Zarou leaned against the doorframe of the study, his breath coming in shallow gasps. Every inch of him ached, his muscles trembling with exhaustion. The simple act of healing Anna had left him drained, as though his very essence had been wrung dry. His mana, once an unshakable lifeline, now coursed through him like molten fire, burning every nerve it touched.
He staggered into the room, the dim light barely reaching the corners where shadows pooled like ink. His jade-like eyes caught the faint glow of a mana lamp on the desk, the light refracting off his corneas in fractured streaks. He blinked, trying to push back the dizziness that threatened to pull him under.
"Sit," came a sharp voice from across the room.
The speaker, a woman in slate-gray robes, sat at a cluttered desk littered with faded parchments and arcane tools. Her dark curls framed a face that managed to convey both impatience and mild curiosity. She didn't rise to greet him, her focus flickering between Zarou and the chains clinking faintly at his wrists.
"Oliana," she said, introducing herself curtly. "And you? Who are you supposed to be?"
"Zarou," he replied, his voice hoarse. He pulled back his hood, revealing his gaunt face and the dark, bruise-like shadows beneath his eyes. "Thanks for not throwing me out."
Oliana huffed, waving a hand toward a chair. "Sit. But not at my desk."
Zarou obeyed, his legs barely supporting him as he crossed the room. The chair creaked ominously as he sank into it, and for a moment, he allowed himself to rest. The faint scent of cedar and beechwood filled the air, tugging at distant memories of a home long lost. His eyes drifted to the glowing orb on her desk, its light steady and cold.
"Why did you heal the girl?" Oliana's question cut through his thoughts, her tone sharp. "You should've just walked away."
Zarou frowned, lifting his head to meet her gaze. "She was hurt. It was my fault. Healing her seemed… right."
"Right?" Oliana's lips pressed into a thin line. "You don't have mana organs, do you?"
Zarou blinked, unsure how to respond. "I don't know what that means."
"Of course you don't." She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. "You're using mana without any means to regulate it. Do you even realize how reckless that is?"
Zarou bristled at her tone but said nothing. He didn't fully understand her words, but the weight of her disapproval was clear enough.
Oliana sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Mana organs regulate the flow of mana through the body. Without them, the energy runs wild. If you keep using it like this, you're going to burn yourself out. Or worse."
Zarou's brow furrowed. "I've been using mana all my life," he said slowly, his voice tinged with defiance. "It's never needed… regulation."
"Then you've been lucky," Oliana snapped. "Or ignorant. Most people without organs can't even tap into their mana, let alone use it the way you do. The fact that you're alive at all is a miracle—or a curse."
Her words struck a nerve, but Zarou couldn't argue. His body was already betraying him, the strain of his actions catching up faster than he could adapt. The burning sensation in his veins, the crushing fatigue—it was as if his very essence was unraveling.
He clenched his fists, the chains rattling softly.
"it was never like this,"
he murmured, more to himself than to her.
"It was either use mana or don't."
This wasn't intentional. This wasn't reckless. This was survival.
"Zarou?"
Oliana's voice broke through the haze, her tone sharp with concern.
"Stay with me! Don't fade now!"
He tried to respond, to force words past his lips, but his body refused to cooperate. His limbs felt heavy, his veins ablaze with raw mana coursing through them—not by choice, but because it was simply how his body had always functioned. He'd never known any other way. His chest rose and fell in uneven gasps as his body struggled to contain the relentless flow of energy within him, a flow that demanded to be used, shaped, and controlled—yet had no outlet.
Darkness closed in around him, but even in the void, memories stirred—echoes of a time when this wasn't a curse when the flow of mana through his veins was a natural, integral part of him. Back then, there had been no talk of mana organs or artificial limitations. The old world had trusted those born with mana to wield it freely, as it was meant to be, without these strange constructs that now bound and controlled the flow like dams holding back a river.
But here, in this world, it seemed everything about him was wrong.
Oliana's voice broke through the fog again, though fainter this time.
"Damn it, Zarou, what's wrong with you? This isn't normal. Your body—"
Her voice faltered, frustration and worry bleeding into her words.
Zarou's body sagged forward, the chains on his wrists scraping against the floor. Even as he slipped into unconsciousness, the sensation of the cold metal biting into his skin grounded him, a grim reminder of the gulf between what he was and what this world seemed to expect him to be.
He wasn't broken, he thought dimly. He was just… different.
And as the darkness consumed him, the faintest flicker of defiance stirred in his chest.
When Zarou stirred, the first thing he noticed was the faint, throbbing ache coursing through his body. It wasn't the sharp, searing pain from earlier but a dull, rhythmic pulse, like waves lapping against a battered shore. He blinked slowly, the world around him coming back into focus. The dimly lit room was quiet, save for the soft hum of the mana lamp still perched on the desk nearby.
He shifted slightly and noticed an eerie blue glow emanating from his forearms. His veins—normally faint and hidden beneath his pale skin—were pulsing with light, the mana coursing through them glowing with a faint, otherworldly brilliance. Zarou frowned, his head still heavy with exhaustion, as he lifted his arms weakly to inspect the strange phenomenon.
"What…?" he rasped, his voice cracking. "What's happening to me?"
A voice came from his left, calm but tinged with exasperation. "A mana slump. That's what's happening."
Zarou turned his head slowly, wincing at the stiffness in his neck. Oliana sat on a stool beside him, her silver hair catching the faint light from the mana lamp. The strands shimmered with an almost ethereal quality, cascading loosely over her shoulders as if reflecting the glow of the crystal orb she held in one hand. Her sharp, slate-gray robes contrasted with her pale complexion, and her expression was one of practiced calm, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of worry.
"A mana slump from an apprentice class heal?" Zarou asked, his words sluggish and slow.
Oliana sighed, tapping the glowing crystal lightly against her palm.
"It's what happens when your body rejects mana flow—or when you try to channel more than your veins can handle. Normally, it only affects people who are inexperienced or reckless. But you…"
She gestured toward his glowing veins, her eyes narrowing.
"You're different."
Zarou frowned, lifting his arms slightly to look at the light pulsing beneath his skin.
"I didn't force it,"
He muttered, almost defensively.
"It just happens."
"And that's exactly the problem,"
Oliana said, leaning forward. Her silver hair caught the light again as she spoke, casting faint reflections on the wall behind her.
"You're using raw mana without regulation. Most people have mana organs to control the flow, to store and release energy safely. Without them, the mana runs wild, like a storm with no direction. Your veins… they're not built for this."
"I've been using mana all my life,"
Zarou countered, his voice a mix of frustration and fatigue.
"I didn't need 'organs' before."
Oliana tilted her head slightly, her gaze sharp and assessing.
"And how many times have you nearly died because of it?"
Zarou's lips pressed into a thin line. His jade-like eyes flickered briefly with something unreadable—regret, defiance, or perhaps both. He exhaled through his nose and shook his head.
"Not once."
Oliana raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "Not once?"
She repeated, her tone incredulous.
"You're telling me you've been forcing mana through your veins—without regulation—for years, and you've never come close to burning out?"
"Not once," Zarou repeated, his voice low but firm. His gaze dropped to the chains around his wrists, the faint blue glow of his veins reflecting off the cold metal.
"Because back then, there wasn't anything to burn out."
Oliana's eyes narrowed, her curiosity piqued. "Back then?"
She echoed. "What does that mean? What are you talking about?"
Zarou hesitated, his fingers curling slightly against the armrests of the chair. He could feel her eyes on him, probing, searching for answers. For a moment, he debated brushing off her question, keeping the truth buried where it belonged. But something in her tone—perhaps the genuine curiosity, or the faint trace of concern—made him pause.
"The old world,"
He said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.
"The place I came from… things were different."
Oliana leaned forward slightly, her silver hair catching the light as it shifted over her shoulder.
"Different how?"
she pressed, her tone careful, measured.
"What do you mean by the 'old world'?"
Zarou's jaw tightened, the memory of his old life bubbling to the surface unbidden. He didn't look at her as he spoke, his voice distant, as if he were recounting someone else's story.
"There were no mana organs," he said.
"No need for them. Mana flowed freely—through everyone, through everything. It wasn't regulated or stored or… controlled the way it is now. It just was. People learned to use it as naturally as they breathed."
Oliana frowned, her brow furrowing as she tried to make sense of his words. "That's impossible," she said slowly.
"Without regulation, mana would tear a person apart. That's why mana organs exist—to prevent exactly what's happening to you."
Zarou finally looked up, meeting her gaze.
"It didn't back then. Mana didn't destroy us—it sustained us. It was… different."
Oliana's skepticism was plain on her face, but there was also something else—an undercurrent of unease.
"And what happened to this… old world of yours?" she asked, her voice quieter now.
Zarou's expression darkened, his gaze dropping back to his glowing veins.
"It burned," he said simply. "Everything burned."
The room fell silent, the hum of the mana lamp the only sound between them. Oliana studied him carefully, her mind racing. There was something in his tone, in the way he spoke, that made her hesitate to dismiss his words outright. But the idea of a world where mana flowed freely, without regulation, seemed like nothing more than a fantasy—or a distant, forgotten past.
Zarou was a black sheep.
The ugly duckling.
The odd one out.
"And you," she said finally, breaking the silence. "You survived that? Somehow, you ended up here, in a world that doesn't fit you?"
Zarou's lips quirked into a bitter smile.
"Survived? I wouldn't call it that."
He gestured vaguely to the chains on his wrists and the bruised shadows beneath his eyes.
"Existing, maybe. But surviving? I don't know."
Oliana leaned back in her chair, her fingers drumming lightly against the edge of the desk. "If what you're saying is true," she began, her tone thoughtful.
"then the way you use mana isn't a choice—it's just… how you're built."
"Exactly," Zarou said, his voice sharp with frustration. "But no one in that crowd sees it that way. They look at me like I'm a demon. Like I'm dangerous."
Oliana didn't respond immediately. Her gaze drifted to the faint blue glow still pulsing beneath his skin, her thoughts a tangle of curiosity and caution. If what Zarou was saying was true, then he wasn't just different—he was a relic of a time long past, a living contradiction to everything this world believed about mana.
Zarou's chapped lips, fractured like mud-cracked earth, twisted into a bitter smile.
"I don't even know what to make of myself. I wake up in a basement, shackled like some feral creature, and all I have are pieces of memories—pieces that don't even fit together anymore-"
Oliana's sharp gaze lingered on him, the weight of his words sinking in. She leaned forward slightly, her silver hair shimmering faintly in the lamplight.
"But those memories… they mean something, don't they?" she said carefully.
"You said you were part of something before. What was it?"
Zarou hesitated, his jade-like eyes flickering with an emotion somewhere between anger and pain.
"The Gazel Empire,"
He said, his voice rough and edged with bitterness.
"That's where I came from. I remember the banners, the soldiers, the endless nights of marching. And I remember why they kept me around."
The strongest empire in all of known history vanquished in a war with the demons
Oliana straightened in her chair, her expression tightening. "The Gazel Empire… They were the ones who fought against the Eneya Kingdom, weren't they? Their war against the demons is legendary—but it's also history. That was centuries ago...."
Suddenly, the room dissolved around him, the edges of Oliana's study fading into a haze of ash-gray and dull crimson. The air grew thick with heat and smoke, the scent of burning wood and scorched earth wrapping around his senses like a shroud. His breath came faster, chest tightening as memory overtook reality.
He was there.
He wasn't a soldier standing proud in formation. He was just me — a shackled shape barely standing at all, my wrists bound by chains no different from the ones still clinging to me now. They'd dug into my skin so deep back then, the flesh healed over the metal. Even now, I can still feel where they fused, like my body gave up trying to reject them. I think they stopped being restraints a long time ago and just became… part of me.
The brands on my forearms — I can still picture the way they glowed back then, a twisted reminder of some ancient spell they carved into me. Whatever purpose those marks had, it's shattered now, just cracks in my skin lit by whatever scraps of mana still cling to me. Even then, the mana never followed orders. It tore through me wild, reckless, refusing to bend into the neat little shapes they wanted.
I can taste the iron if I think about it too hard — not just from the fights, but from my own damn blood. From my split lips, and the way it would pool at the back of my throat every time they strapped that filthy gag across my mouth to keep me quiet. They were terrified of what would happen if I spoke too much. Or maybe they were scared of what I'd say.
I remember the mud too — the way it dried and cracked across my skin like a second layer of flesh. They didn't give me a uniform, didn't brand me with a sigil or crest. What would've been the point? Tools don't get symbols. Tools get used.
The faces are still blurry, but they're there. Commanders who wouldn't even look at me directly, only through the shield of orders barked from a safe distance. A whole row of officers, standing just far enough back so they wouldn't get caught in the blast if they pushed me too hard. Even the medics avoided my eyes. They'd slap salve over my burns, set a bone here and there, then leave before the air could crackle with loose mana again.
One step removed from the monsters they were fighting. They didn't send me into battle with anyone at my back. No battalion. No war mages standing beside me. Just me, shoved forward alone — to hold the line against waves of clawed shadows and burning hellfire. To drown the battlefield in unstable, unshaped mana until it didn't matter who it tore apart — enemy, earth, or me.
I wasn't a man to them. I wasn't even a weapon.
I was a solution.
The words hung heavy in the air, ringing louder in his own mind than in the room itself.
Oliana didn't speak right away. What could she even say to that? The weight of his truth had filled every corner of the room like a slow, suffocating fog.
Zarou exhaled, the breath shuddering from his chest as though it carried pieces of the past with it. His legs trembled slightly as he stood, the chains at his wrists clinking softly. Even now, they seemed heavier than before, as if speaking the memories aloud had somehow made them more real.
Oliana watched him, her silver hair catching the glow of the mana lamp as she leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk. "Where will you go now?" Her voice was quieter than before, not out of pity, but something closer to caution. As if, for the first time, she saw Zarou not as a stray or an enigma—but as something dangerous. Something real.
Zarou gave her a tired smile, the edges brittle. "City Hall," he said. "Supposed to register, right? Can't be a person without paperwork."
He hesitated for a moment, standing in the doorway, before turning back slightly. His voice came softer than usual, the sharpness dulled by sincerity."Thanks," he said. "I mean it. I haven't met anyone willing to hear me out… or even look me in the eye without flinching."
Oliana shrugged, trying to brush off the sentiment, but her expression softened just slightly. "Don't mistake practicality for kindness, Zarou. I helped you because you were bleeding all over my doorstep."
Zarou's smile twitched wider—awkward, unsure. "Still. It's been… a long time since anyone gave me the benefit of the doubt."
Unsure what to do with his hands, he awkwardly lifted one, fingers twitching uncertainly before he settled on raising it for a high-five. Oliana arched a brow, her expression a perfect blend of confusion and disbelief.
"…What are you doing?" she asked flatly.
"Uh," Zarou's hand hung mid-air. "A gesture from… my old world. A thank-you thing."
Oliana sighed, muttering something under her breath before raising her own hand to meet his. The contact was brief, a dry smack of palm against palm, but the moment their hands met, a faint shimmer of light sparked between them. For the briefest second, a thin trace of ichor coloured mana curled across her fingers, before vanishing like morning mist in sunlight.
Both of them froze.
"Just… get out of here before you faint on my floor again." Oliana jests.
She didn't notice. That was good.
He hadn't meant to do it—not exactly. But some part of him had wanted to. A precaution. A tether.
In case the past he could barely remember found its way back to him.
Or if someone came looking for him—and found her first.
Not that it'll matter.
He was probably being paranoid. But after everything, could anyone blame him?
Trust didn't come easy. Not anymore. But somehow, in that brief moment, he'd trusted her.
And now, like it or not, we're connected.
Zarou tugged his hood lower, the morning light stinging his tired eyes. The weight of his chains dragged softly behind him, their clinking muffled beneath the thick fabric of his coat.
He didn't look back.
The path ahead—toward the Bureau, toward whatever fate Alachi had in store—was already waiting