Astra gazed upon the infinite tapestry of stars within his inner domain, feeling the celestial mana wrap around him like an unfathomable tide. The vastness of it stretched beyond comprehension, the stars gleaming like scattered fragments of forgotten divinity.
Beneath his feet lay a deep, dark ocean, endless and silent, mirroring the celestial expanse above. Suspended in the center of this domain, a single dim sun hung in the void—his mana core, the heart of his power. It flickered with an unstable glow, its radiance struggling against the abyss.
Below it, pulsing with steady brilliance, was a single star—his inner star. Unlike the dying sun, it thrived, its light unwavering. With every pulse, Astra could feel it resonate through him, its energy intertwining with his very existence.
As Astra stared at the imperial imp coin, a sudden pulse of mana surged through his body. His vision blurred, and for a brief moment, the world around him faded. Then, like ink bleeding into his consciousness, glowing runes etched themselves into his mind, forming a translucent screen within his inner vision.
The words burned with undeniable authority:
[Increase Strength]
[Form Second Mana Core]
Astra exhaled sharply. The runes hovered there, weightless yet oppressive, as if inscribed by the very laws of the universe. They pulsed in sync with his mana, urging him forward, demanding his growth.
"How the hell do I actually form a second core...? The Tales of Atlas make it sound like an effortless breakthrough."
Astra scrolled through the mana network, his eyes narrowing at the dense, cryptic scripts flashing across the interface.
"The formation of a first mana core is a natural, almost effortless event—a blessing granted by mana itself. It is not something one has to fight for; it is bestowed, an initiation into the world of magic.
For most, the process occurs between the ages of five and ten, a moment as natural as learning to walk or speak. A child's body, still unshaped by the burdens of the world, naturally harmonizes with the mana around them. Their core manifests at full potential—pure, untarnished, and perfectly aligned with their innate essence.
It is not a matter of effort, talent, or ambition; rather, mana chooses to root itself within them. Some experience a moment of revelation, a surge of warmth, or a vision of their inner world—others wake up one day simply knowing that their core has formed. Once it exists, it is stable, unyielding, and absolute.
Yet, this gift comes with a hidden truth: what is given cannot be easily changed.
A first core is perfect for what it is, but to ascend beyond it—to break past mortal limits and claim a second core—is an entirely different battle. A second core is not given. It must be taken."
With that comes the The Hierarchy of Cores
The strength of a core is not merely determined by how many one possesses but by the quality of its foundation. The world recognizes four tiers of ascended cores, each marking the measure of one's potential:
Heroic – A core of discipline and determination, the foundation of those who strive.
Fabled – A core of unique talent and innate excellence, wielded by those whose names are known.
Legendary – A core of prodigious might, possessed by those who reshape the world itself.
Mythical – A core of the highest order, reserved for those whose very existence bends the course of fate.
All 4 core assessments have their own sub assessment, where based on what act mana deemed you worthy of granting you a core, it grants you 4 type
Low tier-Barley made the threshold
Mid tier-average
High tier-genius
Pinnacle Tier-prodigy
While talent may grant ease of progression, it is not the sole determinant of ascension. Even those born with nothing may rise, should their will and deeds prove great enough. Mana is not blind—it sees beyond lineage and birthright, judging only what is earned.
Everyone who forms their first mana core is granted a core mythical tier pinnacle core. as the very act of becoming a mage can be seen as the start of ones myth.
granting every mage, an equal and fair opportunity.
"Interesting, but how do I become rank two?"Astra continued scrolling past information everyone already knew trying to find keen little insights
It was always the same—guidance on how to advance but never what one needed to do. The process was unique to every mage, yet the knowledge was deliberately obscured, locked behind mana-encrypted texts, hidden within noble circles and secretive factions. Power, after all, belonged to those who could decipher and consolidate it.
Yet despite this hoarding of knowledge, the struggle for ascension had not stopped the countless mages who passed their findings through whispers, scrolls, and clandestine teachings. The mana network held insights up to Rank Four—fragments of Rank Five even—but true enlightenment, the kind that could forge an unbreakable core, did not come from scholars or magicians.
The surest method to forming the strongest mana core did not lie in books, ancient rituals, or noble bloodlines. It was accessible to everyone.
Everything—even the path to Rank Seven, the threshold of a Seraph—was there, waiting to be grasped.
The Tales of Atlas spoke of the first mortal to ascend in the Age of Gods, a being who defied fate itself.
Pawn to Seraph. Mortal to Divinity.
Legends blurred the line between truth and myth. Some claimed Atlas never existed, that his story was allegory, exaggerated by zealots and dreamers. Others swore by the ruins and scars across the realms—the shattered landscapes, the war-torn skies—evidence of a god's ascension carved into reality itself.
But knowledge meant nothing without understanding.
It was like handing a child a formula for celestial mechanics before they had learned to count, or explaining the deepest laws of magic to a mind still grasping at its first spell. Even those gifted in mana, the prodigies and the elites, often failed—stagnating, breaking beneath the weight of the unknown.
Power was not merely held—it was consolidated, refined into an impenetrable fortress of influence. Knowledge was the foundation, and those who ruled ensured that it remained out of reach for the unworthy. The nobles encrypted their teachings, scholars buried truths beneath layers of misdirection, and secret societies guarded the most profound revelations like dragons hoarding treasure. Even within the mana network, where fragments of insight were scattered like breadcrumbs, the true path to ascension was deliberately obscured. Mages of lower standing could glimpse the higher realms, but without the keys to decipher them, they remained trapped—forever grasping at shadows while the ruling class shaped the world in their image
Astra's thoughts drifted to Tales of Atlas, Chapter 15. The moment Atlas shattered his limits. The moment he reached Rank Two. The moment he became a Squire of Mana.
.....
In the beginning of the world, when the winds carried the whispers of forgotten gods and the deserts knew the footsteps of immortals, there lay a vast, unyielding sea of golden sand. Dunes like mountains rose to kiss the heavens, and oases shimmered like jewels, bathed in the light of a relentless sun. This was the realm where life and death had once collided in a battle that shaped the very fabric of existence.
Here, where the air itself burned with ancient magic, the Great Devourer had long been set to guard the sacred heart of the desert—where the Goddess of Life and the God of Death had once waged their final war.
A mortal of all kinds, Atlas, who was neither man nor beast, but a legend born of ambition, journeyed across the realms. His coin—an artifact tied to the fate of all things—led him to this forsaken land, the heart of the desert, where gods had once fought. His heart, too, burned with a fire older than time: the hunger for power, for divinity.
The journey was long and treacherous. His feet sank deep into the shifting sands, and the heat of the sun pressed down upon him, searing his skin. But Atlas moved forward, step by step, knowing his destination lay at the heart of this endless wasteland.
The desert was a living thing, breathing with the winds and whispering secrets to those who dared listen. But as Atlas reached the center, the sands stirred violently. The winds howled, and from the earth itself, there rose a creature older than the world itself—a massive serpent-like being with scales that gleamed like molten gold.
The Great Devourer.
Its eyes, deep as the abyss, fixed upon Atlas as the air around him grew heavy with its presence. The earth trembled beneath the weight of the creature's enormous form, and a rumbling voice echoed through the very fabric of the desert.
"Mortal, why do you walk upon sacred ground, where gods once bled?"
Atlas stood tall, unafraid. "I seek not to challenge the gods," he said, his voice steady. "I seek only to learn, to ascend, to seek the secrets that once shaped the world. Guide me to the heart of the battlefield, where Life and Death once clashed, and I will prove myself worthy."
The Devourer's great mouth opened, revealing teeth as long as trees, jagged and sharp. It bellowed, and the sand trembled.
"Many have come," it said, "and all have failed. Only those who can face themselves may pass."
With those words, the winds rose higher, and the desert itself began to shift. Atlas was swept into a sandstorm, the world around him turning into a vortex of blinding sand and suffocating darkness. He could no longer see, could no longer feel the ground beneath his feet. Only the roaring winds and the howling voice of the Devourer remained.
"Face yourself, mortal. Only then will you pass."
Through the swirling chaos, Atlas felt the very essence of his being unraveling. And then, as if summoned by the storm itself, a figure emerged from the darkness—a figure made of sand, twisting and shifting with every gust of wind. It was a reflection of Atlas, but darker, crueler, more desperate.
The figure grinned, its eyes glowing with the same fire that burned within Atlas's own soul. "So, you seek to become more than mortal, do you? To transcend your own limits?" The figure's voice was a mocking echo, a twisted reflection of his own thoughts.
Atlas's heart pounded as the storm intensified. He stepped forward, his feet sinking deep into the sand, his eyes locked on the reflection.
"Who are you?" Atlas demanded, his voice ringing with the weight of his journey.
The sandstorm howled around Atlas, a living thing, a force that sought to swallow him whole. But this was no ordinary sandstorm. It was the Winds of Doubt and the Sands of Loss, and they sought to consume more than just the body—they sought to devour the very soul. His heart beat like the drums of war, the air thick with the weight of his ambition. The sand figure before him shifted, its form more monstrous with each moment, growing taller, more twisted, more alive with the dark hunger that Atlas knew all too well.
The reflection—his reflection—grinned again, its eyes blazing with the same fire that burned within Atlas's chest. "So, you seek to transcend, mortal? To rise above the desires that churn within you?" The figure's voice was a mocking echo, a twisted reflection of his own thoughts. "You will never be enough. The more you chase, the more you will burn, until there is nothing left. You will lose everything—your soul, your ambition, your very reason for existing. The storm of doubt will swallow you whole, and the sands of loss will bury you."
Atlas's chest tightened, and for a moment, doubt seeped into his heart. The weight of his ambition had always pressed on him like a heavy stone. Could he truly rise above it? Was the fire within him nothing more than an endless, consuming blaze, destined to devour him? Would he lose himself on the way to his dreams, as so many others had?
The sand figure's lips curled into a cruel smile. "The flame that burns brightest burns the fastest. What do you think will be left of you once your fire is spent? You are but a fleeting ember, and your hunger will consume you, Atlas. You will burn, and all your striving will leave nothing but ashes."
The storm intensified, and Atlas felt the full weight of the winds of doubt tearing at his resolve. The sands pressed in from all sides, each grain whispering the failures of the past, the lost opportunities, all which for some reason he couldn't even remember, but the bitterness and sorrow remained. Each grain was a reminder of something he had left behind. Was this his destiny? To be devoured by the very hunger he sought to master?
He staggered, his strength wavering for the briefest moment, as the storm howled louder. The winds carried the whispers of his past mistakes, of the scars he had buried deep within himself. You are nothing, the winds seemed to say. You have lost too much. You will never be enough.
But then, amidst the suffocating storm, Atlas stood taller. His feet, though sinking into the sand, found steady ground. His eyes, once clouded with doubt, burned with renewed fire. "No," he said, his voice cutting through the wind, unwavering. Atlas has seemed to realize something "The strongest flame isn't the one that burns brightest, or the hottest. It is the one that burns steady, unyielding, even in the darkest storm."
The figure before him flickered, its monstrous form wavering in the fierce winds, but Atlas's voice grew louder, steadier. "The winds of doubt may howl, the sands of loss may threaten to bury me, but I will not be lost. I will not be devoured by the storm. I refuse to be consumed by my own fear. I will not let my past or my doubts define me. I will keep moving forward.Only by moving forward when I am afraid can I grow, that is why the act of walking while being afraid has a name....courage"
The sand figure recoiled, its mocking smile faltering as Atlas's words struck true. The winds of doubt began to weaken, the sands of loss slowly losing their grip on him. but they seemed to pick up and strengthen in a desperate effort as his reflection spoke and peered into his eyes "You cannot win," the reflection hissed, its voice trembled with the fear of something it could not understand. "You are nothing but a fleeting spark in the face of eternity. the failures of your past, the weight of your future, the margin of errors, the very possibility of even succeeding weigh on you and they will crush you, you shall falter you shall lose and you shall disappear why even try!"
"But it is the spark that keeps the darkness at bay," Atlas replied, his voice steady as stone. "The steady flame that endures, even in the night.." Atlas realized something once again "The failures of the past, the burden of the future are what make me...who I am...I cannot even remember my past...yet I can feel the lessons learned through the countless losses, I can feel the pressure of my future weighing in down and it propels me forward, for is one truly alive if they are constantly in the past or future, ?" Atlas didn't wait for the reflection to answer his rhetorical question
"No, I refuse to settle, I refuse to be blown away by doubt and buried in loss, I will stand steady in-front the harshest storms of doubt, I will climb above the deepest holes of loss, that is my perseverance!"
With those words, the winds that had once threatened to crush him began to recede. The storm, which had raged with such fury, began to settle. The sand figure crumbled, its form dissolving into the very sands that had birthed it. The desert itself seemed to exhale, the suffocating weight lifting from Atlas's shoulders.
"Every failure is a lesson, every moment of doubt is an opportunity" Atlas mumbled enlightened
His heart, which had once burned with a fevered hunger, now pulsed steady and sure—a quiet flame in the depths of his being.
As Atlas stood, his gaze still fixed on the horizon, he felt something stirring deep within him, something ancient and primal. The mana that flowed through the very air around him began to shift, as if acknowledging the transformation within his soul. The sands, once his tormentors, now seemed to retreat in awe, the desert itself recognizing the power he had unlocked.
The Devourer, its massive form coiled like a mountain of sand, watched in silence as the energy in the air around Atlas began to vibrate with an intensity that sent ripples through the very fabric of existence. The winds parted, and a strange stillness fell over the land.
Inside him, Atlas felt it—a powerful, searing heat rising from the depths of his being. His soul trembled, as if it had just been touched by the very hand of creation itself. Mana surged, coursing through his veins like a river of fire, its power filling him until it could no longer be contained.
Then, with a deafening crack, the air around him seemed to bend and pulse. The very ground beneath his feet shook as the mana, once a chaotic swirl of elements, now spiraled in perfect harmony. The energy within Atlas's body erupted, his form surrounded by a radiant blue light. It was as though the skies themselves opened in response to his will.
A brilliant light shot upward from his chest, piercing the heavens, while beneath his skin, something immense began to take shape—an entity of pure mana, a second core forming. It was not like any core Atlas had seen or heard of before. The first had been a symbol of his beginnings, a spark of his potential. But this new core—this mythical core—was a thing of legend, forged not through talent alone but through the very trials of his soul. It shimmered like molten gold, veins of light threading through it like threads of fate woven by the gods themselves.
The energy inside him reached its apex, and with a mighty roar that echoed across the desert, the core solidified—pure, untouchable, and burning with an intensity that rivaled the sun itself.
Atlas, feeling the weight of this new power within him, staggered for a moment, as though the sheer magnitude of the core was too great to bear. But his body, now attuned to this cosmic force, embraced it fully. His aura flared, and for a moment, the winds parted, as if even the desert itself had to step aside for the monumental shift taking place.
The mana coin also transformed and shimmered, now no longer a pawn of mana but a squire of mana. Atlas is now rank two.
"only through self confrontation can one move forward unhindered" Atlas spoke
The Devourer watched with awe, its ancient eyes wide, reflecting the radiant light of Atlas's transformation. The massive creature, once an embodiment of doubt and darkness, now seemed to bow its head in respect, acknowledging the monumental achievement that Atlas had attained. The sands around them rippled with the power of the newly formed core, the air itself humming with the resonance of pure mana.
The Devourer spoke, its voice filled with awe and admiration. "You have done what many before you could not. You have faced yourself and emerged victorious. No mortal has ever stood where you stand now..to begin the ascension.....intriguing "
Atlas, now fully attuned to the power coursing through him, looked up, his gaze steady and determined. The Devourer, humbled by the power before it, stretched its vast form across the sands. "Climb upon my back, Atlas. You have earned your place. I will carry you to the heart of the battlefield, where your true journey begins. Your second core, forged from your very soul, will guide you through the trials yet to come."
With a steady hand, Atlas gripped the Devourer's massive scales and climbed onto its back, feeling the hum of magic beneath him. The great sandworm coiled beneath him, its body now a bridge between Atlas and the legendary battlefield that awaited him..
.....
Astra lay back on the soft pillows of his bed, the luxurious silks of the sheets brushing against his skin. The comfort of House Shadow's estate surrounded him, yet it felt strangely distant, like a hollow shell. The silence of his room was broken only by the soft, steady hum of mana in the air, and the occasional crackle of energy from the coin resting against his chest.
His eyes were closed as he connected with the mana network through the coin, feeling the subtle flow of information reach his mind. The ancient text of the Tales of Atlas unfolded before him like a living tapestry, its words vibrant and detailed as they appeared in his mind. Astra had long since become accustomed to reading through the network this way, but tonight, something felt different. Something about this chapter...
The passage flowed like a current through his thoughts: Atlas, alone in a darkened chamber, confronting the shadowy specter of his own doubts. The Devourer, a twisted reflection of Atlas's inner fears, stood before him, an embodiment of everything he wished to forget. The battle wasn't one of raw power but of will, a battle to face what lay hidden beneath the surface. As Atlas overcame his own fears and faced his shadow, his mana core transformed, a second core born from his newfound strength.
Astra's chest tightened. Self-confrontation.
He had always known that his path would demand sacrifice and introspection, but the meaning of those words struck him more deeply than he anticipated. To face one's own darkness—not to defeat it, but to understand it. It was a trial Atlas had faced, and now, it seemed, it was one that would come to define Astra's own journey.
His thumb absently traced the edge of his coin, the smooth surface of the mana-infused artifact cool against his skin. He had never considered the shadows within himself the way Atlas had. To him, the darkness was something to be avoided, something to be used but never acknowledged. And yet, here he was, reading about Atlas's journey, realizing that the true test wasn't just about overcoming external obstacles—it was about confronting the very parts of oneself that one feared the most.
Astra inhaled deeply, his breath steadying as he allowed himself a moment of reflection. His life had been a series of struggles, each one a step further from the boy who had grown up in the depths of Duskfall, where survival meant abandoning any sense of innocence. His mother's death, the loss of friends to the streets, the betrayals he had suffered—all of it had shaped him into someone cold, calculating, and detached. He had buried his pain, his fears, his doubts beneath layers of ambition and power. But now, as he lay in the comfort of House Shadow's estate, the weight of it all was beginning to surface.
Could it be that his next step wasn't about rising higher, but confronting what had always lurked beneath the surface of his soul?
Astra opened his eyes, gazing at the shadows that stretched across the room. The dim light from the candle flickered, casting fleeting shapes against the walls. For a moment, he could almost see it—his own shadow, not just on the floor, but standing beside him, staring back with eyes that reflected every choice, every regret, every part of himself that he had long ago buried.
Beating your shadow counts as a form of this, I wonder if thats why the founders of house shadow and most other noble houses have rites similar to this.... astra made the connection showing just how much of an effect the tales of atlas have on this world.
Astra shuddered, realizing that the shadow was not something to be cast away. It was a part of him, and only by understanding it could he truly grow. Just as Atlas had forged a mythical core by facing his deepest fears, Astra, too, needed to confront the darkness that had shaped him into the man he was today.
Closing his eyes again, he exhaled slowly, the soft hum of mana in the air grounding him. This wasn't just a lesson from Atlas's story. This was his own path unfolding before him, a path that would force him to confront not just the world around him, but the deepest parts of himself.
In that moment, Astra understood: to rise, to truly rise beyond his past, he had to face it. The shadows would not fade by simply avoiding them. He had to look them in the eye, embrace them, and in doing so, transform them into the strength he sought.
Self-confrontation.
It was no longer a distant concept, but the very core of what would define him. He didn't need to be afraid of the dark. He needed to understand it, control it, and then, like Atlas, forge something greater from it.
Astra sighed, as a strange sense of peace washed over him. The journey ahead would not be easy, but for the first time, he felt ready. The future was no longer an endless stretch of uncertainty—it was something that he could shape. And it began now,