Ultimately, there were no problems for Alan. In fact, he seemed much more energetic the day after his mana was drained by the battery compared to a few days later. When their son's claims turned out to be true, his parents approached the factory manager, who chided them for not bringing it up earlier. It was no surprise. Every living being harbored mana, but only a small percentage could generate and store more than was necessary for basic life activities. Alan, for instance, had managed to charge the battery with just a touch, a clear sign of his abundant innate mana. On Alan's first day at work, Mary meticulously dusted off the dirt and grime from her son's clothes, offering words of advice.

“At the factory, you're the youngest. Be sure to speak respectfully to everyone, no matter who they are.”

“Yes, I will,” Alan replied obediently.

“You never know who you'll meet at the factory, so be extra cautious. Also, good manners often leave a positive first impression.”

“Yes.”

“Your mother is right,” his father added. “Courtesy from someone in a lower position can disarm the arrogance of superiors, while politeness from those in higher ranks can easily win others’ favor.”

When they arrived at the factory, Alan’s parents donned vests fitted with mana batteries and went to their respective stations, leaving Alan to meet the manager. The manager, a stern-looking orc with glinting glasses, greeted him.

“So, you’re Alan.”

“Hello, sir.”

“Sit here for now,” the manager said, gesturing to a backless chair.

As Alan sat, the orc placed a massive palm on his back—so large it almost covered his entire back.

“I dislike wasting words, so I’ll explain this only once.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What I’m about to teach you is the most basic operational method. It’s simple but generates mana faster than natural recovery.”

Alan already knew some of this from his parents. The so-called operational method barely deserved the name, as it merely facilitated the absorption of mana from nature, bypassing the process of forming a mana heart—the foundation of any true mana activity. It focused solely on recovery, and even then, only at a rudimentary level.

“First, the operational pathways are... Hmm.”

“My back feels a bit itchy,” Alan commented.

“Don’t interrupt. Now, as I was saying, the pathways are—”

Alan felt as though ants were crawling on his back, but the sensation was fleeting. When he glanced at the mirror on the wall, he noticed the manager looking visibly uncomfortable.

“I didn’t sleep well last night... Wait a moment. My condition isn’t great today,” the manager muttered, opening a window and stretching before resuming.

This time, the stimulation was much stronger. Heat coursed through Alan in a simple sequence—heart, left side, below the navel, right side, liver, and back to the heart. Even a child could easily grasp the simplicity of the pathway.

“Phew. That wasn’t so hard,” the orc said, quickly wiping sweat from his forehead before Alan could turn around. Acting as if nothing had happened, he continued, “The operational chants are written throughout the factory. Recite them while working. Return here once a week for the next three weeks to solidify the pathways.”

“Does everyone here know the operational method?” Alan asked.

“No. Maybe five out of a hundred? And even those five don’t have mana hearts. Don’t get too hung up on it. Learn the rest—rules, techniques, and wage calculations—from your parents.”

With a dismissive wave, the manager sent him off. Alan bowed and went to find his parents. They were seated on the floor, syringes connected to the mana batteries, needles embedded in their forearms.

“Dad, do you know the operational method?”

“Of course. Thanks to that, your mom and I charge faster than most, so we earn more. Sit here. The only thing to remember is to rest if you feel dizzy.”

“Why?”

“If your mana runs out, the battery starts draining your life force instead.”

Nodding, Alan picked up a needle, but Mary stopped him.

“Wait. If you can charge just by touch, there’s no need to use that.”

Alan looked around the factory. Everyone else was using needles.

“Using a needle is faster. That means I can charge more batteries and earn more money.”

“You come first, not the money. Please listen to me this time.”

There was an undeniable resolve in Mary’s gentle voice, and Alan relented.

“Okay.”

That day, despite starting later, Alan charged as much as his parents. While his mana drained rapidly, it left him feeling lighter and healthier, rather than fatigued. Alan still couldn’t form a mana heart. The operational method was too rudimentary, and his wild mana resisted control like an untamed horse. But he didn’t mind. Since starting work at the factory, Alan had grown healthier and could charge two to three times more batteries than others. As the factory’s ace worker, he brought home a richer diet and could even afford books—though not always the ones he wanted. The mere act of learning filled him with satisfaction.

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In his free time, Alan still frequented the junkyard, finding equipment discarded as trash but useful to him. Occasionally, foreigners visited the factory. To Alan, they resembled the sun, while the factory workers were like fireflies. These visitors, from the Soldos Federation, boasted about uplifting underdeveloped nations and serving the impoverished.

However, those in the know were well aware. The Soldos Federation was the true ruler of Lanka, and the people of the impoverished island nation were slaves bound by invisible chains. Once the Soldos representatives disappeared, Robinson leaned close to Alan and whispered softly, so quietly that even their coworkers couldn't hear.

“Do you want to escape from Lanka?”

“But what about the maritime ban?”

All sea travel, and even emigration, was prohibited. The people of Lanka were forbidden from ever leaving the island, condemned to stay until their death.

“I just wanted to ask,” Robinson replied, turning his attention back to the battery.

His lips twitched, as if he had more to say, but he kept silent.

Years passed. Then one day, news spread like wildfire: a civil war had erupted. On the surface, the rebels claimed to be ousting a corrupt dictator and freeing the oppressed populace.

“Same crook, different face.”

“Who’s standing up to Soldos now?”

“Why bother? They’re all just thieves anyway. Can’t fight wars on their own turf, so they do it on ours.”

In reality, the war was sparked by another powerful nation coveting Lanka’s natural resources, challenging the dominance of the Soldos Federation. Alan, now taller and older, finished his daily battery-charging quota and eavesdropped on the adults’ conversations, including the manager.

By then, like the elderly scavenger who had once frequented the junkyard, tales of the war’s horrors and casualties were everywhere, providing firsthand accounts of its darker sides.

“We’re skilled laborers who charge batteries. We’ll be fine, right?”

“Yeah. Where else would they find people like us? Last time, we weren’t conscripted, remember?”

Despite the baseless optimism, everyone agreed. Fear had a way of clouding reason, leading people to cling to false hopes. As the murmurs grew louder, the manager dispersed the workers.

“Alright, alright. Enough chatter. Get back to work. If they have any sense, they won’t mess with skilled laborers.”

The term “skilled” might have been valid within Lanka, but it was laughable in the eyes of the Soldos officials. That night, an unknown armed group moved through the area via train. Residents of the shantytown along the tracks shut their eyes and covered their ears. Mercenaries hired by the Soldos Federation supported the government forces in quelling the rebels, while the rebels, not to be outdone, recruited mercenaries of their own through shadowy backers. The civil war escalated, engulfing the entire nation in pain and suffering. Unlike the previous conflict, this one showed signs of dragging on.

Boom!

Even in the city where Alan lived, explosions echoed. Though calling it a “city” was a stretch, its numerous exploitative factories gave it the size of a small foreign urban area. Amid the growing anxiety, conscription officers appeared.

“Sir, I’ve lost one eye!”

“As long as you can shoot, that’s fine.”

“I’m crippled in my left arm!”

“As long as you have determination, that’s fine.”

The officers began rounding up people, starting with those doing manual labor like carrying heavy loads or picking stones from farmland.

Many were taken without even verifying their identities. The arbitrary conscriptions left everyone trembling. Rumors spread ominously, and even the usually cocky gangs had disappeared entirely. In the flickering light of mana-powered lanterns and the swaying shantytown in the night breeze, Alan’s family huddled together.

Robinson let out a deep sigh.

“Gangs are like rats. They’re always the first to sense danger. With their connections to the government elite, they must’ve heard something.”

“So, what does that mean…?”

“If those thugs have gone into hiding, it means they’ll start taking anyone and everyone soon. Stay here, and we’ll be separated, not knowing whether we’re alive or dead. We have to leave.”

Robinson, though uneducated, was not unwise. His actions were swift. The family packed only the essentials into duffel bags and left their home. The streets were eerily empty, with so many people conscripted. Buildings lay in ruins, destroyed by stray artillery shells. Splitting up to leave the city, the family regrouped near the coastline. Robinson pointed to a hidden cave below a cliff.

“There’s a boat concealed there.”

Alan had always wondered why they remained in a shantytown despite their income being enough to move elsewhere. It turned out they had been saving for an escape.

“Grab the rope and descend carefully.”

Alan nodded confidently, but the sight of the crashing waves below made his head spin.

“Pull yourself together. I’ll go first and show you how.”

As Alan watched his father descend, he noticed lights approaching their location—it was the coastal patrol. The fear vanished, replaced by a surge of determination. Alan descended the cliff with strength he hadn’t known he possessed.

“It’s the patrol!”

Once aboard the small boat, Alan explained their situation briefly. From that moment, it became a race against time. Robinson dashed into the control room of the boat. After a long struggle, Robinson, uncharacteristically frustrated, kicked the wall of the control room.

“Damn it. It worked fine last time…”

The mana engine had a starter mechanism to release mana on behalf of those unable to do so, but it seemed broken as there was no response.

“Let me try.”

Unlike his parents, Alan could release mana, albeit in small amounts. He placed his hand on the starter and pressed the button. This time, there was a response.

Vroom.

“Did it work?”

“Let Alan focus,” Mary said as Robinson placed a hand on her shoulder.

Vroom! Vroooom!

This time, the sound of the boat’s engine overlapped with the hum of the patrol vehicle’s engine. If they were caught, it would mean execution by firing squad. Their only chance was to get the boat moving and escape.

“Please,” Robinson and Mary prayed together.

Rat-a-tat-tat!

Finally, the engine roared to life with a deafening noise. Purely mana-powered engines would have been quieter, even silent, but such performance couldn’t be expected from the hybrid engine that had found its way to this impoverished nation. The boat surged forward, cutting roughly through the water. Robinson’s back was drenched as he gripped the wheel, praying the boat could withstand the bullets and that his family would stay safe.

Bang! Bang!

The patrol officers fired without hesitation, their bullets sending up violent splashes of water around the boat. Mary, trembling, shielded her son, who had grown taller than her, with her body. Time seemed to stretch endlessly, and her heart felt like it might burst.

“It worked!”

Alan, who had been crouched down and fiddling with something, shouted triumphantly.

Wooooom.

Bang!

Two sounds overlapped. One was the gunfire, as expected, and the other was the sound of a blue barrier unfolding. A shimmering shield of light enveloped the wheelhouse. Mary collapsed onto the deck, her legs giving out beneath her. Her eyes followed the bullets sliding off the shield. Without it, one of those bullets would have undoubtedly pierced her head.

The shield shattered after two impacts, but it had bought them enough time to escape. It was no longer needed. The patrol officers, realizing the boat was too far to pursue, turned their vehicle back toward the coast. Reporting the escape and risking reprimand from their superiors was far less appealing than pretending they hadn’t seen anything. After a brief silence, Mary took Alan’s hand, replacing Robinson, who was still steering.

“What was that just now?”

“It’s a shield generator I found in the junkyard. It worked pretty well, but now it’s completely broken and unusable.”

“How did you learn to use something like that?”

Her son had just claimed to have repaired a magical artifact, a skill far beyond what could be learned in Lanka.

“It’s nothing special. The circuit was just disconnected, but someone had thrown it away. I used a soldering iron I found to patch it up. It was only a temporary fix, though—it burned out pretty quickly.”

Alan’s eyelids started to droop. Though his condition had improved somewhat, his frailty persisted. Mary used a bundle of clothes as a makeshift pillow, gently laying Alan’s head on it. Then, like soothing a baby, she softly patted his back.

“Sleep well.”