The estate was quiet again, but not asleep. Somewhere behind the western wing, faint tremors sometimes pulsed through the ground—barely enough to shake a teacup, yet noticeable enough for the servants to whisper.
In the following weeks, Hector Auren'del had grown quieter than usual. He still joined meals, still smiled faintly when his parents spoke, still nodded when Selene scolded him for staying up too late—but behind that calm, something else stirred.
Every night, his window glowed faintly with pale light.
The family said nothing. Theron only grinned once and muttered, "Just don't burn the house, kid," earning a glare from Selene and a silent sigh from their father. They all knew Hector was doing something. They simply didn't know what.
You might think because it's fantasy like world you can just imagine yourself conjuring fireball and stuffs and it goes like that easy peasy that's far from the truth, although imagination is a crucial part but it they're still rules to follow.
Fire came first. It was simple, instinctive—something that almost responded to thought alone. In the solitude of his room, Hector extended his palm, letting mana thread through his veins like heated breath. Imagine he murmured while closing his eyes for concentration , A spark bloomed, faint and orange, wavering before solidifying into a small orb of flame. The air rippled faintly. It wasn't fueled by rage or recklessness but precision—temperature, oxygen, mana flow.
"Fire isn't destruction," he murmured. "It's transformation."
He adjusted the pressure, increasing the rate at which mana oscillated through his hand. The flame sharpened, turning blue, burning hotter but quieter. He dispersed it with a flick, leaving only the soft scent of singed air. Fire was obedient to purpose—creation or ruin depending on the will behind it.
Days past as he horned his control and then, he turned to water. Buckets and flasks lined the floor, glimmering under moonlight. He closed his eyes, breathing slowly, feeling for the rhythm of the air. "Water obeys cohesion," he whispered. "Pull one particle, and the rest follow."
Moisture condensed in front of him, swirling like mist before merging into a floating sphere. He smiled faintly. Fluidity—no form but infinite shape. When he lowered the temperature through focused mana compression, the sphere hardened into ice, then melted again into liquid with a thought. "Simple manipulation," he muttered. "Just state transitions—solid, liquid, gas."
Wind was trickier. It wasn't something you saw but something you felt. He drew faint runic arcs across the floor, feeding mana into the lines until the air shifted. The candle flame bent sideways, and a breath later, a soft boom echoed as compressed air shot forward, scattering his papers.
He blinked in surprise, then smiled. "Pressure differential… velocity through flow. That's all wind is."
When he repeated it more carefully, the gust became gentle, enough to lift a feather and make it spiral above his palm.
Earth came next—dense, grounded, heavy. He sat in the courtyard, palms against the soil, pushing his mana deeper. The ground resisted, firm and unmoving. "Resistance is its nature," he murmured, syncing his flow with the quiet pulse of the earth. The moment their rhythm aligned, pebbles lifted gently and fell back in sequence. Stability. Endurance. That was earth's essence.
Lightning came only after nights of calculation and restless thought. He drew diagrams and equations across parchment, murmuring, "By manipulating the charges in the atmosphere, potential difference builds… then—discharge."
The air hummed around him, metallic and sharp. His mana vibrated at a higher frequency until light bloomed between his fingertips—blue, wild, alive. The sound cracked through the quiet, leaving a thin wisp of smoke on the far wall. Hector grinned despite himself. "Conductivity achieved."
He continued, night after night, refining each affinity he could reach. Cooling mist into frost, compressing air into blades, melting earth into molten metal. Every success carried quiet satisfaction; every failure sparked more curiosity. He began mixing them—fire and air to birth plasma arcs, water and wind to form cutting vapor, earth and flame to forge glassy shards.
"Matter, energy, emotion, structure…" he whispered once, eyes half-open in the dim glow. "Magic is just the language of nature spoken through the soul."
Then came healing.
He had read countless pages on it, yet none truly explained its essence. Healing wasn't about energy output; it was about alignment. "By guiding mana to match the body's flow," he muttered, "restoration occurs…"
He nicked his finger lightly with a shard of ice and pressed his glowing palm over it. The light shimmered faintly before fizzling out. The cut sealed halfway, then reopened.
He frowned. "Commanding it won't work… maybe guiding it will."
He slowed his breathing, letting his mana flow gently, syncing with his pulse. When he focused not on the wound but on the harmony beneath it, the skin closed seamlessly. For a moment, it held. Then fatigue hit like a wave, leaving him panting.
"Only… twenty percent success rate," he muttered, forcing a faint smile. "I'll take it."
Weeks slipped by in this quiet rhythm. The family noticed the faint burn marks near his window, the small patches of frozen grass in the courtyard, the metallic shimmer on the stones. They never questioned him. They didn't need to.
And then, one night as rain tapped softly against his window, Hector sat cross-legged again, a candle flickering beside him. His body trembled slightly from exhaustion, but his mind was clear.
"What if healing could be reversed—internalized? If I could turn it inward… self-healing."
He gathered his mana slowly, letting it pulse in rhythm with his heartbeat. The glow spread beneath his skin, faintly golden. He guided it through his veins, his chest, his lungs. Every heartbeat echoed in his ears, each one heavier than the last.
Pain flared, then faded. His limbs tingled as if burning from within, yet his wounds eased. For a moment, his body felt impossibly light. Then came the backlash.
The mana surged uncontrollably, collapsing inward. His vision dimmed. The candle's light blurred.
He slumped forward and hit the floor with a dull thud, the faint shimmer of golden light fading around him.
When dawn arrived, Selene found him curled by the window, books scattered, ink still wet on the floor. His breathing was steady, though his mana felt drained. She knelt beside him and sighed softly. "You'll kill yourself one day with curiosity alone."
Theron appeared at the doorway, scratching his head. "As long as he doesn't kill the house first."
Selene shot him a look. "Shut up."
Outside, the morning sun filtered through the curtains, painting everything in gold. Hector stirred, eyes half-open, fatigue heavy in his limbs.
The light lingered over him, soft and calm. The faint traces of mana dissolved into the air, unseen. But deep within his soul, something continued to burn—not with fire, but with the quiet certainty of discovery.
"Now that I've grasped the basics," Hector murmured, his voice low but steady, "I'll have to train my mind, body, and mana to match the spells I plan to create."
A small grin tugged at his lips. "Of course, every reincarnated guy dreams of being overpowered… but honestly, keeping up with that sounds like a pain."
He sighed softly, eyes drifting toward the faint shimmer of mana still lingering in the air. "Still, for me to live peacefully, I have to be strong enough to create and protect that peace. That's a fact—same as it was in my old world."
His eyelids grew heavy as the quiet night wrapped around him. A faint smile remained on his face as he whispered, "In the end… nothing beats peace." Well reality is a douchebag he smirked, let's see what fate have for me, will I succumb
Hell nah I don't think so