"What?"
"Is it possible for me to be like them?"
"Yes. It wasn't possible until now only because you never asked for it," the voice replied.
Icariel stiffened. A chill slid down the back of his neck like a blade made of breath.
It was true.
Back in Mjull, he'd always been stronger than most village children—but he'd never cared. During hunts, he'd been safe. Galien, the superhuman, had always been nearby. There was no need to suffer. No reason to shed blood for strength when the jaws of death never bit.
Why chase power when the world never chased him?
Even someone obsessed with not dying—like Icariel—didn't bleed for strength when the world gave him safety for free.
"It makes sense," the boy muttered, curled inside the cave like a wound trying to close. Night had fallen. The silence around him was endless—deafening in how little it cared.
Then the thought struck him like a nail driven into bone.
"Hey," he said aloud. "You said it's possible to become a mage, a superhuman, or a swordmaster."
"Yes," the voice answered. "I said that."
"But how?" Icariel demanded. "I could understand becoming a swordmaster through hellish training. But the other two? I'm sixteen. The age of awakening for superhumans is fourteen. And mages… they're born with mana pouring out of their bones. I barely had any. I've refined what little I had—that's it."
A pause.
Then the voice asked,
"Do you know the difference between others and you?"
Icariel waited, breath caught in the web between his ribs.
"You have me."
A jolt bloomed in his chest, like a second heartbeat—unnatural and sudden.
"The reason you never became one until now is because you never truly wanted it. Or, like I said… you never asked. Ever since you were small, you only asked for one thing."
"Help me survive."
"And that's exactly what I did."
"If you want more now… I can help you take it."
Icariel stared into the dark of the cave. It pressed against him like the inside of a grave.
"I'm really curious," he whispered. "Who are you?"
A silence followed—long, thoughtful. Not empty. Listening.
"Sometimes you talk like something fixed. Cold. Like stone. Other times, like a person. These days… you're speaking more than ever."
"Because you need more advice now than before."
"Yeah… yeah, that's true," Icariel murmured.
He breathed out, slow and hoarse.
"So how do I become one? Can you just tell me already?"
"Sleep tonight," the voice said. "You need rest. We begin tomorrow."
Icariel lay back against the stone floor of the cave. It was hard, cold. Unforgiving. But his eyes drifted shut, pulled by exhaustion—and resolve.
The next morning came.
The wind whispered through the trees like secrets never meant for human ears. Sunlight filtered down through the thick canopy, casting gold bars across the forest floor. Icariel stepped outside the cave, breath steaming slightly in the morning chill.
He stretched. Bones cracked. Skin ached.
"I'm ready," he said to the voice in his head. "So, what path should I choose?"
A pause.
"Why not choose all of them?" the voice asked calmly.
"What? Is that even possible?"
"Like I said… it is."
He blinked. The idea was lunacy—but the kind that made sense when you were starving. His hands curled, nails dragging against calloused palms.
"If one power can help me survive… having all three is insurance."
"Exactly," the voice said. "But first, you must truly understand what a mage, a superhuman, and a swordmaster are. So far, you've only scratched the surface—dust from those ruined books back in Mjull."
"That's true," Icariel admitted.
"The world breathes mana," the voice continued. "It's everywhere—woven into soil and sky. Even the air you inhale brims with it. I know you've felt it. Every breath carries something ancient."
"Then why doesn't everyone become a mage?" Icariel asked. His gaze sharpened. "If mana's in the air, shouldn't anyone be able to absorb it?"
"Because their shell can't contain it."
The answer hit like a slap of icewater.
"It's not true that babies are born with vast mana. That's myth. Anyone can grow their reserves. The real issue is whether the body can survive what it holds."
"Like a stomach," the voice went on. "Overfeed it, and it vomits. A defense. Mana does the same. Those with weak vessels reject what they can't endure. That's why most people have almost none."
"But mages..." the voice dropped, reverent now. "They're different. Their bodies are broken and reforged. Hardened. Able to carry oceans of mana without drowning."
Icariel's breath slowed. He listened like someone hearing his own fate read aloud.
"So, how do I break that limit?" he asked. "How do I train my body to hold more?"
"Simple."
"Suffer."
Icariel's hand trembled.
"I know you hate pain. You always have. But humans adapt. That's their greatest sin—and their greatest salvation. They adapt to agony. To pressure. To loss. And that's what you'll do now. You'll adapt to the weight of mana. I'll guide you through it. And once you can breathe it like a mage…"
The wind shivered through the trees.
"Then we'll begin your superhuman awakening."
There was silence.
Then, softly—like a scar reopening—Icariel smiled.
His eyes didn't shine. They burned.
"Is there a risk I could die?" he asked. "From the pain? From the suffering?"
"Do you remember what you asked me when you were small?" the voice said. "You begged me to help you survive. That wish hasn't changed. And as long as I'm here… you won't die."
"But yes."
"You will suffer. Deeply."
The boy nodded. He didn't flinch.
"Then let's begin," he said. "Like always… I'm counting on you."
"First step," the voice said, cold and clean. "Take the axe. Cut your arm. Use your blood to draw."
Icariel stepped into the forest mist.
No hesitation.
He picked up the axe, turned the blade inward, and dragged it across his forearm.
The sting was instant—like fire licked into his veins. Blood welled up, hot and red, trailing down his skin like a slow, waking river.
"Now draw a circle. I'll show you. Focus."
An image flared in his mind—like lightning caught on parchment.
A perfect circle.
At its center: a sharp, unblinking eye.
Watching.
Always watching.
"You get it?"
"I saw it clearly."
He knelt and began to trace. His blood smeared into the soil—sticky, bright, sacred. His grip faltered. His skin paled. Two more cuts. By the end, his hand was shaking, the earth below him soaked red.
"Damn… that's three cuts."
"It will be worth it," the voice said.
Above, leaves rustled. A bird darted out of sight, wings slicing silence.
"Now sit. Center of the circle."
He obeyed.
The forest held its breath.
"Close your eyes. Forget the pain. Let nothing exist but mana."
He exhaled.
Darkness fell.
And then—
He saw them.
Tiny motes. Pale at first, then glowing blue—like dying stars in a midnight sea. They drifted through the blackness behind his eyes.
"I see them," he whispered.
"Good. Now inhale. Like it's your last breath."
He gasped—desperate and sharp.
The mana moved.
It surged into him like frozen flame. Down his throat. Into his lungs. His chest swelled with a pressure too big for ribs. The taste of it was iron and lightning—like bleeding in a thunderstorm.
"Hold it," the voice ordered.
His skull pulsed. His lungs screamed. A high, ringing note pierced the core of his head.
"I—I can't. I feel like I'll explode—"
"Endure."
His fingers curled into claws. His nails pierced skin.
And then—
A spark.
A flicker beneath the skin. A vibration in his nerves. A friction building—mana trying to turn him inside out.
His muscles seized. Jaw locked. Blood leaked from his nose.
"I can't—!"
"Hold."
His bones cried. His cells twisted. Every part of him begged to shut down.
Then—
Black.
[End of Chapter 10]