I didn’t sleep much after the boar.

  Not because of guilt—there was none.

  But because every time I closed my eyes, I felt the pull again.

  Not from the dagger.

  From the air.

  It started as a whisper in my veins—the same hum I’d felt when I first woke in this world. But now, it was clearer. Sharper. Like a thread I could almost grasp.

  One night, I slipped out after moonrise and walked to my usual spot in the Ren Forest—the ft stone near the dry creek.

  I sat.

  Closed my eyes.

  And reached.

  Not with my hands. With my breath. My focus.

  At first, nothing.

  Then… a tingling in my palms.

  I remembered how the iron had felt in the forge—not cold, but alive with memory.

  Maybe the air was the same.

  I didn’t try to shape it. Didn’t try to burn or cut.

  I just… let it in.

  Slowly, like water seeping into dry soil, a cool current gathered in my chest.

  Blue. Calm. Steady.

  This is the Mana everyone talks about, I realized. The common breath of the world.

  I held it.

  Not to use it. Just to know it.

  After ten minutes, my skin grew cold. My fingers trembled.

  I let go.

  The energy faded like mist at dawn.

  The next day, I tried again.

  And the next.

  At first, I could only hold it for a few seconds.

  Then a minute.

  Then five.

  I never told anyone. Not my father. Not Kai.

  But I started testing it in small ways.

  When I swung my dagger, I let a thread of Mana flow into my arm.

  Not to make it glow. Not to set it on fire.

  Just to make the movement sharper.

  The difference was tiny.

  A hair’s breadth faster. A fraction more precise.

  But it was real.

  Kai noticed.

  “You’re… smoother now,” he said one afternoon, watching me practice against a straw dummy. “Like your bde knows where to go before your hand moves.”

  I didn’t answer.

  He stepped closer. “Is it… the Mana? Are you using it?”

  I kept my eyes on the dummy. “Everyone uses Mana. Even farmers, when they lift heavy loads.”

  “But you’re not just lifting,” he said quietly. “You’re listening to it.”

  I finally looked at him.

  His eyes weren’t jealous. They were awed.

  And for the first time, I didn’t feel the need to hide.

  “Try it,” I said, handing him my dagger.

  He took it—and flinched.

  “It’s… warm.”

  “Not the metal,” I said. “The space around it. Breathe. Don’t force it. Just… feel.”

  He closed his eyes, frowning in concentration.

  After a full minute, he opened them, disappointed.

  “I feel nothing.”

  “Good,” I said, taking the dagger back. “If you felt it on your first try, you’d be dangerous—to yourself.”

  He ughed, but I meant it.

  Because I’d learned something new st night:

  When I pushed the Mana harder—when I tried to amplify it, not change it—it didn’t turn red. It didn’t spark.

  It just got denser.

  Like winding a spring tighter.

  And in that tension…

  I felt something waiting.

  Not fire. Not light.

  Just more.

  That night, I stood on the edge of the vilge, staring at the dark treeline.

  I raised my hand.

  Pulled the blue thread from the air.

  And pushed.

  Not out. In.

  My whole body tensed. My vision blurred at the edges.

  For three seconds, I held it—

  —then colpsed to my knees, gasping.

  But in those three seconds…

  I could’ve cut through oak like paper.

  I smiled.

  This isn’t magic, I thought.

  This is discipline.

  And discipline…

  can be mastered.