Mana was the ingredient. The mind was the furnace, and the soul was the mold.
Tonight, Sage had been forging nonstop, shaping flames, winds, and lightning while monsters clawed at him relentlessly.
The mana liquid could refill his reserves, but it couldn't instantly restore the mental sharpness he had exhausted. His thoughts felt sluggish now, as if they were wading through thick syrup.
A faint throb pulsed behind his temples. His spirit felt strained and stretched thin, like a rope that had been pulled too hard for too long. This was the hidden cost of being a mage.
A knight could collapse from physical exhaustion; a mage could crumble under mental fatigue. When the mind broke mid-cast, death wasn't just possible, it became likely.
Sage gazed up at the sky.
