Mana Bloat and the Twelve Stages
"Mana hypertrophy," Ojo said.
I barely managed to haul my grotesquely swollen body upright—it was so bloated I could hardly breathe. When I woke up, my frame had ballooned to nearly four times its size. I couldn't move an inch, so I'd sent the nanny to fetch Ojo, and he'd come running... laughing his ass off.
"You've been sucking in more mana overnight than you've accumulated your whole life up to now, so your body bulked up just to hold it together. It'll deflate a bit with time, but don't expect to go back to how you were before."
Mages don't change body types easily. Their flesh gets locked into an optimal form. Ojo added that little nugget with a smirk, grinning like a Cheshire cat. What? So this fatass body was mine for life? I shot him a suspicious glare.
"Your body hasn't fixed yet, so if you wanna slim down, start moving ASAP. Exercise, cut back on food. Otherwise, you'll be rolling around forever."
As he spoke, Ojo exhaled a wisp of mana. A book floated out from his pocket on that current of power. He tossed it onto my bedside table, and I summoned my own mana to catch it. Peering at the cover, I saw Basic Magic scrawled there.
"I'm gonna teach you for the next ten years. This is a contract-bound relationship, so just call me 'senior' or whatever."
Ojo launched into the realms of magic. Everyone has a seed in their chest. Only those who germinate it qualify as mages. He mentioned how most people fail the process, dying from the agony, and a chill ran down my spine. I'd almost died that way myself.
"Senior, then why didn't you tell me all this before?"
I couldn't hide a hint of resentment, dredging up that near-death memory.
"Hm? Why explain it to some weed who couldn't even become a mage?"
Ojo shrugged. "Mages are one in a thousand, one in ten thousand. Out of endless weeds, just one sprouts into a tree with the right to grow. No need to waste breath on the rest."
It felt a little uncomfortable. But excitement drowned it out. Weed, weed. Finally, it sank in—I was a real mage now.
"Your Germination is the mage's foundation and starting point. The book has the breathing methods and basic spells you need next. Master these basics perfectly, stockpile enough mana, and you'll get a shot at the next realm. From sprout to Seedling. Lots of folks fail here and have to try again."
Ojo grimaced, like he was reliving the pain.
"Seedling grows to Young Tree, Young Tree to Full Tree. Then branches extend, leaves grow lush, buds form. The flower blooms, bears fruit, and you melt yourself into it for full Ripening. Eat that fruit, and they say mages achieve immortality."
Ojo called these the twelve realms of magic: Germination, Seedling, Young Tree, Full Tree, Branching, Lush Leaves, Bud, Bloom, Fruiting, Maturing, Ripening, Harvest.
They likened the realms to a tree's growth. No—I felt the seed split and roots dig in. The names came from how trees actually grow.
So what realm was Ojo in? Curiosity burned, but I held back. Probably rude to ask a mage that.
"I mentioned distinguishing weeds earlier. Ties into these realms. Each breakthrough extends your lifespan. We base magic on trees, so our lives follow suit. I'm at Branching—another millennium ahead of me, easy."
Millennium? I must've misheard. An unimaginable span. Humans could live that long? My eyes went wide.
"But few mages live out their full spans. We're tree-tenders, thrashing to upgrade our trees—and dying in the attempt. Rare mana beasts, exotic herbs, mystic ley lines... anything with upgrade potential, we fight for it. That's a mage."
Ojo sank into thought, maybe reminiscing. He snapped out with a sigh and kept spilling magic-world lore. The day flew by in a blur.
Lesson over, I cracked the book for the new breathing method: Nutrient Accumulation Breathing Method. True to the dry title, it efficiently packed nutrients into the foundation. It linked seamlessly to the old Rooting Breathing Method. One continuous technique. Grasping it shifted my breathing automatically. My foundation felt heavier, denser. Pre-Germination, it'd have crushed the seed outright.
Then basic spells: igniting fire, conjuring water. Not quite what I'd imagined—no vague wishing into existence. Rules governed it. The book called them circuits. Circuits drew magic circles, reshaping mana into spells. That was magic's basics.
I didn't get a word. Magic was brutal. Time to drill it.
A year passed like that. Lost in practice, odd memories flickered. Some battlefield—I piloted drone bugs, killing folks on a screen. The first flash skyrocketed my magic grasp. Circuits, magic circles... traces in those memories unlocked key insights.
I told Ojo about the weird memories. His eyes bugged out.
"Hm, memories, huh? What scenes?"
I dredged up details: me on a battlefield, drone swarms, massive explosions everywhere.
"Probably your past life, Ebron. Don't breathe a word to anyone else."
"Mind if I ask why?"
"Few recall past lives. Most mages covet that uniqueness." Ojo swallowed hard, eyes shut. "Recalling a past life means it was extraordinary. Even decayed, those souls hold vast potential. Mages kill for that power."
He hesitated, then added, "Me included."
Ojo rattled off examples. One mashed a past-lifer's body and soul into a pill, breakthrough certified—story spread like wildfire. Another ditched their failing body, transplanted their tree into a past-lifer's shell. Stole the talent via overwrite. More tales, all ending with past-lifers dead as realm-upgrade fodder.
Mages were resources themselves, always eyeing others. Ojo's eyes stayed shut. Terror choked me—I couldn't even breathe. He admitted he was one of those mages. I could die any second.
Long silence. Ojo finally opened his eyes, shaking his head with a bitter smile.
"If not for the contract, I'd have eaten you alive. Next-realm breakthroughs hinge on that slim chance."
Confirmation: he saw me as prey. Terror turned to pallid nausea. Ojo cackled at my ghost-white face, stroking his chin like he was savoring the taste. I recoiled, tumbling backward.
"Guess I should explain the contract to you."
'For the debt of saving my life, serve the clan for 200 years, and as long as I am not attacked first, I will never harm them for life.'
He showed me his wrist, always hidden under his coat. Thick mana scripted the words, linked to his tree.
"A century ago. Your father, the Island Lord, saved my dying ass and sealed this deal. Can't lie to your clan or harm you—unless you strike first."
Ojo hid his wrist, sighing emptily. "Wouldn't have pledged my life otherwise."
He ranted on the perils of contracts, venting like bile. The more he spoke, the more my half-dead panic cleared. So no real need to fear? Tension melted; I slumped.
Did he reveal it because I was half-dead? Baring his greed terrified me—that count as harm under the contract?
Ojo said bound mages must fulfill contracts even in death. Fail, and the tree rots. Plausible. But I couldn't fully buy it. After that, heading to lessons, I'd catch him eyeing me with regret now and then. How could I relax under that gaze?
Five years flew by. Eighteen years old—the perfect age for rampant suspicion.