In this world, mana determines everything. Yet not everyone is free to wield it.

  For ordinary workers and the poor, mana is merely a tool—something to strengthen their bodies by boosting speed, endurance, or just a bit of physical power. But for the nobles, mana is a far more potent and versatile source of strength. They can conjure flames from their palms, freeze the very air around them, or even manipulate the thoughts of others. This divide has lasted for centuries—a harsh reality the common folk have long resigned themselves to.

  That morning, the air felt colder than usual. A thin mist cloaked the sprawling rice fields behind Alaric’s modest home, softening the edges of the landscape. In a nearby little forest, leaves swayed gently in the soft breeze blowing in from the east.

  The village awoke to its familiar rhythm: farmers setting off for the fields, women busily preparing meals, and children laughing as they dashed between the simple houses. Meanwhile, Alaric sat before his home, his gaze lost along the dusty road stretching out before him.

  The quiet of the morning was suddenly broken by the creak of wooden wheels. Alaric turned to see a large horse-drawn wagon slowly rolling by. Unlike the usual trade carts, this wagon was larger and draped in a tattered canvas. Peering through its gaps, Alaric could glimpse thin, trembling hands clutching the wooden sides and pale, exhausted faces staring out with vacant eyes.

  Slaves.

  It was a procession of slaves bound for the palace. Though he had seen such sights before, every time his chest tightened with sorrow. He couldn’t tell if these people were villagers defeated in some distant war, or merely the unfortunate souls caught for failing to pay their taxes. To the nobles, they were nothing more than numbers—assets to be bought and sold.

  As the wagon rolled past the rice field in front of his home, something happened. One of the slaves—a little boy, smaller than the rest—fell from the back of the wagon. His body hit the ground with a dull thud before tumbling into the muddy field. No guard or driver even noticed as the wagon continued on, leaving the boy lying unmoving in the mud.

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  In the distance, Alaric’s father, who had been tilling the field, caught sight of the incident. His eyes narrowed as he tried to make sense of what he’d just witnessed. Realizing that the fallen one was a small slave child, he immediately set his hoe aside and hurried over, mud clinging to his feet with each determined step.

  Alarmed, Alaric rose from his seat as his father approached the child. His heart pounded in his chest—he knew that if his father were caught helping a slave destined for the palace, the consequences could be dire. And yet, leaving the boy there was simply not an option.

  Holding his breath, Alaric watched as his father knelt beside the trembling child and gently patted his shoulder.

  “Hey, kid? Are you alright?” his father asked softly.

  The boy didn’t answer immediately. His small body shivered, and his tired eyes glistened with unshed tears. But before any more words could be exchanged, the sound of hooves receded into the distance—the wagon was now far down the road, and its guards remained oblivious to the missing child.

  Glancing around to ensure no one was watching, Alaric’s father wasted no time. He scooped the boy up into his arms and whispered urgently, “Alaric, open the back door—quick!”

  Without hesitation, Alaric sprinted toward the house, weaving past the small granary where their harvest was stored. As soon as he flung open the door, he saw his father rushing in, eyes still alert with caution.

  Before stepping inside, the older man grabbed a sack of wheat from a corner of the yard, tied it up hastily, and then hurled it into a muddy puddle beside the house.

  “Let it look like he fell on his own,” he murmured.

  Next, he retrieved another empty sack and carefully slid the child inside. The little slave did not struggle; he only stared back with eyes full of fear and exhaustion.

  “Stay quiet. Don’t make a sound, kid,” his father instructed, before partially closing the sack so it looked ordinary.

  With swift, deliberate steps, he hoisted the sack over his shoulder and disappeared into the house. As the door closed behind him, Alaric could only swallow hard, uncertain whether his father’s desperate act would bring them fortune—or disaster.