Chapter 7 – Awakening the Mana Heart
The village lay silent beneath a heavy shroud of night.
The day's laughter had faded, leaving only the occasional creak of wood, the distant hoot of an owl, and the faint snore of men who had gone to bed with full stomachs for the first time in years.
Smoke still curled from dying cookfires, their orange glow long since reduced to gray embers.
Ashton walked the dirt path slowly, his crimson eyes reflecting faint streaks of moonlight.
Behind him, the villagers slept soundly. He envied them—if only slightly. For them, tonight was a reprieve. For him, it was only the beginning.
His destination waited ahead: the crude hut the villagers had erected for him. Four walls of uneven planks, a slanted roof patched with straw and reeds, and a "door" that was really just two boards lashed together with rope.
Yet to Ashton, it was a place to retreat, to think, to plan.
He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a muted scrape of wood. Darkness enveloped him.
A single crack in the roof let a thin silver beam of moonlight fall across the floor. The air smelled faintly of damp earth and smoke.
Ashton lowered himself to the center of the room, sitting cross-legged.
He exhaled, a long breath that carried the weight of everything pressing against his mind.
The villagers had followed his lead today. They had planted the potatoes, roasted them, laughed together.
For the first time, he had seen hope in their eyes. That hope was precious—but fragile. He knew the truth. Potatoes alone would not protect them when the demi-humans decided to act.
Strength. That's what we need. And not just the strength of tools or courage. Real strength. Power.
In this world, that meant one thing: Ether.
He closed his eyes. "In this Age of Gods, the air itself is saturated with magic," he murmured, recalling everything he had pieced together. "Ether flows everywhere. It's life, it's power… but only if I can harness it."
He took a slow, deep breath, letting his shoulders fall. The stillness of the hut pressed against him, broken only by the faint rustling of grass outside. He focused inward.
Feel the air. Feel the current.
He waited. Listened. Reached.
…Nothing.
His brow furrowed. He tried again, narrowing his focus, picturing the flow of invisible streams surrounding him. Inhale, exhale. He guided his mind to open, to reach, to catch something just beyond his grasp.
Again, nothing.
A muscle in his jaw twitched. He refused to give in to frustration. Again. A third time. His breathing grew steady, his mind sharpened. He visualized Ether as mist, drifting, clinging to his skin, waiting to be pulled in.
But his grasp slid through emptiness.
His crimson eyes opened briefly, glaring into the dark. "…So it's not that simple."
Yet he didn't stop. He leaned back, closed his eyes again, and let the silence wash over him. A fourth attempt.
His breath slowed, body growing heavier with each cycle. He emptied his mind of doubt, of noise, of distraction.
And then—
A tingle brushed his skin. Subtle, faint, but undeniable. Like static before a storm. His chest tightened.
"There you are," he whispered, lips curling faintly.
Ether. He felt it. Not with his eyes, not with touch, but with something deeper. Invisible streams brushing across him, curling around his body like threads of wind.
He did not open his eyes. He did not want to lose it. Instead, he leaned into the sensation, steadying himself.
Absorb. Gather. Refine. Store.
Carefully, he coaxed the streams inward. They seeped through his skin, into his chest, formless and wild. His body resisted instantly. His heart skipped, lungs shuddered. Sweat beaded his brow.
"Come on… obey me," he muttered.
Pain struck. A sharp, searing agony lanced through his chest as though hot needles were piercing his heart. His teeth ground together, a low growl escaping his throat.
The Ether thrashed, raw and chaotic, threatening to tear him apart from the inside.
He forced it downward, centering it in his heart.
He would not yield.
Shape it. Bind it.
He pictured an infinity symbol, the endless loop he had read about so many times in the stories of his past life.
A circuit eternal, unbroken. He forced the wild Ether into that shape, weaving, bending, compressing.
Agony flared brighter. His entire body shook. He bit down on his lip until blood filled his mouth. His nails dug into his knees.
Minutes stretched into an eternity. Sweat drenched his clothes, his breath coming ragged and shallow.
But slowly—so painfully slowly—the chaos bent. The Ether curved into form, flowing in a circle, then a loop, then finally, an eternal rhythm.
Two hours passed.
When Ashton finally collapsed onto his side, he was half-conscious, chest heaving, vision swimming. His heart pounded like a war drum, but beneath its rhythm flowed something new—steady, endless, alive.
Ether. Controlled. Bound.
It hurt like hell. But it was his.
For three long minutes he lay trembling, every nerve screaming. Then the pain receded, leaving behind only exhaustion and something else: power.
At last, Ashton dragged himself upright, breath ragged. A weak laugh slipped from his lips.
"…Damn. That was brutal." His hand pressed against his chest, where a new rhythm pulsed. "But I did it."
He leaned his head back, eyes fluttering shut for a moment, savoring the achievement. "The Mana Heart… yes. That's its name."
His first true technique.
He rested for an hour, letting his body recover. When he finally rose to his feet, the village was still wrapped in slumber.
The moon hung high, silvering the fields.
Ashton stepped outside, inhaling the cool night air. His body felt different—charged, alive. He closed his crimson eyes, focusing on the new circuit within his chest.
Ether pulsed through him.
"Let's test this."
He drew the flow upward, guiding it toward his eyes. At once, heat filled his sockets, sharp and uncomfortable. He hissed softly, forcing himself to endure it. His eyes burned as though aflame, but when he opened them—
—the world shifted.
The darkness brightened. Shapes
sharpened.
Beyond the fences, beyond the fields, the shadows of the forest glowed. His irises blazed crimson, light spilling like embers into the night.
"Clairvoyance," Ashton murmured. The word rolled off his tongue like an oath.
He turned his gaze to the bushes at the forest's edge. And there—lying low, half-hidden—he saw them. The demi-humans. Hulking shapes of fur and claw, asleep beneath the trees.
The same eyes that had watched earlier now shut in slumber.
His jaw tightened. Spies. Scavengers. Predators.
For a moment, he considered waking the villagers, sounding alarm. But no—panic would undo everything. Hope was still too fragile. They didn't need fear tonight.
This burden was his.
He touched his chest, drawing Ether downward, then funneled it into his legs. Strength surged through him, muscles taut with energy. He crouched, pushed off lightly
—
—and moved like a shadow.
Silent. Swift. His feet kissed the dirt without sound, his form slipping through the night like smoke. In seconds he closed the distance, the demi-humans still breathing heavily in their sleep.
Closer. Closer.
Ether shifted to his arms, burning through muscle, making them hard as steel. His hands trembled—not from weakness, but from the knowledge of what he was about to do.
My first kill.
He clenched his jaw. Hesitation was death. Mercy was death. For the village, for himself, there was no other path.
With a swift, precise motion, Ashton struck. His arm plunged, skin strengthened by Ether.
The first demi-human jerked once, then fell still, throat split cleanly.
Before the second could stir, Ashton's arm swung again. Another stab. Another death. Quick. Silent.
The forest went still once more.
For a heartbeat, Ashton froze, staring at the blood dripping from his blade, at the lifeless bodies sprawled in the grass. His hands shook, his chest tightened.
This is it. The line I've crossed.
He had killed. Not monsters, not animals, but thinking beings. Demi-humans.
His breath came ragged. He forced himself to steady it. He couldn't afford weakness now.
With a grimace, he gathered Ether once more, shaping it into fire. A small flame sparked at his fingertips, catching the dry grass, then spreading.
He guided it carefully, burning the bodies until nothing remained but ash.
The smoke curled upward, dark against the moonlight.
Ashton turned away, deactivating his techniques. His crimson eyes dimmed, his legs grew heavy again. He walked back toward the village, silent, his body tired but his resolve unbroken.
Reaching his hut, he pushed the door shut behind him, collapsed onto the floor, and exhaled.
Tomorrow, the villagers would wake to hope. They would laugh, eat, believe. None would know what had stalked them in the night—or what Ashton had done to ensure their peace.
He lay back, staring at the dark ceiling. His lips curved into a faint, weary smile.
"…Tomorrow will be interesting," he whispered.
Sleep claimed him at last.
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