At five years old, I had developed a reputation. My family regarded me as… odd. Polite, well-mannered, but undeniably strange. I learned quickly, spoke with an eloquence that unnerved them, and most notably, I never displayed any interest in the toys and games other children my age seemed to enjoy.
But my sarcasm? That they noticed very well.
***
"I swear, Mother, if I have to listen to another lecture on the importance of 'proper etiquette in noble society,' I might just fall into a coma."
Mother shot me a look, exasperated but amused. "Cassius, dear, you're five. You shouldn't even know what a coma is."
I sighed dramatically. "And yet, here we are."
I was, in many ways, the ideal son—intelligent, obedient (for the most part), and composed beyond my years. But I was also aware that I was an enigma to them. My father, a man of few words, observed me with quiet scrutiny, as if trying to decipher something he couldn't quite grasp, although practically he's never here. My mother, while loving, regarded me with an air of curiosity she likely didn't realize was so obvious.
It didn't matter. I had other concerns.
My nighttime rituals had advanced. What had begun as a simple experiment had evolved into something far more profound. The energy within me—the remnants of my past—had fully merged with the Yin essence of the moon. Vastly different compared to the ordinare qi that was composed in my body.
It was deep indigo in color, swirling with an inner darkness that resembled the night sky. Tiny silver flecks shimmered within, like distant stars against an eternal abyss. But most intriguing was its nature. Unlike traditional cultivation cores or even the magic cores of this era, mine did not simply store energy. At least from what i it would be theorized.
It was absorbed.
The moonlight fed it, strengthening it. The longer I basked in the night, the more refined it became. It wasn't just Yin energy that it took in—it was something more fundamental, something beyond simple categorization.
***
A week passed. Turns out, we live in the 2nd most prized city in all of the empire, but I've never actually left our estate—aside from wandering the grounds. I've never set foot in the city.
Until today.
For the first time, I saw the heart of the empire's most dangerous academy.
It was filled with older students, far beyond my years, and surprisingly, they were stronger than I had ever been in my past life. They manipulated the elements in ways I had never seen before.
In my previous life, we used the elements—our methods varied, and we refined and enhanced them, but we never attempted true manipulation at the atomic level. That was a new word I learned from my reading. And yet, here, they did it with ease. Some fought with kicks that released flames, while others wielded entirely different abilities beyond simple elemental manipulation. Some even combined multiple arts.
I witnessed one of them firsthand—a famous prodigy, a knight sworn to the empire's oldest princess. His reputation preceded him, but what truly caught my attention was his battle. He fought the princess's supposed husband, a noble from another kingdom who had wronged her. The knight held his own, but his opponent was overwhelmingly strong.
Too strong.
This world itself was too strong. I hadn't realized it before, but we've already established contact with other worlds—even those beyond our own galaxy. Another new word I picked up.
And yet…
And yet, despite all this power, there was something unsettling about it.
The people of this world were strong—far stronger than I had anticipated—but their strength wasn't cultivated in the way I once knew. It wasn't honed through rigorous tempering of body and soul, nor was it a result of refining one's essence over centuries. No, their strength came from something else.
Magic.
Unlike the cultivation I once knew, magic in this era functioned on an entirely different principle. Mana users walked among us back then — we coexisted in fragile peace. Then the war began. No one knew how it started, only that it did. Many died. I was one of them. While cultivators forged their strength from within, tempering their bodies, souls, and dantians to reach unfathomable heights, these mages instead manipulated the external forces of the world. They drew upon the very fabric of reality, bending it to their will.
And the core of it all? Magic Cores.
It was through my family's library that I uncovered the truth. Magic Cores were the foundation of power in this era. Just like what killed me then. They weren't like dantians, which required meticulous cultivation and refinement over years. Instead, they were something formed naturally in those with aptitude, and their strength grew through battle, experience, and knowledge of higher magical principles.
This revelation left me with mixed emotions. As previously i didn't know much about mana users in my previous life.
On one hand, I felt an overwhelming sense of loss. The world I once knew, where cultivators stood at the peak through their own effort and discipline, was gone. Here, power wasn't something earned in the same way—it was gifted to those lucky enough to be born with talent.
On the other hand, I felt a flicker of intrigue.
Because I wasn't just any ordinary person.
Even now, at night, I could feel the remnants of my past cultivation stirring within me. I had lost my dantian, yes, but the energy I once wielded wasn't entirely gone. It was fragmented, scattered like ashes in the wind, yet still present. And at night, beneath the glow of the moon, something inside me resonated.
The Yin energy of the moonlight mixed with the remnants of my past power, and from it, I could feel something forming—something new.
It had finally formed.
I didn't know what it would become. I didn't even know if it would be stable. But I knew one thing for certain—this was my path forward.
If this world had abandoned cultivation in favor of magic, then I would forge a path between the two.
A path that was mine alone.
***
— Later that day
Conversations were scarce in my household. My father was often away handling affairs for the empire, and my mother… well, she was a presence, but a distant one. I wasn't sure if it was because of my quiet nature or something else entirely, but she rarely spoke to me outside of necessity. "It's not that she was a bad mother—no, no, she was good. She just kept her distance, mostly. Made sure I ate, made sure I was alright, kissed me goodnight. The basics. The quiet love. Probably because she didn't think I needed to be babied.
Still, there were others I could observe.
At dinner, I listened as the nobles discussed politics and military affairs, catching snippets of information about the empire's standing. At the academy, I eavesdropped on students' training, absorbing their conversations about magic theory and combat techniques. And in the library, I occasionally overheard scholars debating over ancient texts.
One particular conversation stood out to me.
"You're saying the ancients didn't use magic cores?" one scholar scoffed, flipping through an aged manuscript.
"No, I'm saying THAT before the Imperial Calendar, magic cores didn't even exist."
"Impossible."
"I'm telling you, it's all here. Before the empire, people practiced something else. Something different."
I leaned in from behind a bookshelf, my interest piqued.
The scholar continued, "It was called… cultivation."
I remained hidden behind the bookshelf, keeping my presence unnoticed as the scholars continued their discussion.
"Cultivation?" one of them scoffed. "You mean that nonsense about refining the body and spirit? That's just an old myth. Before magic cores, people were weak."
The other scholar shook his head. "No, you don't get it. According to these records, cultivators weren't weak at all. Some of them lived for centuries, moved faster than the mana eye could see, and even defied the natural laws of the world. And—" He lowered his voice, as if reluctant to say the next part. "—they didn't need magic cores to do it."
The first scholar laughed, waving a dismissive hand. "And yet, they no longer exist. If they were so powerful, where are they now?"
"Extinct," the second scholar admitted. "Wiped out during the transition to the Imperial Calendar."
My fingers tensed.
So that was it. That was why I hadn't encountered a single trace of cultivation in this world. It hadn't simply faded away—it had been eradicated. It also confirmed my theory—that this world is the same one I came from. Or, at least, was.
Back when I was alive, we called it the Celestial Age. But there's no mention of that era anymore. Not even whispers. Which means we must've lived billions, maybe trillions of years ago. Maybe that's why we vanished. Maybe the strong ones—the cultivators, the scholars, the mana-bonded—just left Earth. Abandoned it. Grew too powerful, too distant.
We coexisted with the mana users back then. They were kind. Gentle, even. We taught each other—shared our knowledge, traded techniques, evolved together. So when people now act like the mana users weren't part of our world? That they're some alien species or new phenomenon?
It has to mean an immense span of time has passed.
The strong ones often left Earth, traveled to other planets. Myteacher back then once told me his student left this entire realm in pursuit of greatness. I was shocked back then, still green and grounded. But my teacher had a theory:
"This isn't the only Earth," he said.
"The void—the dark space hugging the edge of our reality—is too vast for there to be just one."
I agreed. The idea burned into me. So I did the math.