Time hadn't just passed; it had congealed, a dark, viscous water pooling at his core. Memories weren't clear; they were obscured by a constant, low-grade wrongness, a feeling that something fundamental was broken within him. Escape felt vital, an instinct. Or was it another's thought echoing in his mind? A book, a suggestion whispered, faint as a breath.
His mother's voice, soft and distant, a phantom echo. His father's rule, a flint edge: work to forget. This old dictate surfaced not as choice, but reflex, his body already anticipating labor, denial. Yet, a different pull drew him. The book in question was surprisingly heavy, a dense object that grounded the trembling deep within him, anchoring his shaking hands.
He lifted it, its size daunting for a child. Placing it on the table, he opened it. Blackness. No title, no image, just absolute black. He began to read, words appearing as he turned the page: The History of Umara and its People. Stories of Long Ago.
In Umara, education was fractured, private. Children weren't schooled together. Parents taught them, until sixteen, sharing only their own limited knowledge. Orphans… they were given sustenance, shelter, but no guidance, no learning. It felt like a brutal system, a culling of the weak. Is this true strength? Survival alone? Does life itself forge strength, or simply reward those already strong? A chilling thought settled in his mind.
Umara, a world of vast scope, divided into thirteen distinct lands. Westland, Crystal Mountain, Sage Peninsula, Oracle Land… names that evoked grandeur, yet remained strangely empty, abstract. He lived in Westland, seat of the enigmatic king. A figure revered and feared in equal measure, even if respect was the word spoken. The history recounted Umara's genesis: like any world, life unfurling slowly, from the infinitesimal to sentience.
Then, five millennia past, a divergence. The first woman to sense mana. Not to comprehend, but to feel its presence, a visceral understanding. A child of six, stillness itself, sensing mana. Mana, the book described, as omnipresent, inexhaustible, but always demanding a sacrifice, a price for its touch.
Gradually, others began to perceive mana, to experiment, to manipulate. Mana was near-limitless, they discovered, if one grasped the principle. And the most startling revelation: everyone possessed the capacity, a flicker of potential, even in the broken, an infinite wellspring within each person.
But such unchecked power couldn't be benign. To gain strength through mana, something essential had to be surrendered. Happiness, the book stated, was the first casualty. Replaced by a persistent undercurrent of sadness, a gnawing guilt that became as integral as blood to mana users. Memories, too, became hyper-real, agonizingly vivid, sharpening the edges of regret. It was as if mana possessed a perverse sentience, a quiet, insidious laughter at the world's unraveling.
A jolt went through Johan. He saw them then, the adults around him, their guarded expressions, their submerged sadnesses – patterns he'd been blind to, now illuminated by the stark light of the book. Why this carefully guarded secret from his own mother? She knew this book's contents. He had asked her, a child's innocent question dismissed, deflected. He was adrift, the familiar world tilting on its axis. Yet, he forced himself to continue.
The book droned on, lineage and hierarchy, noble blood, warriors, blades and spears. Empty words, offering no solace. No pathway to strength, no measure of potential. Perhaps even mana itself had no true limits, no ultimate boundary. A thought both exhilarating and profoundly isolating bloomed in his mind.
The ensuing silence was qualitatively different. No longer just the house's usual quiet, but a loaded stillness, pregnant with the book's unspoken weight. A humming silence, a sense of unseen energy permeating the room. Mana itself, an unseen observer? Johan closed the book, the black cover absorbing the room's meager light. The tremor in his hands hadn't abated; it seemed amplified, a faint vibration persisting even as he placed the book back on the table.
Only then, the hallway sound – light, hesitant footsteps, his mother. He hadn't registered the passage of time, the deepening dusk. Shadows lengthened, reaching from the corners like grasping fingers, the air growing cooler, hinting at evening.
His mother entered, her habitual gentle smile in place, yet tonight, it seemed strained, thinly stretched over something concealed. Her eyes, typically warm, focused on him, then flickered to the black book on the table. A tremor in her expression – surprise? Or something more veiled, more guarded?
"Johan," she began, her voice softer than usual, almost a whisper, as if afraid of shattering the charged silence. "What are you reading?"
The question landed like a physical weight. He wanted to speak, to unleash the torrent of questions, to ask about the sadness, about mana, about her silence. But the words were trapped, lodged in his chest, as heavy and unyielding as the black book itself. He could only gesture, a small, trembling finger extended towards the open book, its dark pages a stark, exposed wound.
Her smile flickered, a hairline fracture in its carefully constructed surface. Her gaze remained fixed on the book, averted from his. Silence returned, deeper, thicker with unspoken truths. He scrutinized her face, searching for anything – explanation, denial, a spark of shared understanding. But her features remained meticulously blank, a carefully composed mask.
"That old thing," she finally said, her voice too light, too breezy, a jarring falseness in the weighted quiet. "Just an old book, Johan. Nothing for you to trouble yourself with. Why don't you put it away now? Dinner will be ready soon."
"But… mana," Johan managed, his voice barely audible, the word itself alien, almost taboo. In the profound stillness, it resonated, a fragile sound vibrating against the dense silence. His mother's eyes sharpened instantly, a sudden, almost painful intensity focusing on his face. The soft mask dissolved, replaced by something harder, less familiar, almost… aged. For a fleeting moment, he didn't see his mother, but an archetype from the book, marked by sorrow and burden, carrying the unspoken weight of Umara.
"Mana?" she echoed, her tone losing all warmth, acquiring a chilling coolness.
"Who told you about… mana?" The question was no longer gentle, but sharp, probing, demanding an answer he didn't possess, or perhaps, was too afraid to voice.
He lowered his gaze to his trembling hands, the tremor now a deep, pervasive thrum beneath his skin. And he knew, with a sudden, bone-deep certainty, that the world had irrevocably shifted. The vague unease was no longer nebulous; it was concrete, tangible, infusing the air, her voice, the oppressive silence itself. It had a name – Mana. And it was something to be profoundly, existentially feared.