Kairo learns two important truths about magic that morning.
First: mana has moods.
Second: those moods really don't appreciate being poked repeatedly, skeptically, and with scientific intent.
He squats in the narrow alley behind the workshop, back against cold stone, a broken slate balanced across his knee. Charcoal dust stains his fingers black, grinding into the creases of his skin like evidence he can't wash away. The air smells faintly of metal and damp stone—normal for Matra—but the mana around him feels… off. Not hostile. Not calm either.
Restless.
From the outside, he looks like any other poor apprentice wasting time doodling runes he barely understands.
From the inside—
'That line should not be vibrating.'
The rune he's just drawn trembles subtly, as if reality itself is second-guessing the design.
Kairo leans back, eyes narrowing.
"…Huh."
He waits. Counts his breaths. Lets the mana settle.
Then he redraws the exact same rune. Same size. Same proportions. Same stroke order. He even applies the same pressure, slow and deliberate.
Nothing happens.
No glow. No vibration. No response.
He stares at it.
Draw three: a faint glow, weak and unfocused.
Draw four: brighter, tighter.
Draw five—
Crack.
The slate splits neatly down the middle with a dry snap.
Kairo freezes.
A heartbeat passes. Then another.
He exhales slowly, unclenching his fingers.
'Okay. So we've established one thing.'
He picks up the broken slate pieces, examining the fracture.
'Magic is not deterministic.'
From a third-person view, the boy is unnervingly calm. No panic. No curses. Just quiet inspection, like a craftsman analyzing a failed tool instead of a near-accident.
Most apprentices would've celebrated the stronger glow.
Most mages would've blamed faulty materials.
Kairo doesn't do either.
He draws again—slower this time. Not changing the rune's shape, but his approach. He focuses on the act itself: the movement of his hand, the resistance of the slate, the moment the line begins and ends.
The mana responds differently.
Not stronger.
Cleaner.
'…That's feedback.'
The thought sends a shiver up his spine.
He swallows and tries again, deliberately thinking nothing. Just muscle memory.
The rune activates weakly.
Then he redraws it, this time imagining reinforcement not as "hardness," but as continuity. Holding. Persisting.
The glow steadies.
'Intent matters,' he realizes. 'More than shape.'
That shouldn't be true.
Everything he's been taught says runes are fixed constructs—static symbols that channel mana in predefined ways. You draw them correctly, they work. You draw them wrong, they don't.
But what he's seeing—
'—is not static.'
By midday, the alley floor is littered with slate fragments and half-smudged charcoal lines. Kairo's knees ache. His fingers are numb. A dull pressure has settled behind his eyes, like someone gently pressing a thumb into his skull.
He ignores it.
From the outside, nothing about this scene looks impressive. No sparks. No explosive feedback. Just repetition so obsessive it borders on unhealthy.
Rune. Observe. Adjust. Fail. Repeat.
He mutters under his breath.
"Why does everyone write this like a stamp?"
He redraws the rune exactly as shown in manuals.
It works.
Barely.
The glow flickers and fades quickly.
'Reliable,' he thinks. 'And mediocre.'
The realization annoys him more than it should.
He sits back, staring at the fading lines.
Magic here is standardized. Simplified. Runes are taught as shapes to copy, not ideas to explore. Power is measured in mana quantity, not interpretation.
It's efficient.It's safe.
It's also… limiting.
Kairo exhales and rubs his face.
'This feels wrong,' he thinks. 'Like reading only the first letter of every word and pretending you understand the sentence.'
He redraws the rune again.
This time, he lets his thoughts drift—not to the rune, but to a sound. A syllable that has been hovering at the edge of his mind since yesterday. Not remembered consciously. Not recalled like a spell.
Felt.
Sa.
He doesn't say it aloud yet. Just lets the shape of the sound exist in his mind.
The charcoal line sharpens.
The mana condenses.
The air tightens.
Kairo's breath catches as the glow intensifies—focused, restrained, precise.
Then the pressure behind his eyes spikes.
Hard.
He jerks back, heart pounding, and the rune collapses.
'Whoa—nope. Too far.'
From the third-person view, the mana density spikes for a fraction of a second before dispersing harmlessly. Anyone sensitive nearby would feel it and frown, unsure why a basic reinforcement rune just behaved like it had opinions.
Kairo presses his palm to his temple, breathing through the pain.
'Okay. So that's new.'
He laughs weakly.
'Magic reacts to sound concepts. Because of course it does.'
He forces himself to stop.
For ten whole minutes.
Which might be the hardest part so far.
He drinks water, washes the charcoal from his hands, and deliberately does nothing. The headache fades from sharp to dull, settling into an unpleasant throb.
'Mental fatigue,' he notes. 'Not mana exhaustion.'
Interesting and concerning.
When he resumes, he's more careful.
Short sessions. Fewer attempts. Clear intention before each draw.
He whispers the syllable this time. Softly.
"Sa."
The rune stabilizes beautifully.
No backlash. No tremor. Just clean activation.
Kairo stares at it, a slow grin spreading across his face.
'Okay,' he thinks. 'That wasn't luck.'
He repeats it.
Same result.
Again.
Same result.
The grin turns into a quiet, disbelieving laugh.
From the outside, he looks exhausted but oddly pleased—like someone who's just solved a puzzle no one else noticed was broken.
That evening, he spreads his notes across the workshop floor.
Scraps of paper. Slate shards. Diagrams drawn and redrawn. Lines connect observations, arrows pointing to revisions made hours later.
This isn't talent.
This is obsession.
He documents everything:
Stroke order variations Intent alignment Mental state during activation Mana flow smoothnes
Patterns begin to emerge—not clean ones, but consistent ones.
Magic responds.Not just to shape.
To meaning.
'This is programming,' he thinks again, more seriously this time. 'Low-level, poorly documented programming.'
He snorts softly.
'And everyone else is just copy-pasting code without reading it.'
As night deepens, exhaustion finally wins. His vision blurs—not from mana, but from sheer cognitive overload. He sets the charcoal down with deliberate care.
'Enough. Before I accidentally delete myself.'
He lies back against the wall, staring at the dim ceiling.
From the outside, the workshop is quiet. Normal.
From the inside, his mind races.
'So magic isn't just energy,' he realizes. 'It's language.'
That thought settles into place with unsettling ease.
A faint flicker interrupts his vision.
A translucent interface blinks into existence—unstable, half-formed, like it's not entirely sure it should be there.
[Genesis System — Log Pending]
[Conceptual variance detected]
[Observational mode active]
Kairo blinks.
Once.
Twice.
The interface vanishes.
"…Rude," he mutters.
But he's smiling.
Because for the first time since coming to this world, something feels right.
Not easy.Not safe.Right.