Chapter 12 - Casting

Chapter 12 - Casting

I opened my eyes.

The warm morning sun rays filled my bedroom, casting gentle golden shapes all over the floor. Everything was in its proper place. My blue blanket, two white pillows, the tiny table where I used to spend so many hours studying and the lonely shelf with only one book called “Source of Power”.

I sat up, extending my arms overhead in a long, lingering stretch.

Blinking up at the ceiling, I couldn't help but notice that the room felt just a little wider than it had a month ago. Dad had spent several recent evenings modifying the framing of the upper floor. He’d grunted something about "his little boy growing up way too fast" before single-handedly shifting the wooden studs outward to give me some extra breathing room. I suppose he’d finally realized I was no longer the clumsy toddler who tipped over into laundry baskets every time he tried to walk in a straight line.

I knew his next project was expanding the backyard. Right now, reaching our rear barn field required walking all the way around the outer perimeter fence near the front gate. Since the field sat directly behind the house, Dad planned to clear a direct path through the yard—a simple shortcut to save us time during daily chores.

I rubbed my eyes with the back of my hand, squinting against the brilliant daylight pouring through the windowpane. Outside, the vast fields stretched toward the distant horizon like a shimmering sea of pure gold, the ripe wheat swaying in slow, elegant waves whenever the breeze swept through.

Below, Dad was plucking out the fences in the backyard one by one. My room is located on the second floor at the rear of the house, so I could also see the barn in the distance. I've never been there before, but maybe after Dad finishes these renovations, we might actually have new chores to do.

A month had passed since the afternoon I passed out cold behind the study door.

Those weeks had brought a rather absurd realization: I possessed a rare talent for Wordless Casting ... yet I was utterly atrocious at Word Casting.

I pushed a chair over, climbed onto it, and stood at the open window, reaching my right arm out toward the golden fields

Taking a breath, I spoke the incantation clearly: "Ignite the spark, Fireball!"

The small spark flared up on my palm but died out again with a brief hiss. I lowered my shoulder just a little bit as well as my arm.

I took a deep breath, sat up tall, and shut my eyes. I no longer paid attention to the words but concentrated only on the purpose, that image of heat, momentum, and a burning fire by a campfire.

Fireball.

Not a sound escaped from my lips, but an incandescent fireball shot out from my hand and soared into the clearing until it disappeared harmlessly into the far-away distance. Dizziness suddenly overwhelmed me. My legs gave way under me, and I staggered sideways until I braced myself on the wood sill of the window as I gasped for breath.

Holy shit...

The mana drain was astronomical.

In stories, people always spoke of wordless casting being some sort of divine gift, but few of them bothered to mention the terrible efficiency cost involved. Without a verbal formula to regulate it, my body just released a vast amount of mana into a single casting. Although, despite that, it was still good considering the fact that it uses a lot lesser energy compared to casting an element not within your element affinity.

I pulled myself back up to my full height, though my shoulders remained slightly slouched from fatigue.

Through trial and error, I’d discovered I had a natural elemental affinity for Fire and Geo. Using those elements left me drained, but at least I stayed conscious. If I tried wordless casting with Wind or Water, my mana reserves bottomed out instantly, knocking me cold on the spot.

Standing by the window, I reflected on my working theory regarding the fundamental difference between the two casting styles:

Word Casting uses spoken words as a safety valve that limits how much magic power you use, which stops you from doing too much.

Wordless Casting has no safety valve, letting you use raw power directly from your body; it is much stronger, but it can accidentally drain all your energy if you are not careful.

A subtle warmth washed over my skin. Despite having just woken up, a light sheen of sweat was already forming on my forehead from the exertion. I turned toward my desk, picking up a coal pencil and my tiny grey journal to document my morning observations.

---

Mana Training Log #75:

No signs of change. Yet.

---

I have formed several hypotheses regarding the nature of Mana, though testing them remains difficult due to the damaged state of 'Source of Power.' Large sections of the text are missing or illegible, which makes reading it somewhat discouraging. I'll get back to analyzing the remaining pages eventually, but for now, empirical testing yields better data.

Hypothesis 1: Does exhausting the Mana Pool through repeated strain cause it to expand over time, similar to muscle hypertrophy? Result: Negative. So far, there are zero measurable signs of total capacity growth through exhaustion alone.

Hypothesis 2: Maximum mana capacity scales naturally over time as the physical vessel matures, regardless of strain. Result: Unclear, but more likely; I have no sources that I could actually say it is. It may be in Source of Power, but the book was torn, so maybe the answers were within the scratched sheets, or perhaps in future chapters. But this is the best explanation as to why Mages actually get more mana since exhausting the mana doesn't actually increase them, as far as my research currently goes.

(Core Terminology Summary for Reference) 1. Mana Pool : The total available volume of energy/fuel a person possesses. 2. Mana Vein : The internal network of channels used to conduct energy through the body. 3. Mana Core : The central organ or origin point where mana is generated, which is located at the chest.

---

I lowered my pencil "Right... time for daily chores."

Tomorrow I would turn five. In this world, ordinary birthdays passed without much fanfare—custom dictates that only even-numbered birthdays (like turning six, eight, or ten) warrant formal celebrations. I didn't mind in the slightest. Quiet days suited me just fine.

I headed downstairs, where the inviting scent of breakfast was already wafting from the kitchen.

"Good morning, Mom," I said, sliding onto my usual wooden chair at the dining table.

"Good morning, Kyro~"

Reyna leaned down and pressed two warm kisses onto my cheek before handing me a piece of freshly steamed bread.

Through the rear window, I could see Thorskil out in the yard, muscle straining as he systematically dismantled the old section of boundary fencing. Only Mom and I were at the table; Lyra’s heavy, rhythmic snoring was still echoing faintly from the second floor.

I took a bite of the warm bread. "Thanks for the food, Mom."

"Of course! Anything for my brilliant little mage," Reyna said sweetly, giving my cheek a playful squeeze.

When my parents first realized I could use magic, they had been stunned. Reyna, carrying pure barbarian blood, was floored—and Thorskil was equally bewildered. Neither of their family lineages had ever produced a spellcaster.

A barbarian is a human who is raised in the Demon Continent.

Thorskil had trained his entire life in martial combat, eventually mastering the way of the blade to earn the title of Sword God. Reyna, meanwhile, had grown up on the brutal Demon Continent—the ancestral homeland of the barbarian tribes. In such a harsh, relentless environment, survival demanded physical resilience above all else. Over generations, barbarian bloodlines naturally prioritized the activation of their Aura Veins over their Mana Veins . Unused over centuries, their internal mana channels had withered while their physical aura mechanisms flourished.

I took another bite of bread, mulling it over.

It makes logical sense from an evolutionary standpoint.

Glancing down at my reflection in the cup of water on the table, I caught sight of my messy white hair and bright golden eyes.

If my parents' lineages were completely devoid of magic, where did that leave me? Why was I capable of manipulating mana?

I took a slow sip of water and looked over at my mother as she ate beside me. She possessed vibrant blonde hair, striking green eyes, and a tall, muscular build. Even in a simple brown tunic dress, her athletic, hourglass silhouette was undeniably striking.

Honestly, if she weren't my mother, I'd probably have a massive crush on her, I thought dryly. But morally and biologically speaking... absolutely not. Not in a million years.

I took another bite of bread, continuing my silent inspection. Reyna had blonde hair and green eyes. Father had ocean-blue hair, pink eyes, and a tall, lean, powerful frame.

And then there was me. I inherited almost no physical traits from either of them, sporting snow-white hair and sharp golden eyes. Lyra shared my golden eyes, which made me suspect the trait might have skipped a generation from our grandparents, but otherwise, I looked like an outlier.

Mom had mentioned that by the time Lyra was five, she could already lift a heavy steel pickaxe with one hand—a terrifying display of barbarian heritage. Tomorrow I would be five, and I still couldn't lift a pickaxe with both hands if my life depended on it.

I glanced down at my arm and flexed my bicep. Unsurprisingly, there was practically no muscle definition at all.

I let out a quiet, inward sigh.

Physically, I felt like a complete defect compared to the rest of my family. But as I looked out the window toward the sunlit fields, I reminded myself that I had my own path. I could cast magic. It might be erratic, exhausting, and entirely wordless for now... but it was a start nonetheless.

***

After finishing up the basic chores of wiping down the dining table and washing my plates, I spent the rest of the morning as I usually did: studying and practicing magic.

Once I’d rinsed off in a cold bath drawn from the outhouse water-pump and changed into fresh clothes, Mother called out to me.

"Kyro, would you please deliver these seeds to Captain Jyroh?" She handed me a small, tied burlap sack.

We stood near the outhouse. Behind her, I could see Lyra through the open shed door, aggressively beating the laundry into submission against a wooden washboard. She sure did enjoy her physical labor. A tiny smirk tugged at the corner of my lips.

"Captain Jyroh's place is the very first house you'll see along the dirt path," Mom instructed, pointing down the road. "The closest one—that's his. Got it?"

I nodded, accepting the sack. "Okay, Mom. I got it, don't worry." I snuck one last glance at Lyra's hilarious, exaggerated scowl before setting off.

I do find it interesting that they're not actually treating me as a four-year-old, but as someone twice my age, trusting me with chores at my level. I don't dislike that kind of treatment; honestly, I think it was better for me to develop mental toughness early on this way.

Or probably that was just how barbarian culture worked or something. Only Mom asked us to perform chores, while Dad did no such thing. He may still have seen me as an abnormal four-year-old, but when Mother looked at me, I probably looked like an eight-year-old.

I stepped out into the open air. Warm sunlight bathed my frame as I walked down the packed dirt road, dressed comfortably in a simple gray shirt, yellow shorts, and gray shoes. I kept close to the wooden fence posts lining the path. Beyond them, the vast fields of golden wheat rustled under a gentle breeze, dotted with local farmers hard at work.

"Good morning, mister!" I called out to a passing worker.

"Ah, good morning, Master Kyro," the man replied, wiping sweat from his forehead with a smile.

I nodded in return. Going outside didn't feel terrifying anymore; in fact, I felt completely comfortable around the village folk now. I’d even memorized the names of the local farmers working near our homestead—Torko, Mila, Paolo, and Brobert.

Before long, Captain Jyroh’s residence came into view. It was a sturdy stone house surrounded by a perimeter wall and a iron gate. It was roughly the same size as our family’s home, but built almost entirely from gray masonry.

"Ayoo?"

It was the local greeting I’d picked up since living here—a call to check if anyone was home. If nobody responded after a few moments, you simply assumed the house was empty.

The front door clicked open. As I stood by the iron gate holding the tiny sack of seeds, I didn't immediately look at who came out, choosing instead to admire the shimmering waves of wheat across the road. But when the gate hinges squeaked, I turned with a practiced smile.

"Good morn—"

"Hello! Good morning."

I stopped mid-word.

Standing at the gate was a girl—or rather, a young woman—in a simple pink dress, with light brown hair and bright blue eyes. But what made my breath hitch wasn't her dress or her voice.

Positioned right at the top of her head were two distinct, soft fur-covered dog ears.

A Demi-Human. Or in the terminology of this world, a Beastkin .

I froze. The cheerful, easygoing energy I’d built up over the morning evaporated in a single second, replaced by a sudden tightness in my chest. Words jammed in my throat.

"I-I... W-what... I..." I stammered, taking an involuntary half-step back.

"Y-you okay there, sweetie?" she asked, her soft dog ears twitching slightly as she tilted her head in concern.

I simply stared at her, swallowing hard against a dry throat.

Deep within my mind, the long-buried memories of my previous life as Paul Gapor flared to the surface. In that modern world, fantasy races had been fully integrated into society—and Demi-Humans occupied the dominant social hierarchies. Being a plain, baseline human meant being treated as an inferior sub-species. I remembered the endless group projects where Demi-Human classmates treated me like a convenience to secure passing grades, and the casual, dismissive isolation I suffered throughout my youth.

I didn't hate her on a personal level. She hadn't done anything wrong. But the instinctual discomfort—the ingrained aversion to their very presence—was buried too deep in my soul to erase.

Desperate to leave, I hastily thrust the sack of seeds toward her. "H-here."

I spun on my heel, intending to bolt straight back down the dirt path to our farm, but a heavy, booming voice stopped me in my tracks.

"Ah, Kyro Samsworth!"

I paused, turning back slowly.

"How are we doing today, little guy?"

Captain Jyroh walked up to the gate beside the Beastkin woman. The village captain was a stout, broad-shouldered man with a prominent belly resting over a thick, muscular frame. He had a bald patch on top, short graying hair, weathered wrinkles around dark-brown eyes, and an air of sturdy authority. As the second-in-command under the local baron—the lowest rank of nobility who officially owned the land—Jyroh ran the day-to-day affairs of the farming settlement.

Noticing my rigid posture and pale face, Jyroh's eyes softened with concern. "Are you sure you're alright, Kyro? You look a bit pale. Why don't you step inside for a moment?"

"N-no, it's fine! I'll be on my—"

Before I could finish my sentence, the Beastkin woman reached out and gently took my hand.

My entire body went rigid. Every nerve ending in my skin screamed at me to yank my hand back and scrub it raw under cold water. I forced my muscles to remain still, averting my gaze and staring intently at the dirt near her sandals.

"He doesn't look well at all, dear." she said gently, lifting her free hand to rest the back of her palm against my forehead. "Maybe we should bring him inside to sit down for a bit?"

"Good idea, dear," Jyroh agreed, turning to her before looking back down at me. "Come now, son. Don't be shy."

Without giving me a chance to protest, Jyroh leaned down and easily lifted me up into his arms.

I couldn't even voice a complaint. I sometimes forgot how pushy and overly hospitable village folk could be. Denying their kindness when they genuinely believed a child was ill would have made me look completely ungrateful and rude.

So, I endured it in tense silence as I was carried inside the cool stone house.

[End]