Life with a makeshift camp in the backyard is… loud.
Borin, the axe-wielding barbarian, has a laugh that could probably be heard in the next town over—and he loves practicing his war cries at dawn (much to the dismay of my sensitive baby ears). Lyra, the gorgeous elf archer, is as silent as a ghost, but when she practices, her arrows whistle with terrifying precision, slicing through the air like liquid streaks. Kael, the rogue, is a restless shadow, always sharpening his daggers, practicing sleight of hand, or trying (and failing) to teach me how to tie complicated knots with my clumsy baby fingers.
Mom navigates this invasion with a tense grace. Her smile is polite, but sometimes I catch her sighing quietly when Borin nearly knocks over her herb-drying rack for the third time in a single day. Still, she sees the spark in Dad's eyes—he seems alive.
He wrestles with Borin over everything, even something as trivial as the salt shaker (clashes that make the ground tremble). He swaps war stories around a makeshift campfire at night (while I'm supposedly asleep in my crib near the window, soaking up every word). He even teaches Lyra some hand-to-hand combat tricks.
He's in his element.
And because of that, Mom tolerates the chaos with a patience that's almost… saintly. Fitting for a Light mage.
..................
A Quiet Shift
While the adventurer circus settles into our daily life, I keep walking my own secret path. Refining my internal energy has become as natural as breathing (or drooling). Progress is still slow in the grand scheme of things, but it feels more substantial now.
It's no longer just loose specks I'm struggling to pull together—it's like I'm kneading a small ball of energy dough inside me.
Then, one day, during a particularly quiet nap (Borin is snoring under a tree, Lyra is meditating, and Kael is probably stealing socks in the village), something shifts.
The concentration of energy in my chest reaches a kind of critical mass.
Click.
Not an external sound—an internal sensation. Like countless tiny pieces snapping perfectly into place.
The warmth under my sternum intensifies. Solidifies.
It's no longer a flickering candle.
It's a small, hot, pulsing marble.
A budding organ, just as I imagined.
I've hit 50%.
The blue screen flickers, confirming my sensation:
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[Lexo]
Level: 0.50
HP: 15/15
MP: 20/20(+5)
(STR, VIT, DEX stats continue their slow increase)
INT: ?? (Locked)
WIS: ?? (Locked)
MAG: 2 (+1)
Status: Conscious Mind, Mana Core (50% Formed).
-----------------------
A point in MAG.
And the status confirms it: my core is forming.
This is huge.
..................
A Heavy Burden
That same afternoon, I overhear Dad and Borin talking while they clean their weapons after training.
"Your kid's got potential, I can feel it, buddy," Borin says, wiping down his massive stone axe. "You think he'll awaken a core?"
Dad smiles. Even without looking, I can feel the pride radiating from him.
"I hope so. But you know how rare it is, Borin. They say barely one in a hundred thousand even forms a core stable enough to use magic. That's why mages are so… different."
"Superhuman," Borin nods gravely. "Guardians against the Darkness. Against the monsters lurking beyond the safe borders. It's a heavy burden."
"Yeah," Dad murmurs, glancing toward the house where Mom is tending to a sick child. "A heavy burden indeed."
One in a hundred thousand.
And here I am, barely six months old, with my core already half-formed—thanks to my past knowledge and relentless effort.
It's not just a stats game.
Forming a core puts you in a whole different category in this world.
It makes you a protector.
The thought is… overwhelming.
..................
Six Months In
I walk steadily now (though I still fall a lot). My babbling increasingly resembles real words (much to my parents' delight). My mana core is no longer a vague concept—it's real, tangible, half-formed.
And the adventurers?
They're still here.
Bringing with them the scent of danger and adventure into our once-quiet home.
And one day…
I'll be ready for it.