I thought about how to approach training. If I was going to build something sustainable, I needed a way to evaluate people—to understand who I could trust and who would wield power responsibly.

  I scanned through my abilities, searching for a solution. Then I smiled.

  Healing and the Stance of the Leaf.

  Simple, foundational skills. If I started with those, I could observe how people used them, how they handled power, and whether they had the right temperament. If someone misused what I taught them—or if they weren’t ready—I would know before giving them anything stronger.

  That was my plan. Teach the basics and watch carefully.

  After tending to my garden in the morning—checking the herbs, reinforcing the soil with a pulse of magic—I stepped into the training area I had set up behind my shop. The dirt was packed firm, the open space wide enough for movement drills.

  I took a deep breath and started practicing the Stance of the Leaf, moving through its natural progression. It was deceptively simple—fluid shifts in weight, footwork designed to flow with momentum rather than against it.

  At first, only a few people gathered to watch, mostly curious onlookers. But before long, a group of kids joined in, their excitement infectious. They weren’t old enough to be fighters yet, but their eagerness made them perfect test students. If they could pick up the basics, then anyone could.

  I started from the beginning.

  "This is the first step—the Swaying Leaf."

  The kids watched with wide eyes as I moved, demonstrating how to shift weight effortlessly, keeping centered yet agile, focusing on reaction speed and evasion.

  Then I felt it—the flow of magic spreading outward, connecting me to the small group in front of me.

  It wasn’t as deep as the bond I shared with Thor and Loki, but it was similar. A weaker connection, a shared focus. As I guided them through the movements, I realized I could nudge them mentally, making small corrections to their form.

  The moment of realization was cut short by a sharp pull on my mana. My reserves drained rapidly, the connection consuming more energy than I had expected.

  I could maintain the link, but not for long.

  After a few more practice runs, I finally called an end to the session, stepping back and letting my mana recover.

  The moment I stopped, the kids erupted with excitement.

  “That was amazing, Mr. Gavrin!”

  “That was so cool!”

  “I got a new skill!”

  “Me too!”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Really? What did you get?”

  One of the boys beamed. "Leaf on the Wind!"

  Another girl grinned. "Gliding Step!"

  “Me too!”

  “No fair! I wanted Gliding Step!”

  I chuckled, watching them chatter excitedly, already testing out their new abilities with clumsy but eager movements. It was working—they were learning, and the system was recognizing their progress.

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  I had expected the training to help them understand movement—but unlocking actual skills? That was something else entirely.

  One of the younger kids looked up at me, eyes full of hope. "When can you teach us again, Mr. Gavrin?"

  I paused, thinking about my mana reserves, about how much energy I could afford to spend on this without wearing myself down.

  Then I smiled. "Soon. But remember—practice what you've learned today. Master the Swaying Leaf first, and then we’ll move on."

  They nodded eagerly, scattering off to keep practicing, while I sat down to catch my breath.

  As the kids ran off, still buzzing with excitement over their new skills, I took a seat on a flat rock near the training area, closing my eyes and focusing on my breathing. I needed to recover my mana. The connection I had formed while teaching had drained me more than I expected, and I needed to learn how to balance my energy expenditure if I was going to keep this up.

  The sounds of Fairhope carried on around me—the distant chatter of townsfolk, the rhythmic pounding of a hammer from the blacksmith’s shop, the rustling of the trees in the light afternoon breeze. It was calming, steady, something I could anchor myself to as I slipped into meditation.

  I let out a slow breath, pulling my awareness inward. Mana wasn’t just a resource—it was a flow, a current within me, tied to the world around me. I had pushed too much of it outward, stretching my connection beyond what I could handle. Now, I had to draw it back, settle it, and restore my reserves.

  I focused on the air moving in and out of my lungs, letting go of tension with each exhale. The key to meditation wasn’t just stillness—it was presence. Feeling the weight of my body against the rock, the way my breath expanded my chest, the steady rhythm of my pulse.

  I opened myself to the land around me, letting my senses drift. The earth was alive, humming with quiet energy. The trees breathed, slow and steady, their roots deep, their branches swaying. The wind carried whispers, not words, but a sensation of motion, of change.

  Bit by bit, my mana began to replenish, like a reservoir refilling after being drained. I could feel it pooling in my core, the warmth of it spreading through my limbs.

  I was so focused on the process that I almost didn’t notice the approaching footsteps.

  Opening my eyes, I saw a woman standing a few feet away, hesitating as if unsure whether she should interrupt. She was one of the kids’ mothers, probably in her late twenties or early thirties, with soft brown hair pulled into a loose braid and warm hazel eyes. She carried herself with quiet confidence, but there was a hint of uncertainty in the way she shifted her weight.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you,” she said, offering a small smile. “I just… wanted to say thank you. For teaching them.”

  I waved off her concern. “It’s no trouble. They’re quick learners.”

  She hesitated, glancing at the spot where I was sitting. “What are you doing?”

  “Meditating,” I said simply.

  She tilted her head. “To regain mana?”

  I nodded. “It helps restore balance. Keeps me from burning myself out.”

  Her expression shifted, something thoughtful behind her eyes. “Could you… teach me?”

  That caught me off guard. Most people were interested in practical skills—combat, healing, something tangible. Meditation wasn’t something I expected someone to ask for.

  Still, I gestured to the space next to me. “Sure. Sit down.”

  She lowered herself onto the grass, mirroring my posture, though she fidgeted a little. “I’ve never done this before.”

  “That’s fine,” I said. “It’s not about doing it perfectly. Just close your eyes and focus on your breathing.”

  She did as I instructed, taking a slow, deep breath, then letting it out unsteadily.

  “Relax,” I said. “Don’t force it. Just breathe naturally.”

  She exhaled again, this time softer.

  “Now, pay attention to the way the air moves in and out. The way your chest rises and falls. The way the ground feels beneath you.”

  She nodded slightly. I could tell she was still too aware of herself, too focused on whether she was doing it right.

  “Meditation isn’t about emptying your mind,” I continued. “It’s about being present. If your thoughts wander, that’s fine. Just notice them and let them go. Bring your attention back to your breath.”

  She shifted again but didn’t open her eyes. “And this helps with mana?”

  I nodded, even though she couldn’t see it. “Yes. But it does more than that. It helps you control energy flow, makes your abilities more efficient. If you burn through too much at once, you end up drained. Meditation helps regulate that.”

  She was quiet for a long moment, her breathing growing steadier, more natural. Her shoulders loosened, and I could feel a small shift in the air around her—nothing dramatic, but something subtle, like a calm settling into place.

  Eventually, she opened her eyes and looked at me with something like wonder. “That… actually felt nice.”

  I smiled. “Good. Keep practicing, and it’ll get easier.”

  She returned the smile, a little sheepish. “I’ll try. Oh—I never introduced myself. Mira. My son was the one who got ‘Leaf on the Wind.’”

  I gave a small nod. “Glad to meet you, Mira.”

  She hesitated again, then stood. “I’ll let you get back to it. Thanks again, Gavrin.”

  I watched as she walked away, thoughtful.

  The training had only just started, but I had a feeling she wouldn’t be the last to ask for more than just combat lessons.