The more I read the mysterious book, the more uneasy I became.
At first, the feeling was subtle—an itch at the back of my mind, a quiet sense that something was wrong. But as the days passed and I returned to its pages again and again, that unease sharpened into certainty.
This book did not belong to this era.
According to Sister Jean, the incident involving the black shaman had taken place only a few hundred years ago. Yet this book felt far older than that—ancient, even. The hide used for its pages had endured time far too well. The ink had not faded. The handwriting was precise, methodical, almost clinical.
More troubling than its physical age, however, was the nature of its content.
The depth of explanation went far beyond what this world considered common sense. Even advanced knowledge, as described in other books, paled in comparison. This was not the work of a mad shaman experimenting blindly on human bodies.
No.
This was the work of someone who understood what they were doing.
That realization sent a chill through me.
If the knowledge within was so profound, why had it been ignored? Why was it buried among miscellaneous journals, dismissed as taboo nonsense or dark folklore?
The answer revealed itself slowly—and when it did, it left me shaken.
---
People of this era could only comprehend a fraction of the book.
Ten percent, at most.
The explanations were built upon principles that simply did not exist in this world's collective understanding. The author relied heavily on analogies drawn from a technological civilization—concepts so foreign that even highly educated cultivators would struggle to grasp their meaning.
The gap was not one of intelligence.
It was one of context.
As I read further, a bold conclusion formed in my mind—one I resisted at first, then reluctantly accepted.
The author did not come from this world.
One particular passage stood out, searing itself into my thoughts:
> "If the mana heart is the engine of a vehicle, what happens when you install an engine far more powerful than the body can handle? It would be no different from mounting a ship's engine onto a four-wheeled cart."
I stared at the words for a long time.
Anyone born into this world would stumble over the metaphor. Ships, engines, vehicles—such concepts barely existed here in any recognizable form. At best, the analogy would be meaningless.
But to me—
It was painfully clear.
The image formed instantly in my mind, complete and vivid. I understood exactly what the author meant.
And that terrified me.
Because it meant I was not alone.
Someone else—someone like me—had once stood in this world, carrying memories of another civilization.
Another Earth.
---
Weeks slipped by unnoticed.
I became completely absorbed in the book, to the point that I even neglected my mana control training. Sister Jean scolded me more than once, though I could tell she was relieved to see me so focused—so alive.
But she did not know what I was discovering.
Through the book's pages, my understanding of mana deepened at a frightening pace.
If the Mana Heart was an engine, then mana was not merely fuel.
That was the first misconception this world clung to.
Mana was both fuel and output.
When mana was absorbed into the Mana Heart, it was not simply burned away. It was refined—processed, altered, transformed into something uniquely one's own. Attributes such as fire, water, earth, and wind were not inherent elements, but expressions of how mana was refined and structured.
The Mana Heart dictated how mana was converted.
Once refined, mana circulated throughout the body, seeping into flesh, bone, blood, and marrow. Every cell was bathed in it, nourished by it. Over time, those cells adapted, changing at a fundamental level.
Mutating.
Strengthening.
This process reached a critical point during Tier 1 enhancement.
At that stage, each individual cell became stronger, tougher, more efficient than before—capable of storing and releasing energy.
Like a battery.
Not one.
But trillions of them.
That was why a Tier 1 Totem Warrior could overwhelm an ordinary person with laughable ease. It was not simply about strength—it was about structure.
I closed the book slowly, my hands trembling.
This was not speculation.
This was engineering.
At that moment, there was no longer any doubt in my heart.
The author of this book was not a native of this world.
---
Yet the most unsettling revelation was still to come.
Buried deep within the latter half of the book was an explanation of the bond between humans and totems—one that shattered everything I thought I understood.
The connection was not merely ritualistic.
It was biological.
What bound humans to their totems was blood.
Or more precisely, something eerily similar to DNA.
As humans relied on the power of their totems over generations, beast and human gradually became kin. Humanity in this world was no longer purely human—it was a new species altogether, shaped by symbiosis and inheritance.
A slow, deliberate evolution.
That connection was passed down through bloodlines.
It explained why entire tribes shared the same elemental affinity. Why children were born already attuned to a particular attribute. Why even before undergoing enhancement, they could faintly sense mana aligned with their totem.
They were born colored.
From the moment they entered the world.
This realization made my chest tighten.
If I truly came from another world…
Then I did not share that lineage.
I had no inherited bond.
No predetermined attribute.
I was an anomaly.
A foreign organism introduced into a closed system.
Could I even undergo enhancement?
The question gnawed at me relentlessly.
Then, as if the author had anticipated my doubt, a single passage near the bottom of a page caught my eye.
I froze as I read it.
> "What if a human is a blank sheet of paper?
Different colors represent different attributes—red for fire, blue for water.
When the word 'fire' is written upon the paper, it resonates with the world itself, forming a bond so strong that the paper begins to burn."
The metaphor struck me like lightning.
I sat there in silence, the implications unfolding one after another.
Ordinary humans were not blank sheets.
They were already painted at birth.
Their attributes were written into them by blood, lineage, and history.
But me?
I looked down at my hands.
What about someone who was transparent?
Untouched by color.
Unclaimed by any element.
If I truly was a blank page—
Then what would happen when I tried to write upon it?
Would the world accept the ink?
Or would the paper tear apart under the strain?
I closed the book, my heart pounding.
For the first time since arriving in this world, fear crept into my resolve.
But beneath that fear—
There was something else.
Hope.
And the faint, dangerous promise of a path no one else had ever walked.