that, to use that intimate, familial term with someone who was, by the truth of my consciousness, a stranger. Yet, the warmth of her concern, the simple love in her gaze, made the word feel… right. Like a key fitting into a lock I hadn't realized was there.

  A wave of relief washed over her face at my agreement. She smiled, a tremulous, loving smile, and gently stroked my hair.

  Soon, the table was set, simple wooden plates laid out. Gunnar served the smoked rabbit, its rich aroma filling the room with the promise of a warm, comforting meal. We sat together – Gunnar, Freya, and me. They asked about my time in the Wildlands, questions I deflected or answered vaguely, leaning heavily on the "memory loss" explanation. But mostly, we just ate, talked about the day, the mundane details of village life.

  And we laughed. Simple, genuine laughter that filled the small house with a warmth that had nothing to do with the hearth. They joked with each other, occasionally including me, their easy affection for one another extending naturally to me.

  It was simple. It was ordinary. It was everything I had never experienced in my previous life. My past had been a solitary climb, meals eaten alone, laughter something heard from distant crowds, never shared at a table with people who cared about me. This was different. This was connection. This was belonging.

  I savored the taste of the smoked rabbit, the simple flavor infinitely better than any elaborate meal I'd had before. I listened to their voices, watched their easy smiles, and felt a warmth spread through me that had nothing to do with Ki or mana. It was the warmth of family. And even with shattered arms and a world I barely understood, I enjoyed this. More than I could ever have imagined.