Lucian stirred awake beneath the cold and rough floor, the air around him heavy with heat and the musty scent of sweat and metal. Afternoon light slanted through the wooden blinds in fragmented lines, dust motes swimming lazily in the beams.
The system's voice echoed softly within Lucian's mind, recounting the events that had occurred earlier that day. "Host, someone knocked on your door this morning while you were unconscious."
He groaned, pressing a hand to his throbbing temple. Leora, probably, he thought.
There was no one who would disrupt him after he had told servants no to do so, Except for Leora.
His jaw ached. His mouth felt like iron and ash. When he shifted his tongue, he tasted the unmistakable bitterness of dried blood, the metallic tang clinging to his gums and teeth like rust on old steel. Slowly, painfully, he reached up and pulled the damp handkerchief from between his lips.
It had been stuffed there last night—his own doing—bitten down hard to silence the cries that had threatened to escape him during the pain. He didn't remember how long he had convulsed, curled up on the floor with agony tearing through his body.
Only that he couldn't risk alerting anyone. So, he'd bitten down, hard, and bled in silence.
He sat up slowly, head pounding, shoulders sore. The handkerchief was dark with dried blood, saliva, and something thicker still. His tongue ran across his teeth—some of them stained black with clotted blood near the roots.
Groaning softly, he stood and began to clean the room. It wasn't just a matter of tidiness. It was ritual, control.
He wiped the sweat from his brow, folded the tattered sheets, and swept the dust away with the precision of someone trying to keep a secret from the world.
Finally, he approached the small clay pot near his bedside and dropped the bloodied handkerchief in. The moment it hit the water, it bled out, crimson blooming through the clear liquid like a rose unfolding in fast motion. A sharp contrast to the silence in the room.
Without hesitation, Lucian reached for the small pouch beside his bed and took out a chunk of crushed charcoal. He sprinkled it into the pot. The red dissolved into shadows, and soon the water turned a deep, pitch black—like ink or poisoned tar.
Only then did he allow himself a breath.
He stepped out of the room, squinting slightly as the afternoon light greeted him. The hallway was quiet, and the floor creaked under his steps as he made his way to the kitchen. There was the smell of barley bread, something rich and smoky simmering in the pots.
He glanced toward the servant.
"I need food," he said, voice rough. "And call Leora to the dining table."
The servant gave a small nod and left without a word.
Lucian entered the dining room and sank into one of the wooden chairs. His arms dropped to the table, the tension in his muscles slowly easing. His fingers tapped in rhythm—an old habit. He felt lightheaded, his stomach hollow.
Then, something struck the back of his head.
Hard.
The world turned sideways. The table rushed up to meet him. Everything went black again, and Lucian collapsed forward with a solid thud, his head hitting the surface with a dull thump.
A sharp gasp cut through the stunned silence.
Leora stood frozen, her hand still in the air, her expression twisted in disbelief.
"This? This... I didn't hit him with full strength," she said, blinking rapidly. "I was just teasing him. What happened?"
Ylva, who had only been assigned to serve Leora the day before by Lucian, had spent the past hours carefully observing her.
She quickly understood that Leora, due to her mental struggles, could easily become overwhelmed in moments of stress.
Knowing this, Ylva kept her tone gentle yet firm as she approached her charge. "Miss," she said, her voice soft but steady, "don't panic. It's possible that he's just teasing you, trying to provoke a reaction. There's no need to let it unsettle you."
Leora's mouth tightened. Her fists clenched.
"Yes, that must be it. This idiot hasn't changed."
But behind her irritation was something uncertain.
She didn't know that Lucian had, in fact, fainted. Again. His consciousness had barely returned before it slipped away once more—but this time, the system reacted in time.
It's cold, artificial voice sliced through the darkness in his mind, shaking him awake before the misunderstanding could deepen.
Lucian's eyes opened slowly. His vision was hazy at first, then focused.
Leora was glaring at him, anger flaring in her eyes, while the nearby servants exchanged anxious glances, unsure what they were witnessing.
"What were you doing in your room?" Leora demanded, voice sharp.
Lucian groaned softly, lifting a hand to rub the back of his aching head. "Nothing. I was just tired from yesterday's walk."
He tried to wave the conversation away, turning toward the kitchen door instead. "I'm very hungry. Bring the food."
But Leora was already winding up again.
"Just because you defeated me yesterday, you think you can skip training? And what exactly did you do yesterday that left you so tired?"
Lucian narrowed his eyes slightly.
If this keeps on, I won't be able to eat in peace.
He gave her a lazy smirk.
"I went to the red-light district and enjoyed myself the whole day. Or do you want more details? Like what I did, and how I did it?"
Leora flushed—anger, embarrassment, something in between. She turned sharply, muttering through gritted teeth.
"You're as shameless as ever. Tomorrow, you'll swing your sword ten thousand times!"
Lucian watched her storm off, his expression calm as ever.
It was an underhanded tactic—but it bought him what he needed: silence.
With the room finally quiet, he tucked into the food like a starving man, letting the warmth restore what little strength he had left. When he finished, he returned to his room with steady steps, exhaustion wrapping around his bones like chains.
The bed welcomed him with a groan. He leaned back, tapped the upper part of his mouth thrice with his tongue, and murmured, "System, what's the report you prepared?"
The room was still, save for the low hum that began to stir in Lucian's mind—the familiar whisper that System could hear me.
"I have completed my analysis," it said, its voice as calm and mechanical as always. "I also ran several simulations based on your current state and memories inherited from the old Lucian."
Lucian leaned back on the bed; one arm draped across his forehead. The air in his room was warm, but a chill traced along his spine as the System continued.
"In this world governed by mana, there are twelve wizard ranks—Rank-1 to Rank-12. Each rank defines the threshold of power and the kind of spells one can wield. But mana is not a single force. It splits into three essential types: Destructive mana, Creation mana, and Balancing mana. To ascend a rank, one must consume three corresponding potions—say, Rank-1 Balancing, Creation, and Destructive mana potions for Rank-1"
Lucian nodded slowly, already familiar with this structure. "I know that much," he muttered.
"Yes. Most who study magic do. But they often misunderstand the deeper nature of mana—its psychological toll. From my scans, I've confirmed something important: you've already consumed all three potions necessary to reach Rank-1 peak that is Creation, Destructive, and Balancing mana potions. You've stabilized and are ready to ascend to Rank-2."
Lucian blinked. That explained why his body felt like it was on the verge of something—like a coiled spring.
"Let's say," he began, "someone only drank one potion. What if they only took the Rank-1 Creation mana potion?"
"That would be reckless," the System replied. "While one can cast magic after consuming any single potion, the first potion must always be the Balancing mana potion. That's an immutable law. Without it, the body reacts violently to mana imbalance."
Lucian sat up now, intrigued. "So, for me to move to Rank-2, I have to consume the Rank-2 Balancing potion first, not Creation or Destructive?"
"Correct. Consuming either of the others first would cause your body to tear itself apart. The rule of mana equilibrium demands that Balancing mana in your system must always be greater than or equal to the average of the other two."
A flicker of unease passed through Lucian. The more he learned, the more fragile this power seemed.
"Alright," he said after a pause. "Then tell me—what's wrong with Leora? What's the cause of her strange behavior lately?"
"She has already consumed two Rank-2 potions—Balancing mana and Creation mana. She's missing the third: Destructive mana."
Lucian frowned, leaning forward. "Why is that a problem?"
"Because mana shapes the mind as much as the body. You, at Rank-1, have absorbed all three potions completely. The negative effects of each mana type cancel each other out, maintaining mental stability. But Leora's mind is off balance."
"So, she needs the Destructive potion to restore equilibrium?"
"Yes. Once she fully absorbs the Rank-2 Destructive mana potion, her mental state will stabilize."
Lucian ran a hand through his hair, frustrated and thought, We're commoners now. Getting our hands on something like that isn't exactly easy.
"Host," the System replied, "You may not remember, but when you signed up for the fighting tournament, the grand prize was a complete set of Rank-2 wizard potions."
Still, that revelation changed everything. A path forward had opened, even if it was paved in risk.
Lucian's eyes widened. "Wait—you can read my thoughts?"
"Firewall already informed you of that. Have you forgotten?"
He grimaced. "Oh, you are right, I haven't fully recovered from yesterday's scan."
He mulled it over for a moment, then asked, "If someone only drank the Rank-1 Balancing potion—nothing else—what kind of mental effects would they suffer?"
"Minor at first," the System answered. "But noticeable. Mood swings, depressive thoughts, and in rare cases, auditory hallucinations—mocking voices, suicidal thoughts. These symptoms worsen dramatically with higher ranks if the other mana types aren't introduced."
Lucian's throat tightened slightly.
"And what kind of magic can they use in that state?"
"Spells related to healing, enchantment, potion-making, and mental manipulation. Supportive arts."
He nodded slowly. "So I've absorbed all three… at Rank-1 I'm safe from mental effects?"
"Correct—for now. But as for higher ranks, I need more data."
Lucian's brow furrowed. "What about the Creation mana? What does it do to a person?"
"It erodes empathy," the System said plainly. "People become emotionally numb, lose their sense of self, and gradually withdraw from relationships. In most cases, it fosters intense laziness and procrastination and it enables one to cast spells related to earth, water, wind, and light elements."
Lucian's thoughts drifted back to Leora. She hadn't shown signs of laziness or detachment… not yet.
"And Destructive mana?"
"It's the opposite," the System continued. "It makes the user emotionally unstable—quick to anger, overly reactive, and impulsive. Critical thinking is impaired, they are easy to manipulate and it enables use of fire, thunder, and dark spells."
Lucian's breath slowed.
"Then why," he asked carefully, "has Leora only shown the mental effects of Balancing mana if she already took the Creation potion?"
"Because the trauma of your family's death is suppressing the symptoms. The emotional shock amplified the effects of the Balancing mana while suppressing the numbness caused by Creation mana. But it won't last forever. Those effects will rise."
His fists clenched. "Why didn't she show symptoms earlier?"
"Rank-2 is a low threshold. Symptoms are subtle at first. But emotional trauma—like the death of one's family—acts as a catalyst. It sent her already unbalanced mind into a tailspin."
Lucian exhaled, nodding slowly. Almost all of his questions had answers now. Almost.
"I've also created a standard for measuring mana levels," the System added. "A numerical model. Would you like to name it?"
Lucian thought for a moment. "Let's just call it MP—Mana Points."
"Accepted. Here is your current mana status."
[Status: Lucian Frostbane]
Age: 17
Balancing Mana: 10 MP
Creation Mana: 10 MP
Destructive Mana: 10 MP
Lucian studied the numbers. Perfect balance—at least for now.
He leaned back onto the bed, the weight of knowledge heavy on his chest but the fatigue heavier still. His eyes began to drift shut.
Outside, the light had started to dim, streaks of orange stretching across the wooden floor. Afternoon was fading into evening.
Sleep came quickly.
He had a tournament to win.
And someone to save.