Born To Magic

That night, I lay in my cradle, staring out the window as the moonlight filtered through the thin curtains. My parents were fast asleep, completely unaware of my restlessness. How could I sleep when my curiosity was only half satisfied?

I had learned something important today. I could feel the mana now. I could gather it. It was subtle at first, like a quiet whisper of warmth, but with each attempt, it became clearer, more tangible. I had even managed to store a tiny bit of it in my body, just enough to feel the stirrings of something magical. But I wasn't satisfied.

I knew the basics now from lots of questioning all day: people built a Mana Core in their stomach, somewhere near the abdomen, to store mana. This Core was where mana was stored and drawn from to cast magic. You needed to recharge your Core through breathing, taking in mana from the air around you.

But that was just the surface. What really fascinated me were the details.

The Core wasn't just a storage place. It was more than that. It was alive, dynamic, and its size and purity determined how strong a person's magic would be. And—this was the part that blew my mind—the Core was linked to color. Apparently, the Core started out red, and as you grew stronger through years of practice, breathing, and refining the mana within, it would change color. Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet—violet. That was the ultimate goal. The brightest, purest form of mana, the one that signaled a master's skill.

It was a beautiful concept, really. But to me, it was all theory. The details of how to build this Core, how to refine it, were still lost to me. The incantations, too.

It was maddening. Magic was right there, just out of reach, and all I had were vague explanations.

But I wasn't going to let that stop me. I was too close to the answer now. I had gathered mana. I could sense it. The next step, I realized, was to build my Core. But there was a hitch—I couldn't stop thinking about the possibilities.

Why, I wondered, did the mana need to be stored in just one place? Why did people always build their Core in their stomachs? If the point was just to store mana and draw it into your hands to cast spells, then why not spread the mana out across your entire body? Wouldn't that give you more space, more potential to store energy and use magic?

I couldn't shake the thought. It was an idea, a wild one, but what did I have to lose?

So, I decided to try something different.

I sat up in my cradle, crossing my legs and trying to steady my breathing. I had no idea if this would work, but I was too curious to let the question go unanswered. I closed my eyes, taking slow, deep breaths. I focused on the warmth inside me, that growing feeling of mana, and let it spread.

I breathed in slowly, deliberately, and imagined the mana flowing through my entire body—not just my stomach. I pictured it filling my chest, my arms, my legs, spreading into every part of me. I could feel the warmth growing, but as soon as I tried to push the mana into the rest of my body, most of it slipped away. It was like trying to hold water in cupped hands—no matter how carefully I tried, the mana wouldn't stay. But there was a small part of it that stuck around, a tiny bit that clung to me.

It wasn't much, but it was something.

I repeated the process, over and over again, trying to refine the technique. With each breath, I felt the mana spread a little further. It wasn't confined to my stomach anymore—it spread across my chest, my arms, down into my legs. But it wasn't easy. Most of the mana slipped away, evaporating into the air.

But I didn't give up.

I knew I had to keep trying.

After what felt like an hour of trial and error, I had gathered a small amount of mana that stayed with me.

I felt a thrill course through me. It was the first step.

Eventually, my little toddler body gave out. The concentration, the energy, it was all too much for me to keep up for too long. My eyes fluttered shut, the warm glow of the mana fading into the background as sleep finally claimed me.

The next day, I woke up with a start, the familiar warmth of mana still tingling in my stomach. But as I stretched and looked inward, my heart sank. Nearly all of the mana I had gathered the night before had vanished—evaporated, as if it had never been there at all. There was a small, steady pool of it left in my stomach, but the rest had slipped away, leaving me with nothing but the familiar emptiness.

I couldn't believe it. Had it all been a dream?

Panicked, I scrambled out of my cradle and ran to my mother, desperate for answers. She was still in bed, half-awake, her messy hair sprawled across the pillow.

"Mama," I said urgently, shaking her arm. "Why mana store only tummy?!"

She groggily opened her eyes and gave me a sleepy, confused look. "What?" she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep.

"Mana," I repeated, trying to make my toddler speech clearer. "Mana, why only tummy?"

She yawned, rubbed her eyes, and stretched. "Well..." she said slowly, as if considering the question. "I don't know. We were taught to store it in our stomach, and you can't really store mana anywhere else in the body. It disappears, that's all I know."

What? That didn't make sense. Why couldn't I store mana anywhere else in my body? It was so frustrating. I had tried to spread it out, to hold it all over my tiny form, but it just disappeared.

"But... why?" I asked, my voice rising in exasperation.

She just shrugged, a little more awake now but clearly not in the mood to explain the intricacies of mana storage to her two-year-old. "I don't know, honey. That's just how it works."

Ugh! It was maddening. I wanted to understand more—needed to understand more—but here I was, stuck with vague, unsatisfying answers.

Grumbling to myself, I trudged away, feeling defeated. It wasn't that I thought I could force magic or change the way things were, but the possibility of unlocking something different, something better, felt just within reach. And yet, I was stuck in this cycle of trial and error.

After breakfast, my parents went about their usual tasks. Dad was in the field, tending to the crops, and Mom had started cooking, humming quietly to herself as she chopped vegetables and stirred pots. The house was quiet, peaceful—too peaceful for my restless mind.

Finally, after a few hours of pretending to play, I found a moment of solitude. I knew it wasn't much time, but it was enough. I had to try again.

I moved to the corner of the room, where I knew no one would bother me, and sat down cross-legged. I closed my eyes, cleared my mind, and focused. I needed to do this properly, to follow the teachings I had learned so far.

No more experiments, no more wild ideas. It was time to stick to what I knew.

I inhaled slowly, deeply, feeling the air fill my small lungs. I focused on the warmth, the sensation of mana waiting to be drawn in, like an invisible force surrounding me. I exhaled and repeated the process, each breath bringing more mana into my body.

But this time, instead of trying to store it all over, I focused on my stomach. The warmth built up there.

It wasn't easy. The process was slow. I had to breathe steadily, keeping my focus on my stomach. It was nothing grand—nothing spectacular—but it was progress. My Core was beginning to solidify.

Time passed. I lost track of how long I had been sitting there, but when I finally opened my eyes, it felt as though the world had shifted. My stomach felt fuller—alive, almost. I couldn't explain it, but it was different. The mana wasn't just a fleeting warmth anymore. It had become part of me.

I stood up slowly, still a little shaky from the intense concentration, and walked back into the main room. Mom was still cooking, her movements calm and steady, as if the world outside hadn't changed.

I stood there for a moment, watching her, wondering if she could sense the difference. If she could feel the tiny spark of magic within me, even though it was still so small.

But no. Of course not. She had no idea how much I had learned in such a short time.

I stood quietly by the counter, watching her chop vegetables. She glanced over at me and smiled.

"You feeling okay, Noah?" she asked, her voice warm but slightly distracted.

"Yay, Mama," I said, my voice barely more than a whisper. "I fine."

I didn't tell her what I had been doing. It's better not to. I'd only be inviting unnecessary trouble by proclaiming that I am a god-gifted genius.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of mundane tasks and quiet moments. But as I went to bed that night, my thoughts weren't on the normal things a two-year-old might think about—like the comforting weight of my blanket or the soft hum of my mother's lullaby.

No. My thoughts were on magic.

And thus I spent another night on my core while nobody was watching.