Days turned into weeks.
And though his body was small, fragile, and wrapped in soft cloth, Aeron Nightveil's mind was awake.
The cries of a newborn no longer came from panic. They were calculated responses—tiny protests to hunger, cold, or discomfort.
But none of that truly bothered him.
What gripped him now… was the air.
There was something in it.
It wasn't wind, nor warmth, nor sound.
It was mana.
Like invisible threads, softly dancing in the space around him. It tickled his skin and pulsed gently against his thoughts. Not chaotic—no. It had rhythm. Flow. Purpose.
So this is the energy of this world…
At first, it was like trying to watch stars through fog. But each day, the fog lifted a little. He could sense warmth from his mother's hand… and the cool tingle of mana laced through the fire in the hearth.
It was everywhere.Even in people.
Especially in one.
A face leaned over him—gentle brown eyes, hair like strands of honey, a smile that made the room brighter.
She looked older than him by a few years, maybe seven or eight. Her laugh was sunshine. Her voice, always soft.
"Good morning, baby brother," she whispered, tickling his belly. "Sleep well?"
Her name was Lyra.
His sister.
She had taken it upon herself to become his protector, entertainer, and nursemaid—all in one. When their parents worked in the fields or bartered in the village square, Lyra stayed home, sitting beside him and humming old lullabies.
He liked her presence.
Even as a reincarnated soul once destined for greatness, Aeron found comfort in her warmth.
Sometimes she told stories. Not the kind found in books, but village tales—about forest spirits, trickster beasts, and glowing butterflies that granted wishes.
He listened.
Not for the tales, but for the patterns. The way she spoke of "the Flow," how "mana listened when hearts were true," or how certain lakes whispered at night.
Maybe myths carry fragments of truth here, too.
—
One rainy afternoon, Lyra sat by the window while their mother mended cloth nearby.
Aeron lay in his small cradle, pretending to nap.
Now's as good a time as any…
He closed his eyes. Focused.
Breath in.Stillness.
He felt for the mana again—not with his body, but with something else. A will. A pull.
And this time… it responded.
Tiny sparks. Like golden dust swirling around him. Only faintly. But they moved.
Can I… guide it?
He reached. Mentally. Slowly. Carefully.
One thread curled toward him, then fizzled out.
Another hovered, wavering like a flame.
It's like coaxing a wild animal.
Too forceful, and it scattered.
Too gentle, and it ignored him.
But he didn't give up. Days passed. He tried again and again—during naps, during feeding, when left alone under the shade tree outside.
Each time, he grew closer.
Until, one night…
A single strand of mana wrapped around his fingertip like a ribbon of moonlight.
He didn't move.
He just watched it flicker… then dissolve into his skin.
And in that moment—just for an instant—his body felt weightless.
Empowered.
Alive.
—
Weeks passed.
He grew faster than expected. He could now sit up, crawl, and even babble words—not too clearly, but enough to cause his parents to beam with joy.
"Smart like his father," his mother said.
"Or trouble like his sister," his father teased.
Lyra stuck her tongue out.
Their home, though modest, was warm and full of laughter. A small cottage near the edge of Elaren, a sleepy farming village in the eastern province of Caeloria.
People knew each other here. Talked. Shared stories. Helped raise each other's children.
And yet… even here, beneath the peace, Aeron noticed things.
The way birds fell silent at nightfall.
The glances old men shared when talking about the capital.
The worn sword hanging above the fireplace, never mentioned, never touched.
This world hides more than it shows.
One morning, as the dew still clung to the grass, Lyra dragged him outside into the garden patch.
He was wobbling on his legs now, clinging to her for support.
"Come on, Aeron!" she giggled. "Time to learn to walk!"
He grumbled softly. But inside, he was analyzing.
Balance. Muscle response. Mana flow within the limbs... fascinating.
He took a step. Then another. Fell.
Laughed.
And tried again.
Each stumble taught him something.
But more than that—it taught Lyra to be proud of him.
And somehow, he liked that.
—
Later that night, as he lay under the moonlight, feeling mana drift lazily through the open window, a thought struck him.
If I can attract mana... can I shape it?
He reached out—not with hand, but will.
This time, he tried drawing it in.
Not forcing. Not pulling.
But inviting.
A breath. A whisper in the mind.
And the mana came.
It gathered above his palm, faint and glowing.
For a second—it pulsed.
Then—
A spark.
It fizzled into smoke, but he had done it.
Something had begun.
—
That night, as he drifted off, a distant voice echoed in his dreams.
Not the same ancient one that reincarnated him. This was quieter. Closer.
Feminine. Almost soothing.
"The fracture is awake."
"The flames will stir again."
He awoke sweating, heart racing.
Lyra leaned over from her mat, yawning.
"You okay?"
He blinked. Then… smiled.
He didn't know what lay ahead.
But he had family. He had peace—for now.
And he had mana.
The world may have forgotten the myth that once shook realms.
But Aeron Nightveil would rise again.
In his own time.
On his own terms.
—
Chapter 3 End