Astra slipped through the towering gates of the upper bazaar, head bowed, cloak drawn close. The air here was different—thicker, heavier—charged with the tension of colliding magical auras. It wasn't the kind of pressure you could see, but you could feel it, like the faint vibration of a storm building just beyond the horizon.
Most seasoned mages and warriors kept their power leashed tight. The clash of unrestrained mana at higher levels could alter landscapes or, at the very least, sour the air with hostility. Still, even when suppressed, a low-ranked being couldn't help but sense it—those subtle tinges of dominance woven into the auras of certain beings and objects.
A rank-three knight passed by, his boots striking the stone with deliberate weight. The man was a dwarven noble, broad as a siege wall, his armor gleaming under the lamplight. Astra felt nothing—until their shoulders brushed. In that instant, it was like walking into the side of a mountain. Not just mass, but presence. If the knight chose to unleash his mana fully, the entire street would feel it—chests tightening, knees weakening. It wouldn't kill anyone outright, but it would break the will of lesser warriors and drain the fight from even the stubborn.
Astra knew the sensation well. He remembered gang wars in the city's outer slums—how the bosses would face off, their mana pressure alone enough to drive bystanders to the ground. And that was without aiming it at him directly. The only real ways to resist that suffocating weight were to counter with one's own core… or to be so strong that pressure simply rolled off you like rain.
"Just wait till I'm a knight," he muttered, annoyed at how easily he could be reminded of his weakness.
The district itself was a fortress. Dusk Guards—rank ones—patrolled the streets in the violet-grey and black of House Dusk. Above them, stationed on high walls and at choke-points, stood the Dusk Squires—rank twos, clad in heavier armor, their gazes scanning with trained precision. And somewhere among them, always watching, were the Dusk Knights—rank threes. They were fewer in number, but their presence was enough to make even the bold keep their distance. Knights didn't need to speak to be felt. Their armor bore intricate enchantments, their confidence carried like a banner.
Astra gave them all a wide berth. Nobles here were no less dangerous than the warriors—skilled in magic, trained in combat, and bred for the games of power that made the bazaar tick. The guards were more than symbolic, but not by much. Their true role was to maintain the balance, to keep assassination attempts rare and overt theft nearly unheard of.
No one stole from the nobility. No one dared. Not from the descendants of legendary rulers and warlords.
Except Astra.
He wasn't normal—he knew that much. Reckless, stupid, maybe a little crazy, but never ordinary. Rank one, barely more than an apprentice in the magical arts, he had convinced himself his talent was extraordinary. Whether that was truth or self-delusion… well, Astra preferred not to dwell on such details.
In the realms, strength could be measured in many ways, but the most fundamental was the inner domain—the uncharted space within every sentient being, a reflection of their truest self.
To touch it, one first had to awaken their Mana Core. Mana was not merely a force, but an entity in its own right—older than the long-dead gods, some whispered. To awaken the first core, even the highest quality at rank one, all one had to do was wish for it, and mana would answer. That was why mana was universal in the realms; even those not born with a core could easily gain one, sometimes as toddlers, mimicking their parents.
But entering one's domain was another matter entirely. It required discipline, knowledge of magic, and—perhaps most difficult—an unflinching understanding of oneself. Not just who you were… but who you intended to become.
The heart never lied to the mind. And the mind never forgave what it saw there.
There were other paths to the inner domain—rare techniques, ancient rites, and dangerous shortcuts whispered of in the darker corners of the realms. Some methods refined the basic awakening, sharpening the bond between self and mana to a razor's edge. The key in every case was the same: uncovering the elements and forces that slumbered within one's domain, for it was said that every living being was wrought of magic, touched at birth by the lingering spark of the Primordial Flame.
Yet the best method took the shape of the mana coins. In all the vast expanse of the fracture, there were two kinds: Noble coins and Mage coins. The Noble coins—beautiful, rare, and jealously hoarded—were the toys and trinkets of the ruling houses. Their gleam was more status than substance, their magic largely ceremonial. They were less tools than ornaments, a kind of formal badge that whispered of influence but did little to shape a bearer's true power. The Mage coins, however, were another matter entirely.
In the realm of magic, a Mage coin was no mere object—it was an extension of the soul itself. These enchanted discs were born in the moment a being awakened their first mana core, forged from their own essence and bound irrevocably to their spirit. No spell, pact, or divine intervention could sever that bond; the coin was as eternal as the soul it belonged to. It was a mirror of the bearer's potential, a silent witness to every victory, every failure, every step toward transcendence.
Where Noble coins faded with their owner's death—taking their wealth and prestige into the grave—Mage coins endured. They could outlast the flesh, carrying forward the knowledge, skill, and mana imprinted upon them. In rare instances, they passed to another—an heir, a chosen successor—when the bearer, in a final act of will, chose not to shatter their own coin. It was a rare mercy; most mages preferred to consign their power to oblivion rather than risk it falling into unworthy hands.
Mage coins were steeped in the essence of mana itself—the same mana that flowed through stone and storm, through blood and breath, through the endless rhythm of time. It was said that mana was older than the gods, older than the worlds themselves, and that consciousness itself arose from its current.
The coins were not crafted by mortal smiths. They formed naturally, an inevitability once a living being reached the threshold of Rank One. They could grow in power—ascend—through a process known as the qualitative breakthrough, each stage marking a fundamental change in the bearer's nature. When one's mana deepened, refined into a higher state, that new essence would be poured into the coin, reshaping it into something greater.
There were many shapes this evolution could take. Some coins became etched with impossible geometries. Others pulsed faintly with light or shadow, or hummed with an elemental note audible only to the bearer. All coins shared one hidden feature: a link to the Great Mana Network, an unseen lattice connecting all living things. This web, some claimed, was not natural at all but the deliberate creation of a figure so powerful their name had been struck from every record.
The types of Mage coins were as varied as the realms themselves, each one granting unique blessings—boons born of the bearer's trials, victories, and moments of inspiration. Some coins were said to have been blessed directly by Mana itself, or by the mysterious will of the Realms. In all of history, only a scant few had reached the Pinnacle, the highest state attainable—living legends who had ascended to Rank Seven, Gods. Barely a few dozen souls across countless ages had touched that summit, and their names were woven into the bones of the world. This was blasphemy at times.
Yet every one of them began the same way—with the first coin. With Rank One.
Astra's thoughts wandered to the most famous myth of all, The Tales of Atlas. It was said to have been penned by Atlas himself—the first being to ever reach Rank Seven, the one who shaped the fractured wilds into a civilization. His story was etched into the marrow of the realms, told by hearth and in temple, studied by learned mages and warrior-scholars alike. Every verse of the tale was said to hide some deeper truth, some fragment of a secret that could only be understood when the listener was ready.
Astra, though, was no Atlas. He was a pawn, a novice of mana, a mere Rank One. One among countless thousands scrambling to carve out a place in a world that would crush the careless and forget the weak. And yet… somewhere, deep in the quiet recesses of his mind, the legends stirred.
The tales of those who reached beyond their limits.The tales of those who defied the Realms.The tales of Atlas.
In the dim recesses of the Upper Bazaar, as Astra lurked in the shadows, he had time as he awaited two rank one Duskguards to change their shift, so he reflected on one of the most famous chapters of <
As chapter five section two cites
....
Atlas awoke once more from his endless slumber, adrift in an infinite, cold sea. His mind was a void—empty of thought, emotion, and memory. The waters were shallow, the sea infinite. A dark and empty sky stretched above him, its expanse eternal and oppressive. The pulse of mana here was erratic, violent, and the air itself seemed to hum with untapped potential.
Atlas wandered, lost and directionless. He was nothing—felt nothing. A wandering shell in an endless abyss.
One day, his eyes wandered as he looked down.
But then, amidst the crushing stillness, a spark appeared. At first it was faint—almost imperceptible—but soon it began to grow, a flickering ember at the depths of the void.
Curiosity.
Atlas's mind, once cold and empty, was suddenly filled with the seed of a question—What was this? What was that spark? And why did it stir something deep inside him?
The flickering ember began to burn, its glow changing, shifting in a way that defied understanding. The colors rippled—endlessly turning. Atlas, drawn by an unexplainable force, approached.
And then came the awakening: the first spark of self.
Ambition.
The flame grew brighter, and Atlas felt something deep within stir—a longing to be more, to reach for something greater. His senses sharpened. He was no longer adrift.
He walked toward the flame, its radiance now blazing with such intensity that it lit up the entire sea. The waters, once shallow, began to deepen. What had been nothingness was now filled with purpose. His path was clear.
And as the flame grew ever stronger, so too did Atlas. He began to understand—this was the flame of his soul, the flame of his destiny. But the closer he got, the harder the journey became. The deeper the waters grew, the colder they became. His strength waned. Yet still, he pushed on.
As atlas continued his journey,he suddenly felt a strong emotion
Hope.
With it came clarity, and Atlas, despite the resistance of the world around him, continued. His body fought against the tide, his will unwavering. The flame beckoned, and with each step, he grew closer to his own becoming.
As Atlas reached out toward the flame, the exhaustion of his journey weighed heavily upon him. His body trembled, muscles burning, and his mind wavered, like a candle flickering on the edge of extinction. His fingertips were nearly numb, but still, he reached further, drawn by the pull of something greater than himself. His vision blurred, and for a moment, he felt the overwhelming weight of his exhaustion—his willpower on the verge of crumbling. But then, his fingers brushed against the spark. It was delicate, barely perceptible, yet it surged with an intensity that sent a shock through his very soul.
The moment his skin connected to the spark, a cascade of energy followed, engulfing him in a torrent of light. The spark expanded outward, its power sweeping over him in waves. The sea, once infinite and suffocating, dissolved as if it had never existed, leaving Atlas standing in the void. His eyes, once clouded with fatigue and uncertainty, regained their clarity. The fire that had consumed his mind faded, and his body shimmered with an ethereal glow, as if the very essence of his being had been restored.
His memories, though, were gone. They had been swept away by the flames, and in their place, there was only a sense of profound clarity. His path ahead was now clear, but his past was a blur. A distant fog. The only certainty he had was this: he had found his true self.
And then, as if summoned by his awakening, the sky above him shifted. The dark, oppressive atmosphere was replaced by a torrent of vibrant lights, dancing across the heavens in an endless cascade. These lights—these streams of mana—moved with a fluidity and grace that defied comprehension. They shimmered with the essence of the cosmos itself, vibrant and alive.
Atlas stood in awe, his breath steady as he finally found his voice. His words came out with clarity, as if spoken by someone who had finally discovered the truth of their existence.
"I see... the flame was the mana of the world itself," he whispered. "This isn't the real world. This is my inner world. This is my soul sea..." he let out a melancholy sigh." How long have I been lost in my own soul?"
As the words escaped his lips, seven coins appeared before him, each one shimmering with its own unique aura. They floated gently in the air, arranged in a perfect circle around him, their presence commanding attention. Each coin had a distinct shape and design, their mana pulsing with different energies. One by one, the coins began to move, each introducing itself to Atlas.
The first coin, a humble copper-green, stepped forward. It was engraved with a dagger, simple yet sharp. Its aura was faint, almost undetectable—like a tiny stream flowing through a mountain pass. Barely a whisper in the vastness of the universe.
"Greetings, Atlas," the coin spoke, its voice soft but firm. "I am the Pawn. I appear to those who have just begun their journey with mana—those who have formed their first mana core. I am here to guide you as you step onto the path of true power."
The Pawn's voice was kind, offering comfort and reassurance.
"And these six coins next to me," it continued, "are my siblings, each representing the next step on the journey to strength."
One by one, the other coins began to step forward, each more imposing than the last.
The second coin was silver, gleaming with luster and engraved with the image of a long sword and shield. Its aura was strong it was a steady, unyielding presence, like a large imposing hill, strong but with clear limits.
"I am the Squire," the coin spoke, its voice resonating with strength. "I appear to those who have ascended to Rank Two, those who have formed their second mana core. Once you reach this stage, I shall ascend with you, guiding you toward even greater heights."
The air around them thickened, and the energy felt like the pressure of a mountain looming overhead, powerful and steady with strong roots., yet still bound by earthly limits.
Then the third coin stepped forward, a coin of pure, mythical gold. It was engraved with the image of a gallant knight's head armor with a plume, a symbol of heroism and bravery. Its aura was vast and commanding, as deep as a lake or as towering as a mountain.
"Oh noble Atlas," the coin spoke, its tone full of respect, I am the Knight," the coin intoned, its voice regal and noble. "Once my bearer reaches Rank Three and forms their third mana core, I shall ascend to my knightly position, standing alongside you as you continue your journey."
As the Knight spoke, the atmosphere darkened, and the air grew thick with a sinister presence. The coin's aura shifted, turning dark and twisted. The temperature dropped as if death itself lingered just beyond reach. The scent of blood was in the air, and an overwhelming sense of dread settled around them.
But before Atlas could even digest the information, the atmosphere darkened, and a sinister energy filled the air. The next coin emerged from the shadows, its aura heavy and dangerous. The coin was now blood red, its engraving twisted into the form of a crying jester.
"The path to power isn't always so honorable," the voice of the coin became twisted, mocking, as if relishing its words. "Everything in this world is equal; every being can pursue their desires. But mana... mana does not care. It demands a price. Even heaven demands death." The coin laughed "I am the jester oh Atlas"
The coin transformed before Atlas's eyes, its once golden surface now blood-red, the engraving changing to a weeping jester's face, a symbol of madness and chaos. Its aura grew heavy and suffocating, like the weight of dark thoughts closing in.
"Some seek power through atrocity," the coin cackled. "And in doing so, they are tainted by madness. Isn't it... quite amusing?"
Atlas shuddered, merely due to the fact he could honestly not see all the wrong in the jesters beckoning, but before he could react, suddenly the dark sinister air dispersed and was replaced by this feeling of grandness, its as vast as a mountain range.a divine presence that filled the space with power.
The fourth coin now stepped forward, and the sinister air from before dissipated, replaced by a feeling of grandeur and divinity. This coin was platinum, radiating a soft yet divine light. It was engraved with the image of an ancient arcane staff, and its aura was vast and imposing, as though the presence of an entire mountain range stood before Atlas.
"Oh Atlas, I am the Bishop," it said with an air of divinity. "Once my bearer forms their fourth mana core, I shall elevate them to the bottom of divinity, where they will become half-Demi-god. Not many reach this stage, Atlas. Many never even see Rank Three, let alone Rank Four."
As the Bishop spoke, Atlas could feel the weight of its presence, the aura surrounding him like the unshakable foundation of the world itself. But then, as before, the air changed suddenly the atmosphere shifted again. A wave of dread settled into the air. The coin's aura turned into a sickly greenish-black, emanating a demonic energy. Atlas could feel his skin crawl as the very air seemed to grow heavier with corruption an overwhelming sense of dread. A dark, sickly aura emanated from the coin as it transformed, becoming a deep, ominous black-green. It now bore the symbol of a demonic viper with sinister fangs.
"I am the Blasphemer," the coin hissed, its voice dripping with venomous pleasure. "I am the counterpart to that self-righteous Bishop. Some choose the path of darkness to gain power, and in doing so, I become their guide." Its tone was chilling, filled with wicked delight. "It's beautiful, isn't it?"
A vast, ocean-like aura descended, it was grand, holy and powerful the fifth coin has floated in the place of the demon
The fifth coin glowed brightly, its aura pure and holy. It was white, engraved with markings of divine power and adorned with the image of a veiled figure crowned with a golden halo.
"I am the Saint," it said, its voice calm and serene. "Once my bearer forms their fifth mana core, I will ascend with them, closer to divinity. Not many reach this stage, Atlas. Only the true geniuses can form their fifth core, for the journey to power is a marathon, not a sprint, those with unsteady foundations, shall find themselves limited in the end!."
The air suddenly grew more sinister and evil, grand feelings of dread and fear came about from Atlas, once more, the air shifted, an aura as vast as the oceans descended onto Atlas again however instead of holy divine magical power, it was demonic evil and sinister, it felt as if everything was wrong, or...was It right?" as a sinister presence descended. The coin turned pitch black, its engraving now depicting a demonic mask with short horns and sharp red fangs.
"I am the Demon," it declared, its voice mocking. "Once you choose your path, Atlas, I will walk alongside you, as close to divinity as that foolish Saint. All that separates us is our true natures. We are both favored by magic, after all."
Suddenly an aura that could seemingly cover a whole realm descended onto Atlas, it was powerful, holy and radiated pure magical energy, as if you were staring at a gods angel. filling Atlas with a sense of awe and dread. And then, the sixth coin appeared, radiating with a shimmering, liquid-like aura. It was multicolored, pulsating with every color imaginable.
"I am the Angel," the coin said, its voice sweet and soothing. "To ascend to this position, my bearer must form their sixth mana core. At this stage, you will become more divine than mortal, your connection with magic complete. With this power, the world's laws become mere suggestions. You will be able to shape reality itself."
Then, the atmosphere subtly shifted. The once-pure aura of the coin took on a darker, more twisted edge, growing ever so slightly sinister. A strange feeling lingered in the air—things that had once felt correct now seemed wrong, and the wrongness felt almost... right. It was as if the very fabric of reality had turned on its head. Left felt like right, and the boundaries between morality and desire became increasingly blurred.
In an instant, Atlas's mind was flooded with all manner of thoughts—nefarious, chaotic ideas clawing at his consciousness. Every wicked desire, every temptation, every forbidden wish, surged within him. It was terrifying—an overwhelming torrent that threatened to consume him.
Yet, despite the dark shift, the coin remained unchanged. How could it be any different? Or was it?
Atlas's gaze fell upon the engraving, and his heart skipped a beat. The two majestic, holy wings that had once graced the coin's surface had transformed. In their place were two demonic horns, twisted and sharp, an unmistakable sign of the coin's true nature.
The coin spoke, its voice now dripping with a wicked, almost gleeful malice.
"Oh, Atlas,I am the Devil," the coin whispered, its voice filled with both malice and charm. "Where the Angel holds back, I do not. I will walk alongside you, no matter the cost, embracing all desires. To be a Devil, you must dance with all sorts of desires... pleasures... darkness.""
Finally, the last coin appeared, but Atlas could feel nothing but pure, blinding light. Its presence was beyond comprehension, and the air seemed to shimmer with infinite power.
"I am the Seraph," it spoke, its voice echoing through the void. "To be worthy of the seventh core... well....., you'll have to figure that out for yourself."
A voice followed, deep and resonant, mocking yet sincere.
"I am Sin," it laughed. "To be worthy of seven cores... Ah, it's but a simple choice, Atlas"
"A choice only you can make. I wonder how you will decide?" The coin chuckled
The pressure of their presence, the weight of their power, was too much for Atlas to bear just as atlas was about to awaken from his infernal slumber, the coin changed once again.
Just as Atlas was about to gaze upon this coin, something changed.
Suddenly Atlas saw everything all at once.
He was a grain of sand on a long beach,
He was a small doe drinking water from a mountain stream,
He was a mountain vast, ancient and grand,
He was the Ocean, large and unknown,
The Twin Moons
The Sun
The Stars
He felt everything all at once
He was divine
He was profane
He was Holy
Unholy
The cycle of life, the cycle of death, he felt infinite
Atlas's body buckled under the strain, and in that moment, darkness overtook him. The coins, their voices, and the path ahead... everything faded into blackness as he collapsed, overwhelmed by the weight of his newfound destiny.
.....
As Atlas awoke, this time in the real world he looked through, he was in a dark cave, the air was thick, it was cold, however he payed his surroundings no attention as there was seemingly a board infront of him.
"greetings Atlas, you have reawakened your first mana core!, congratulations, your quest to power starts now if you so wish..."
"I am the pawn, your coin!"
.....
There wasn't a single being in the realms did not know of Atlas's legends and exploits, this was the best selling novel for eons!
Astra loved history and reading, he was practically a major nerd of history and anything related to mana, he was obsessed, he naturally has read this story countless times.
Astra pondered about the final myth in these stories
It was rumored that a Rank Eight existed the rank of true gods, but no one had ever reached that level since the dead gods, and even then no one knows if the gods were merely powerful rank sevens, even the strongest of the hidden Seraphs had yet to crack the supposed barrier.
Astra, reflecting on the lore he had read in <
domain..