Chapter 29: Mana Infusion

The stone steps groaned under their collective weight as the group descended into the cold, dimly lit belly of the estate.

The air grew dense with the chill of earth and mana residue, the light from their lanterns casting flickering shadows along walls etched with faint, old runes.

Terrin muttered under his breath, clutching his coat tighter.

“Never liked coming down here. Always feels like the walls are watchin’ ya…”

Marshal Kellen, broad-shouldered and thick-bearded, snorted in agreement.

“Creepy place, alright. Feels like we're walking into the bottom of a tomb.”

Sir Richardson came to a stop just before the final archway and turned, his weathered face unreadable.

His voice, however, was firm and solemn.

“This chamber was built over a leyline node that predates the founding of this estate. It’s not just the core of our barrier, it’s the spiritual foundation of this land. Sacred ground.”

The marshal and Terrin exchanged glances and cleared their throats, muttering simultaneous apologies.

“My apologies, Sir Richardson,” Terrin mumbled, bowing slightly.

“Didn’t mean no disrespect,” Kellen added quickly, adjusting the lantern in his grip.

The group stepped past the arch into the circular heart of the chamber.

Before them stood the barrier generator: an old, obsidian-and-gold monolith crowned with crystalline arcs and etched with delicate rune circuits.

It pulsed faintly with a low thrum, resonating with a protective hum that coursed through the ground like a heartbeat.

The head maid, Elise, wrinkled her nose as she stepped lightly forward.

“Still stable,” she said, observing the glow.

“But inconsistent in output.”

“Let’s see,” the marshal said as he crouched down, brushing dust away from a corner of the monolith.

“Well, I’ll be damned…”

He motioned Richardson closer.

“Take a look at this.”

Beneath one of the carved glyphs, a section of the rune work had been lightly scratched, just deep enough to interrupt the flow, clumsy, but intentional.

Another sequence nearby showed signs of soot, someone had tried to burn or char the insulation layer over the magic-conductive veins.

“Sabotage,” Kellen said.

“Amateur work, but enough to delay the barrier’s activation. Explains why it kicked in late, didn’t stop the attackers at first, but once enough aggression was detected and the array recalibrated, it overrode the tampering.”

“That’s…”

Sir Richardson’s brow furrowed.

“Impossible. No one unauthorized can reach this chamber without a key sigil and access clearance. Even staff can’t-”

“Unless,” Elise interrupted softly, “the saboteur wasn’t unauthorized.”

All eyes turned to the head maid.

She was calm, but her jaw was set.

“This was someone from inside the estate.”

The silence that followed was heavy.

Richardson stared at the monolith, a shadow darkening his features.

“You’re saying… someone on our staff aided the intruders?”

Elise simply nodded.

Terrin swallowed.

“Who’d do such a thing? What could they even gain?”

“No idea,” the Marshal muttered, standing back up.

“But this wasn’t just a hit job or a robbery. Someone wanted the barrier down. The rest was meant to be quick and clean. They failed.”

Sir Richardson didn’t speak.

He stepped closer to the monolith, placing one hand against its smooth, cold surface.

His fingers traced the faint line of sabotage, then curled into a fist.

“We’ll root them out,” he said quietly.

“Whoever they are.”

And for the first time, the heartbeat of the barrier core seemed… angrier.

***

The late afternoon sun filtered in through the parted curtains, warm light spilling across the end of the bed where Lucien reclined, half-sunken into a nest of pillows.

The quiet hum of the estate beyond his room faded into the background as he turned another page in the book that sat open across his lap.

[Mana, like breath, moves through all living things. But unlike breath, its flow can be shaped, not just by discipline, but by instinct. In moments of crisis, many individuals find that their mana surges, enhancing their strength, speed, or reflexes without conscious effort.]

Lucien blinked at that, frowning thoughtfully as his fingers hovered over the edge of the page.

“...So it's sort of like a panic boost?” he muttered to himself.

He turned the page.

A diagram of the human body filled half the leaf, with the kidneys carefully illustrated and the upper portions above them, two small, cap-like glands, highlighted in glowing ink.

Neatly labeled: Adrenal Glands.

[The adrenal glands are responsible for secreting adrenaline during high-stress situations. This secretion can cause a spike in mana circulation. While this often results in a momentary increase in performance, the effects can be unpredictable. Overcharging circuits, loss of fine control, and poor mana allocation are common outcomes among untrained individuals.]

[For this reason, mage apprentices are conditioned to remain calm even under duress. Emotional surges and mana spikes may help in surviving ambushes, but they are rarely useful in the long term, and often leave the body severely drained afterward.]

Lucien narrowed his eyes at the paragraph.

“So… that’s probably what happened,” he said aloud.

“When I got attacked…”

He leaned his head back against the pillow, eyes trailing across the ceiling, mind drifting back to the hazy moments after the fight, the tightness in his limbs, the way his muscles had refused to move after he collapsed to the floor.

He remembered how his breathing had felt ragged and foreign, and how every inch of him had screamed in delayed agony.

He hadn’t just been panicking, his mana had flared.

And it had saved him.

“But if I hadn’t gotten that jump of energy…”

He didn’t finish the thought.

He didn’t need to.

He turned the page again, but this time more slowly.

The idea that the body had a natural relationship with mana, that it could instinctively draw on it, just like clenching a fist in fear or drawing breath in pain, was oddly comforting.

And also terrifying.

He glanced toward the end table where the remaining books Vaelira had left sat in a neatly stacked pile.

“Still wish you’d brought me a novel,” he said with a huff and a smile, “but I’ll give you this… this one’s not bad.”

Lucien settled back under the blanket and continued reading, still sore, still recovering, but now with a new question burning at the edge of his thoughts.

Could he learn to control that surge?

Could he harness it, not just in fear, but in will?

He kept reading.

Unaware that with every page he turned, the subtle threads of mana around him stirred.

Almost curious.

Almost watching.

Lucien flipped to the next page of A Practical Guide to Mana Infusion and Control, the scent of aged parchment and faint lavender, probably something Vaelira had left near his bedside, lingering in the air.

[Beginner’s Exercise: Object Adhesion. A foundational mana control practice used in many mage academies, this exercise builds sensitivity and precision. It involves ‘bonding’ an object to one’s palm using minimal mana flow.]

Lucien raised a brow.

“Finally, something practical.”

He read on.

[To begin: choose a small, non-magical object, ideally metal or wood. Place it in your dominant hand. Inhale deeply, and as you do, imagine mana flowing from your core, down your arm, and into your palm. Then, visualize the mana ‘stitching’ the object to your hand. Hold the bond with steady breath. To release, imagine gently ‘unthreading’ the stitches, letting the mana return to your center.]

“...This sounds like something out of a yoga manual,” Lucien muttered, scanning his nightstand.

His eyes landed on a tarnished silver spoon from breakfast, still faintly sticky with remnants of porridge.

He wiped it on the blanket with all the care of someone who absolutely did not care and held it in his palm.

“Alright, spoon. Let’s become one.”

He closed his eyes, inhaled, and tried to imagine the mana moving through his body like a stream of warm air.

A tiny stream, like the world's laziest river.

After a few seconds, he furrowed his brow.

Nothing.

The spoon clattered to the floor.

Lucien sighed, picked it up again, and refocused.

This time, he narrowed his focus more.

Breathing in through his nose, he pictured thin threads of blue light sliding from his chest, down his arm, and into the spoon, like soft, magical embroidery floss weaving into its metal surface.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then.

Fwip.

The spoon clung to his palm.

His eyes shot open.

“Ha! I did it! It’s sticking!”

He lifted his hand to the light, waving it proudly.

The spoon did not fall.

But.

It also… didn’t come off.

“Okay,” he said slowly, recalling the book’s instructions.

“Now to just… unthread the mana. Unzip the stitches. Like a zipper. Easy.”

He closed his eyes again and tried to reverse the process, visualizing the threads loosening, retreating back into his arm.

The spoon did not move.

He tugged it slightly.

It wobbled, then snapped back onto his palm like an angry barnacle.

“Okay, okay, no need to panic. This is fine. It’s totally fine,” he said, voice rising half an octave.

“You are not the idiot who permanently fused silverware to your hand. You are a capable... Ow!”

He shook his arm.

The spoon flopped but refused to fall off.

Lucien stared at it in horror.

“Vaelira is never going to let me live this down, she’s going to walk in and see me glued to a spoon like a toddler with a glue stick!”

He shook harder.

Still no release.

He paused, deadpan.

‘Okay, new plan: live like this forever. I’m the Spoon Knight now. I fight crime and eat soup. At the same time.’

Knock.

Lucien flinched as the spoon, still firmly fused to his palm, clinked softly against the bedpost.

He yanked the blanket over it like a guilty child caught with snacks past bedtime.

“Come in!”

He called, quickly adjusting his posture into something approximating ‘dignified patient.’

The door opened smoothly.

In stepped Sir Richardson, his butler’s coat neatly buttoned despite the lingering traces of last night’s chaos etched into the lines of his face.

He bowed with practiced grace, silver-threaded hair tied back impeccably.

“Young Master Lucien,” he greeted.

“It pleases me greatly to see you in better spirits.”

Lucien offered a strained smile.

“Sir Richardson. You honor me with your concern.”

Richardson stepped forward, hands neatly behind his back.

“How are your injuries? I was informed your pain has lessened.”

“Yes, well. A few bumps, some bruises. Nothing your intervention didn’t fix,” Lucien replied, maintaining noble formality while subtly trying to tuck his spoon-hand further beneath the blanket.

But the subtle glint of polished silver caught the butler’s sharp eyes.

“…Is there something in your hand, Young Master?”

Lucien blinked, wide-eyed.

“Hm? No, not at all. Just... nerves. Twitchy fingers. You know how stress works.”

Richardson tilted his head slightly, expression unreadable.

“It rather resembles... a spoon.”

“I assure you, Sir Richardson, that you are under a great deal of stress. Perhaps you need rest. Visual hallucinations are not uncommon among overworked retainers.”

Sir Richardson’s gaze shifted briefly to the open book on the bedside table.

[A Practical Guide to Mana Infusion and Control.]

Lucien followed his gaze.

Froze.

Then turned back with a desperate smile.

“I was reading for... enrichment.”

“I see.” Richardson’s voice was soft, but the corner of his mouth betrayed a twitch.

“You attempted a bonding exercise, didn’t you?”

“…Possibly.”

The butler’s shoulders gave the slightest shake.

“You adhered it to your hand and now you cannot remove it.”

Lucien groaned, slumping back into the pillows.