The road stretched out before him, dusty and lonely, as the boy moved forward, leaving behind the village that had been his home. With each step, the echoes of the past resounded in his mind, especially the stories his mother used to tell him when the nights were colder and the hunger was more unbearable.

He walked without a clear destination, but the rhythm of his footsteps seemed to match the cadence of his memories. His mother, despite the poverty and harshness of life, always had a story ready for him, an escape into a world where magic wasn’t the only thing that defined people. One of those stories, about a distant land called China, came to his mind.

“In China,” his mother would say as she wrapped him in a thin blanket, “the ancient sages spoke of the Tao, the path that everyone should follow. It wasn’t a path of power, but of balance. The dragons, guardians of that land, were not destructive beings, but symbols of wisdom and protection. The people who followed the Tao didn’t need magic to be great; it was enough to understand their place in the world and live in harmony with it.”

The boy could clearly see the images his mother had painted with her words. In his mind, the landscapes of China unfolded like a dream: tall mountains shrouded in clouds, winding rivers gleaming under the moonlight, and the dragons, majestic and serene, floating above them like invisible guardians.

He kept walking, his steps growing more determined. Another memory surfaced, this time about India, a place his mother described as the land of the gods.

“In India,” his mother once said, her voice filled with mystery, “men and women believe in reincarnation, that our souls don’t end when we die, but return, over and over, learning more with each life. No matter how much we suffer, there is always a new chance to change, to grow. The gods of India don’t just watch from the sky; they walk among men, disguised as mortals.”

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

The boy smiled to himself. Even though he couldn’t control mana like others, his mother’s stories had always given him a spark of hope. If the cycle of life was real, then perhaps his suffering was just part of something bigger. Maybe, like in the stories of India, he too would have a new chance to find his place in the world.

As the landscape changed, becoming steeper, he recalled another of the stories, one about Japan.

“In Japan, spirits, or Kami, live in everything,” his mother had explained with a special gleam in her eyes. “Every tree, every river, every rock has a Kami that protects it. The samurai, the warriors of Bushido, lived with honor, not for power, but out of respect for those Kami and for others. They didn’t need magic to be great, only the strength of their spirit.”

The boy looked up at the sky, wondering if the Kami were also present in the world around him now, protecting the places he passed through. He felt that, even though he was just a boy without magic, those stories connected him to something bigger, something deeper than the simple power of mana.

His mother’s memory, her soft and warm voice, accompanied him with every step. The stories she had told him weren’t just tales of fantasy; they were lessons that, now as he traveled the world, began to take on new meaning. She had given him something more valuable than magic: the ability to imagine, to believe that there was more to life than what his eyes could see.

Despite the pain of loss, those stories gave him strength. He had no home, no clear destination, but his mother’s words were his guide, his compass in a world that would otherwise be dark and uncertain.

And so, the boy continued onward, leaving behind not just his village, but also his past. He walked toward an uncertain future, but with his mother’s tales etched in his heart, knowing that, somewhere, he would find the answers he sought.