Born To Magic

Turning five years old is a significant milestone in this world—or at least in the empire I call home. Most families celebrate by taking their child to the local empire-certified priest for the Mana Ritual. The ceremony is designed to awaken a child's mana sense and kickstart their journey toward building a core.

But me? I've decided to avoid it entirely.

"Mama, no!" My dramatic refusal, complete with stomping and tears, did the job. An award winning performance by me.

Since the ritual wasn't mandatory and there wasn't a strict age limit, my parents gave in as they could get it done a little late, or so they think. Most kids undergo the ritual at five because the empire deems it unsafe to deal with mana at a younger age and set that as the minimum age.

That's fair, but I've already been managing just fine without it.

The real reason for my refusal, though? I've enjoyed five blissful years of staying under the radar, and I'd like to keep it that way. What if the priest realizes that the quiet country boy in front of him has a yellow mana core at five years old? That's not normal. That's terrifying.

From what I've gathered, most kids hit the yellow stage somewhere between eight and ten—not five.

And while I am quietly proud of my core's progress, I'm much happier with my other accomplishment: figuring out how to actually use magic.

When I'm alone, I've spent hours practicing how to channel mana from my core to my hands. In the beginning, it took me an excruciating thirty minutes, but with practice, I can now do it in about a minute. That might sound slow, but for someone who's self-taught and five years old, I'd call it impressive progress.

My parents, on the other hand, rarely use anything more advanced than utility magic. Their repertoire includes the likes of Ascento for moving objects, Lumerto for light, and a few others for household chores. Hoping to learn more, I've taken to wandering the village with friends, visiting markets with my mother, and dropping by neighbors' homes to observe their magic in action while pretending to play stupid games with their kids.

Unfortunately, it's been underwhelming. The locals mostly stick to one-word spells for basic tasks, which is practical but uninspiring.

I want to learn how to cast real spells.

I'm talking fireballs, tornadoes, ice spears—the kind of magic that lights up a battlefield.

Not that I'm complaining too much. Watching a splash of water materialize from my fingertips still feels magical—at least until it goes wrong.

"Oh no! I have to clean this up before Mom finds out!"

One thing I've learned is that the amount of mana you channel affects the spell's intensity, and greater intensity comes with more of your reserve that needs to be replenished after the casting. Managing my excitement and not accidentally draining my core has been a challenge.

Thankfully, my breathing practice has come a long way. I now unconsciously inhale mana as part of my regular breathing, so I don't have to sit and meditate to refill my reserves, it does itself given sufficient time. I can still speed up the refilling process by sitting down and focusing, but lately, I've been too preoccupied with playing silly games to bother. These days, I just let my body handle it on its own. It's slower, sure, but it gets the job done while I keep myself busy being the child everyone expects me to be. Refining my mana, however, is still tedious. It requires focused meditation, and as I purify my core, its color slowly changes—a rewarding yet painfully slow process.

My curiosity didn't stop there. I also tried channeling mana through other parts of my body. Most attempts failed miserably, except for one strange discovery: I can release magic from my toes. While amusing, it's not practical. My hands remain the best release points, given their proximity to my core.

Arthur, my frequent playmate, turned five three days ago. His father, Sir John, scheduled a Mana Ritual appointment with the priest and invited my family to attend. The ritual is a big deal, often celebrated with close friends and family.

I'm determined to avoid such attention for myself. My fifth birthday, which was a month ago, was a much quieter affair.

My parents were mortified. They spent weeks dodging questions about my refusal to undergo the ritual.

Over time, they've started to accept my decision. Lately, they've even resumed socializing with others in the village, much to my relief.

But there's one person I've been dreading seeing: Sir John.

I did not want to risk getting caught, and a person like him is the type I must avoid for that purpose.

And now, here I am, sitting beside him in the corridor outside the Ritual Room. The air is thick with silence.

Arthur's family doesn't have many relatives or friends in town, so the guest list is short—just us. That's how I ended up here, in this unbearable silence, waiting for the priest to finish Arthur's ritual.

The corridor's stillness gives me too much time to think. My fingers twitch with the urge to do something—anything—to distract myself.

"Little man, you seem bored," Sir John said, his voice calm yet probing. My parents sat a short distance away, chatting quietly on another bench in the corridor. For now, I was left to fend for myself.

"Yeah," I admitted, kicking my legs idly. "I'm wondering what's happening inside."

He leaned back, folding his arms, his lips curved into a sly smile. "Are you scared?"

"I'm not scared, Sir John," I said firmly, puffing out my chest. "I just... want to take my own time. I'll do it when the time is right."

He raised an eyebrow. "What does a kid know about deciding that? Shouldn't you listen to the adults?"

I crossed my arms, mirroring his posture. "Well, you probably went through the ritual, didn't you? Can you tell me what happens? Then I'll decide if I should or not."

He chuckled, his glasses catching the dim light of the corridor. "You didn't ask your parents?"

I shook my head. "They're kind of mad at me right now. We're not exactly talking much these days."

"Ah, well, that'll sort itself out in time," he said with a knowing nod. "As for the ritual, it's simple. The priest injects your body with a steady flow of mana. It's done carefully and gradually until you start to sense it. For most kids, it takes about an hour to grasp."

I tilted my head. "And the core? Don't they help build it?"

"Not quite," he replied. "The ritual only awakens your ability to feel mana. Core building is something you'll learn in school. It's a process of steady refinement and practice, not something that can be rushed."

"Why don't parents do the whole thing themselves?"

He smiled faintly, "Most parents don't have the precision or training to channel mana safely. Too little mana has no effect, but too much can be dangerous, especially for a child's body. The priest's skill lies in finding the perfect balance and maintaining it for the entire hour. That's no small feat."

"I see," I murmured, my curiosity deepening.

Sir John studied me for a moment, then added, "You know, school is mandatory even if you don't have a core yet. Plenty of kids get their cores much later in life—some not until their twenties. It happens, especially in poor families that can't afford the ritual."

"What happens to those kids?" I asked, a note of concern creeping into my voice.

"They attend school like everyone else, but they're placed in different sections." He paused, adjusting his glasses. "In fact, you'll be starting school soon. Your parents mentioned it."

That took me by surprise. "Really?"

"Likely," he said. "But don't worry. Everyone starts somewhere. Even without a core, you'll learn the basics—and I'm sure you'll catch up quickly."

"I see," I said again, letting the information sink in.

"So," Sir John asked, tilting his head toward the closed door of the ritual room, "are you going to go in there?"

"Nope!" I said, my voice firm and unwavering.

He sighed dramatically, shaking his head. "What a bummer!"

I smirked, trying to steer the conversation in a different direction. "You know, Sir John, you really need to get a new pair of glasses. Ones that don't need adjusting every other second!"

He raised an eyebrow, feigning offense. "Hey, kid, I'll have you know these glasses are special."

"Special how? They don't even sit right!" I teased, crossing my arms.

He chuckled, tapping the frame lightly with his finger. "Special because they've been with me through thick and thin. These lenses have seen more books and manuscripts than you can imagine."

"Wow, that's deep," I said, grinning. "But maybe it's time to retire them before they fall apart completely."

"Not a chance," he replied, giving me a playful nudge on the shoulder. "They've got a charm you wouldn't understand, little man."

"Yeah, yeah," I said, rolling my eyes. "Or maybe you're just too cheap to get a new pair."

We both laughed, the tension of the moment easing as the lighthearted banter filled the otherwise silent corridor.