Shin opened his eyes to the same wooden ceiling. The dark patterns in the grain seemed to mock him. His face was a map of dull, throbbing pain. His left eye was still partially swollen shut, making the room look lopsided. He stayed still for a few minutes, just breathing. Every time his lungs expanded, a sharp pinch in his side reminded him of the man with the axe.
He thought about Rihanna. He wondered if she was sitting in her morning lecture, looking at the empty seat next to her. He thought about his parents and how they would react when they realized he wasn't coming home.
The weight in his chest was heavier than the physical pain. It was a hollow, sinking feeling.
After a while, he forced himself to move. He pulled on his boots, the leather cold against his feet. He moved slowly to avoid jarring his ribs. He left his room and went down to the bar.
The morning air in the common room was thick with the smell of old ale and burnt wood. The bartender was already behind the counter, scrubbing a large iron pot. He looked up and saw Shin's bruised face.
"You look like you fell off a cliff, kid," the man said.
"I need food," Shin replied. His voice was flat.
The bartender stopped scrubbing. He looked at Shin for a long moment, probably seeing the hollow look in his eyes. He didn't make a joke about a princess this time. He just nodded and pointed to a table near the back.
"Sit down. I'll get you something that'll help with the swelling."
Shin sat and stared at the scratches on the table. When the man brought over a bowl of hot stew and a mug of herbal tea, he tried to start a conversation. He asked if Shin had any family in the area or if he was planning on staying at the inn long. Shin didn't want to talk. He gave short, half-hearted answers. He thanked him for the food and went back upstairs as soon as the bowl was empty.
He locked his door and sat on the edge of the cot. The magic book was sitting on the floor where he had left it. He picked it up and opened it to the pages he had been struggling with.
He spent the entire day focused on the text. He didn't look away from the pages even when his neck started to cramp. He read through the messy handwriting and the confusing diagrams over and over again. He was looking for anything that felt like a solid rule he could follow.
The book was incredibly dense. It described things that didn't seem to make sense at first. It talked about the soul not as a ghost, but as a physical container. It was like a jar made of glass. The more pressure you put on the glass, the stronger it had to become to keep from shattering.
By the time the light in the room started to fade, he had managed to piece together two main ideas.
First, magic was tied directly to the soul. In this world, the soul was the source of everything. The book called it the 'Core Resonance.' As long as your soul grew stronger, your capacity to hold mana would increase. The book explained that the soul grew through mental strain and physical hardship. It was a grim realization. It meant that the beating he took in the street might have actually done something for his progress.
The second thing was about casting. He still didn't understand how to actually make a spell happen. The book mentioned that 'words are just a crutch for the weak mind.' It meant that saying the spell name wasn't what caused the magic. It was a mental trigger that he hadn't discovered yet. He knew the theory, but the practice was still a mystery.
When night fell, he closed the book. He felt a small sense of accomplishment. It wasn't a victory, but he finally understood the mechanics. He went to sleep that night with his hand resting on the cover of the book.
The next morning, he woke up earlier than usual. The room was cold, but he didn't care. He sat on the floor and crossed his legs. He placed the wand on his lap and closed his eyes.
'Focus on the air. Focus on the pressure,' he told himself.
He tried to meditate exactly like the book described. He visualized his soul as a container. He imagined the mana in the air as a heavy fluid that wanted to push its way inside. He sat perfectly still for hours. He ignored the itch on his nose and the dull ache in his back.
Then, it happened.
It wasn't a loud noise or a bright light. It was a tiny, sharp tingle at the base of his spine. It felt like a drop of cold water hitting a hot pan. It was small, but it was there. He could feel a faint vibration moving through his skin.
He jumped up, his heart racing with excitement. He grabbed the wand and pointed it at the ceramic bowl on the stool.
"Lumos!" he shouted.
He waited for the tip of the wand to glow. He waited for any sign of magic.
Nothing happened.
"Ignis! Aguamenti! Flare!"
He tried every name he knew. He tried different poses. He tried to flick the wand with more force. He spent twenty minutes trying to force that tiny feeling of mana to go into the wood. But the spark he had felt in his spine didn't move. It stayed locked away, just out of reach.
He slumped back down onto the bed, feeling the excitement drain out of him. He was frustrated. He had finally felt the mana, but it was like he was looking at a treasure through a thick piece of glass. He could see it, but he couldn't touch it.
"Why is this so hard?" he muttered.
He looked at his hands. They were trembling slightly. He felt a sudden, massive wave of exhaustion hit him. It was followed immediately by a hunger that was almost painful.
It wasn't a normal hunger. It felt like his stomach was a black hole that was trying to eat the rest of his organs. His guts twisted and groaned loudly. He had just eaten a few hours ago, but it felt like he had been starving for weeks.
The sensation was overwhelming. He felt lightheaded and weak. The tiny bit of mana he had touched seemed to have drained every bit of energy from his body.
His stomach growled again, a deep and angry sound that echoed in the quiet room. He stood up, but his knees felt like jelly. He had to grab the wall to keep from falling over. He needed food immediately.