The books spoke of energy, the essence of existence itself, called by many names across realms. Some texts referred to it as mana, a fluid and versatile force that mages used to weave spells and manipulate reality. Others called it qi, the lifeblood of martial artists, a force internal and visceral, harnessed through the body's movement and willpower.
The volumes detailed with meticulous precision how these energies were cultivated and stored. Mages were born with or acquired a mana heart, a radiant core of energy seated within their chests. From this heart, mana coursed through their veins, powering their incantations and bending the world to their desires. The texts likened it to a star contained within flesh, fragile yet infinite.
Martial artists, in contrast, stored qi throughout their entire being. Their bodies were reservoirs, with muscles and tendons hardened by years of discipline, their breath a conduit for energy. Qi demanded dedication, a lifetime of honing both body and spirit to command its latent power.
The books spoke of harmony and conflict, the delicate balance between these forces. Qi was the fire of life; mana, the whisper of creation. Together, they wove the fabric of existence itself.
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She lost herself in these studies for what felt like eternity. The library became her world, its secrets her sole companions. Each book unlocked new truths, their words carving understanding into the folds of her mind. But as much as she read, she could not prepare for what came next.
The change began subtly. A heat grew in her chest, faint at first, then oppressive. She clutched at her sternum, her breathing shallow as the sensation intensified. Then it struck like a blade.
Her scream tore through the silent library as she collapsed to the ground, her hands clawing at her chest. The pain was indescribable, as though her very essence was being unraveled and rewoven. Her body convulsed, and her vision blurred, but she could still feel it, the growing pressure, the searing heat.
Blood began to seep from her nose, her mouth, and even her tear ducts. It pooled beneath her, staining the pristine floor. She squealed in agony, her cries echoing endlessly, swallowed by the infinite expanse.
And then the light came.
Brilliant, cascading colors erupted around her, hues she had no words for, iridescent, otherworldly. They pulsed and swirled, pouring into her from unseen currents, feeding the fire within. Her body trembled under the deluge, every nerve alight with sensation as energy saturated her being.
Her chest felt as though it might burst. A singular point of light burned there now, consuming everything. She couldn't think, couldn't breathe. Her world was pain and light and raw, unfiltered power.
Somehow, amidst the chaos, she stumbled forward. Her eyes, barely open, caught the gleam of the pedestal and the cup of satiation atop it. Her bloodied hands grasped it, and she drank deeply, the viscous black liquid sliding down her throat.
It tasted bitter and sweet, putrid and fragrant, all at once. The warmth it brought quelled the storm within her, but only barely. She drank until her shaking hands could hold the cup no longer. It fell, the last drops splattering onto the floor.
Still, the energy poured into her, and her consciousness faltered. She collapsed, the radiant colors dimming around her as darkness claimed her.
The last thing she felt before oblivion was the steady, rhythmic pulse of her heart.