The howling wind battered the heavy wooden window shutters. The late-autumn chill of the valley seeped through the cracks between the timber, but inside the small cottage—built from rough stone and ancient oak—the air was warm and rich with comforting scents. It was a fragrant blend of dried herbs, woodsmoke from the hearth, and a thick stew of root vegetables and meat simmering gently in a cast-iron pot.
A seven-year-old boy with dark brown hair and clear blue eyes sat in the corner, diligently scrubbing a clay dish. His name was Leo. Or, if one were to go by the hazy memories that occasionally surfaced in his dreams, he had once been known as Liam Taylor—an ordinary young man from Chicago, Illinois, who had met an untimely end due to heart failure in his cramped apartment.
There had been no goddess offering cheat abilities, no floating blue status screen, and no godly power bestowed upon his birth. He had simply opened his eyes as a human infant, abandoned outside the door of a solitary wooden house deep within the quiet forests of an unfamiliar continent.
"Leo, scrub that plate again. The bottom rim still has animal fat clinging to it."
The deep, resonant voice came from a wooden rocking chair by the hearth. An middle-aged man with a graying beard, wearing a dark brown linen robe embroidered with subtle, intricate patterns along the sleeves, was bent over a worktable, writing intently on a piece of parchment with a quill.
This was Edmond—a former scribe and rune-inscriber of the Kingdom of Grayven. He was both the man who had taken Leo in and his sole teacher in this new life.
"Yes, Master Edmond," Leo replied in the common tongue of the realm, known as the Arcadian Vulgate. His voice was clear, carrying the pitch of a child, but his cadence was unusually calm and steady.
Leo wiped the dish carefully using a rectangular cloth dipped in warm ash-water. His memories of an American upbringing granted him a structured way of thinking and patience, but in a medieval world devoid of electricity, machinery, or modern medicine, high-level scientific knowledge was virtually useless. He hadn't been a scientist or an engineer, after all—just a regular humanities student.
"Finished, Master," the boy said, placing the dry, clean plate onto a wooden shelf before walking over to stand beside Edmond's desk.
Edmond paused his writing, blew gently on the wet ink, and let out a soft sigh before turning to the boy. He pointed a calloused finger toward an oil lamp sitting on the table.
"Alright, Leo... Let us review the fundamentals once more today," Edmond said, leaning back into his chair. "Explain to me how 'mana' in the atmosphere operates according to the ancient scripts."
Leo cleared his throat softly and stood with his hands neatly folded in front of him. He closed his eyes, recalling the lessons Edmond had painstakingly taught him over the past two years.
"Mana is not energy generated from within ourselves, Master," Leo began slowly, his voice steady. "Mana is the natural flow of the world itself—the breath of the earth, the heat of fire, the current of water, and the vastness of the air. The physical body of a living creature is merely a conduit, a temporary circuit borrowed to channel that energy. Forcing mana out of one's own body without harmonizing with nature will only strain and rupture one's internal pathways."
Edmond nodded slowly, a look of approval in his eyes. "Correct. And why do we humans find ourselves at a disadvantage compared to other races, such as the Sylvans of the Canopy or the Dwarves of the Kraken Peaks, when it comes to magic?"
"Because of our physical and spiritual structure," Leo answered without hesitation. "Elves are born with a sensory connection to natural mana by instinct, like fish swimming effortlessly in water. Dwarves possess immense physical density and an innate understanding of metals and earth. Humans, however, are born with empty vessels—lacking natural instincts to gather mana. Therefore, we must rely on the 'Language of Command'—runic inscriptions—as a medium to commune with mana."
"Very good..." Edmond smiled faintly through his beard. "Your theoretical grasp is solid, Leo. But knowing how a fish swims does not mean you can swim yourself."
Edmond pointed at the tiny flame flickering inside the glass lamp. "Try it... Close your eyes. Feel the heat emanating from it, not with your hands, but with the flow within your chest. Reach out with your awareness. Greet it. Not as a command, but as a conversation."
Leo took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and focused his mind.
In his previous life, concepts like mental energy or magic were nothing more than fictional tropes in movies. But in this world, it was a tangible force of nature. Yet, Leo had quickly learned that he possessed no extraordinary talent. He did not have a massive mana pool, nor could he summon giant fireballs like the protagonists of fantasy novels.
As he extended his perception outward, all he could feel was a faint, chaotic hum. The mana in the surrounding air drifted like droplets of oil on water. Gathering it into a coherent shape required immense effort.
Leo maintained his concentration, small beads of sweat forming on his forehead. Faint orange specks of mana moved sluggishly, slowly gathering around his right index finger. It flickered, attempting to ignite into a small spark... until finally, with a soft puff, it dissolved into a thin wisp of black smoke.
The boy let out a long breath and opened his eyes, looking at his soot-stained fingertip. "I failed again, Master... I can't hold the shape for more than three seconds."
Edmond showed no disappointment. Instead, he smiled and handed a clean cloth to the boy.
"You didn't fail, Leo. You are simply at the beginning," Edmond said calmly. "You are only seven years old, and you have been training for merely a few years. Human children in the capital rarely even awaken their mana sensitivity until they are ten. The fact that you can draw mana to your finger—even if it ends in smoke—is a meaningful step forward."
The old scribe stood up and walked over to a large wooden bookshelf packed with rolls of parchment and weathered leather-bound books. He pulled out a yellowed map and unrolled it onto the table.
"In this land of Arcadia..." Edmond began, his tone taking on the rhythmic quality of a storyteller, "numerous realms span across the continent. To the north lies the Kingdom of Grayven, where we reside—a land of dense forests and rugged mountains, governed by a council of nobles and the Northern Crown. To the east is the Sylvan Confederacy, the domain of elven tribes and forest folk living in harmony with nature. To the south stretches the Solaris Empire, a land of vast deserts and light magic. And to the west sits the Caron Mercantile League, where gold holds more power than royal bloodlines."
Leo looked down at the map, drawn in blue and red ink over stretched parchment. Mountain ranges, winding rivers, and city crests covered the surface. It was a world vastly larger than he had imagined.
"And what about the other races, Master? Aside from humans, elves, and dwarves?" Leo asked, genuine curiosity gleaming in his eyes.
"Oh, there are many..." Edmond chuckled softly. "The Orc clans of the western steppes—they are not the mindless savages the stories in the capital make them out to be, but a people bound by a strict code of honor. The Avians of the Aker Peaks, the beastkin hidden within the deep wilds, and various half-human tribes. Every race interacts with mana in their own way. We humans may be the weakest in physical strength and natural mana reserves... but we possess one thing that few others can match."
"What is that?"
"The capacity to adapt, structure, and pass down knowledge," Edmond said, tapping his finger against the runic manuscript. "The art of runic magic is not about coercing nature; it is about building a language to negotiate with it. If you understand its logic deeply enough, even with a small amount of mana, you can achieve remarkable things."
Leo looked down at his hands. The initial frustration he felt began to give way to quiet determination. He was not a chosen hero gifted with overwhelming power. He was an ordinary child in a medieval world, whose days consisted of washing dishes, chopping firewood, and tending the hearth. Yet, his modern perspective, combined with patience and Edmond's guidance, would serve as his foundation to grow step by step.
"Master," Leo said, standing up straight. "May I try igniting the lamp again?"
Edmond looked at the boy. The blue in Leo's eyes reflected the warm glow of the fireplace—not with reckless ambition, but with steady curiosity and persistence.
"You may..." Edmond smiled. "But first, fetch another load of firewood from outside. The northern wind will pick up tonight. If the stew goes cold, tomorrow's lesson ends early."
"Right away, Master!"
The boy pulled on his old leather vest, wrapped his cloak tightly around his shoulders, and opened the heavy wooden door to face the crisp evening air. The cold wind bit at his face, but it only served to clear his mind.
His second life in this world was moving forward slowly and quietly, and Leo was ready to take it one day at a time.
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