Flight from the Burning Island
In the end, Allen had no issues at all. If anything, he'd been far more full of life right after the mana battery drained his mana than he was a few days later.
Once things played out just as their son had said, his parents passed the word to the factory manager, who flew into a temper and demanded to know why they hadn't spoken up sooner.
It was only natural. While all living beings carried some mana, only a rare few could generate and store more than what their basic life functions required.
And Allen had charged the battery just by touching it lightly. That meant he was naturally brimming with mana.
On his first day of work, Mary brushed as much dirt and dust as she could from her son's clothes, all the while giving him her earnest advice.
"You're the youngest one in the factory, so no matter where you go or who you meet, you need to use polite speech."
"Yes, I will."
"You never know who you'll run into at the factory, so be extra careful. And manners—they add points to your first impression."
"Yes."
"Your mother's right. Politeness from a low position softens the moods of those above you, and from a high position, it wins people over easily."
Upon arriving at the factory, the couple donned their vests fitted with mana batteries and headed to their stations, leaving Allen to meet the manager.
The stern-looking orc's glasses glinted sharply.
"So you're Allen."
"Hello."
"Sit here for now."
The manager pointed to a backless stool. As Allen sat, a massive hand pressed against his back—big enough, with a bit of exaggeration, to cover it almost entirely.
"I hate unnecessary talk, so I'll explain this just once."
"Yes."
"What I'm about to teach you is the most basic of basics for operation. But it generates mana faster than natural recovery."
Allen already knew this from his parents. It was such a rudimentary "operation method" that it was almost embarrassing to call it that—just a way to absorb ambient mana from nature.
It skipped the mana heart creation process entirely—the true start and end of mana manipulation—and focused solely on recovery. Pathetic as it was, little more than a mouse's tail in output.
"First, the operation pathway... Hm."
"My back itches a bit."
"Don't talk. The pathway..."
It felt like ants crawling across his back. But that lasted only a moment. Glancing at the mirror on the wall, Allen caught sight of the manager looking embarrassed.
"Didn't sleep last night... Wait a second. I'm not in top form today."
True to his word about hating chit-chat, the manager opened a window, stretched, then placed his hand on Allen's back again.
This time, a much stronger sensation surged through: heart, left side, below the navel, right side, liver, heart. Simple enough for a child to follow.
"Phew. That should be easy enough."
Before Allen could turn, the orc in the mirror swiftly wiped sweat from his brow, then spoke as if nothing had happened.
"The operation chant is posted all over the factory, so recite it constantly while you work. Come back three times over the next seven days. I'll help you memorize the pathway."
"Has everyone working here mastered the operation method?"
"No. Out of a hundred, maybe five? And those five don't have mana hearts, of course. So don't obsess over it. Learn the rest—tips, rules, pay calculations—from your parents."
The manager waved him off dismissively. Allen bowed his head and went to find his mom and dad. They sat on the floor, needles from the mana batteries plunged into their forearms.
"Do you know the operation method too, Dad?"
"Of course. Thanks to it, your mom and I charge faster than most, so our daily wage is higher. Sit here for now. One thing to watch: if your head starts spinning, take the day off."
"Why?"
"If you're low on mana, the battery starts sucking your life force too."
Allen nodded and picked up the needle, but Mary stopped him.
"Hold on. If you can charge it just by touching, there's no need."
Allen glanced around the factory. Everyone had needles in their arms.
"Using the needle is faster, right? Then you can charge more batteries and earn more money."
"You're more important than money. So listen to Mom this time."
There was an irresistible weight in Mary's voice. Wrapped in her gentle firmness, Allen gave in.
"Okay."
That day, even though Allen started late, he matched his parents' output. Mana drained out steadily, but his head didn't ache—instead, his body felt lighter.
Allen couldn't form a mana heart either. The method was too crude, and above all, his wild, untamable mana rejected any reins.
Still, he wasn't disappointed. After starting at the factory, his health improved, and he charged two or three times more batteries than anyone else.
As the factory's ace worker, the family table grew abundant, and he could buy books. Not the ones he truly wanted, but stacking new knowledge still filled him with satisfaction.
Whenever he had a spare moment, Allen still visited the dump. What foreigners saw as trash often yielded usable gear in his eyes.
Foreigners visited the factory sometimes too. The sight of Saldos Federation folk among the workers evoked images of sun and fireflies.
They boasted of pulling backward nations forward, serving the poor.
But anyone who knew better understood the truth: they were Ranka's real rulers, and the island's poor were slaves bound by invisible chains.
Once the Saldos people left, Robinson whispered in Allen's ear—too quiet for coworkers to hear.
"Ever thought about escaping Ranka?"
"What about the sailing ban?"
Sailing, emigration— all forbidden. Ranka's people couldn't leave the island until they died.
"Just checking."
Robinson returned to his battery. His lips twitched, as if he had more to say.
Years passed like that until, one day, news of civil war spread like wildfire.
On the surface, it was about putting a corrupt dictator on trial and liberating the struggling people.
"Same crooks as always."
"Which country is challenging Saldos?"
"Who cares? Bunch of thug bastards either way. Fuckin' hell. Bored assholes picking fights on someone else's turf."
The real reason? Another great power coveting Ranka's natural resources had thrown down the gauntlet to the Saldos Federation.
Taller now, Allen finished his quota and eavesdropped on the adults, including the manager.
Like the long-gone dump old man, war victims were everywhere, their tales of its horrors easy to come by.
"We're skilled battery chargers—should be fine, right?"
"Yeah. Where else would they find people like us? We weren't drafted last civil war either."
Everyone nodded along to the hopeful, baseless optimism. Fear stripped reason, driving people to cling to false hopes.
As the murmurs grew, the manager dispersed the workers.
"Alright, enough chatter. Back to work. Even they wouldn't drag off skilled labor without thinking."
"Skilled" rang true enough for Ranka alone—but any Saldos Federation official would scoff at it.
That night, unidentified armed forces moved by train. Shantytown dwellers by the tracks shut their eyes and ears.
Saldos-hired mercenaries aided government forces against the rebels, who countered by hiring their own war mercs through backers.
The civil war intensified, the whole nation writhing in agony. Unlike the last one, signs of prolongation emerged.
Boom!
Even in Allen's city—hardly worthy of the name—an explosion echoed. Bloodsucking factories crammed the area, rivaling a small foreign city in size.
As people trembled in fear, conscription officers arrived.
"Aigoo! Sir, I've only got one eye."
"Can you fire a gun? Good enough."
"My left arm's crippled."
"Grit's all you need."
They started with simple laborers—haulers, rock-pickers from farms. Some were dragged off without ID checks.
The ruthless draft had everyone shaking. Rumors were grim; even swaggering gangsters had vanished.
In their shanty, flickering under mana stone lamps and night winds, the family gathered. Robinson sighed heavily.
"Gang rats always sense danger first. They've got connections to government brass, so they've heard the whispers."
"You mean..."
"Thugs hiding means they'll grab whoever's handy. Stay here, and we'll be scattered, not knowing who's dead or alive. We leave."
Robinson lacked formal learning but not wisdom. The couple moved fast, stuffing essentials into duffels and slipping out.
With so many conscripted, streets were deserted; blind shells had toppled homes everywhere.
Splitting up to exit the city, they headed to the nearby coast. Robinson pointed to the cliff base.
"There's a boat in that cleverly hidden cave."
With their income, they could've afforded better than a shanty—but they'd been saving for escape.
"Grab the rope and go slow."
Allen nodded confidently, but staring down at the crashing waves made his head spin.
"Focus. Watch me first."
Allen watched his dad descend, then spotted approaching lights. Coastal patrol.
Fear vanished; some hidden strength surged as he scrambled down the cliff.
"Patrol!"
Aboard the small vessel, Allen gave a quick rundown. Now it was a race against time. Robinson dashed into the wheelhouse.
After much grunting, he kicked the wheelhouse wall—uncharacteristic for him.
"Damn it. Worked fine last time..."
The mana engine's starter—for those unable to output mana—showed no response. Broken.
"Let me try."
Unlike his parents, Allen could output mana, if weakly. Hand on the starter, he pressed the button. It reacted.
Vroom.
"Did it work?"
"Quiet, let Allen focus."
Robinson gripped Mary's shoulder.
Vroom! Vrooom!
Now the boat's engine mixed with the patrol's. Capture meant execution. They had to flee.
"Please."
As Robinson and Mary prayed together.
Rat-tat-tat!
The engine finally roared to life. Pure-mana engines were quiet, but this hybrid for poor nations couldn't be picky.
The boat lurched across the water. Robinson at the wheel sweated through his shirt. He could only pray the boat held against bullets, that his family survived.
Bang! Bang!
The patrol fired without hesitation. Water erupted around them.
Mary huddled over her son's back—now bigger than her own—shaking. Time stretched eternally; her heart felt ready to burst.
"Got it!"
Allen, who'd been tinkering face-down, shouted.
Whumm.
Bang!
Two sounds overlapped.
One was gunfire; the other, a blue barrier unfolding. A shield enveloped the wheelhouse.
Mary's legs gave out, and she collapsed. Her eyes followed bullets sliding off the membrane. Without it, heads would've been pierced.
The shield shattered after two hits, but they'd gained enough distance—no more needed.
The patrol turned away too. Better to pretend they saw nothing than report a miss and face superiors' wrath.
After a moment, Mary took the wheel from Robinson and grasped her son's hand.
"What was that?"
"Barrier generator from the dump. Worked great, but now it's totally busted."
"How'd you fix it?"
Her son had just claimed to repair a magitech device. Advanced knowledge impossible to learn in Ranka.
"No big deal. A tiny circuit was broken—they tossed it. I soldered it with a scavenged iron. Temporary fix, so it burned out quick."
Allen's eyes began to droop. Better than before, but his weak body persisted.
Mary made a pillow from bundled clothes and cradled his head, stroking his back like an infant.
"Sleep well, dear."