I woke before dawn, which wasn't unusual. Sleep had become a strange thing in this second life. My body needed it desperately, the demands of a growing toddler requiring ten to twelve hours a night. But my mind, my adult consciousness, often stirred earlier, restless and racing with thoughts that a two-year-old shouldn't be capable of having.
The room was dark except for the faint glow of early morning light beginning to creep through the curtains. I lay in my bed, which was thankfully no longer a crib, staring at the wooden beams of the ceiling.
Mana.
The word had been echoing in my head since Julian's lesson yesterday. Everything I'd learned, everything about this world's power system, it all hinged on that single concept. The energy that flowed through all living things. The source of magic and superhuman strength. The key to everything I wanted to become.
And people awakened to it at nine years old.
Nine years old.
I was two. That meant seven more years of being ordinary, of being weak, of being stuck in this frustratingly inadequate body while knowing that power existed just out of reach.
Unless...
I sat up, my toddler body protesting the early movement. My legs dangled off the edge of the bed, not quite reaching the floor. In the dim light, I could see my small hands, chubby and uncoordinated. Useless hands that couldn't hold a sword properly, couldn't write more than scribbles, couldn't do any of the things my mind screamed at them to do.
But maybe, just maybe, they could do something else.
My past life felt like a dream sometimes, the memories becoming hazier with each passing day in this new world. But some things remained crystal clear. The countless hours I'd spent reading manga, watching anime, devouring webnovels about people transported to other worlds, people given second chances, people who became powerful beyond imagination.
I'd consumed those stories like they were oxygen. Studied them. Analyzed them. Never admitting to anyone, not even myself, that I was looking for an instruction manual. A guide to becoming special.
And now, in this world where magic was real, those fictional stories might actually be useful.
I closed my eyes, thinking back. How many cultivation novels had I read? How many stories about ki, chakra, mana, spiritual energy? They all had variations, but there were common threads. Universal principles that appeared again and again.
The core. Every system talked about the core.
A center point in the chest, in the solar plexus area, where energy gathered and concentrated. In some stories, you had to create it through meditation. In others, everyone was born with one. But the principle was always the same: energy flowed into the core, accumulated there, and when enough had gathered, power awakened.
My hand moved to my chest, pressing against the fabric of my nightshirt.
What if...
What if the mana core wasn't something that suddenly appeared at nine years old? What if it had always been there, from birth? What if children were passively absorbing mana all along, their cores slowly filling like a cup under a dripping faucet?
The thought hit me like lightning.
That would explain the fixed age. Nine years. Not eight, not ten, but specifically nine. What if that was simply how long it took for a passive core to absorb enough ambient mana to trigger the awakening? The core filled slowly, naturally, without the person even being aware of it. And then, at around nine years old, it reached critical mass.
The awakening wasn't the core appearing. It was the core becoming active.
My heart was racing now, my mind spinning with possibilities. If that was true, if the core was already there, passively absorbing mana...
Then why wait?
Why let it fill slowly over seven more years when I could actively guide the process? If I could feel the core, sense it, maybe I could consciously direct mana into it. Control the flow instead of letting it trickle in naturally.
I could awaken early.
The realization felt like I'd cracked a code, like I'd seen through a secret that this entire world had missed. Or maybe not missed. Maybe no one had ever tried because children weren't supposed to be capable of the meditation and focus required. Maybe no one had ever thought to test the theory because waiting until nine was simply how it had always been done.
But I wasn't a normal child. I had an adult mind, adult discipline, adult understanding. If anyone could do this, it would be me.
I had to try.
I slid off the bed, my feet finally touching the cold stone floor. Moving carefully, quietly, I made my way to the center of the room. Sitting cross-legged was still awkward with my toddler proportions, but I managed it, adjusting until I found something resembling the meditation poses I'd seen in movies and read about in novels.
Close your eyes. Clear your mind. Focus inward.
That's what they always said.
I closed my eyes and immediately wanted to laugh at how impossible that sounded. Clear my mind? My mind had been a storm of thoughts and plans and frustrations for two solid years. Asking it to be clear was like asking the ocean to be still.
But I had to try.
I focused on my breathing first. In and out. Slow and steady. That was basic, something even a child could do. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Feel the air filling the lungs, feel it leaving.
In. Out. In. Out.
My thoughts began to slow, just slightly. The constant buzz of analysis and planning faded to background noise.
Now, feel inward.
I turned my attention to my chest, to that area right below my sternum where every story placed the core. At first, there was nothing. Just the awareness of my physical body, the beating of my heart, the expansion and contraction of my lungs.
But I pushed deeper, searching for something that wasn't physical. Something beneath the flesh and bone.
Nothing.
Minutes passed. Or maybe just seconds. Time felt strange when you were turned inward like this.
Still nothing.
Frustration bubbled up, threatening to break my concentration. This was stupid. I was a two-year-old sitting in the dark pretending to be some kind of cultivation protagonist. The core probably didn't even work the way I thought it did. This world's magic system might be completely different from the fictional ones I'd read about.
No. I pushed the doubt away. I'd come too far, wanted this too badly to give up after one attempt.
I focused again, breathing deeper, searching harder. Not with my eyes or ears or any physical sense. With something else. With intention. With will.
And then...
There.
It was so faint I almost missed it. A warmth in my chest, distinct from my body heat. A presence that felt both foreign and intimately familiar. Like discovering a room in your house you'd never noticed before, even though it had always been there.
My breath caught.
The sensation was ethereal, barely more than a whisper of feeling. But it was real. I could sense it. A small space, a hollow in the center of my being, and within it...
Movement.
Not flowing like water or burning like fire. Something else entirely. Energy that felt alive, aware, responsive. It moved in lazy currents, swirling gently like smoke in still air. And as I focused on it, as I became aware of it, the sensation grew stronger.
This was mana.
This was the energy that powered magic and warriors and everything extraordinary in this world. And I could feel it. Actually feel it.
My two-year-old body trembled with excitement, nearly breaking my concentration. I forced myself to stay calm, to keep my focus locked on that sensation in my chest.
The core was small. So small. Like a marble, maybe, or a pebble. And the mana inside moved slowly, sluggishly. There wasn't much of it. Just wisps and traces, probably accumulated passively over my two years of life.
But it was there.
And if I could feel it, maybe I could affect it.
I tried to pull more mana in, to draw it from... somewhere. The air? My body? I wasn't sure where mana came from, but I reached out with that same sense that let me feel the core, trying to guide more energy toward it.
Nothing happened.
I tried again, straining with effort that was more mental than physical. Still nothing. The mana in my core continued its lazy swirl, unchanged and unaffected by my attempts.
The frustration returned, sharper this time. I could sense it, but I couldn't control it. Like being able to see a locked door but not having the key.
My eyes snapped open, the meditation breaking. The room had grown lighter during my attempt. Pale morning sun now streamed through the windows. I had no idea how long I'd been sitting there. An hour? Less?
My legs were cramped, my back sore from maintaining the position. But none of that mattered compared to what I'd discovered.
The core was real. I could feel it. And that meant everything else I'd theorized was probably correct too. Children were passively absorbing mana, their cores slowly filling over years until awakening happened naturally.
Which meant I could actively work toward that same goal.
I just had to figure out how.
A smile spread across my face, genuine and unburdened by the emptiness that had plagued me in my past life. This wasn't about being seen or praised or mentioned. This was about the raw challenge of it. The puzzle. The impossible made possible.
I would crack this code. I would learn to actively absorb mana into my core. And I would awaken before anyone thought possible.
The protagonist's journey had truly begun.