The days dragged on like heavy mud, each one blending into the next in a gray haze of frustration and doubt.
Time, which had once flown by during intense training sessions, now seemed to move in slow motion, every minute an eternity.
Each morning began exactly the same way, as if time itself had decided to endlessly repeat the same cycle, trapped in a loop from which Lukas could not escape.
Even before the sun rose, Lukas would already open his eyes in the darkness of his room. His body awakened automatically, the discipline he had cultivated over weeks now working against him.
He put on his training clothes in silence, his movements mechanical and precise, fastened the wooden sword to his waist with a gesture that had become automatic, and went downstairs for breakfast.
Aurora always prepared a hearty meal, as if her love could be translated into nourishment.
Clavor was already waiting for him at the table, his observant eyes studying his son with silent attention. Judite, almost always sleepy, yawned while trying to follow the conversation, her head swaying slightly.
Afterward, father and son crossed the dew-covered gardens, their footprints leaving marks on the damp grass, and disappeared among the trees of the forest. The path had become so familiar that Lukas could have walked it with his eyes closed.
In the clearing, the training began. Longer and longer runs, making the cold morning air burn his lungs like liquid fire.
Squats while holding the sword in the correct stance, his legs trembling under the strain. Push-ups, makeshift pull-up bars between thick branches, climbing moss-covered trunks, his fingers gripping the rough bark.
Endless sequences of strikes. Vertical. Horizontal. Diagonal. Thrust. Again. And again. Until his arms burned, until his legs trembled, until sweat ran into his eyes and dripped onto the ground.
Clavor never slowed the pace. He always found a new detail to correct, a small imperfection to adjust.
"The left foot."
"Relax your shoulders."
"The hips."
"Breathe."
"Don’t use only your arms."
The wooden sword no longer felt heavy. In fact, Lukas barely noticed its presence anymore. It accompanied every run, every jump, every climb, and every physical exercise.
It was exactly as Clavor had said, little by little, it stopped being a weapon and became a part of him.
His body also continued to change. His muscles gained even more firmness, their definition becoming more pronounced.
His shoulders slowly broadened, his bone structure adapting to the constant strain.
His legs became as resilient as ancient branches, capable of bearing increasingly greater loads. His endurance increased noticeably, his heart and lungs growing stronger. Training sessions that once left him completely exhausted now merely accelerated his breathing.
Even so...
The afternoons were completely different.
When the physical training ended, when the sun was already high in the sky and the sweat dried on his skin, Clavor would simply make a brief gesture.
"Continue."
Then he would walk away, leaving Lukas alone in the center of the clearing.
The boy remained seated cross-legged, his hands resting on his knees. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply, trying to find that invisible energy, which, according to Clavor, filled the entire world.
He inhaled slowly, feeling the cool air fill his lungs. He exhaled gradually, trying to release the tension in his body.
He tried to feel the earth beneath him, the wind on his face, the trees around him, the birds singing, the insects moving, and the warmth of the sun on his skin.
He tried to feel mana.
But...
Nothing.
On the second day... nothing.
On the third... nothing.
On the fourth... nothing.
On the fifth... nothing.
Minutes turned into hours. His legs went numb, circulation being cut off by the prolonged position.
His back ached, his muscles stiffening. His neck hardened, tension accumulating.
The wind caressed his face, a gentle touch carrying the freshness of the forest. Birds landed on nearby branches, their songs filling the air.
Squirrels ran through the trees, their furry tails swaying. Insects crawled through the grass, their tiny lives continuing on their course.
Nature seemed alive around him, pulsing with an energy he could not access.
But mana... remained nonexistent. As if it simply did not exist, as if it were nothing more than a story told to children.
On the sixth day, when the sun was already beginning to slowly descend behind the treetops, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple, Lukas opened his eyes.
The expression on his face was exactly the same as on the previous days. Empty. Frustrated. Tired. He looked at his own hands, studying his palms, his fingers, and the lines crossing his skin. Then at the forest around him, at the trees standing like silent sentinels, at the sky stained with color.
Nothing. Not a single trace, not a current, not a glow, not a sensation. Mana seemed like nothing more than an invented story, a fairy tale he would never be able to reach.
...
That night, after dinner, Lukas silently went upstairs to his room. His steps were heavy, every stair a battle against the discouragement weighing on his shoulders.
The wooden sword rested beside the bed, its familiar silhouette against the wall.
Rourke slept deeply in his small improvised nest, his body rising and falling with steady breaths. Prata remained near the window, watching the moon with her shining eyes.
Astra continued perched atop the wardrobe, alert as always, her golden eyes fixed on the boy. Tilbo rested in his usual corner, his massive form motionless.
Lukas lay down slowly, feeling the mattress give beneath his weight. His eyes remained fixed on the ceiling for several minutes, following the shadows dancing in the moonlight.
His mind, however, could not rest. Thoughts swirled like leaves in a whirlwind, each one heavier than the last.
’Could my talent for mana be terrible?’ The question appeared almost without him noticing, escaping as a whisper in the silence of the room.
’It’s already been a week... what if I need months? What if... I never succeed?’
He felt a tightness slowly growing in his chest, as if an invisible hand were squeezing his lungs.
His body really was becoming stronger, there was no doubt about that. He ran faster, his feet meeting the ground with a confidence that had not existed before.
He struck better, every movement more precise than the last. His sword already felt like part of his own arm, a natural extension of his will.
But... what was the point of all that if he could never use mana? His father was capable of strengthening his entire body with magical energy, becoming faster, stronger, and more resilient.
Great warriors used mana to enhance strength, speed, and endurance, accomplishing feats that seemed impossible for an ordinary human.
Mages shaped spells with their minds, creating fire from their hands or healing wounds with a touch.
Alchemists used mana to control the flames of their furnaces, transmuting metals and creating potions. Spiritual blacksmiths fused impossible metals, forging weapons that never rusted and never broke.
Everything in that world revolved around mana.
And he... could not even feel it.
He then remembered the silver webs. He could create them, he always had.
They emerged from his fingers as a natural extension of his will, weaving patterns through the air. But it simply... happened. He had never learned how. He had never truly controlled that energy.
It was like breathing, his body did it on its own, without the need for conscious thought.
’Maybe I can only do this...’ The thought arose bitterly in his mind.
’Maybe I’ll never learn to truly control mana. Maybe I’m just an ordinary warrior... I’ll never reach Father’s level... damn it...’
The thoughts kept spinning endlessly, each one seeming heavier than the last. The anxiety he had managed to hide during training finally exploded there, alone, in the silence of his room. Tears threatened to appear, but he forced them back.
That was when he felt a gentle weight on his chest.
He blinked, surprised, and lowered his eyes. Tilbo. The enormous ant had silently climbed onto the bed, his massive body moving with surprising delicacy. His head rested carefully on Lukas’s chest, the weight comforting and familiar.
His long antennae moved slowly, sweeping through the air in search of information. His compound eyes remained fixed on him, shining softly in the moonlight.
Lukas could not help but smile faintly, a tired smile that barely curved his lips.
"Haha... what’s wrong, Tilbo?"