From that day on, Sylas rarely left the house.
To his family, it didn't seem unusual at first. He had never been the outgoing type. Most days, he stayed in his room reading or helping with small chores when asked.
Now, he simply had a reason.
Every morning before sunrise, he would sit cross-legged on the floor and begin breathing exercises. Slow, controlled inhales. Long exhales. He adjusted his heartbeat until it felt steady and calm.
Only then would he draw in the smallest trace of mana.
At first, it hurt every time.
The mana would enter his body and scatter immediately, like water poured onto cracked stone. The dull ache beneath his skin became something he learned to endure. He never forced it.
That was the key difference.
Modern mages pushed mana through their pathways, relying on structure. Rin let it seep into muscle and nerve instead, allowing his body to adapt slowly. After a few days, the pain lessened slightly.
After a week, he noticed something more important. The mana no longer scattered as violently as before. It still didn't circulate properly, but it lingered longer inside his body before dispersing. His muscles felt warmer during training, almost energized.
His physical condition began improving as well. He added basic exercises to his routine. Slow push-ups. Squats. Isometric holds. Nothing extreme — just enough to build foundational strength without exhausting his fragile body.
At first, he could barely complete a few repetitions. By the end of the second week, he could finish several sets without collapsing.
His mother noticed the change.
"You've been exercising?" she asked one evening during dinner.
Sylas nodded. "Just a little."
His father looked mildly surprised but didn't comment much. Physical training wasn't uncommon, even for children who couldn't use magic.
The conversations were brief. He still kept mostly to himself. He wasn't avoiding them out of dislike. It was simply easier this way. Less attention meant fewer questions.
Inside, however, progress was steady. By the third week, he began the second phase. Nerve conditioning. Once his breathing stabilized, he guided slightly denser strands of mana through specific areas — primarily along his spine and chest. The moment discomfort rose beyond control, he stopped.
Lightning mana was not yet usable, but ambient mana carried traces of all elements. He used that faint stimulation to strengthen tolerance.
His hands trembled often afterward. Some nights, he layed in bed with his nerves buzzing faintly under his skin.
But the tremors gradually decreased. Then came the most delicate part. Reconstruction. Rather than repairing the old pathways directly, Rin began forming new micro-channels.
Mana naturally followed the path of least resistance. By repeatedly guiding it along specific routes — from his lungs to his chest, from chest to lower abdomen — he encouraged faint currents to carve fresh lines through reinforced tissue.
It was slow. Painful. But controlled. Unlike before, the mana didn't scatter completely. Some of it began pooling faintly in his lower abdomen.
Not enough to call a core. But enough to notice. At the end of the fourth week, something changed. During his morning session, after nearly an hour of steady breathing and controlled intake, he felt resistance in his lower abdomen.
Not pain. Pressure.
He paused his breathing and focused inward. The mana wasn't dispersing. It was condensing.
Very slightly. Very slowly. He didn't rush it. Compression required patience. Forcing it too quickly would cause backlash and undo everything.
Minute by minute, he allowed the mana to gather. His breathing remained even. His heartbeat steady. The faint pool of energy tightened inward.
Then—
A subtle shift. The scattered presence inside him aligned. It wasn't large. It wasn't powerful.
But it was stable. A core. Small. Dense. Real. Sylas opened his eyes. He exhaled slowly, a thin layer of sweat covering his skin. Modern standards would call this Rank 1. But it was different. Unlike the hollow cores most beginners formed, this one felt compact. Solid. Every strand of mana within it was tightly compressed.
He tested it carefully. Instead of pain, the mana responded smoothly. His pathways — or rather, the new ones he had carved — held. A faint smile appeared on his face.
Four weeks. In this era, forming a core usually took months, sometimes years. And that was with intact pathways. He stood up slowly. This body was still weak.
Still thin. But no longer powerless. For the first time since waking up in this world, Sylas felt something close to certainty.
....
That night, after everyone had gone to sleep, Sylas locked his door. The room was quiet. A faint breeze slipped through the window. He sat down on the floor and closed his eyes. Forming a core was only the beginning. Now came the real test.
Lightning.
In this era, elemental affinity was usually discovered during early training. Most children learned their element once their core stabilized. Fire, water, wind, earth — those were common.
Lightning was rare. Not because it was stronger. Because it was harder to control. Sylas inhaled slowly. His new core rotated gently in his lower abdomen. Small, but dense. Stable. He reached inward and guided a thin strand of mana out from the core. Normally, mana inside a core was neutral until shaped by technique.
But the moment it moved through his pathways, he felt it change. Sharpen. Tighten. His nerves reacted instantly. A faint tingling spread along his arm. So it's still lightning. That confirmed it. Affinity wasn't tied to the body.
It was tied to the soul.
Carefully, he directed the mana toward his right index finger. His heart rate increased slightly. He slowed his breathing. Steady. Too much output would damage his freshly reconstructed channels. Too little, and nothing would happen. He compressed the mana just before it reached his fingertip.
For a brief second, nothing happened.
Then—
A tiny spark flickered at the tip of his finger. It lasted less than a heartbeat. A soft cracking sound followed. And then it vanished. Sylas' arm immediately went numb. He lowered it slowly, clenching and unclenching his fingers.
Pain followed a moment later. Not sharp — more like internal soreness. His nerves were overstimulated. He checked his core. It had lost only a small amount of mana.
Good. No instability. He looked at his fingertip. A faint black mark remained where the spark had formed.
He let out a quiet breath.
"It works."
But it was unstable. The moment the mana left his body, it accelerated too quickly. His pathways could handle internal flow for now, but external discharge was a different matter.
Lightning wasn't meant to linger. It was meant to strike. That meant he needed better control over release timing and density. He raised his hand again. This time, he reduced the output by half.
Slower circulation. Less compression. Another spark formed. Weaker. But more stable.
It flickered for almost two seconds before fading. His arm still tingled, but the numbness wasn't as intense. Progress. Sylas stopped there.
Pushing further tonight would only cause unnecessary damage. He flexed his fingers again.
In his previous life, lightning had answered him like a natural extension of his will. He could call down strikes that split the earth.
Now he could barely produce a spark. But that didn't frustrate him. If anything, it confirmed something important.
The foundation was correct. His soul still resonated with lightning. His core responded naturally to it.
And most importantly— His reconstructed pathways hadn't collapsed. He stood up and walked to the window.
Outside, the town was peaceful. A few distant mana lights glowed along the streets. Somewhere far away, a mage was probably practicing a basic fire spell. No one would suspect that in this small house, a lightning mage had just taken his first step.
Sylas looked down at his hand. A faint static sensation still lingered beneath his skin.
"This time," he murmured quietly, "I'll make it stronger."
Because lightning wasn't just about destruction. It was about precision.
And he had all the time in the world.