Draven's vision blurred as another violent surge ripped through him, the mana **thrashing**, grinding against his organs like serrated glass.
*Let it flow?*
The thought almost made him laugh—if he wasn't too busy choking on blood.
*That thing is tearing me apart… and her suggestion is to let it go?*
*Damn bitch.*
If he released it—even for a second—it wouldn't "flow."
It would **detonate**.
It would shred him from the inside out, reduce his body to pulp long before regeneration could even try to keep up. He could feel it clearly now: this wasn't power meant to circulate gently. It was pressure. Violence. A mass that wanted **out**.
His fingers spasmed, digging deeper into the ground as cracks spider-webbed outward beneath his grip.
*I can't control it.*
*I can barely suppress it.*
The realization burned worse than the pain.
If this continued—if he stayed like this—**nothing would change**. He'd still be reacting. Still being dragged along by forces he didn't understand. Still too weak when it mattered most.
His teeth clenched as a raw growl tore from his throat, his shoulders shaking violently.
"Get… a grip," he snarled at himself, breath ragged. "Think."
He forced his mind inward despite the agony—past the pain, past the panic—grabbing onto the one thing that didn't feel foreign.
His thoughts **raced**, crashing into one another through the pain.
*Why does it hurt this much?*
*Last time—last time it stopped.*
He remembered it clearly. The first stones. The second. The pain had been brutal, yes—but it had **ended**. His body had adapted. The chaos had settled.
This time?
It **wouldn't stop**.
The mana didn't slow. Didn't stabilize. It kept surging, clawing, hammering against him as if furious at being contained at all—like it had been waiting for this moment.
Another wave ripped through him. Blood dripped freely from his lips.
*What's the difference?*
The answer struck him so hard his breath caught.
The **seal**.
The maid's words replayed in his mind, sharp and unavoidable.
*Your blood was sealed.*
*To hide what you are.*
*To prevent others from sensing it.*
His eyes widened slightly.
"…Was it sealing more than just my blood?"
The realization snapped into place with cruel clarity.
The seal hadn't just hidden him.
It had been a **lid**.
A cap placed over something that was never meant to be left open.
Back then, when he consumed the stones, the mana had nowhere to go. The seal had **contained it**, forced it to settle, to diffuse slowly instead of rampaging.
That was why it stopped.
Now?
The seal was gone.
And the mana—mana that had been compressed, restrained, forced to behave for years—was finally **free**.
Too free.
Draven's hands trembled as he forced himself to breathe through clenched teeth.
"So that's it…" he rasped.
The seal hadn't been suppressing weakness.
It had been preventing **overflow**.
And now, no matter how hard he tried, all he was doing was desperately forcing power back into a container that had already shattered.
The pressure surged again, so violently his vision went white for a heartbeat.
*I'm not controlling mana.*
*I'm stopping a flood.*
His blood magic strained around the raging core inside him, veins bulging as if they might burst.
"…Then I'm thinking about this wrong," he growled.
If the seal was the cover—
Then control wouldn't come from **forcing it back in**.
It would come from giving it somewhere else to go.
The thought steadied him—barely, but enough.
Not release.
Not explosion.
But **redirection**.
His breathing slowed, eyes burning with clarity through the agony.
"If I don't change how this flows," he muttered, blood dripping from his lips, "this body won't last."
His breath steadied—still ragged, but **controlled**.
He lifted his head slowly, blood still running from his nose, his gaze sharp despite the pain.
"…Let it flow," he murmured.
A breath.
Then a bitter, humorless huff.
"I guess… you were partly right."
His fingers dug into the dirt beneath him as he forced his thoughts into order.
"Letting it flow doesn't mean letting it run wild," he said through clenched teeth. "It doesn't mean surrender."
His gaze darkened.
"It means **accepting that it's already overflowing**."
Another surge tore through him—but this time, he didn't fight it.
"If I keep trying to hold everything in," he continued, voice low and strained, "the container breaks. That's the end."
His chest rose and fell once—deep, deliberate.
"But if I let it flow…"
"…then only what this body can hold will stay."
The realization settled into him like iron.
"Whatever it can't contain will leave."
A faint curl touched his lips.
"And if nothing remains—then that just means this body was never meant to hold mana at all."
"But if something *does* remain…"
His eyes burned crimson.
"Then that's what belongs to me."
Draven stopped suppressing it.
He **opened himself**—not violently, not recklessly, but with intent.
The effect was immediate.
Thin strands of mana began to **leak** from his body, seeping through his skin like glowing threads drawn from deep within his veins. They twisted through the air in erratic lines, snapping and dissolving as they escaped.
The pressure inside him **dropped**.
Not gone.
But no longer crushing.
His body trembled as the excess poured out—mana bleeding away in visible currents through his arms, shoulders, and back—like a storm finally given an outlet.
Draven exhaled sharply, teeth still clenched, but the pain shifted. It no longer tore. No longer exploded.
"…There," he rasped.
The ground beneath him cracked faintly as the leaking mana scorched the earth before dispersing into nothing.
His heart still pounded. His muscles screamed.
But he was **still intact**.
Still standing.
And whatever mana remained inside him—whatever refused to leave—
That wasn't chaos.
That was his.
The others watched in silence.
Aldric was the first to speak.
He crossed his arms, jaw tight, eyes sharp—but his voice carried something else now. Not mockery.
Realization.
He hadn't moved closer.
Hadn't drawn his weapon.
He simply stared at Draven with that tight, unreadable expression.
"…Still standing," he said at last. "After eating *that* much."
He let out a slow breath.
"To think you'd do something so stupid as eating magic stones in the first place." His eyes narrowed. "And now it's clear."
Clearer than Aldric liked.
Draven didn't look at him.
Aldric continued anyway.
"Those goblins you killed back then," he said. "The day you claimed you were 'practicing' on live targets."
His gaze flicked briefly to Draven's blood-streaked face.
"You weren't just killing them."
"You were **feeding yourself**."
The words hung heavy in the air.
Lyriana felt a chill crawl up her spine.
She stared at Draven as memories clicked into place—moments she had dismissed, details she had brushed aside.
Back then, she had noticed it.
The way he'd been drenched in blood.
The pool on the floor.
The stones nowhere in sight.
She had thought she was overthinking.
Now—
"…I wasn't wrong," she murmured under her breath, eyes widening slightly. "I knew something was off…"