As the morning haze began to lift and the air warmed with the sun's rise, Liam sat in the grass, his palms facing up, feeling the faint tingling threads of mana circulating through his body. He had just finished a rigorous round of spell targeting—his arms ached, his mind buzzed from mental strain.
Still, one question itched at him, one that had refused to leave him alone ever since he began spellcasting.
He glanced at Master Grey, who was calmly pouring tea into a clay cup, eyes closed.
"Master," Liam asked hesitantly, "why can I only control ten motes of mana at once?"
The old mage set his cup down gently and turned toward him. "When your mana core is in a cracked state—as yours is now—the mana you draw is in a constant dance between internal and external equilibrium. Think of it like water in a cracked jar. Some stays, some leaks, and some mingles with the moisture in the air."
Liam blinked. "So... it's not fully mine?"
"Exactly," Grey nodded. "The mana inside you isn't entirely your own. It's porous. Unstable. In this state, how many motes you can control depends heavily on your mental strength—your focus, will, spiritual pressure, and clarity."
He took a long sip of tea before continuing. "In that sense, you're well-gifted. Ten motes is impressive. When I was at your stage, I could barely control four or five."
Liam's eyes widened. "Really?"
"Don't get too full of yourself," Grey smirked. "Most villagers wouldn't reach five unless they were unusually stubborn. Noble-born children, trained early and given the best elixirs and meditations, might reach eight or nine motes."
Liam thought "Maybe I am exceptionally gifted with mind because this is my second life."
The exceptionally gifted—those who appear once in a generation—could control fifteen, maybe twenty. But they're rare. As rare as a dragon feather in a crow's nest."
"Twenty motes..." Liam's Jaw dropped, seems he had been too prideful of himself. "Then why does it stop being limited later?"
Grey tapped the boy's forehead with two fingers, lightly. "When you reform your mana core—when it becomes whole, uncracked, pure white—the nature of mana within you changes. It becomes yours. Not borrowed. Not swayed by external flows."
Liam frowned, thinking. "So I'll be able to control more motes after that?"
"You'll be able to store more. Control changes meaning then. You won't have to hold on with sheer will anymore. Your core will hold it for you. But don't mistake that for ease. Casting spells, shaping mana, weaving it into precise forms... all of that still requires discipline, intent, and a strong mind."
Liam leaned back in the grass, letting the breeze wash over him. "So the cracked core is like training with a broken sword. Harder to master. But once it's reforged... it becomes yours."
Grey raised an eyebrow. "That's not a bad analogy. Except in this case, you're both the sword and the smith."
Liam looked up from the glowing practice dummy, his forehead glistening with sweat, eyes reflecting the dim hue of mana lingering around his fingertips.
"Master?"
Master Grey didn't look up from the cup he was sipping from. "Hmm, what is it now? There's no end to your questions, boy."
"How do we forge a white mana core?"
"Forging a white mana core, is it? Hmph. Easy and difficult, depending on what you choose."
Liam blinked. "What do you mean by that, Master?"
Grey folded his arms and leaned against the windowsill, eyes distant. "What do you think the shell that holds your mana is made of?"
"No idea. Maybe... mana?"
"Partially right," Grey said. "The shell itself is forged from both mana and life force—condensed and compressed until they solidify into a shell that holds your mana. That's the foundation of your core."
Liam furrowed his brows. "So to repair it, we use mana and life force again? Isn't that dangerous?"
Grey gave a sardonic smile. "Very. Using your own life force shortens your lifespan. It's why few choose that route. But mages of the past discovered alternatives—plants, animals to substitute your life force, even other humans, if you're desperate or mad enough, some demonic mages considered humans to be best candidates because it the closet thing to your life force if you ask for."
Liam looked horrified. "Then what happens if you use something else's life force?"
"Impurities," Grey muttered. "Life force not your own taints the shell you'll need to cleanse it eventually if you want to advance."
"So the best core is made from your own life force?"
"Exactly," Grey nodded, his voice grave. "What is best for you is what comes from you. That is the first principle of forging a pure core."
"But then aren't you reducing your lifespan?"
Grey chuckled. "That is the temptation. Burn less of yourself, borrow from the world, cheat your way forward. But every shortcut needs paying back. And the impurities must be purged, often at greater cost later."
He poured a little water into a nearby pot and stirred it. "The better the life force—the purer it is—the better the shell. Plants are more stable. Animals less so. But none as perfect as your own."
Liam sat in silence, absorbing the lesson.
After a while, Master Grey's expression turned wistful.
"Let me tell you a tale," he said, voice softer now, almost reverent. "Long ago, in the northwestern wilderness when the people were still mostly nomadic with small settlements and cities taking shape, there lived a mage named Yurei."
"Yurei was not born to privilege, nor was he gifted. He was average in every measurable way—but in one thing, he was unmatched: conviction."
"At the age of sixteen, Yurei's mana core cracked, and his master abandoned him, saying he had no potential left. Left to fend for himself, he wandered across cursed plains, broken cities, and forests filled with poison winds. And wherever he went, he looked for a way to repair what was broken."
"One day, starving and delirious, he stumbled upon a monastery hidden in the fog. The monks within practiced silence and meditation, and they let him stay. There, Yurei discovered an ancient tablet, half-buried in the roots of an old tree. It contained a mantra—a method of mending the mana core using one's own life force."
"But here's the twist—every breath used in practice, every moment in meditation, consumed a sliver of his life force. It wasn't a technique for the desperate. It was a technique for those prepared to give up everything."
"The monks called it 'Technique of the withering Tree'. Because to mend what is broken, one must first accept death, the tree withers in winter but it stays alive in hope of blooming in spring again"
Liam blinked. "Did he succeed?"
Grey nodded solemnly. "He did. But by the time he reforged his white core, he had already aged beyond his years. His hair had turned silver, and his bones creaked like winter trees. He lived only a few more seasons—but in those seasons, he surpassed those who had scorned him."
He turned to Liam. "A drowning man will grasp even a splinter of wood and treat it as a lifeline. Yurei was that man. He clutched conviction as if it were a raft on the endless ocean."
Grey's voice turned grave. "That's the truth of forging a core—each man must choose, and live with it. So what if you used animal life force or human lifeforce?, all you had to have is hope and conviction to continue even in the slightest chances, that is what being a mage is."
He continued-"Yurei might have lost everything he had, but still continued to hope and did not give up, he was willing to give up his own life that he could have easily lived in peace, for his goal, that is the conviction you need, to die for your goal, it is not having regrets knowing you have done your best."
Grey tried to lift up the atmosphere and said-"But it is easier said than done, if it is I would not have come to this countryside to live rest of my life in peace, and we wouldn't be having this conversation either, be grateful to heart that it lost it's hope."
Though Grey tried to joke , it is obvious that it did not suit his personality and he was not good in it.
But the truth is though Grey himself may said it as joke, deep down he knows and regrets that he could not continue on his path.
Liam bowed his head, mind swirling.
Grey added, "The core is not just a container for mana. It is the reflection of your will. Weak men build cores and lose eventually at some point. The strong, even if broken, find the strength to reshape themselves."
He turned back to the window. "That's enough talk. Go meditate. Let your thoughts settle. A still pool reflects the moon, but a rippling one sees only fragments."
Liam turned and left, his heart heavier—but his path clearer.