Strength is obvious when it wants to be seen.
It breaks things. It leaves marks. It makes noise and waits for applause, or fear, or both. In my previous life, strength meant long hours, louder voices, tighter deadlines. It meant being the last one to leave the office and pretending that meant something.
Here, I'm learning a different definition.
I wake before dawn, not because I planned to, but because my body decides it's ready. The ache in my muscles has softened into something familiar, like an old bruise you stop noticing unless you press on it. The room is still dark, my family breathing in a steady rhythm that feels like an anchor.
'Okay,' I think. 'We're doing this again.'
Not heroics. Just another day.
Outside, Matra is wrapped in a thin fog that makes everything feel closer and farther at the same time. Sounds travel oddly—footsteps echo too loud, then vanish. The city looks almost peaceful like this, as if it's trying on a different personality before the sun forces it back into honesty.
I move carefully, not because I'm fragile, but because careful has become a habit.
My feet know where to land now. I don't look down as often. The ground feels… cooperative. Like it's stopped trying to surprise me.
'Wild,' I think. 'All I had to do was stop fighting it.'
At the well, the morning crowd is thin.
A woman fills her jars in silence. An older man mutters to himself while adjusting a broken handle. No one rushes. No one pushes. It's an unspoken agreement: early hours belong to people who are tired of conflict.
I fill my bucket and lift it smoothly.
No spill.
No strain.
Just weight, acknowledged and managed.
'If this were Earth,' I think, 'this would be a productivity breakthrough article.'
On the way back, I take note of small things.
Which stones stay damp longest. Which walls radiate warmth even before the sun rises. Where the fog thickens and thins.
'Patterns,' I think. 'Everything leaves patterns.'
Mana sits underneath all of it like a second city no one bothers naming. I feel it constantly now—not pressing, not pulling—just present, like background radiation you stop noticing until you learn what it is.
I don't touch it.
I respect it.
The system doesn't comment.
Which, at this point, feels like praise.
Back home, my father tests his knee again.
This time, he makes it halfway across the room without stopping. The effort shows on his face, jaw tight, but there's no sharp wince.
"That's better," he says quietly.
My mother pretends not to hear, but her hands pause for just a second before resuming their work.
Selene claps.
Lio watches.
'That's the hierarchy,' I think. 'One celebrates. One records.'
Midday brings heat and impatience.
The city grows louder, sharper. People move faster, tempers shorter. I keep my head down and my pace steady, helping where I can without drawing attention.
An argument breaks out near the market—two men shouting over a price neither of them can really afford. A crowd gathers. Someone shoves someone else.
I don't stop.
Not because I don't care.
Because I've learned that not every problem is solved by proximity.
'Pick your battles,' I think. 'And sometimes pick distance.'
In the afternoon, I return to the old wall.
Not out of routine.
Out of curiosity.
I sit with my back against the stone and let my breathing slow naturally. I don't close my eyes this time. I watch light shift across dust motes, feel the heat of the stone seep into my back.
Mana pools here more densely. I can tell without trying. It presses gently against my awareness, like a question waiting to be asked.
I don't answer.
A faint pressure builds behind my eyes.
I ease back.
'Almost,' I think. 'Still counts.'
The pressure fades.
I smile faintly.
The system stirs, just enough to be felt.
[Observation Logged]
[Host demonstrates sustained restraint]
[Note: Restraint correlates with stability retention]
'You're really into this,' I think. 'Ever considered a compliment?'
[No Response]
Consistent.
Evening settles with the usual mix of fatigue and relief.
Dinner is quiet, but there's an ease to it now that wasn't there before. My father eats without bracing himself. My mother doesn't apologize for the portions. Selene hums to herself, inventing melodies no one else understands.
Lio watches me over his bowl.
"You don't rush," he says finally.
I glance at him. "You keep saying that."
"Because you don't," he replies. "Even when things get loud."
'Especially then,' I think.
"Rushing makes mistakes," I say aloud. "Mistakes cost more than patience."
He nods slowly, absorbing it.
'I hope you remember this,' I think. 'And also forget it when you need to be reckless.'
That night, I lie awake longer than usual.
Not because I'm afraid.
Because my mind won't stop cataloging.
The last few days replay themselves—not as memories, but as data. What worked. What didn't. Where I felt strongest. Where I felt closest to losing control.
'Interesting,' I think. 'Stability isn't passive. It's maintained.'
That realization feels important.
The system offers one more quiet entry.
[Behavioral Pattern: Consistent]
[Risk Profile: Reduced]
I exhale slowly.
"So," I whisper, "I'm officially less of a liability."
[No Response]
I grin into the darkness anyway.
Before sleep finally claims me, I make one last adjustment to the way I think about strength.
'I don't need to be noticed,' I think.
'I need to be intact.'
Because attention invites pressure.
Pressure invites mistakes.
And in a city like Matra, mistakes don't get second chances.
When I finally drift off, my dreams are simple.
Not power.
Not fire.
Just walking.
And not falling.