Violence in the city didn't arrive with ceremony.
It slipped in quietly, the way rot did—unnoticed until it was already too deep to cut out cleanly.
Suguru was halfway through the lower ward when it happened.
The cooper's grain sack rested light against his hip, tied poorly, scratching against his uniform. He'd been paid early—with a warning not to wander.
He followed that advice. Mostly.
The alley narrowed without him noticing.
Stone leaned inward. Light thinned. The air smelled like damp wood and old iron.
Footsteps echoed behind him.
Not rushed.
Not hidden.
Just close.
"Hey."
Suguru didn't turn.
A hand slammed between his shoulders.
He stumbled forward, the sack flying from his grip. It struck stone and split open, grain scattering uselessly across the ground.
"Look at that," someone laughed. "Clumsy too."
Suguru raised his hands slowly. "I don't want trouble. Take it. Just—"
Pain detonated in his ribs.
A short club drove into his side, folding him with a humiliating gasp. His knees hit stone. Palms scraped raw.
Three of them.
Club. Knife. One watching with lazy amusement.
"Always say that," the knife-holder muttered.
Suguru forced himself up.
Don't lean. Don't panic.
Garron's training surfaced in fragments.
Weight low. Step, don't flinch.
The next swing missed him by inches, cracking the wall instead. The man blinked, surprised.
Suguru swung the empty sack on instinct. Grain burst upward, dusting eyes.
A heartbeat.
The knife still came.
Fabric tore. Heat sliced across his arm.
Suguru staggered back until stone met his spine.
Cornered.
Fear rose—not sharp. Heavy. Crushing. Like the world pressing down.
His breath shortened.
His chest tightened.
And something answered.
Not from him.
From everywhere.
The air thickened. Sound dulled. His vision blurred at the edges. It felt like the world was suddenly too close, too heavy, too present.
Mana.
He didn't know the word yet.
But his body did.
The stones under his feet shifted—barely. A shallow ripple. Enough for the club-wielder to lose balance for half a second.
"What the hell—"
Suguru screamed.
Pain tore through him instantly.
It wasn't power flowing out.
It was something forcing its way in.
His lungs burned. His head split with pressure. His stomach lurched violently as if his body rejected something poisonous.
His knees buckled.
The heaviness collapsed inward.
He hit the ground hard, shaking, bile in his throat, blood trickling from his nose.
"Freak," someone hissed.
A kick struck his ribs. Another his shoulder.
Then they ran.
Suguru couldn't move. Could barely breathe.
Mana had touched him—
And his body had nearly broken under it.
A shadow fell over him.
"You're breathing," Garron said. "Good."
Suguru tried to answer. Nothing came.
Garron hauled him upright. "Idiot," he muttered. "You brushed the world back."
They reached the river. Cold air steadied Suguru's spinning mind.
"That thing you felt," Garron said, voice low, "wasn't strength."
Suguru swallowed. "Then what was it…?"
"Mana," Garron said. "And your body is not ready to carry even a drop."
Suguru stared at his shaking hands.
"It barely did anything…"
"That's why you're alive."
The river flowed, uncaring.
Suguru understood, dimly:
Magic wasn't a weapon.
It was a weight the world forced on those who cracked first.
And he had almost shattered.