When I turned six months old, I decided to try again.
But this time, without forcing it.
No trying to pull mana like a desperate man drowning in invisible energy.
I just relaxed.
I let it happen.
I breathed slowly—even with lungs the size of walnuts—and focused on that subtle presence I had been learning to sense.
And then…
It flowed.
Naturally.
Like a river that had always been there, waiting for me to stop building dams.
The sensation was indescribable.
Light.
Warm.
Liberating.
Mana flowed through my entire body, moving along what I could only describe as channels—exactly like the ones mentioned in the novels I vaguely remembered.
It circulated through my arms.
Through my legs.
Until it gathered at my navel.
There, it began to spin.
Compressing.
Condensing.
Forming something new.
A small, stable point of energy.
A core.
My mana heart.
It was tiny, but it was there—pulsing softly like a second heartbeat. Instinctively, I knew it would grow over time.
I had done it.
I was officially a baby with his own magical reactor.
…And that's when the smell arrived.
A horrible smell.
Mana hadn't just circulated through my body.
It had purified it.
Expelled impurities.
All of them.
And unfortunately…
They were now on me.
On top of me.
Around me.
I was completely covered.
Seconds later, my father appeared.
He stopped.
Looked.
Blinked.
Panic immediately took over his face.
"Eliria!" he shouted, picking me up with his arm stretched out as if I were a biological bomb about to explode.
"Help! He—he—he pooped himself!"
He started running around the house in desperation.
"He pooped! And it's everywhere! I don't even know how he did it, but he managed!"
I wanted to die.
Again.
My mother arrived, saw the scene…
And started laughing.
Laughing.
While my father—an elegant, perfect elf—ran in circles with his "contaminated" child, begging for help.
I was rushed to a bath.
While they cleaned me, I stared silently at the ceiling.
I had formed a mana heart at six months old.
A legendary achievement.
Historic.
And completely ruined by the fact that, in the end, I had pooped all over myself.
After the chaos ended, the bath was finished, and my dignity was partially restored, I decided to explain what had happened.
Well…
As much as a six-month-old baby with a limited vocabulary could explain.
"Ma… na…" I said proudly, pointing at the air.
My mother and father exchanged confused looks.
"Wait, son…" my mother, Eliria, said as she crouched in front of me. "What is mana?"
I froze.
What do you mean what is mana?
I pointed again, slightly annoyed by how slow they were.
"The… thing… in… the… air…"
"What things, son?" my father, Aragorn, asked with infinite patience. "Explain it to us."
My brain stalled.
They couldn't see it?
Or feel it?
How was that possible?
I could feel it clearly.
Always had.
It was like asking someone to explain the wind—you can't see it, but you feel it.
"Ma… gic…" I said, as if it were obvious.
Silence.
"Magic?" my mother repeated, tilting her head slightly. "What is that, son?"
…
No.
No.
That wasn't possible.
I looked at both of them.
Their faces were sincere.
Confused.
There wasn't the slightest hint of recognition.
They weren't pretending.
They truly didn't know.
A ridiculous realization slowly formed in my mind.
Could it be…
They didn't have affinity?
Could it be…
They couldn't feel it?
Could it be…
I was the only one?
I leaned my head against the cradle, exhausted.
"Ai… ai…" I murmured in the internal language of a reincarnated adult.
"This baby can't handle this…"
If magic wasn't something normal in this world…
Then I had a small problem.
Or a very big one.