The training yard was empty at dawn.
That was intentional.
No witnesses.
No interruptions.
No unnecessary variables.
Prince Atelion Abdryth Maetyr Aurelion stood at the center of the stone circle, barefoot, eyes closed, breathing slow and measured.
Morning mist clung to the ground, cool against his skin.
His mind was already working—not on emotion, but on structure.
Aura and Mana did not mix.
That was the accepted truth of the world.
Aura flowed outward from the heart and bones, reinforcing flesh, amplifying strength, sharpening reflex. It was discipline made energy.
Mana circulated through the mind and spirit, abstract, fluid, obeying thought rather than muscle. It was possibility given form.
Two systems. Two circulations. Two truths that repelled each other.
But truths, Atelion knew, were often limited by perspective.
He inhaled.
Aura responded instantly.
Three Stars flared to life, warm and obedient, spreading through his limbs like controlled fire.
Muscles tightened, senses sharpened. He felt solid—anchored.
Only then did he reach inward, deeper than the body.
Mana answered.
One Circle rotated slowly within his core, cool and vast, like a silent ocean beneath the earth. It had no weight, no resistance. Only potential.
So far, so good.
Atelion did not force them together.
That would be foolish.
Instead, he began to observe.
He allowed Aura to circulate as it naturally did, reinforcing his physical pathways.
Then, carefully—precisely—he nudged Mana closer, not into the same channel, but parallel.
The moment they neared—
Pain exploded.
Not external. Internal.
Aura surged violently, as if offended, its flow destabilizing.
Mana convulsed in response, its rotation accelerating uncontrollably.
The two energies collided at the boundary between body and soul.
Atelion's breath hitched.
Veins burned.
His vision fractured into gold and black.
"Too fast," he realized dimly.
"I miscalculated the resistance coefficient—"
His heart seized.
Aura shattered inward.
Mana burst outward.
The result was neither magic nor reinforcement, but destruction.
He collapsed to one knee, blood spilling from the corner of his mouth.
His organs screamed as the incompatible energies tore at his internal pathways, shredding delicate circulation lines that had taken years to develop.
This wasn't failure.
This was death approaching quietly.
The world tilted.
Atelion felt himself falling—not physically, but inward, into a dark silence where even thought struggled to remain intact.
So this is how people die in cultivation accidents, he thought distantly.
Not dramatically.
Just… erased.
A sudden pressure slammed down on his body.
Aura—vast, overwhelming, absolute—flooded the yard.
"Enough!"
The voice was iron.
Atelion's collapsing Aura was forcibly stabilized, pinned in place by a will far greater than his own.
The violent backlash slowed.
Mana, still raging, was suddenly contained, wrapped in a foreign but gentle force.
Cold hands pressed against his back.
A calm, measured voice followed.
"Do not fight it, Your Highness. Let it settle."
The world snapped back into focus.
Atelion coughed violently, pain ripping through his chest, but he was alive.
Standing before him was Sir Althred Veyron, Captain of the Royal Guard.
An Eight-Star Knight.
The man's presence alone bent the air.
His Aura was refined to the point of invisibility—only those with talent could sense it, and Atelion did. It was vast.
Controlled. Absolute.
Behind him stood the palace's Head Butler.
Tall.
Elderly. Hands folded calmly behind his back.
His eyes glowed faintly.
Mana—deep, layered, terrifyingly pure.
An Eight-Circle Magician hiding in plain sight.
"So," the Butler said mildly, "you nearly tore your soul apart before breakfast."
Atelion laughed weakly, then winced.
"An… inefficient outcome," he admitted.
Sir Althred's gaze was sharp.
"You attempted to circulate Aura and Mana simultaneously."
"Yes."
"Why?"
Atelion did not dodge the truth.
"Because doing so would create a Magic Swordsman. And because failure taught me more than theory."
The Captain stared at him for a long moment.
Then, slowly, he smiled.
"Bold.
Stupid.
And honest."
The Butler nodded thoughtfully.
"You did not force them together. You attempted parallel circulation."
Atelion's eyes sharpened despite the pain. "You noticed."
"Of course," the Butler replied.
"It is the only method that doesn't kill someone instantly."
That single sentence chilled the air.
So others had tried.
And failed.
They moved him indoors, healing magic applied carefully—no miracles, just stabilization.
His internal pathways were damaged but not destroyed.
Recovery would take weeks.
As he lay in bed, news arrived.
A royal messenger knelt.
"The engagement council has convened earlier than expected, Your Highness. Princess Olyrén's empire has requested an accelerated schedule."
Pressure.
External.
Relentless.
Ten years was already shrinking.
Atelion closed his eyes, then opened them with quiet resolve.
When Sir Althred and the Butler returned, he spoke without pride.
"I need teachers."
Silence followed.
The Captain crossed his arms.
"You already have talent beyond reason."
"That nearly killed me," Atelion replied calmly.
The Butler smiled faintly.
"And yet you survived.
That is… rare."
Atelion met both their gazes.
"Train me.
Not to force Aura and Mana together—but to understand why they reject each other.
I will find a method.
Not today.
Not tomorrow.
But eventually."
Sir Althred exhaled slowly.
"You ask to walk a path littered with corpses."
"I intend to change that."
Another silence.
Then the Butler spoke.
"We will discuss conditions."
Outside the chamber, unseen by Atelion, two figures watched.
Cairon's fists were clenched, eyes filled with fear and determination.
Lysera held her breath, already understanding that her brother had stepped onto a road that would never allow him to be ordinary again.
And somewhere beyond borders and politics, a red-haired princess with golden eyes continued down the path that history had already written.
For now.