Chapter 1

“Waah… waah…”

Vincent woke with a frown.

In the mountain’s stillness, so deep even the birds had gone to sleep, the cry of an infant pierced the night.

“Waah… waah…”

He shook his disheveled hair and rubbed his sleepy eyes, but the baby’s pitiful wailing only continued.

“Dear God, what have I done wrong?”

Vincent climbed out of bed and looked at his wife. Olina lay in peaceful sleep. He hoped she was having happy dreams. If she heard this sound, it would break her heart.

Vincent and his wife had been married for seven years but had no children. They had spent considerable money visiting doctors, but all they ever heard was that the cause was unknown.

“There’s such a thing as compatibility, you know. It’s just one of those things. Both you and Olina seem perfectly healthy, so just try more often. Heh heh!”

Vincent had laughed heartily at first. The doctor’s advice had actually improved their relationship.

But as their fifth year of marriage passed, he had to face the truth.

He could not have children.

His wife Olina never once showed disappointment. But whenever he caught her gazing longingly at other people’s children, Vincent couldn’t help but feel ashamed of his own inadequacy.

“What bastard is out there making such a racket!”

Due to the nature of his profession as a hunter, he lived deep in the mountains. He had to check his traps every few hours, and tracking wild animals for days required a base camp in the wilderness.

No one would visit a hunter’s home at this hour. Vincent couldn’t rule out bandits, so he grabbed his single-edged axe and stepped outside.

“Who’s there! Stop making noise in the middle of the night!”

Vincent shouted so loudly that the mountains echoed. No one answered, and only his voice came back as an echo.

It could be a merchant dealing in local specialties, but no matter how much he looked around, he couldn’t see even a simple torch.

Vincent grew more tense and gripped his axe handle firmly. He slowly moved forward, following the sound of the baby’s crying.

The sound was coming from the stable.

Bandits were likely. He had heard from the slash-and-burn farmers that thieves were running rampant, robbing people who lived alone in the mountains.

“Damn it! I’ll cut you to pieces!”

He would have to shed blood in the worst case.

With that resolve, Vincent threw open the stable door and examined the interior with the excellent senses of a mountain man.

Snort.

Hearing the peaceful breathing of the horses calmed him somewhat. Animals don’t lie.

The stable where two horses were sleeping was small and cozy. Therefore, there was nowhere to hide. But surprisingly, there was no sign that anyone had entered.

“Then how is there crying?”

Vincent carefully moved forward and examined the area where straw was scattered. A newborn baby, perhaps two months old, was crying.

Feeling an inexplicable sense of the sacred, he hid his axe behind his back. Then, thinking even that was irreverent, he threw it into a corner and crawled toward the baby.

“Waah… waah…”

When he opened the swaddling clothes with his rough hands, there was a baby as beautiful as the moon. An innocent baby who knew nothing, who had just touched the air of this world.

Vincent’s eyes trembled. Then, as if struck by lightning, he shook his body and, unable to control his emotions, burst out of the stable.

“Who is it! Who’s playing tricks! Abandoning a child, you bastard! Come out right now!”

His voice echoed as if several people were speaking.

“Come out! Are you really not coming out? How could you abandon a child! You’re really a bad person! You know that?”

He pressed again, but no one answered.

“You really abandoned it! There’s no more chances! If you ever show up in front of me later, I’ll beat you to a pulp!”

Vincent shouted with the loudest voice of his life. He didn’t want to have any regrets when he looked back on this day in the distant future.

Vincent entered the stable again. Exhausted from crying, the child was sleeping peacefully. With trembling hands, he hugged the baby and gently placed his ear to the small chest.

The heart was beating.

Alive.

“Honey, what’s wrong?”

His wife Olina came into the stable, breathing heavily. Vincent’s voice had been so loud that she was completely awake.

Vincent stared at his wife speechlessly, then showed her the child sleeping in his arms.

“What is that child?”

“Well… I think it’s our child.”

---

Early summer, when green spread across the mountains.

Vincent hummed as he walked briskly along the path beside the cold stream. A large roe deer hung over his shoulder, but his massive frame moved as lightly as a feather.

As home came into view, his steps quickened even more. The thought of his precious family already warmed his heart.

“Sirone! I’m home!”

“Dad!”

A twelve-year-old boy came running to the entrance with a bright smile. Unlike Vincent, whose rugged build resembled solid stone, Sirone had grown into a beautiful boy as if heaven had specially favored him.

Hair that shimmered like golden silk, blue eyes, and a nose that was already sharp and proud despite not being fully grown - he looked like a living doll. Every time Vincent saw his son, he couldn’t help but feel proud and his chest puffed up.

Embracing Sirone, Vincent buried his face in the boy’s neck and took a deep breath. His son’s scent completely washed away the fatigue from the arduous mountain journey.

“Well, my son. My treasure. Have you been well?”

“Yes! I helped Mom with cooking and read lots of books.”

Cooking and books.

Vincent felt awkward about the discord between the two words. But he didn’t show it and burst into hearty laughter.

“You really like books that much?”

“Well… there’s nothing else to do.”

Vincent felt sorry and apologetic seeing his son hide his emotions like someone who had done something wrong.

He knew the truth. This miraculous child given by heaven was unusually intelligent.

Olina knew a little about reading, but she was just a hunter’s wife. Nevertheless, Sirone had learned the basics and somehow figured out letters on his own, and now he could read books by himself.

That made his heart ache even more.

A hunter’s child cannot study.

A herbalist’s child becomes a herbalist, a hunter’s child becomes a hunter - that was the only way to survive and put food on the table.

No matter how humble the profession, there were secrets and techniques that couldn’t be conveyed through words alone. Poor Vincent could only pass on hunting skills to his son.

But Vincent couldn’t bring himself to say it. Twelve years old was too young to understand the unfairness of the world.

“No, you did well. Whatever you do, you need to learn to succeed. When I go to the city next time, I’ll buy you a book.”

“It’s okay. You’ve already bought me many. And honestly, they weren’t that interesting.”

Vincent laughed at his son’s bravado. Practical books that could make money were expensive and beyond reach, so he had bought books that nobles had thrown away cheaply from antique shops. He probably couldn’t digest books at a child’s level.

Vincent’s heart felt both touched and torn by his son’s consideration for his parents’ finances.

“Alright! How about we go chop some wood together? Learning is important, but a man needs to have strength too. Today, I’ll teach you how to swing an axe.”

“Wow! So I get an axe too?”

“Haha! Of course! Today we’re going to chop down all the trees in the mountain!”

Vincent gleefully presented Sirone with an axe. It was expensive for their household budget, but it was much more practical than a book. An axe could help you earn money.

Honestly, he hoped his son would become a hunter like him. But Sirone was small for his age and didn’t seem built for rough work. That’s why he decided to build up his strength from now.

‘He has the refinement of a noble and is exceptionally smart. Could he be…?’

Vincent quickly erased the doubt from his mind. Every time he had such thoughts, he felt overwhelmed by receiving an undeserved gift, and soon fell into guilt.

‘Sirone is my child. Not a child I brought from the stable, but my child with my blood.’

With that resolution, Vincent took Sirone’s hand and left the house.

His logging area was one kilometer away from the cabin.

Since there were many hunters in the area, fighting could break out if you worked outside your designated area. Sometimes it even led to knife fights.

“Watch carefully. I’ll show you first, then you try.”

Vincent spat into his palms and began to chop the tree refreshingly. After a few thudding sounds, the straight tree fell with a crack.

The number of axe swings was a measure of a woodcutter’s skill. Vincent wasn’t a woodcutter, so he felled it in ten swings, but that was still impressive skill.

“Like this, you hit the same spot several times, then when the tree tilts, it can’t bear the weight and falls down. Can you do it?”

“Yes, I’ll try.”

Vincent chose a tree that Sirone could handle. Facing the tree, Sirone spat into his hands just like his father. Even though he had only seen it once, his axe grip position, posture, and even the habit of rubbing his palms were identical.

Vincent smiled contentedly, thinking he was indeed clever.

But when he actually tried to swing the axe, his posture was somehow unstable.

This wasn’t something you could do with just your head. You needed strength and stamina to back it up. The axe was considerably heavy, and swinging it hard enough to cut through the air required strong muscles.

That’s why Vincent brought him to chop wood - because Sirone’s build was smaller than his peers.

If he couldn’t become a scholar, he at least needed to build up his strength. No woman would want to marry a man who couldn’t earn money.

“Ugh! Ugh!”

Sirone gritted his teeth and swung the axe. But each swing hit a different spot.

Vincent, unable to watch anymore, gave him some advice.

“Don’t use all your strength. Instead of that, reduce the force a little and focus on accuracy.”

Sirone quickly absorbed Vincent’s advice. But this time, the force was too weak and there was no sign of the tree breaking.

Was my son always this weak?

Vincent felt a bit dejected.

“Huff… this is hard.”

“It’s okay, Sirone. No, I’m sorry. Honestly, I know this kind of work doesn’t suit you. But a hunter’s child has no choice…”

Vincent choked up and couldn’t continue. How heartbreaking must it be for a parent to tell their child the cruel reality?

“You’re really smart. Smarter than Baron, the herbalist’s son. Smarter than Stella, the fruit seller’s daughter. You don’t need to feel discouraged just because you’re weak. My greed is making you…”

Tears welled up in Vincent’s sad eyes. But Sirone wasn’t paying attention to such things and pulled on his father’s clothes, asking:

“More importantly, Dad, how can I chop the tree well?”

Vincent felt a bit embarrassed.

But the embarrassment was short-lived, and when Sirone showed interest in tree chopping, excitement surged through him.

“You really want to learn this?”

“Yes, please teach me. It’s fun.”

His son’s words gave him courage again. Vincent pulled himself together and took Sirone to examine the groove in the tree closely.

“Look, look at this groove here. Strength will naturally come when you become an adult. But this actually isn’t work that requires great strength. The important thing is technique. I told you to hit the same spot earlier, but if you twist the angle just a little bit, you’ll receive much greater force.”

“Ah, I see.”

Vincent squinted and stared intently at the groove Sirone had made. It was quite surprising. It was hard to think of him as a beginner - he had hit exactly the same spot.

At this rate, it would be difficult to fell the tree unless you were quite strong.

Chapter 2

“I’ll try again.”

Even after Vincent stepped back, Sirone didn’t move and observed the groove in the tree for a long time.

He was currently feeling a light tremor.

Learning a line of technique with your head is knowledge. But accepting it with your whole body is sensation.

Hit the same spot but twist it just a little.

This simple knowledge, passed down through the mouths of countless people, was being absorbed by Sirone as a much greater realization than Vincent had expected.

“Dad.”

“Yeah?”

“Should I try to break this in one go?”

“Hahaha! It’s not even half cut yet, how could it break?”

“If I’m lucky, it might work.”

Trees don’t break just because you’re lucky. Skilled woodcutters persistently attack the weakness of the grain and fell trees with just a few axe swings, but there was no way Sirone could do that.

“Good! Let’s trust our son’s luck!”

Vincent readily went along with his son’s whim. He was just grateful that Sirone was taking an interest in tree chopping.

“If I break this, will you grant me one wish?”

“Huh? A wish?”

He suddenly felt uneasy. Maybe he would say he wanted to learn to read? Or ask to be sent to school like other rich kids?

“When you go to the city to sell things next time, please take me with you.”

To be honest, it took ten years off his life, but Vincent didn’t show it and laughed heartily.

“Haha, if that’s all, it’s fine. I’ll grant it anytime!”

Having received permission, Sirone put the axe over his shoulder and looked at the tree. When the smile that had been on his lips disappeared, Vincent felt eerie. His son, staring at the tree without even blinking, seemed to be looking for something invisible.

Sirone suddenly swung the axe. It seemed to hit the groove accurately, but there was an extremely subtle twist mixed in that was beyond human recognition.

CRACK-BOOM!

At the sound like thunder striking, Vincent’s eyes went wide. Cracks spread like an earthquake from where the axe entered, and the tree couldn’t bear the weight and broke with a crack.

“Wow! I did it!”

Vincent couldn’t believe it. Thunderstrike - a legendary technique among woodcutters.

But woodcutters rarely mastered it because survival came first. The profession that regularly practiced this technique was swordsmen. Those who lived by the sword developed techniques far beyond a woodcutter’s reach, including Thunderstrike. But even among them, few could achieve it.

“Wow! I did it!”

Sirone jumped up and down with his arms raised. He had earned his trip to the city.

Vincent watched, conflicted. Should I raise him as a woodcutter? Or would that be wasting his talent?

---

City of Creas

Vincent guided the two-horse cart through the towering gates of Creas. Sirone sat in the back, eyes wide as he took in the bustling streets.

Vincent would spend four hours haggling across the city - leather to the weapon shop, meat to the grocer, organs to the apothecary or magic shop.

At the first store, Sirone hopped down. Vincent shouldered a sack of meat.

“Be back before sunset.”

“Don’t worry - I memorized the way.”

“Stay on main roads. If anyone asks why you’re alone, point to the nearest shop and say you’re waiting for me.”

“Got it. Last time was fine.”

Vincent’s heart ached leaving him, but their family’s income depended on his ability to negotiate good prices.

Sirone slipped into the marketplace. Vincent expected him to head for puppet shows or toy shops, but Sirone’s destination was the city’s grandest library. His pulse quickened as he stared up at the marble columns.

Does this hold all the world’s knowledge?

He’d never know. Entry was forbidden to non-nobles.

When two noble girls exited with books in hand, Sirone stepped aside. Vincent’s warnings echoed: “Never defy them. Their word is law. Lower your eyes.”

Sirone didn’t care about nobles - he just wanted to read.

Why can’t I go in?

He followed the girls. Twenty minutes later, the scenery transformed.

Sirone forgot his mission, awestruck by the colossal buildings. The grandest stood behind iron gates: a school with grounds vast enough to swallow his village.

An arch over the entrance read: Alpheas Magic Academy.

Magic - the only word Sirone had never understood. It filled stories, yet no book explained it. A deliberate secret, guarded by arrogance: “Non-mages need not know.”

A guard spotted him and shouted: “Hey! What are you doing here?”

He took in Sirone’s ragged clothes and waved his hands like shooing flies.

“Scram! Trash like you doesn’t belong here!”

“S-sorry!”

Sirone fled, knees shaking as the guard glared. But when the man vanished from sight, he paused. He was still beside the academy’s towering wall.

How big is this place?

Just then, an old man’s voice carried over the wall: “Now then - let’s discuss: What is magic?”

“No! Show us magic! Just one more spell!”

“Fire! Make fire, Headmaster!”

Sirone peered up at an ancient tree inside the grounds. The headmaster seemed to be teaching outdoors. The students sounded younger than him - unsurprising for nobles taught magic from birth.

“My, my, setting fires at school would get me scolded. But if you answer my question… I’ll show you something interesting.”

“Yay! What question?”

Sirone pressed his ear to the wall.

“What talent is most essential to learn magic?”

Silence fell.

Even Sirone knew the question was subjective. But these were gifted children, admitted early for magical talent. Slowly, answers came:

“Effort! You can study magic forever - effort matters most!”

“Knowledge! I’ve read over a hundred magic books!”

Others offered “focus” or “memory.” The headmaster stayed quiet, likely smiling patiently.

“Money! Magic needs so many expensive things!”

Laughter erupted, the headmaster’s chuckle mingling with theirs. Sirone grew curious: If not effort, knowledge, or money… what?

After hearing all answers, the headmaster spoke: “The most essential talent is insight.”

Another silence.

“What’s insight?”

The headmaster sighed but explained kindly: “Insight is more precise than knowledge and swifter than effort.”

“Whoa! Like magic itself!”

“Heh! Perhaps. No - you’re right. All magic begins with insight. An example: What is one plus one?”

“Two!” they chorused, baffled by the simplicity.

“Indeed. Now - why is one plus one two?”

“Huh? Well, because…”

Confidence vanished. Where to begin? How to explain?

Amusement warmed the headmaster’s voice: “That feeling of strangeness? That is insight. Long ago, people didn’t know one plus one was two. Scholars proved it through effort and knowledge. But you understand it perfectly - without proof.”

Sirone leaned closer, captivated. The children beyond the wall surely gaped too.

“Magic is a phenomenon that exists inherently. Like one plus one equaling two - it was true even before we knew why. Insight is the swiftest way to grasp such truths.”

“So… we don’t need to study?”

“Well… technically, no.”

Sirone understood the headmaster’s hesitation. Common sense often prevailed simply because it was convenient.

“Then why go to school?”

“Heheh! Insight isn’t easily won. Scholars spent ages proving why one plus one is two. Though some grasp truths without proof - we call them geniuses.”

“Mom calls me a genius!”

“She’s not wrong. Everyone is born with talent. Polish it, and anyone can become a genius.”

Anyone can become a genius. The words struck Sirone’s heart.

But could I? Will I ever cross this wall?

“Now then - you there, behind the wall. What do you think?”

Sirone jerked back.

Run? Answer? Do I have the right?

“Come now - climb over. I’d like to see your face.”

Heart pounding, Sirone approached the wall. He knew little of the world, but one thing was clear: If I don’t take this chance now, I’ll regret it forever.

He scaled the stones. Headmaster Alpheas of Alpheas Magic Academy smiled down at him.

At first glance, he seemed a kindly white-haired grandfather. In truth, he was a nationally recognized Fourth-Class Mage, renowned even abroad.

Sitting on a flat rock, Alpheas waved. “Come, child. Will you humor this old man’s chatter?”

Chapter 3

The children frowned at Sirone’s appearance.

“Headmaster, he’s not a noble. Looks like a commoner.”

“Commoners aren’t allowed here. Hey, get out!”

Alpheas scratched his brow, surprised Sirone wasn’t nobility. Yet true to a mage’s pursuit of wisdom, he waved him over without discrimination.

“Come closer. Now, which part of this old man’s words caught your interest?”

Sirone hesitated. He wanted to approach, but the children’s glares erected an invisible wall. Their eyes screamed: Know your place, gutter rat.

“Show me magic.”

“Oh? Never seen it before?”

“Only in books. Never in person.”

A kid pointed accusingly. “Liar! Since when do peasants read?”

Alpheas studied Sirone’s eyes - no deceit there. Still, children that age could lie with angelic faces.

“Very well. What magic would you like to see?”

“Anything. Please, just show me.”

Sirone bowed, acutely aware of his status. Alpheas chuckled and flicked his wrist. Entertaining kids with petty spells was trivial.

“This old man’s joy is spoiling his precious students. Watch closely - a wind spell!”

“Wow! Wind magic!”

As children clapped, Sirone clenched his fists, tense with anticipation.

Then the world dropped away.

Sirone’s eyes flew open as his feet left the ground. The academy sprawled beneath him, rooftops gleaming.

“AAAAH!”

His scream contrasted with the nobles flipping midair, treating the magic like a game.

When the ground rushed up, Sirone squeezed his eyes shut only to float centimeters above the grass.

Laughter erupted. Even Alpheas’s wrinkles deepened with amusement.

“That, boy, is magic.”

Sirone’s pulse hammered in his ears. This transcended his wildest dreams.

“What is magic?”

Alpheas stroked his beard theatrically. Sirone added hastily: “Even if I don’t understand, just say what you think.”

The nobles stiffened. Mocking a Fourth-Class Mage? Unthinkable.

Yet Alpheas saw desperation, not disrespect. The boy’s striking looks - too refined for a commoner - helped too.

“Magic,” he declared, “is the act of shattering common sense. Or alternatively, the mental exercise of pursuing truth.”

Sirone blinked, processing.

“You can admit confusion.”

“So… truth often contradicts what we assume?”

Alpheas’s lower lip jutted - a tell when truly startled.

Grasping implications behind sparse words required insight - the very talent he prized.

“Where did you learn that?”

“B-books?”

“Books teaching such concepts?”

“Not directly. I just… realized common sense isn’t always right. To find truth, sometimes you must fight it.”

Alpheas nodded.

Not just logical - profound. Either someone coached him, or…

Twelve years old and already questioning paradigms? Remarkable.

“How does one learn magic? Does it require special power?”

“Define ‘special.’ It demands considerable mental fortitude.”

Sirone sensed evasion. “So thinking ‘I’ll create wind’ makes you fly?”

“An oversimplification, but yes. However, mere thought isn’t enough. A mage’s mind must synchronize with the world - enter an ultra-sensitive state we call Spirit Zone.”

The children gaped. Their headmaster never lectured this earnestly.

“How does one achieve that state?”

Alpheas’s lips curled. No idle curiosity here - the boy sought instruction.

A pity he’s a commoner. But better to grant this than leave him yearning.

“Observe.” He gestured to a confident girl. “Syuamin, demonstrate Spirit Zone.”

She closed her eyes. The group fell silent, eager to showcase superiority.

“Ready.”

Alpheas shook coins in his fist. “How many here?”

“Six.”

Correct. Three more rounds - all perfect. Syuamin’s forehead gleamed with sweat despite the simplicity.

“Spirit Zone heightens perception beyond normal senses. Master mages count leaves on distant trees. Syuamin’s focus is exceptional for her age.”

Sirone understood. Like his Thunderstrike - striking the imperceptible weak point.

Syuamin hadn’t counted. She’d felt the coins through hyper-awareness.

Ultra-sensitive state. Spirit Zone.

The terms fermented in Sirone’s mind. Could he…?

“Anyone can do it,” Alpheas said, though few succeeded without innate talent.

“Try here.”

Sirone closed his eyes. Unlike finding a tree’s flaw, this required turning inward.

What even am I?

Thoughts unraveled until he reached the thinker behind them: The brain. Humans are just brains.

If “self” was merely thought, erasing thought would erase him.

Neural connections dissolved. Smell blurred into sound; touch into sight.

Then nothing.

Sirone’s eyes snapped open. Ten minutes had passed. Children yawned; girls braided each other’s hair.

“Well? Hear anything?” Alpheas expected nothing. Sustained focus didn’t guarantee Spirit Zone.

“Yes. Every sound.”

Alpheas’s brow arched. “Oh? Such as?”

“Everything. Simultaneously.”

The headmaster nodded politely. Ordinary concentration could induce auditory hallucinations. True Spirit Zone involved synesthesia - tasting colors, hearing scents.

Pity. With noble training, he might’ve…

Still, he ruffled Sirone’s hair. “Practice more, and you’ll hear even clearer.”

As Alpheas led the nobles away, Sirone scrambled over the wall. Only when his lungs burned did he stop running.

He clutched his pounding chest.

It worked.

The lie tasted bitter.

Because what he’d truly experienced in that void wasn’t sound but the absence of it.

The deafening silence of a mind that had, however briefly, ceased to exist.

Chapter 4

Sirone heard all the sounds. Though he’d experienced sensations far beyond that, he couldn’t confess them to Alpheas.

When his vague ideals suddenly crystallized into tangible form, every thought in his mind screamed warnings of danger.

Maybe I never entered Spirit Zone at all. He still couldn’t define what it truly was.

It felt like his body disintegrated into particles. As his senses expanded, a flood of information overwhelmed him. The world’s vastness - so different from ordinary perception - made him shudder. One truth pierced through:

I am infinite.

“Hng… hk…”

Tears streamed down Sirone’s face. He broke into a sprint without realizing it, his brain flooding with adrenaline until he blacked out and collided face-first with something solid.

“Oof!”

Clutching his nose, Sirone tumbled onto the cobblestones. As his vision cleared, he recognized the alley - exactly the kind of place Vincent had warned him to avoid.

“Watch where you’re going, brat!”

A thug rubbed his back where Sirone had crashed into him. Ahead loomed a group of rough-looking men, their eyes locking onto Sirone like vultures.

The thug yanked Sirone up by the collar. His eyes were slitted, lips twisted in a sneer.

“You suicidal or what?”

“I-I’m sorry!”

“Sorry won’t cut it. You one of Wolf Gang’s runners? That was a setup!”

“N-no! It was an accident!”

The thugs grinned at his terrified expression. This pretty boy couldn’t even throw a punch, let alone wield a knife.

In back alleys, they called his kind herbivores - easy prey for predators like them. And this one? His delicate features screamed high-value merchandise.

One gold coin at the brothels, minimum.

“What’s this? Something interesting?”

The thugs whirled.

“Lady Amy!”

At the alley’s entrance stood a girl Sirone’s age. Crimson bangs curtained one eye, her high-collared dress accentuating a swan-like neck.

“Heh. Slumming again, princess?”

Despite their casual tone, the thugs kneaded their hands obsequiously. They knew exactly who she was - Carmis Amy.

Youngest daughter of the first-tier Carmis nobility, just below royalty itself. Bored with her gilded life, she’d recently taken to prowling back alleys for entertainment.

“Explain this filth,” she said, toeing Sirone’s prone form.

The lead thug grinned. “Little rat tried to knife me, milady. We were educating him.”

Sirone shook his head violently. “I-I just bumped into him!”

“Liar!” A meaty fist buried itself in Sirone’s gut. He crumpled, gasping silently. It was his first time being hit. The pain was unreal.

“Pay up, trash! Where’s your mommy? Probably stuffing her face while…”

Sirone froze. They have mothers too. How can they…

“Oi, the brat’s glaring!”

The thugs descended, boots thudding against flesh. Strangely, they avoided his face - merchandise must stay pretty.

“Enough. You’ll kill him.”

At Amy’s command, they backed off. Sirone stared at her through the pain, envying the invisible glass wall that kept her untouched.

“You okay?”

“I… didn’t do anything…”

“I asked if you’re okay.”

“I… don’t know.”

He just wanted to go home. Maybe this girl would let him. Girls hate violence, right?

Amy turned to the thugs. “What’s next? Boring.”

One scratched his head. “Gonna rob him, then sell him to the brothels.”

Sirone turned parchment-white. Even Amy winced - but she’d never actually consort with gutter trash. A scare would suffice.

“Brothel stock needs flawless skin. Strip him.”

The bold suggestion hung in the air. Nobles matured fast - at twelve, Amy knew the theory. And honestly?

…He’s pretty.

Where commoners liked brawny men, nobles preferred porcelain beauties like Sirone.

“Strip. Do well, and maybe I’ll send you home.”

Sirone gaped under their leers. Why?

“Hey! Lady said strip!”

When Sirone didn’t move, Amy grew uneasy. Noble twelve-year-olds were practically adults, but commoners? This one might be breaking.

But Sirone wasn’t breaking - he was focusing. Panic had flung him back into Spirit Zone.

This time was different. Information hurricane’d through him - even the thugs’ blinks sounded loud. His consciousness raced down the only clear path: Alpheas’s magic demonstration.

His insight reassembled every detail - the arcane gestures, the mental state, the essence of spellcasting until:

Click.

Understanding dropped into place.

“Brat! Pants! Now!”

A thug shook him violently. Spirit Zone wavered - physical disruption was its weakness.

As eerie light kindled in Sirone’s eyes, Amy suddenly shouted: “Wait…!”

Too late.

Balanced between realms, Sirone’s instincts twisted reality.

WHOOSH!

A gale erupted. Everything in the alley - thugs, Amy, even pebbles - launched skyward.

“AAAAH!”

Screams rained down as Sirone snapped back to reality. The alley stood empty.

Then: THUD! THUD! THUD!

Bodies cratered the ground. Bones jutted through skin at sickening angles - a puppet show of broken limbs.

“Guh… my arm… leg…!”

Sirone stared, aghast. He hadn’t meant…

“What are you?”

Amy landed gracefully - nobility were trained from birth. But even her perfect form couldn’t hide her shock.

“Answer me! Where’d a commoner learn magic?!”

She cut off as crowds gathered around the screams. A noble seen with thugs? That would be a scandal.

“Tch!”

Amy kicked off a wall, then the opposite roof, zigzagging out of sight.

Sirone ran.

---

Carmis Manor

The 200-year-old first-tier house whose influence stretched across continents.

Amy slammed the door. Her father, retired statesman Shacola Carmis, lowered his newspaper.

“Welcome back.”

“From skipping lessons?”

Despite his sixties, Shacola’s jet-black hair and sharp features radiated vigor. His gaze held the pride of the kingdom’s elite.

“Learned everything already. Boring.”

“So you played with rabble? Even geniuses rust without polish. Complacency breeds…”

“Ugh! Lectures!”

Shacola smirked. Reckless like her mother, but with his talents. She’d find her path.

As Amy turned, the day’s events resurfaced.

What WAS he?

No commoner should wield magic. Unless… Natural awakening.

Her father’s words echoed: “Complacency breeds defeat.”

Amy bit her lip. The world might be dull, but she’d never fall behind.

“Father.”

Shacola set down his paper. His daughter initiating conversation?

“Yes?”

“It’s… not important. Just curious about something.”

“Oh?” His eyes gleamed. Teach her one thing, and she’d master a hundred.

“Go on. I’ll support you.”

“It’s… magic.”

“What?”

“Introduce me to someone at the Magic Academy.”

Chapter 5

Sirone kept silent about his experience in the city. Upon reflection, it wasn’t a simple matter - revealing it would mean explaining everything, including his encounter at the magic academy.

He understood the magnitude of that day’s events. Whether blessing or curse, crossing that line meant there was no turning back.

One mark of genius is knowing you’re different. Sirone had realized this from a young age. Though he felt no superiority, his desire to test his limits burned fiercer than anyone’s.

He simply never showed it.

To Sirone, his parents were his most precious treasures. Though poor, they’d never forced him down the wrong path, and he refused to burden them.

Thus, the grand awakening the 12-year-old experienced entered dormancy, waiting for its moment.

Daily life continued unchanged - helping his mother, chopping wood in the mountains. But now, most of his time there was spent not swinging axes, but meditating. After a month, he could enter Spirit Zone far faster.

Yet challenges remained. No matter how familiar he grew with Spirit Zone, he couldn’t replicate the alley’s magic. Soon, he understood why:

It had been an unconscious, desperate act. Conscious imitation was impossible - like fingers stiffening when overthinking a once-effortless piano piece.

To restore that sensation, he’d need to retrace the intuitive leaps with deliberate steps - impossible without formal training. So Sirone abandoned the unattainable and honed his Spirit Zone mastery instead.

Merely casting spells would make him just another magic researcher. True strength lay in unshakable mental endurance.

After five hours of meditation, Sirone attempted Thunderstrike with his axe. Success rates dropped when performed consciously, but unlike magic, chopping allowed methodical refinement.

Hundreds of strikes later: CRACK-BOOM!

The tree fell cleanly. Yet he felt no thrill - just the satisfaction of correcting an error.

“Tomorrow, and tomorrow again.”

He’d repeat these fundamentals, preparing for the opportunity that would someday come.

As Sirone carried lumber home, his eyes burned brighter than ever.

---

An Opportunity Worth More Than Life

Leaves swirled endlessly on the autumn wind.

By the window, 16-year-old Sirone adjusted his marten-fur scarf, observing the late fall mountains. Four years had polished his beauty into something that turned every head - youthful yet breathtaking.

“I’m heading out, Mom.”

“Don’t overdo it. We have enough firewood.”

“Winter’s coming. Best prepare early.”

Stepping outside, the cold stole his breath. Seasons arrived faster in the mountains - snow already capped the peaks.

“Must hurry to return by dusk.”

Four years of Spirit Zone training had steeled his nerves against ordinary dangers, curing his shyness. He often mingled with the lumberjacks’ children now.

Yet he had no true friends.

The rough, straightforward lumberjack kids were his opposites - even the girls. Among them, Sirone remained the outsider, envied yet resented.

A memory surfaced: Last year, Hauran, a 22-year-old from the slash-and-burn farmers’ settlement, had tried seducing him. When he refused, she’d threatened to “ruin his family” if he “bothered” her again.

How childish I was, he chuckled, recalling how he’d agonized for days.

At his logging site, Sirone absently notched an axe into a tree. His eyes saw nothing - years of experience had taught him that wood’s weak points aren’t found by sight.

Repetition breeds intuition - what scholars call routine. Just as children grasp arithmetic through repetition, Sirone had refined Thunderstrike through countless swings.

A realization struck. He raised his axe: CRACK!

Two strikes felled the tree. Luck? Perhaps. But by now, he succeeded once every ten attempts.

Seated on the fallen trunk, Sirone entered Spirit Zone. His zone now spanned a 40-meter sphere - a range that would rank among the elite at any magic academy.

He sensed the world beneath him: leaves rustling, earthworms writhing, roots drinking moisture. Nature’s ceaseless dance made five hours vanish like seconds.

“Dark already?”

After meditation, he chopped the trunk into bundles. Returning home, he spotted an unfamiliar luxury carriage outside. Two white stallions nibbled hay in the stable.

“I’m back.”

No one greeted him. The air felt heavy. His mother’s face was shadowed; a stranger - an elderly man - sat conversing with his father.

“Dad? You’re home early.”

Vincent, who’d left for the city at dawn, sat rigidly formal - no rushing over for his usual bear hugs.

“Sirone, greet our guest. This is Head Steward Temuran of House Ozent.”

“Pleasure. I’m Temuran.”

“Honored to meet you. I’m Sirone.”

Sirone bowed deeply. Even mountain boys knew House Ozent - a second-tier noble family renowned for producing elite warriors.

“I came for you.”

Temuran reeked of nobility’s affectations, though he wasn’t noble himself. In the kingdom’s hierarchy, commoners’ status depended entirely on noble patronage.

Blacksmiths forging noble swords earned respect. Merchants in noble districts held influence. But lumberjacks? Disdained as lowborn - unconnected to nobility, not even urban.

Temuran, however, stood at commoners’ pinnacle - a head steward serving nobles directly.

Why seek a mountain boy?

Temuran inspected Sirone like livestock - prodding his frame, examining his eyes.

“You read, I hear.”

“Yes. I’ve studied since childhood.”

Temuran offered no explanation, his silence fraying Sirone’s patience.

“May I ask why you’ve come?”

Temuran’s gaze sharpened.

“Quite the reputation for a lumberjack’s son - literate, filial.” His praise dripped sarcasm. What could a lowborn know of true devotion?

Sirone bristled at the insult to his family, but Temuran’s next words struck like lightning:

“How’d you like to work for House Ozent?”

A second-tier noble house! This was social ascension beyond dreams.

“What would I do?”

“We’re relocating the Grand Library. Certain texts mustn’t leak. While laborers handle moving, you and I alone will catalog them. Two years’ work.”

The library!

Sirone’s heart nearly burst. Yet sweet offers often hid poison:

“Only you and your family know this. If any texts leak - even as rumor - you and they will die.”

Now he understood his parents’ gloom. Two years was long - anything could happen. They’d be entrusting their lives.

Yet he couldn’t refuse. Because:

“The pay reflects the risk. Far more than your father earns hunting. Your family prospers thanks to you.”

Vincent shot up, crimson-faced.

“We didn’t agree for money! I just… I wanted Sirone to…”

His voice broke. A failure of a father, bringing his son an opportunity that gambled with lives.

”…To fulfill his dreams.”

Temuran snorted.

“Dreaming of currying favor? Forget it. This is employment. You begged me to hire him - for money, clearly.”

“He reads!”

“Hence why he’s useful. But make no mistake - if texts leak, he dies. A necessary precaution.”

Vincent gnashed his teeth. Hearing a noble steward sought literate commoners in town, he’d rushed to plead Sirone’s case, never imagining…

Worst was fearing Sirone might think him a father selling his son for coin. The thought horrified him.

“Leave! We don’t want your money! Had I known, I’d never have asked! Go!”

“Dad, I’ll do it.”

“Sirone!”

Temuran studied the unfazed youth. To stake one’s life at sixteen - and as lowborn - was no small burden.

“Certain? This isn’t an idle threat. The slightest rumor, and you die.”

“Yes. I’ll ensure nothing leaks. Even if rumors spread somehow, I’ll bear responsibility. Please let me.”

Convinced, Temuran turned.

“I return in a week. You may refuse until then. But once you enter the estate, you leave only when the work ends.”

He departed without farewells. The family stood silent, hearts heavy.

Sirone watched the carriage disappear beyond the mountains, clutching the opportunity like a lifeline. Whatever the cost, he would seize his chance to learn.

The infinite mage’s journey was about to begin.