Born To Magic

Birthdays are fun. There's something special about being the center of attention, surrounded by good food and warm smiles, and knowing that the day is meant to celebrate you. Today was my fourth birthday, and despite the simplicity, my parents had gone out of their way to make it special.

I'd spent the last two years refining my mana core—well, as much as a toddler could while juggling the exhausting demands of eating, sleeping, and babbling. On average, I'd trained for an hour or two a day. Sure, I could've pushed harder, but hey, I was still a kid. There were limits to how much focus I could muster in this tiny body, no matter how much of an advantage my previous life's memories gave me. Even so, my efforts had borne fruit: my core, once a faint ember, had grown into a steady, light-red glow.

The best part about turning four, though, wasn't the celebration. It was the freedom. Four-year-olds were expected to talk properly and start developing their personalities. No more pretending to be clueless. No more baby talk. I could finally act like myself—or close enough to not draw suspicion.

"Happy birthday to you~!"

The cheerful song rang out as our modest house filled with neighbors, all gathered to celebrate the occasion. My parents beamed, proud and happy, and the guests clapped as they finished the song. The only thing missing was a cake—apparently, cakes weren't a thing in this world. A shame, really. I would've killed for a slice of cake.

Instead, the table was piled high with local delicacies: roasted meats, steaming bowls of hearty soup, and a variety of fresh fruits. My mouth watered just looking at it. Despite my impatience to get back to training, I couldn't deny the charm of a day like this. For a little while, I allowed myself to bask in the attention and enjoy the simple pleasure of being celebrated.

Most of the guests left after the meal, but one family stayed behind: Sir John and his son Arthur. Sir John was a longtime friend of my father, and Arthur and I had played together many times before. At four, Arthur was bright-eyed and full of energy, always eager to play knights or wrestle in the dirt. He seemed to idolize me in his own way, which was both amusing and endearing.

Today, though, our usual games took a backseat to something far more interesting.

"John, my son has been pestering me nonstop about magic," my father said, chuckling as he poured his friend a drink. "He's so curious for his age. I thought maybe you could answer some of his questions."

And Sir John was the perfect match for the task. Before settling into his quiet life in the village, he'd been a librarian at the School of Laura, the town's most esteemed educational institute. While not as grand as the fabled academies of the capital, the School of Laura was the pinnacle of learning in our little corner of the world.

Sir John had spent years immersed in that wealth of knowledge, and it showed. Despite his relatively young age, there was a weight of wisdom about him, reflected in the subtle lines around his eyes and the way he adjusted his glasses when he spoke. Those glasses alone told a story—thick-lensed and slightly askew, they hinted at countless hours spent poring over books, uncovering secrets that most people in the village couldn't even begin to imagine.

"Of course!" Sir John replied, turning to me with an encouraging smile. "What do you want to know, young man?"

This was it. My golden opportunity. I'd been careful not to let anyone suspect how far I'd already come in my understanding of mana. No one could know about my core—not yet. So I played dumb, pretending to be a beginner brimming with innocent curiosity.

"Well…" I began, feigning hesitation. "Why don't we store mana all over our bodies? Wouldn't that give us more space?"

Sir John chuckled, clearly amused by the question. "Ah, a thinker, are you? That's good. You remind me of myself at your age. But to answer your question, many magic scholars have studied that idea over the centuries. It's been tried, tested, and—unfortunately—proven impossible. Mana just doesn't stay in other parts of the body. It dissipates."

"But why?" I pressed, tilting my head like a curious child.

"I don't know, maybe there is more about that in the capital." he admitted with a shrug. "I've come a long way in understanding magic, but some things remain mysteries to me. What I do know is that the stomach—or rather, the area where the mana core forms—is uniquely suited to store mana. It's efficient, stable, and reliable."

I nodded thoughtfully, hiding my frustration. So far, nothing he'd said contradicted my own experiences. It seemed the experts and I had reached the same conclusions—though I doubted they'd spent hours meditating in a toddler's body to get there.

"How do incantations work?" I asked, eager to shift the conversation to another topic. "How do they turn mana into magic?"

"Ah, that's one of the great questions of our time," Sir John said, leaning back in his chair. "Incantations are… strange. We know they work. We know the words carry some kind of power. But the how and why are still being studied. Magic Linguistics is a relatively old field, you see, and progress is slow. The leading theory is that the earliest incantations were discovered through trial and error, and over time, scholars built on those foundations to create the spells we use today."

"What do you mean by trial and error?" I asked, tilting my head with genuine curiosity.

Sir John adjusted his glasses, a small smile playing on his lips. "Ah, good question. Imagine this: someone, somewhere, utters a word by accident—completely unintentional—and suddenly, poof! Something magical happens. Maybe it conjures a spark, lifts a pebble, or causes a gust of wind. Naturally, that person is going to share their discovery with others. And so, bit by bit, through sheer experimentation and chance, the most basic magical words were uncovered over the millennia."

He leaned back, crossing his arms as he continued, his tone more serious now. "Of course, that's just the foundation. The advanced stuff—like complex incantations and spells—didn't come so easily. Scholars and mages built upon those basic discoveries through intelligent guesses and rigorous study. They analyzed patterns, experimented with combinations, and refined their understanding over time. That's the essence of studying Magic Linguistics: not just to document what we know, but to discover new magic—new possibilities."

"Is it safe to experiment with magic? To try new things?" I asked, genuinely curious.

Sir John hesitated, his expression growing serious. "That depends. If you stick to the basics written in textbooks, follow the established rules, and take proper precautions, then yes, magic can be safe. But experimenting without understanding the risks? That's how people get hurt—or worse. Learn the fundamentals first. Master them. Then, if you're still curious, you can start exploring new ideas. But don't try to reinvent the wheel. Most of what you're curious about has already been studied extensively."

I nodded again, pretending to take his words to heart. Deep down, I wasn't convinced. Just because something had been "studied extensively" didn't mean there wasn't more to discover. History was full of breakthroughs made by people who dared to challenge conventional wisdom.

"Isn't there a chance they all made a mistake and were wrong all along?" I asked, my voice laced with skepticism.

Sir John chuckled, shaking his head. "No, certainly not with the bare basics, kid. These aren't flimsy theories or guesses; they're the result of thousands of years of observation and practice. There might be ambiguity in the cutting-edge research fields, sure, but no one doubts the fundamentals—like storing mana in the stomach. I may not be able to give you the detailed explanation, but trust me, the scholars in the capital have plenty of convincing evidence to back it up."

He adjusted his glasses, his expression growing more serious. "There's no scope for new discoveries in the basics we've lived with for millennia. If there had been a mistake, it would've been corrected long ago. So if you're itching to experiment, don't waste your energy trying to reinvent the wheel. Focus on the cutting-edge fields—the areas that actually need new minds to push boundaries."

Arthur tugged on my sleeve, his wide eyes shining with excitement. "Noah, do you want to play knights now?"

"Maybe later," I said, giving him a small smile. My mind was too preoccupied with the possibilities Sir John's answers had sparked. There was so much I didn't know—and so much I wanted to test.

That night, after the house had fallen silent and the world outside was bathed in moonlight, I sat by the window, staring out at the fields. Sir John's words replayed in my mind, mingling with my own thoughts and doubts.

Don't try to reinvent the wheel… Stick to the basics…

I did decide that I won't run of track until I actually have sufficient knowledge regarding the subject to know why certain things work or don't. And perhaps my goal should be to somehow land in the capital to learn more.

Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath and began to meditate. The familiar warmth of mana flowed into my body, pooling in my Core like water filling a basin. I let the sensation ground me, centering my thoughts.

Maybe Sir John was right. Maybe it was too dangerous to experiment. But even as I told myself to play it safe, a tiny voice in the back of my mind whispered: What if?

Apart from all this, another issue loomed over me—I needed to be more cautious. Earlier, I overheard Sir John speaking with my mother. His voice carried that mix of curiosity and amusement that made my stomach knot.

"Noah is surprisingly smart for his age," he said. "It felt less like talking to a little brat and more like chatting with a young scholar just finding his footing."

My mother chuckled lightly, brushing it off as she replied, "Oh, we get that a lot. He's always been… precocious."

Damn it.

I winced, replaying their conversation in my head. I'd been too eager, too inquisitive. Maybe I should've spent more time rolling around with toys or chasing after other kids, instead of diving headfirst into topics that screamed "overachiever."

I'd have to dial it back—at least in front of others. Drawing attention to myself was a risk I couldn't afford.