The rest of his first birthday had been the best day of his life.
His mom had made food, more than usual, the kind of meal that took time and care and filled the whole house with a smell that made everything feel slower and warmer. His dad had told stories through most of it, the kind that were probably only half true but were entertaining enough that it didn't matter. Arthur had sat between them and eaten and listened and said very little, which nobody seemed to mind.
By the time evening came he was full and tired and quieter than usual in a way that had nothing to do with sadness.
He had been set down in his room as the candles burned low and his parents moved around the house doing the small ordinary things people do at the end of a day. Muffled voices through the wall. The sound of his dad laughing at something. His mom's footsteps in the hallway, pausing briefly outside his door before moving on.
He lay there in the dark and stared at the ceiling and thought that this was what it was supposed to feel like.
Just this.
He was asleep before he could finish the thought.
He was up before his parents.
The house was still and grey with early morning light when he pushed himself upright and climbed carefully out of the small bed. His feet found the floor. He steadied himself against the frame for a moment then let go.
He crossed the hallway.
The book room was cold, the candle on the table long dead, but the window let in enough pale light to see by. He found the book exactly where he had left it the night before, on the floor by the chair where his mom had set it down.
He picked it up with both hands and carried it to the middle of the room.
He sat down.
He opened it.
The first page was simple. Large letters, wide spacing, the kind of layout meant for someone just learning to read. He was past that. His reading had come back to him the way most things had, slowly at first then all at once, like a door that just needed the right amount of pressure.
A Beginner's Guide to Magic.
He turned to the first chapter and started to read.
He read the first line twice.
Mana is the foundation of all magic. It exists within every living thing, from the tallest tree to the smallest insect. It is not something that is created. It is something that already is.
He sat with that for a moment.
He had heard the word before, in passing, in the way you hear things without context and file them away for later. But seeing it written down and explained made something click into place.
Everything had it. Every living thing.
He looked down at his own hand, small and pale in the morning light.
He had it too then. Whatever mana was, whatever it felt like, it was already inside him. Had been since the moment he took his first breath. Maybe before that.
He turned the page.
Mana can be felt before it can be used. Most children begin to sense it naturally between the ages of four and five. It presents differently for everyone. Some describe it as warmth. Others as pressure. Some hear it before they feel it.
Four to five.
He was one.
He closed the book gently, keeping his finger between the pages, and stared at the wall for a moment.
He had time then. That was fine. He was good at waiting.
He opened the book again and kept reading.
Skillbooks.
He read the heading and kept going.
Every person is born with a skillbook. It is not something that can be touched, but it can be seen. It exists as an extension of yourself, accessible only to you. Inside it is a record of every skill you have acquired, magical or otherwise.
He read that line again.
To open your skillbook you must first set a keyword. This is done instinctively the first time you attempt to access it, usually without knowing. Whatever word comes to mind in that moment becomes your keyword permanently, unless you choose to change it at a later point. Speak the word and your skillbook opens. It is that simple.
Arthur stared at the page.
A skillbook. A record of everything you had.
He thought about what his would look like. One skill. Just one, sitting in whatever empty space a skillbook was made of. No magic. No naturally acquired abilities. Just Envy, waiting there in the dark like it had been since the day he was born.
He wondered what keyword he would choose when the time came.
He looked back down at the page and kept reading.
Skills.
A skill is any ability that has been recorded within your skillbook. They come in many forms and are acquired in many ways. Some are learned through study and practice. Some are born with you, present from your very first breath. Others are acquired through means less ordinary than either.
Skills are divided into three categories.
Magical skills draw from your mana. They are the most commonly sought after and range from the simple to the extraordinary. The ability to conjure a flame. To move water. To call lightning from a clear sky.
Physical skills require no mana. They live in the body. The ability to move faster than should be possible. To hit harder. To endure more than any ordinary person could.
Spiritual skills are the rarest of the three. They exist somewhere between the other two, drawing from something deeper than mana and something less tangible than muscle. They are poorly understood even by those who possess them.
A skill can make you stronger, faster, sharper. It can let you cast a fireball or survive a wound that should have killed you. The only limit is what you have earned, been given, or were born carrying.
Arthur read that last line slowly.
Born carrying.
He closed the book for a moment and sat in the quiet of the small room.
He had been born carrying something. He just didn't know what it was called yet.
He opened the book again and kept reading.
It is a common misconception that a person is limited to one type of skill or magic. This is not true. Any person can learn any skill. Magical, physical, spiritual. There are no restrictions placed on you by nature.
However.
Mastery takes time. A lifetime dedicated to one discipline will always outpace a lifetime spread across many. This is why most mages choose to prioritise. To go deep rather than wide. To become exceptional at one thing rather than adequate at several.
Magic comes in many forms. Fire. Water. Wind. Healing. Illusion. Summoning. Enchantment. And many more beyond these. A mage who splits their focus across all of them will find themselves mediocre in each. A mage who picks one and commits to it entirely will find themselves capable of things that feel impossible to everyone else.
This is not a rule. It is simply how the world works. You can learn anything. But you cannot master everything. Not in one lifetime.
Arthur sat with that for a moment.
He thought about it practically, the way he thought about most things. In his past life specialisation had meant survival. You learned the one thing that kept you alive and you learned it better than anyone around you. Everything else was a distraction.
He supposed some things carried over between worlds.
He turned the page.
He turned the page.
Mana Capacity.
Every living person has mana. But not every person has the same amount of it.
Mana capacity refers to how much mana a person can hold at any given time. Think of it like a vessel. Some people are born with a large one. Others small. Most fall somewhere in the middle, ordinary and unremarkable, which is nothing to be ashamed of. The size of your vessel at birth is simply where you start.
It can be expanded.
Through training, through pushing past your limits consistently over time, a person can grow their capacity beyond what they were born with. It is slow work. It does not happen overnight. But it happens. A person who was born with an average capacity and trains diligently for years can surpass someone born with twice their natural amount who never put in the effort.
However.
Some people are simply born with more. There is no explanation for it, no pattern that has ever been reliably identified. It is not always tied to bloodline or background. Sometimes a child is born into an ordinary family with a capacity that makes experienced mages stop and stare.
These people are rare. And the world tends to notice them.
Arthur read that last line and said nothing.
He turned the page.
He was halfway through the next page when the door opened.
His mom appeared in the doorway, still in the loose clothes she slept in, hair not yet sorted for the day. She looked at him for a moment, then at the book open in his lap, then back at him with that expression she got sometimes, the one she never quite finished.
"Breakfast," she said.
Arthur looked down at the page.
"Come on." She crossed the room and picked him up, book and all. He held onto it as she carried him down the hallway and into the kitchen where the smell hit him immediately.
Vegetable stew.
He looked at the pot on the hearth. Then at the bowl already waiting for him at the table. Then at his mom as she settled him into his seat.
She caught his expression.
"Don't," she said.
"Don't what," his dad said from across the table, already eating, not looking up.
"He's making the face."
His dad looked up. Looked at Arthur. Looked at the stew. "Ah."
Arthur looked at his bowl. The vegetables sat in a thin broth, soft and grey and completely inoffensive in a way that somehow made it worse.
He picked up his spoon.
He ate it anyway.