Fire, Mana, and the Labyrinth
Two elements had made monumental contributions to the advancement of civilization: fire and mana.
Fire was so ubiquitous that finding a place it wasn't used would be the real surprise, while mana had seeped deep into every aspect of daily life, far beyond individual cultivation. One prime example was the power plants equipped with thermal-mana conversion magic circles.
Yet now, a bold new force had emerged to challenge the dominion of those two: the Labyrinth.
In the century since the Labyrinth's discovery, the transformations it wrought were more rapid and brilliant than those of the preceding thousands—tens of thousands—of years.
Cargo trains brimming with natural resources rumbled on without pause, even through the night. The wind they stirred whipped through the rows of rickety shacks lining the tracks, rattling them one after another.
It was the kind of scene that might make anyone fear their home would be swept away, yet not a soul emerged from the shadows.
For the residents here, it was a familiar occurrence. The boy lying atop a patchwork quilt, its seams thick with stitches, felt no differently.
Bathing the page in moonlight and starlight as his lamp, the boy read. The cover of What is Magitech Engineering? was tattered and frayed—a testament to the book's age and how often he'd pored over it.
Tap, tap, tap.
The moment the familiar sound of footsteps reached him, the boy shoved the book under his quilt and squeezed his eyes shut. He even mimicked the slow, steady breaths of sleep.
Soon the door creaked open, and a weary man and woman stepped inside. Their rumpled clothes and exhausted expressions spoke volumes of the grueling day behind them.
As the man hung his coat on the clothesline by the door, the woman reached for the round orb dangling from the ceiling.
Click!
The crudely crafted spherical mana stone lamp flickered to life, casting its glow. In the cramped confines of their tiny home, the woman's eyes took it all in.
But only for a moment—her gaze soon fixed on one figure. Not one thing, but one person. Her fatigued face bloomed into a radiant smile, like a flower unfurling.
"Look, Allen's already asleep. The light might wake him."
"You still don't know your own son? Come on, you worrywart."
She gave her husband's backside a few affectionate pats before approaching the boy. As her shadow from the mana stone lamp fell over the quilt and onto Allen's face instead, his eyebrows twitched reflexively.
"You little rascal."
The woman gently brushed back her child's black-brown hair. Allen, who'd been feigning sleep, had no choice but to lift his eyelids. Bright brown eyes gleamed beneath.
"Welcome home."
"Allen, what did I tell you?"
Even at her son's greeting, the woman didn't soften her mild disapproval. As silence stretched, she tapped the book's edge peeking from under the quilt.
He thought he'd hidden it well, but how did she always spot it? Pouting, Allen replied.
"Don't skimp on the mana stone lamp."
"That's right. No matter how poor we are, we can afford to keep the lamp lit. So don't strain your eyes reading by moonlight— just use it properly, okay?"
"Mary, let's wash up first."
"Alright, dear. But it's a promise, right?"
Mary gave her son's head one last stroke before heading to the corner with the wooden tub. She pulled a dingy towel from the ceiling clothesline, soaked it in water, and began wiping her face.
While his wife washed, the husband now approached Allen.
"The water in the tub looks clean. And there's plenty of it."
"The river and pumps nearby were too dirty, so I went farther out. But it wasn't that tough. Really."
"Allen, your weak body isn't your fault. You don't have to push yourself."
"I'm fine, really. Look at this."
Allen pointed to an object leaning against the wall near his quilt. He tugged away the rags covering it, revealing a cart with two wheels.
"Foldable? Did you make this yourself?"
"Yeah. I scavenged some good parts from the dump over there..."
"Robinson, Mary—are you home?"
A voice from outside cut Allen off. Robinson gently pressed his upright son back onto the quilt.
"We'll hear the story later. For now, get some sleep."
As the couple stepped out, the house fell quiet. With the mana stone lamp extinguished, moonlight reached in once more.
Allen rolled over to escape the tickling rays on his face. His gaze landed on the foldable cart he'd made.
His frail body kept him from working like the other kids his age, but now he could fetch clean water for his parents. Feeling his arms tremble faintly, Allen closed his eyes.
Ranka was a poor island nation, where elders, adults, and children alike toiled all day for a single loaf of bread. Its abundant natural resources belonged not to the impoverished citizens.
Skyscrapers piercing the clouds, research bases on the moon, flying cars—these were tales from another world.
Ranka's people were too busy surviving to care about the outside. No matter how wondrous the news, it offered no help to their daily grind.
At least Allen's parents, as mana battery chargers, ranked among the higher-paid laborers. Their wages weren't generous, but enough to briefly forget their lacks.
Thanks to that, ten-year-old Allen could eat without working and spend his spare time and energy elsewhere.
No matter how weak his body, turning pages was within his power. With his intense curiosity, Allen's focus naturally turned to books. The occasional finds at the dump were his treasures.
The next morning, after seeing his parents off to work, Allen headed to the dump. He moved carefully—getting hurt would only worry them.
"A book! ...But it's in a language I can't read."
Regret welled up at the unintelligible script. No one to teach him foreign tongues, no pictures for clues—it was utterly baffling.
Allen set it down with a sigh and ventured deeper. Friends hauling scrap metal and waste materials waved as they passed, arms full.
"Skinny!"
"Hey!"
"What if you collapse like last time? You have no idea how hard it was carrying you home."
"Sorry about that, and thanks—but today I've got this, so I'm good."
Allen's cart drew wide eyes from his friend. Useful tools were always snapped up by adults first.
"Where'd you get it? You made it?"
"After what happened last time, if I find parts, I'll make you one too."
"For real? Promise! He's always so scrawny, but weirdly good at... what was it? That word for making stuff well?"
"Handy."
"Yeah! He's got great hands."
Chatting as they went, his friends headed for the dump's entrance. To earn a meal, they had to make multiple trips—no time for long talks.
Allen pressed on deeper. Scavenging junk wasn't his real goal today. Reaching his destination, a frail voice boomed through the air.
"Dog of a dictator! Filthy invaders!"
The wrinkled old man rummaged through trash piles, bellowing. He was known as the madman.
"This is our land! Our land! Why dump your garbage here? Get it out!"
His bony arms flung debris around in what he called cleaning, though to others it just rearranged the mess.
It's a dump anyway.
Waste surrounded them. Even calling them mountains felt too modest before such filth.
Allen had never seen it himself, but rumors told of massive ships larger than trains unloading their refuse. In exchange, the elites pocketed cash.
Recalling the adults' grumbles, Allen focused on the old man. Said to have worked in foreign factories in his youth, he knew foreign languages and could read yellowed newspapers.
Like now.
"Elves made trees that break down plastic? Then why so much here? Discriminating against poor countries!"
"Orc sky pirates carpet-bombed the dictator's palace? Revolution! Yes—revolution with bombs and blood!"
Like most unhinged folk, the old man's ravings shifted topics quickly, but even snippets of news were a boon to Allen.
Each glimpse of the wider world made his curiosity sprout like a seedling in rain. And best of all, imagination was free—no one demanded payment.
After his long rant, the old man slumped against an abandoned fridge, drained of energy.
Allen wrapped a bread scrap in a relatively clean plastic bag and tossed it at the man's feet—a payment for the stories, as his mother taught.
The old man opened the bag, saw the bread, but instead of devouring it, dropped to his knees and gazed skyward.
"Are you watching from up there? Sharing heaven's food for your starving father? I'm sorry. It was my fault. I should've listened and fled this hell sooner..."
Rumors said he'd lost his child in the civil war and gone mad—seemingly true. Allen left the old man behind and exited the dump.
Thus passed Allen's days, until a turning point arrived.
"Robinson and Mary's boy?"
"Yes."
The guard eyed the lunch bundle in Allen's hands, then doffed his cap and scratched his head. After muttering into his radio, the couple approached the gate.
"You didn't have to bring it all this way... Son, you okay?"
"No problem. What's that?"
Allen's eyes locked on Mary's vest—specifically, the rectangular silver-gray device attached to it.
"That's a mana battery?"
"Yeah, it is... Oh my, look at that sweat."
Mid-answer, Mary wiped her son's forehead with her sleeve, heedless of soiling her own clothes.
Ding!
A clear chime rang from the mana battery. Allen jolted at the sudden sound, hastily hiding his fingers behind his back.
"Is something wrong? It didn't break, did it?"
Mary glanced between her anxious son and the battery, then shook her head.
"This means it's fully charged. Weird—normally it'd need another thirty minutes of work. Why now?"
As Mary puzzled over it, Robinson placed a hand on Allen's shoulder.
"You're not feeling sick anywhere, are you?"
"Not at all."
"No lying—be honest. Charging mana batteries is tough even for adults with mana. But when you touched it, it filled right up."
"I did feel something draining out. Huh? And now... breathing feels easier."
It was inexplicable. Mana itself was an energy beyond a mere laborer's grasp, like Robinson's.
He didn't charge them directly; the batteries simply sucked mana from the body like a blood donation. Proof lay in the needle marks scarring their arms.
Despite Robinson's worry, Allen's eyes sparkled with excitement. Finally, something he could do.
"I want to work here too."
"No."
The couple shook their heads in unison. Mana was an inscrutable force. It seemed fine now, but trouble could strike anytime. And their son was frail to boot.
Allen knew pushing harder wouldn't sway them, so he retreated a step.
"Then I'll go home today and monitor for a few days. If nothing's wrong, I'll come back. How's that?"
"Allen..."
"If I get sick once work starts, I'll quit right away. Promise. Please?"
They couldn't refuse now. Unlike peers fending for themselves, they knew what brewed in their idle son's mind.
Mary crouched before Allen.
"Promise, then. Speak up the instant you feel off. No hiding it and suffering like last time."
"Yes."
Robinson popped open the lunchbox lid. Corn tortillas wrapped with vegetables and meat. After the meal, the family cooled off in the shade of a tree near the guard post.
Savoring the breeze, Allen asked his father,
"Won't you get in trouble not going in?"
"Lunch break's a full thirty minutes—we've got time left."
"Yeah, our factory has pretty good benefits."
Mary chimed in.