Growing stronger came as naturally to me as breathing—a trivial feat, almost devoid of challenge. Yet, there was one pursuit that held my interest: mastering the spear. Unlike the sword, whose weight and balance were extensions of my being, the spear was uncharted territory, an instrument that promised new depth and skill. It was through this weapon, sharp and demanding, that I sought to ascend.
The mana cores of this world bore subtle but notable differences compared to those of my former life. While the essence of mana was familiar, the way it was harnessed had its own rules, its own path to mastery.
To push beyond the Green Stage was no simple task; it required one to step into the realm of mastery as either a spellcaster or a weapon user. The first great threshold was Intent, a state where will and weapon merged until the very air seemed to hum with purpose. For me, the choice was clear. I would pursue Spear Intent, carving my path not with the blade I knew so well, but with the spear that defied me to learn its language.
Reaching the Blue Stage meant more than simply condensing mana; it meant wielding aura with such precision that it transformed into a tangible force. An aura blade—a weapon clothed in raw, searing energy—was the mark of one who had attained Intent. The spear, once mastered in this way, would extend beyond its physical reach, slicing the air as if it were silk and making a mockery of distance.
With my sword, I could already taste the edge of this power, feel its vibrations in the sinews of my arm. The path to Blue Stage lay open, waiting for me to step through it as easily as one steps from sunlight into shadow. But ease was a dull thing, devoid of challenge. And so, I turned my focus to the spear, its promise of untamed mastery sparking a rare flame of anticipation within me.
The reason I chose not to devote myself to spellcasting was simple: I lacked even the faintest talent for it. Oh, I tried. I bent my will and patience to the task, mastering the incantations for a few basic spells. But the chasm between rote learning and true mastery loomed too wide, impossible for someone like me to cross.
'I must grow stronger,' I mused, sipping my tea as the steam coiled lazily into the cool air. Strength was never a burden, not when wielded with purpose. Power could corrupt, yes, but only if allowed to grow wild and untethered. My intent was clear: to guard what I held dear. And here, in this world, that meant my mother and Celia.
I had time—precious years of youth—to temper myself, to hone the edge of my strength without the immediate, relentless urgency that once defined my past life. It was a second chance, a space carved for growth and preparation. At first, I had feared my own progress, how rapidly power had come to me, as if the very essence of mana bent willingly to my will. Yet a conversation with my mother had softened those jagged doubts.
'This world is not weak,' I reminded myself, recalling the quiet conviction in her voice.
No, it was not weak, but it was different. The world I once knew—Earth—had only known mana for two decades. Yet in that short span, the crucible of necessity forged strength in us with a fervor unmatched. It was the difference between two children of equal talent: one nurtured with care, raised in the safety of green meadows and gilded halls; the other tempered by the grit and heat of survival, growing strong because the alternative was to perish.
Earth's people had been that latter child. We had grown because we had no choice, each day a gamble against extinction, each victory a small reprieve. Here, in Silvaria, life flowed at a more measured pace, its people untested by the kind of existential peril that drove humanity to surpass its limits.
And so, they had grown powerful, yes, but only to the bounds of their need. Without the looming specter of an otherworldly threat, without skies split open by dark omens or monsters erupting from the void, their progress had found a gentler path.
But I knew better. I knew what it meant to fight, to lose, to face annihilation with a bloodied smile. This time, this life—it was a gift, one I would not squander. Failure was not an option. I would not falter before the forces of this world, be they political, martial, or otherwise.
If it came to pass that the Emperor himself stood against those I vowed to protect, then my blade would draw a line across the empire itself. The thought resonated within me, a promise forged in silence, tempered by the quiet resolve of a man who had seen the end once before and vowed never to see it again.
First, there was the matter of reaching Blue Stage before my tenth birthday. It loomed before me like the first crest of a mighty wave—ambitious, daunting, but not insurmountable.
I sat in the garden, cradling a cup of tea as the late afternoon sunlight filtered through the leaves, painting the ground in dappled gold. The air was warm and sweet, carrying the subtle scent of summer blooms and distant rosemary. My thoughts were deep in the silent dance of mana within me, winding and weaving through my core, when a familiar voice interrupted my reverie.
"What weighs on your mind, Lance?" my mother asked as she approached, the hem of her gown whispering against the grass.
"Nothing much, Mother," I replied, a practiced smile settling on my lips.
Her eyes, sharp as a falcon's and just as knowing, narrowed briefly before softening with amusement. I saw her gaze flicker, catching the subtle shift of energy within me. A chuckle escaped her, light as the breeze. "And they dared to call me a genius when I was young," she said, the hint of pride unmistakable in her voice.
I took another sip, allowing the warmth to settle in my chest. There was comfort in her presence, in the easy silence that stretched between us.
She sat opposite me, the maids arriving like well-trained sparrows, fluttering about with trays of tea and small, delicate cakes. "For your tenth birthday," she began, her tone carrying the weight of tradition and promise, "you will be announced as the heir to the Grand Duchy of Silvaria."
"I know," I said, my voice steady and unruffled.
She arched an eyebrow, a smile playing at the corners of her lips. "Not excited, are you?"
I shrugged lightly, a gesture that spoke more of quiet acceptance than indifference. "I'm not quite like Celia," I admitted, the fondness for my sister evident even in those simple words.
At that, my mother sighed, a soft, wistful sound. "She's thrilled, especially after I told her that Edwin von Ardenfall would be attending."
A flicker of something crossed her face, a hint of worry, brief and swiftly masked. I caught it, though, and set down my cup with a gentle clink. "Don't worry, Mother," I said, meeting her eyes, steady and sure. "I'll look after her."
The shadows of concern eased from her expression, replaced by warmth. She reached out, fingers brushing my hand for just a moment. "Of course you will, my son," she said, lifting her own cup to her lips.
"And Lancelot," my mother said, a hint of mischief curling her lips into a smile, "you will be meeting someone rather interesting as well."
I arched an eyebrow, curiosity sparking like flint against steel. "Interesting?" I echoed, tilting my head in mild surprise.
"Yes," she replied, the word rolling off her tongue with a touch of mystery. She took a sip of her tea, eyes gleaming as she left the meaning cloaked in silence. Whatever more there was to say, she clearly intended to keep it hidden for now.
I watched her for a moment longer, weighing the glint in her eyes, but decided not to press. Some answers were best unraveled in their own time. The breeze stirred the leaves above, carrying the scent of distant lavender and the murmur of bees among the flowers. I allowed the tranquility to seep back into the moment, savoring it.
For today, at least, that was enough. Today was the day I would break through to Blue Stage, the threshold I had set for myself, and the anticipation hummed within me like a second heartbeat.