Chris sat atop Fen's broad, muscular back, his small hands gripping the hilt of the translucent sword. The weapon felt alive, a low-frequency hum vibrating through Chris's palms and up his arms, resonating with the five mana circles spinning around his heart. Fen, usually the stoic, silent predator of the Disaster-class forest, was practically prancing. His tail wagged with such vigor it looked like he'd found the most legendary mate in the history of wolves.
"You seem extremely happy, Fen," Chris muttered, his voice strained. His face was a mask of exhaustion, eyes half-lidded and skin pale. The effort of pulling that sword from its ancient stone anchor had drained him more than the fight with the Dire Wolf ever had. He felt like a dry sponge that had been squeezed until its very fibers were screaming.
The journey back through the winding, subterranean tunnels was a blur of blue moss and damp stone. By the time they emerged from the crevice and felt the humid night air of the forest, Chris was swaying.
When they finally reached the familiar safety of their cave, Chris slid off Fen's back, his legs buckling the moment they hit the sand. He dragged himself to the far wall and slumped against the cold stone.
"Fen... you have to find some food on your own today," Chris panted, sweat pouring down his face. His entire body was trembling, a fine motor tremor that made even his eyelids twitch. "I'm too tired to even walk with you."
Fen let out a soft huff, nudging Chris's shoulder once with his wet nose before turning and vanishing into the emerald twilight of the woods.
Left alone in the silence, Chris looked down at the weapon resting across his lap. In the moonlight, the blade seemed to ripple like liquid glass. "This sword is really weird," he whispered. "It's giving off an aura as if it's trying to cut the very air around it."
Curiosity, always the driver of his genius, flicked a spark in his mind. He reached out a single finger, barely grazing the edge of the translucent blade. It didn't feel like a cut; it felt like the world simply parted. Instantly, a bead of crimson welled up on his fingertip.
The moment the blood touched the edge, a loud, metallic "SHRING" echoed through the cave.
The sword reacted violently. The crimson drop was absorbed instantly, vanishing into the crystal structure. Then, the blade began to change. The translucent glass-like material swirled with dark, smoky tendrils, shifting toward a deep, obsidian hue—its true form awakening.
But there was a price.
Chris felt a sudden, terrifying vacuum pull from his chest. The remaining mana in his five circles—the energy he needed just to keep his heart beating and his lungs moving—was yanked out of him.
"Dammit... this garbage piece of sword... is definitely gonna kill me..."
His vision blurred into a swirl of grey and black. He slumped sideways, hitting the sand as his consciousness was snuffed out like a candle in a gale.
The Vanishing Blade
The sun rose over the Whispering Void Forest, piercing through the canopy in jagged pillars of gold. Chris groaned, his body feeling like it had been trampled by a herd of tuskers. He blinked, the bright light stinging his eyes, and saw a massive, dark shape silhouetted against the cave entrance.
Fen was there, lying across the opening, his ears pricked for the slightest sound of a predator. He had been guarding the boy all night.
"You are really my true friend," Chris said softly, his voice raspy.
He moved to sit up, his hand instinctively reaching for the spot on his lap where the sword had been. His hand met empty sand. He froze. He looked to the left, then the right. He scrambled to his feet, ignoring the protest of his aching muscles.
"Where's the sword... Dammit, where the heck is that sword!"
He began a frantic search, tossing aside his bedding, looking behind every rock and crevice in the cave. "I pulled it out of a mountain! I almost died for it! It can't just be gone!"
His frustration boiled over. "FUCK!"
He slammed his fist against the cave wall, his chest heaving. "Now all my effort has gone to waste. That idiotic sword! Fen, did you see it? Did you take it?"
Fen tilted his head, letting out a confused "Woof-Woof."
"So you haven't seen it either?" Chris sat back down, his hands on his head, breathing through the irritation. He felt like he had been cheated by the universe.
But as he rubbed his temples, something caught his eye. On the back of his right hand, etched into the skin as if it had been tattooed with liquid light, was a small, intricate symbol of a sword.
"Now what the heck is this?"
He touched the mark. It felt warm. He focused his mind on the sensation, and suddenly, he felt a weight in his hand. With a flash of blue light, the obsidian blade materialized in his grip, hummed once, and then vanished back into the mark when he relaxed.
"Wait... is it attached to me now?"
A wide, manic grin spread across his face. "Yahoo! It's a spirit weapon! It's part of my soul! That means its durability is basically infinite because it's tied to my life force!"
He jumped up, swinging his phantom blade in the air, his exhaustion forgotten in the thrill of the discovery. But the joy was short-lived. He remembered the explorer's book. The sword was a tool, but he still lacked the engine to drive it.
"Now that I have the sword," Chris said, his eyes narrowing with a familiar, cold determination, "I should focus on acquiring 'Ether' as fast as possible."
The Year of the Internal Flame
The goal was clear: Ether was the internal condensation of mana. According to the book, it was impossible for a seven-year-old. But Chris didn't believe in the word "impossible." He believed in physics, visualization, and the sheer audacity of a man who had already cheated death once.
He changed his routine.
The First Three Months:
Chris realized that to hold Ether, he needed a "vessel" stronger than any normal child. He stopped just doing bodyweight exercises. He used his 3rd-circle gravity magic to create a "Heavy Zone" around himself. He lived, slept, and trained under double gravity. His bones grew denser, his muscles packing on lean, hard mass.
The Six-Month Mark:
He began the "Compression." Instead of letting mana flow through his circles to cast spells, he began to force the mana into his bone marrow. It was agony. It felt like his veins were being filled with molten lead.
"If sixteen is the age of maturity," Chris grunted as he sat in a waterfall, the cold water hammering his shoulders while he maintained his gravity spell, "then I'll just force my cells to mature through mana-stress."
The Final Months:
He turned his focus to the "Void-Severing Style." He realized that Ether wasn't just energy; it was a frequency. It was the "shring" sound the sword had made. He spent nights trying to make his own mana vibrate at that same frequency.
The Birth of a Monster
One year passed.
The boy who stood at the edge of the cliff was no longer recognizable as the six-year-old who had fallen from the sky. Chris was now seven, but the mana-saturated environment and his brutal training had forced a growth spurt. He had the height and presence of a thirteen-year-old. His hair had grown longer, tied back with a strip of leather, and his eyes held a predatory stillness that even Fen respected.
His physique was no longer that of a child; he was corded with functional, explosive muscle, his skin tanned and scarred from a year of living at the heart of a Disaster-class forest.
He sat in the center of the cave, the air around him distorting.
"Now," he whispered.
He pulled every drop of mana from his five circles and, instead of letting it spin, he slammed it inward, toward the center of his heart. The resistance was immense. His ribs creaked. His vision went red.
Break the wall, he thought. Sixteen is just a number. Logic is just a suggestion.
CRACK.
A sound like a crystal shattering echoed inside his soul.
A new energy flared to life. It wasn't the cool, external blue of mana. it was a fierce, internal silver. It flooded his limbs, making his senses sharpen until he could hear the heartbeat of a bird a mile away.
Chris opened his eyes. Silver sparks danced in his pupils. He held out his hand and summoned the obsidian blade. This time, when the sword appeared, it didn't drain him. It sang. A silver aura coated the black edge, extending it by three inches.
He stood up, the ground beneath his feet cracking from the sheer density of his presence.
"Seven years old," Chris said, looking at his hands. "Ether awakened. Five circles stabilized."
He looked toward the north, where Salvalon lay beyond the horizon.
"I think I've outgrown this forest."