The lines around me started to shine, and the breeze that had been lazily drifting in through the window suddenly decided it was auditioning for a hurricane role. The shutters rattled and clapped like they were cheering me on… or begging for mercy.
The granny's voice came, smooth and steady — exactly the opposite of the chaos swirling around me.
"Since elves have pure mana, unlike you humans, we form an imaginary core and merge as many circuits as we can to it. That's how they get enough mana to use magic."
I nodded, still sitting cross-legged in the center of the glowing patterns.
"Humans can do that too," she continued, "but due to the purity difference, elemental manifestation of mana isn't possible for humans. At best, they can shape mana and project it."
"Like the mana slash?" I asked.
She nodded. Her hand pressed down at the start of the lines, and suddenly the glow got so bright it felt like it wanted to wrap itself around me.
"In mana slash," she said, "mana takes the shape of a sharp blade edge and is projected toward the target. Of course, since it's not physical, it can be stopped with mana — even from afar."
Ah… so that's why Everard used Gyrostatism before the slash. He didn't just want to look cool — he was making sure no one could mess with his mana.
The granny closed her eyes.
"Now, Hugo, form the circuits and join them with the imaginary core."
I obeyed. Two circuits formed, and mana flowed through them like a river that had just been given a proper path. Then came the dreaded third.
I built the third circuit, mana rushing in. I swallowed hard and tried joining it to the core. The instant one end touched, the mana went wild — erratic, surging, threatening to rip the circuit apart.
But then… it calmed. The violent flow smoothed out, but it still didn't enter the core. Oh… I see. A blockage. Granny disconnected the third circuit from the core.
Granny's voice came again. I didn't dare open my eyes and lose focus.
"As I thought… the foreign mana is already incorporated inside your circuits. You can't form another circuit to your core unless you show the foreign mana a different path."
"Is there a way to fix it?" I asked.
"There's nothing a human could do. If you were an elf, that would be a different story."
"I see…" Wait. "What about the God of Light? He's human, and he managed to overcome it."
Granny sighed.
"Are you seriously comparing the humans of this world to the humans of higher realms? God Caelumis is of the Fourth realm, the Council of Gods exists in the Third, and the Creator's Abode is in the First. Worlds in different realms follow the same laws set by the Creator, but they differ in countless ways. In the Fourth realm, there is no racial disparity — every race can do what the others can."
Seriously? I asked about a mana fix, not the entire history of the multiverse.
I still had a question gnawing at me.
"Master, you said it would be a different story with elves. May I know the reason?"
Granny got up from the carpet, brushing her hands and folding the thing with the kind of precision usually reserved for war banners.
She said, "Elves, since we are nature's closest kin, we can manipulate our mana with the help of nature itself."
I leaned in a little. "Catalytic behavior of nature?" My smirk was already threatening to show itself for where this is heading.
Her brows flicked. "You knew?"
"Back in the castle, I had the chance to read Sage Isolde's research material," I said, careful to keep my tone polite.
Granny's eyes widened for a fleeting second before softening with something close to nostalgia. "Master Isolde, hm? I was her disciple. Some of the greatest times in my life…" Her gaze drifted off, warm and distant, like she'd just been served a plate of fond memories.
Sorry to break your trip down memory lane, Master, but we've got bigger fish frying on this fire.
I cleared my throat. "According to Sage Isolde's theory, humans lack the ability to use nature's catalytic behavior. Instead, they are given innate skills that serve as substitutes in cultivation."
She gave a wise little nod and picked up right where I left off. "Yes, but as generations passed, inbreeding depression caused those innate skills to weaken, forming tiers from E to S. And unfortunately, there has never been a solution, since no other race possesses innate skills."
I nodded along. Respectful on the outside. Inside, though? I was practically bouncing.
"Except… there's one mistake in your master's theory."
Her head snapped up, eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly. That look screamed: Careful, boy. That was my master you just called wrong.
I sat up straighter like a student about to beg forgiveness. "Not a mistake, of course. Maybe just… an oversight? It's not like she could've known every human out there."
That seemed to calm her. She softened and said gently, "I am not angry. Continue."
"Thank you. The range of innate skills doesn't just stop at E to S. It actually stretches from E-minus to S-plus."
Now, I fully expected her to gasp, faint, maybe even drop the carpet for added drama. But instead she sighed like someone remembering they left the teapot boiling.
"It's my fault," she said. "I only gifted your grandfather Master Isolde's notes regarding innate skills. I thought humans only needed that much. But in truth, her later notes described the possibility of certain skills rivaling nature's catalytic behavior. She dismissed it as unlikely though, given how weak innate skills have grown over generations."
She looked up, a spark of challenge in her eyes. "So tell me, which researcher from your short-lived race came up with this E-minus and S-plus business?"
I couldn't help it. The smirk broke free. "Me," I said.
She stared at me. Blank. The kind of blank where you're recalculating your entire life's choices.
Then she started, "Are you jok—" and stopped halfway, realization dawning in her eyes.
"You—"
I cut in smoothly before she could choke on the obvious. "Shall we get to work, Master?" My grin widened.
Inside, I was cackling.
***
The chamber breathed shadows. A dozen torches lined the stone walls, but their flames sputtered and wavered as though reluctant to illuminate the vaulted hall. The air smelled faintly of wax and parchment, and every whisper of firelight carved fleeting shapes across the cracked floor tiles.
A man knelt low near the end of the hall, clutching a bundle of reports to his chest. His voice trembled despite his effort to sound composed.
"Sir, the reports regarding the Falcon Castle's recent activities are here."
At the far end, seated upon a broad-backed chair carved from black oak, a figure raised his head. His golden eyes caught the faint light, sharp and heavy, pinning the messenger in place. Papers lay spread before him, half-read, but his attention now shifted.
"...Them again?" His voice thumped like a hammer against stone, deep and measured. "Why are they stirring so much, all of a sudden?"
The messenger — little more than a courier, though trusted enough to carry intelligence — dared to lift his eyes. "Sir Oberon, our sources believe the Duchess of Falcon, Lady Serena, has resumed her hand in administration."
Oberon hummed, slow and rhythmic, the sound almost thoughtful. "Serena... Now that," he said, stroking the thick beard that framed his jaw, "is troublesome news, isn't it?"
"Yes, my lord," the courier answered quickly. "Almost overnight, contracts began flooding out of Falconspire. Merchant associations across the duchy are abandoning their outposts and moving into the capital."
Golden eyes narrowed, not on the reports, but on the ceiling as if seeing past the stone itself. "And the contracts?" His tone grew sharper, weight pressing down with every syllable.
The courier fumbled through the stack, fingers jittering across parchment. "Several, my lord, but the most concerning involve joint ventures which included tax farming clauses extended to merchant guilds throughout the duchy."
A deep hum rolled from Oberon's chest. "Certainly Serena's doing. That warhead of a duke would never grant unstable merchants such sway. A bold move, but clever..." His lips curled into a knowing smile. "Let me guess. The return clause is tied to military supply."
The courier froze, eyes widening. "Yes, Lord Oberon... How did you—?"
Oberon smirked, his gaze sharpening. "A neat trick. By granting tax farming rights, she's shifted the weight of Everard's military expansions onto the merchants' coffers. That frees the treasury for her reforms, all while making the guilds complicit in Falcon's war footing."
He leaned back in his chair, finally setting aside the reports in his hand. His interest, rare, dangerous, had been kindled.
"Read more," Oberon ordered, his voice quieter now, but all the heavier for it.
The courier's throat bobbed as he swallowed. Never had the finance minister shown such keen focus on the Falcon Duchy. His palms dampened as he turned another page.
"In customs agreements and local development contracts, the changes... they appear minor. Adjustments here and there. But when cross-referenced, our intelligence concluded they all point to one peculiar contract issued to the capital's merchant association."
He hesitated, glancing nervously at Oberon.
Oberon's golden eyes cut through him like blades. "Speak."
"Grower contract... centering increament in feeder pork production, Sir Oberon."
The hall fell into silence.
Oberon's eyes widened, his smirk fading into something unreadable. He leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, golden irises burning brighter in the dim chamber.
"...Pork?" His voice carried the weight of realization, and in the flicker of torchlight, the silence felt far sharper than the words themselves.