Chapter 27 — Boundaries of Creation

  Cycle 22,841 of the Dragon Era — Day 141

  Today, I would finally learn mana exertion.

  The thing I had been waiting for.

  Until now, I had been forbidden from using it—restricted to control, manipulation, restraint. But that had changed.

  Kael was the one who took over my training.

  He stood before me, calm and watchful, his presence heavier than usual.

  “You are permitted to use exertion now,” he said. “Carefully.”

  My pulse quickened.

  The first thing I tried was simple.

  An ember.

  I gathered mana the same way I had before—familiar steps, familiar focus—but this time, something was different.

  There was no backlash.

  No burning from the inside.

  No damage tearing through my hand.

  Instead, a stable ember formed above my palm—small, steady, alive.

  Fire.

  Real fire.

  My heart slammed against my ribs.

  I had done something that, back on Earth, only existed in stories.

  Kael watched without interrupting.

  “Increase the output,” he said evenly.

  “But do it with precision.”

  I nodded.

  I didn’t rush it.

  I fed mana into the flame slowly, deliberately—watching as the ember grew brighter, larger, hotter. The heat licked against my skin, no longer painful, just… present.

  Controlled.

  I could feel it.

  The balance.

  The restraint I had trained for.

  And then—

  I lost myself.

  Not in panic.

  In instinct.

  I extended my arm.

  Like throwing something away from me.

  The flame responded.

  Fire shot forward from my hand—clean, focused, real—tearing through the air in a brief, blazing arc.

  For a heartbeat, I just stared.

  All of it.

  The nights without sleep.

  The headaches.

  The failures.

  The endless control drills.

  They had paid off.

  I was no longer just controlling mana.

  I was using it.

  A nod escaped Kael—brief, restrained.

  Praise.

  Then he spoke.

  “All are naturally inclined toward certain elements,” he said calmly. “Cira and I started the same way,” Kael said.

  “We favored elements too. Just like the others.”

  He gestured subtly toward the pack.

  “Ice. Stone. Fire. Every creature is born leaning toward something. It is instinct before it is understanding.”

  I listened closely.

  “As we grew,” Kael continued, “control came first. Then familiarity. Only after many cycles did we learn to shape what did not come naturally.”

  His gaze sharpened slightly.

  “Now, we are proficient in all of them—not because we were exceptions… but because we endured the time it took to learn.”

  He turned back to me.

  “Right now, the others can produce every element as well. But producing is not attacking.”

  “Attacks require stability. Precision. Understanding.”

  “Without those,” Kael added, “power turns inward—or goes wild.”

  That explained a lot.

  “You understand its structure,” he said. “Its behavior. That is why it answers you first.”

  Kael’s tone hardened slightly.

  “But do not mistake ease for mastery. Other elements will come later. For now—only fire.”

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

  He raised a claw.

  “Practice compression. Release it, then control it. And attempt projection only when stability allows.”

  I nodded.

  And then—

  Flint attacked me.

  No warning.

  No buildup.

  A blast of fire erupted straight toward my face.

  “—!”

  I barely dodged in time, heat scorching past my shoulder. This wasn’t a playful breath like before.

  It was a real fire blast.

  I spun, instinct kicking in, fury flashing through me.

  Oh, you little—

  I fired back.

  A stream of flame shot from my palm—but it was thinner. Shorter. Weaker.

  Flint landed lightly, tail swishing, and laughed.

  That did it.

  I tried to push more mana.

  The flame swelled—

  And pain exploded up my arm.

  Sharp. Immediate.

  My hand felt like it was tearing apart from the inside.

  I cut the flow instantly, hissing as the fire vanished.

  Not ready.

  Still not ready.

  Kael didn’t need to say anything.

  I knew.

  Cira stepped in before Flint could attack again. She lifted him effortlessly with mana and carried him off toward Sera and Raze.

  “Play over there,” she said flatly.

  Flint protested once—then gave up.

  I turned back to my training, breathing slowly.

  Compression.

  I released a small flame again—kept it stable—then focused after it left my hand.

  The fire resisted.

  Wavered.

  But then—

  It condensed.

  Pulled inward.

  The flame tightened into a glowing sphere, no larger than my fist.

  My heart jumped.

  I tried to throw it.

  The control slipped.

  The fireball dropped—barely a step away.

  A dull boom followed.

  Not an explosion—just a burst of heat and force.

  Enough to scorch the ground.

  Enough to set my clothes on fire.

  “—!”

  Before I could react, cold rushed over me.

  Cira doused the flames instantly, water wrapping around me and extinguishing everything in a breath.

  I stood there, soaked, heart hammering.

  Kael watched me in silence.

  Then—

  “Good,” he said.

  Not because I succeeded.

  But because I learned where the limit was.

  And didn’t cross it.

  For now, I chose not to chase more power.

  Instead, I wanted to experiment.

  Other elements.

  Kael warned me immediately.

  “You won’t be able to create them yet,” he said. “They require understanding. Not just control.”

  I understood the warning.

  But I still had to try.

  This was the next step—not toward strength, but toward comprehension.

  I wanted to master every element that existed in this world.

  When Lyra heard that, she laughed outright.

  A short, sharp sound—amused, not mocking.

  “Do you know how long it took me?” she said. “Fifty cycles. Just to create every element.”

  She flicked her tail, eyes gleaming with something between pride and resignation.

  “And even now,” she added, “I can’t use attacks with most of them.”

  That sobered me.

  Not discouraged.

  Grounded.

  If this world demanded time instead of shortcuts—

  Then I would give it time.

  I wanted to create water today.

  Unlike fire, water was different.

  Kael didn’t give me steps.

  He never did, when it mattered.

  He only said this:

  “Do not push mana.”

  “Do not release it.”

  “Do not let it move.”

  Then he paused, watching my expression.

  “Give it shape first,” he continued.

  “Only then will substance follow.”

  That was all.

  No demonstration.

  No correction.

  Just a direction.

  So I tried.

  I gathered mana—not outward, not violently—but close. Dense. Quiet.

  I forced myself to breathe slowly, resisting the instinct to do something with it.

  Fire had answered when I pushed.

  Water did not.

  The mana felt… wrong.

  Slippery. Unwilling to stay where I held it.

  Every time I tried to compress it, it thinned.

  Every time I tried to contain it, it leaked through my focus.

  There was no heat.

  No resistance.

  Just absence.

  Frustration crept in.

  I clenched my jaw and tried again—slower this time. I imagined space instead of force. Boundaries instead of motion. A volume that could exist without expanding or collapsing.

  For a brief moment—

  Cold.

  Not touching my skin.

  Not real.

  But there.

  A faint chill formed above my palm, like the memory of water rather than water itself.

  Then my concentration slipped.

  It vanished.

  No explosion.

  No backlash.

  Just… gone.

  I exhaled sharply, heart pounding harder than it ever had with fire.

  So this was it.

  Fire punished excess.

  Water punished impatience.

  I tried again.

  And again.

  Droplets never formed.

  Only condensation.

  Only failure.

  But for the first time since I began using mana—

  I understood why Kael had warned me.

  This wasn’t about power.

  This was about restraint.

  And I was nowhere near ready.

  Still—

  I wasn’t stopping.

  Not today.

  Cera came barreling toward me mid-thought.

  She was supposed to be playing.

  Instead, she skidded to a stop, spun, and fired a spray of water straight at my chest.

  I barely reacted before it hit—cold, scattered, uncontrolled. More play than attack.

  She laughed and ran in a circle, then did it again.

  This time, the water didn’t scatter.

  It gathered.

  A rough sphere formed in front of her snout—uneven, wobbling—and she hurled it.

  It slammed into me with a wet thud.

  I stood there, drenched, blinking.

  Cira sighed from where she stood and lifted Cera with mana, setting her down beside Raze and Sera.

  “Enough,” she said flatly.

  But I wasn’t paying attention anymore.

  Something had clicked.

  Fire had moved because I pushed mana outward.

  Water hadn’t.

  Cera hadn’t pushed.

  She hadn’t forced anything.

  She let the mana flow, then contained it.

  That was the difference.

  I closed my eyes.

  This time, I didn’t compress mana inward.

  I didn’t try to hold it tight.

  I imagined space.

  A hollow.

  Mana gathering not by force—but by circulation.

  I guided it into a slow rotation, like a current folding in on itself. Not stopping. Not escaping. Just… moving.

  The sensation changed.

  Cool.

  Heavy.

  My focus trembled—but I didn’t chase it.

  And then—

  A drop formed.

  Suspended in the air above my palm.

  Clear.

  Perfect.

  Real.

  It wasn’t much.

  Barely enough to fall if I lost focus.

  But it existed.

  I opened my eyes slowly, afraid that looking would break it.

  The droplet hung there, reflecting light.

  Water.

  Not imagined.

  Not condensed air.

  Created.

  Kael didn’t speak.

  Cira didn’t move.

  They didn’t need to.

  I already knew.

  Fire answered force.

  Water answered balance.

  And today—

  I had taken my first step toward understanding it.

  I frowned at the droplet hovering above my palm.

  “…That’s convenient,” I muttered.

  “If I’m ever thirsty, I could just make water and drink it.”

  Cira turned to me immediately.

  “No,” she said.

  The answer was sharp enough that I looked up.

  “That water is not safe to consume,” she continued. “It is suitable only for exertion. For attacks.”

  I blinked.

  “What? It’s water. I just made it.”

  She shook her head.

  “What you made behaves like water,” Cira said.

  “But it is not natural water.”

  That made no sense.

  “If it looks like water and flows like water, how is it different?” I asked.

  “I could use it to drink. Or water the plants.”

  Her gaze hardened slightly.

  “Do not.”

  I hesitated, then asked the obvious question.

  “…Then how do you make water that is safe?”

  Kael answered this time.

  “You don’t.”

  I turned toward him.

  “…What?”

  “Water created through mana exertion is not born,” Kael said calmly.

  “It is forced.”

  He stepped closer, claws resting lightly against the ground.

  “Natural water forms through time. Pressure. Cycles of heat and cold. Minerals. Balance. It carries structure shaped by the world itself.”

  He looked at the droplet above my hand.

  “What you created carries your mana.”

  “It is saturated,” he continued.

  “Unstable. Incomplete. Its structure collapses once it enters a living body.”

  “…Collapses how?” I asked carefully.

  Kael didn’t soften his answer.

  “It disrupts internal balance. Channels. Cells.”

  “Ingesting it would poison you—not immediately, but inevitably.”

  I slowly lowered my hand, letting the droplet fall into the dirt where it soaked away harmlessly.

  “So it’s only good for—”

  “Impact,” Cira finished.

  “Pressure. Motion. Damage.”

  The idea I’d been excited about only moments ago faded completely.

  “…So there’s no way?” I asked. “Not even with better control?”

  Kael shook his head.

  “Creation through mana is imitation,” he said.

  “Not origin.”

  “You can move water. Shape it. Freeze it. Boil it.”

  “But you cannot create life-safe matter.”

  That explained everything.

  Why the pack still drank from streams.

  Why the farm mattered.

  Why no one solved hunger or thirst with mana.

  Mana wasn’t a shortcut.

  It was a tool.

  And a dangerous one.

  I exhaled slowly.

  “…Guess I’ll keep walking to the stream.”

  Cira gave the faintest hint of approval.

  “That,” she said, “is wisdom.”