Born To Magic

"Mama, magic!" I shouted, doing my best to stretch my little face into a smile so full of excitement that she'd have no choice but to give in.

"You're too young, dear," she replied, her voice a mixture of gentle dismissiveness and tired patience. "Go play with your toys."

"Ah…" I groaned inwardly. 

"Mama! Magic! Magic! Magic!" I repeated, throwing myself into the role of a pleading toddler, pushing my voice to the limit.

I dropped to the floor with a dramatic thud, flailing my arms and wailing as loudly as my tiny lungs could manage. It wasn't pretty, but I had no choice. At two years old, this was my most potent weapon. The tantrum.

It had been two grueling years since I arrived in this world. I could walk now, and string together small, clumsy phrases, but progress had been maddeningly slow. It wasn't that I didn't understand the language—somehow, that came naturally the moment I opened my eyes in this strange new life. But I had to play my part. No toddler starts speaking like an adult before the age of two. It would raise too many questions, and I couldn't afford that. I had to blend in. I had to wait.

"Mama, magic!" I cried again, but my voice was now less of a plea and more of a demand.

She sighed, and her voice softened just a little. "Ugh, fine. Ascento!"

A quick wave of her hand, and—

I was airborne.

For about three glorious seconds.

Then gravity reclaimed me.

The hard floor hit me with a brutal thud, knocking the breath from my tiny body and sending a spike of pain through my chest.

"Mama, no! I learn how!" I yelled, my voice shaky but fierce.

Her expression didn't soften, but there was a glint of amusement in her eyes. "Well," she said firmly, "you'll have to wait until you're at least five."

Five?! My stomach dropped.

I let out another sob of frustration. My tantrums weren't always this dramatic, but when it came to magic, I had no patience. And so, the waterworks began again, louder than before.

I wasn't proud of it, but it worked.

"Fine!" She snapped after a moment of silence. "Listen, Noah. I'll tell you something you probably won't understand, but don't cry if you don't get it, alright? And please, stop bothering me."

Victory.

I wiped my eyes quickly, trying to pull myself together, my heart pounding with excitement.

Here's the thing: I had been reincarnated into a completely new world, one where magic wasn't just a fantasy but a living, breathing part of everyday life. This was Laura Town, a small village nestled in the countryside of the Great Lumina Empire, a place where magic flowed as freely as the wind. It was as natural to the people here as electricity or the internet had been back on Earth.

In the two years I had spent here, I had quietly observed and gathered scraps of knowledge by listening to the adults around me. My parents, Alfred and Lisa, were kind but ordinary. Dad owned a modest patch of land where he grew rice and a few other crops. Mom spent her days at the local market, selling their harvest to anyone who'd buy it and also some wooden toys she crafted during her leisure. They were hard-working, good-hearted people who just barely scraped by, but there was warmth in their small, simple life.

The house was humble, but it was home. From the window by my cradle, I had a perfect view of the golden fields stretching endlessly toward the horizon, swaying gently in the breeze. There was something peaceful about the sight, something that made me feel at ease, even though I was trapped in this tiny, strange body.

I first learned about magic shortly after my arrival, but it wasn't until recently that I began pestering my mother for answers. Talking before the age of one was considered unusual anywhere, and even then, you were only expected to manage a few simple phrases. No one expected a toddler to understand complex concepts—especially not concepts as complicated as magic.

Apparently, children start school at the age of five, where they are taught the basics of magic—spells, incantations, and all that jazz. Five. To me, that might as well have been a lifetime away.

You can't blame me for being obsessed with something that was completely mundane to everyone else. To them, magic was as ordinary as breathing. To me, though, it was amazing. Magic was a miracle. A force I desperately needed to understand. And I couldn't wait three more years to begin my studies. I needed to learn, now.

"So listen carefully, Noah," She said with a sigh, as if she were humoring a child who would forget everything in five minutes. "I'll tell you something, but I'm not going to repeat it. Understand?"

"Yay!~" I squealed, hopping in place. My excitement was practically vibrating through my whole body. This was it! Finally, I was going to learn about magic—real magic!

She closed her eyes briefly, probably gathering her patience. Then she spoke, her words coming quickly, in a rush I could barely follow.

"Mana," she said, "is everywhere. It's a substance, an energy that fills the air all around us. To use magic, you have to pull the mana into your body. The way you do that is through your breath. You inhale, focusing on the mana, drawing it in, and then you store it inside you. When you have enough, you release it through your hands and shape it into magic. It takes practice, but that's the basics of it."

She spoke as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. To her, maybe it was. To me, though, it was like listening to a fairy tale.

The trouble was, none of it made sense.

How was I supposed to feel this mana? How did you breathe it in? What made the incantations work? What was the mechanism behind it?

I opened my mouth to ask another question, but She cut me off with a wave of her hand.

"You'll go through the Mana Ritual when you're five," she explained, her voice soft but firm. "A priest certified by the Empire will perform the ritual on you. Once you've done that, you'll be able to sense mana."

Five. Always five. It was like the universe itself had decided I would have to wait for everything.

She shrugged. "Once you can feel mana, it'll be second nature. That's all you need to know for now."

Second nature? It didn't seem that simple to me, but I didn't argue. At least I had learned something new.

As for the incantations, I asked about those too. But when I did, her face scrunched into a slight frown, and she seemed to lose some of her patience.

"I don't know," she said, looking almost exasperated. "They just… work. Like a law of nature, I suppose. Stop asking so many questions."

She didn't get it. To her, this was just how the world worked. I needed to understand how it worked, what made it tick.

But for now, I was stuck with vague answers and the constant refrain of "wait." Three years.

No. I couldn't just wait that long.

"Mama," I asked again, my voice smaller, more desperate. "Put mana… inside me."

She frowned, clearly reluctant. "But dear, that's dangerous. I really can't do that."

"Please! Just little!" I begged, my hands clasped together as I looked up at her with pleading eyes.

After a long, weary sigh, she relented. "Alright, very little. Just a tiny bit."

She placed her hand on my stomach, her fingers warm against my skin, and she began to channel a small amount of mana into me.

I closed my eyes, trying to concentrate, trying to feel it.

At first, I felt nothing. Then… warmth. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it was there. A steady heat that seemed to seep into my body through my stomach. I held my breath, willing the sensation to grow, to become something I could grasp. But when I opened my eyes, it was gone.

It wasn't painful, but it was strange. Foreign. The mana felt... alien. Like I wasn't sure how to hold onto it. It was like trying to catch smoke with my hands.

"Once more!" I demanded, not ready to stop.

She sighed, but repeated the process again. And again. And again. Each time, the warmth grew a little more familiar, a little more real. Each time, it stayed with me just a little longer.

After a dozen attempts, she gave up.

I felt it. The mana. I could sense it now, swirling faintly inside me.

And then, I did something I hadn't expected to do. I smiled.

I had done it. It wasn't much, but it was a start. I had touched magic.