Pulling a mana shard from his pocket, he recalled the magician’s words: Stay calm, feel the mana. He closed his eyes and focused on the shard. There—faint but unmistakable—he felt a warmth. His pulse quickened. Carefully, almost timidly, he reached for it. A tingling sensation coursed through him as the mana began to flow into his mana core, deep behind his navel—the center of his magic.

He hadn’t realized how good it would feel to be replenished with mana. Exhausted, he sank to the ground. At last, he had gained some time. But the shard was now empty, nearly useless. A magician could refill it and use it as currency, but in its current state, it was hardly worth keeping. Still, Naethan slipped it back into his pocket.

Only five shards remained—far too few to last long. Maybe they’d get him through the evening, but time was ticking relentlessly. What should he do now? Seek out the magician again? Master Alaric had warned him not to let anyone know about the crystal. He had seemed rushed, almost as if he wanted to rid himself of it quickly.

Show it only to the Archmage, Alaric had said. He alone knows what to do with it.

Perhaps Naethan could use the loop to gather more mana shards. But how? He didn’t have enough shards for gambling.

Should he work? An hourly wage might be enough to sustain him with mana, but what about food, water, and a place to sleep? Normally, he would have used mana shards for those needs, but now they were his only lifeline in the loop. Begging, he thought hesitantly. Maybe I could memorize the faces of those willing to give me shards.

The thought repulsed him—stooping so low was a foreign concept to him. But time was running out. Pride was a luxury he couldn’t afford. He shook his head as if to clear his doubts and crouched in the dirt to adjust his appearance. With trembling fingers, he smeared dirt on his face until his cheeks and forehead looked blotchy.

There was no time for perfection. He stumbled toward the main street, his heart pounding. The streets were busy, bustling and loud. Perfect. This has to work, he thought, forcing himself to keep moving. The pull inside him reminded him how little time he had left.

Sitting on the street, his face and clothes smeared with dirt, he held out his hand and pleaded, “Just one shard… please.” People rushed past without a glance or shot him disdainful looks, as though he were just another piece of trash by the roadside. His hope dwindled with every second. This was a stupid idea, he thought bitterly. Begging wasn’t working—not here, not in this city.

He scanned the crowd desperately. If they wouldn’t give… why not take? His eyes locked onto a man leisurely making his way down the street—a classic rich merchant, complete with an overstuffed belly and expensive coat. A heavy pouch dangled from his belt, and Naethan could almost hear it jingling.

He’s bound to have shards. And if not, something I can sell. His breathing quickened. It was risky, but time was against him. The pull inside him grew stronger, like an invisible knot tightening around him. He couldn’t afford to wait any longer.

Naethan wiped his sweaty hands on his pants and stood up. His legs felt shaky, but he forced them to move. Slowly, inconspicuously, he followed the man, his mind racing. He had never stolen from anyone before, but now he had no other choice. Just one shard, he told himself, and I’ll be one step closer.

When the man turned into an alley, Naethan seized his chance. Now or never. He hurried after him, his heart pounding in his chest. The noise of the main street faded, and the shadows of the alley wrapped around him. But as he peered around the corner, the man was gone.

What the…? Naethan froze, blinking into the darkness. He couldn’t have just vanished.

“Did you really think you could steal from me so easily?”

The voice made him jump. He spun around, his eyes wide with shock. The man stood a few steps behind him, his large belly shaking with suppressed laughter. His small, sharp eyes studied Naethan, and he slowly twirled the heavy pouch in his hand.

“You don’t look like a common thief. Or a beggar.” The man took a step closer, and Naethan instinctively backed away until his back pressed against the cold brick wall of the alley. “So? Why would someone like you take such a risk? Are you in debt?”

Naethan remained silent, his thoughts racing. What should he say? Lie? Tell the truth? Before he could decide, the man laughed again, a guttural, satisfied sound. “How old are you, boy?”

Naethan hesitated. “Sixteen.” His voice was shaky, and he hated himself for it.

“Sixteen.” The man nodded, as if confirming something important. “And why are you out here alone, without protection, without… anything? Hmm?” He shook the pouch in his hand, the soft jingling of mana shards filling the air. “What are you really after?”

“I need money for the journey to the mage academy.” Naethan’s voice sounded more determined than he felt.

The man raised an eyebrow, a bemused smile playing on his lips. “The mage academy, is it? You do know you need a letter of recommendation from a magician just to be considered, right?”

Naethan hesitated, his fingers twitching. Slowly, his hand drifted toward his pocket, where the letter lay—the only thing legitimizing him, the only thing tying him to this world. The man’s eyes followed the movement, and he chuckled softly.

“So you have one.” His smile widened, and for a moment, it seemed almost dangerous. “You’re getting more interesting by the second, boy.”

Naethan felt the pull inside him grow stronger. He knew his time was running out. Part of him wanted to give in, to relinquish control and let the loop start over. Maybe it would be easier, maybe he could do better. But what if it was worse this time? What if he missed something crucial because he gave up?

He gritted his teeth and forced himself to stay upright, though his legs felt as heavy as lead. “What do you want?” he asked, his voice unsteady but laced with a hint of defiance.

The man studied him in silence for a moment before holding out the pouch with a sly grin. “I have a proposition. Do something for me, and I’ll give you enough shards to fund your journey. What do you say?”

Naethan hesitated. Should he accept this offer from the merchant? “Depends. What do I have to do?” The man smirked. “Oh, nothing difficult. Just pick something up and deliver it to Valmor, the city of mages. Shouldn’t be a problem for you, especially since you’re headed there anyway.” That did sound simple enough. “What’s the catch?”

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“There isn’t one,” the man said with a wink.

Naethan eyed him skeptically. “And why should I trust you?”

The man laughed, a deep, guttural sound that echoed in the narrow alley. “Trust is for fools, boy. You’re doing this for yourself—not for me. After all, you need mana, don’t you?”

Naethan exhaled quietly. Mana, not shards. Of course the man knew. It was as if he could sense the emptiness inside him, the void consuming him from within.

“If it’s so easy, why don’t you do it yourself?” Naethan asked.

The man’s grin widened, and a shadow flickered across his eyes. “Because I have more important matters to attend to. But you… you’re the perfect person for this. No one will give you a second glance.”

A cold shiver ran down Naethan’s spine. It wasn’t a threat, yet there was something unsettling in the man’s tone.

“Well? Are you in?” The man extended his hand, his grin almost inviting—but Naethan couldn’t help feeling like a mouse staring at a trap.

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The magician’s workshop was cluttered with all sorts of odds and ends, and Naethan wondered how anyone could keep track of the books, scrolls, glass flasks, and strange contraptions scattered around.

“You said someone sent you to pick something up?” The magician was an odd figure. His black, greasy hair was neatly combed back, and he sported a three-day beard along with dark circles under his eyes, as though he hadn’t slept in days. Beneath his lip was a large mole so pronounced that Naethan wondered how the man managed to eat.

“Yes, that’s right. Felix von Rothenburg sent me.”

The flask the magician was handling slipped from his fingers and shattered on the expensive floor.

“Felix von Rothenburg?!” The magician stared at Naethan as if he’d just uttered the name of a dead god. His hand trembled as he looked at the shards of glass, and a curse escaped his lips.

“Uh… yeah,” Naethan stammered. “He said I should pick something up. Is that a problem?”

The magician looked up, the dark circles under his eyes seeming even deeper. “A problem? Boy, this isn’t a problem. This is a bloody disaster.”

Naethan swallowed hard. “What… what does that mean?”

The magician snorted and sank into a wobbly chair. “Felix von Rothenburg is not someone you deal with unless you have no choice. And if he sent you, you’re either incredibly stupid—or incredibly dangerous.”

“I’m neither,” Naethan murmured, though his voice lacked conviction.

The magician shook his head, reached into a drawer, and pulled out a small, sealed box. “Here. Take it and leave. And if you’re smart, don’t ask what’s inside.”

Naethan took the box carefully. It was heavier than he’d expected, and the cold metal felt unsettling. “What… what does it do?”

“You don’t want to know.” The magician leaned forward, his eyes burning with seriousness. “And I mean that literally. Some things are better left unknown.”

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The next morning, after spending the night in an inn and enjoying a hearty meal, Naethan faced a new problem. The harbor lay eerily quiet, and trade had significantly diminished recently. The few merchant ships still operating were under strict scrutiny, and Naethan suspected that whatever he was carrying was on the list of prohibited items.

So, he did what any time-loop traveler would do—he observed the movements of the harbor guards.

Near one of the merchant ships, several men had gathered. Two wore the uniforms of the harbor guard, and Naethan watched as they pulled a sailor aside and searched a heavy sack.

“Contraband,” one of the guards said, his voice sharp as a blade. “This could cost you your head, my friend.”

The sailor protested loudly, but the guards were unmoved. Naethan retreated deeper into the shadows, trying to ignore his heart pounding like a blacksmith’s hammer.

What if they searched his box? He shook his head, trying to calm himself. They’d have to catch him in the act first. He studied their movements closely. Was the guard distracted at that very moment? He thought he saw an opening to sneak aboard.

The pull inside him grew stronger, and he hesitated to use another shard. Should he try now or wait for the next loop, when he was more certain? He could try now, and if it failed, he could give in to the pull and try again.

Naethan pressed his hands against the cold, rough wall, keeping his eyes on the guards. Just one brief moment. The right moment. His heart was still racing, but he forced himself to stay focused.

The two guards were distracted—one inspecting a crate while the other argued loudly with a dockworker. The entrance to the ship was unguarded, a ramp of thick wooden planks leading into the cargo hold. This was his chance.

He closed his eyes briefly, feeling the pull inside him grow stronger. Not now. He took a deep breath. I only have this one shot. If it goes wrong… He shook the thought away. If it goes wrong, I have the loop.

Naethan stepped out of the shadows, moving as quietly as he could. The ramp was slick from the sea air, and the weight of the box in his pocket pulled at him like a leaden stone. He felt his body almost betray him—a tremor in his legs, a too-quick breath. But he forced himself forward.

As he was nearly at the top, a shout rang out behind him.

“Hey, you there! Stop!”

Damn it, Naethan thought, breaking into a run. But as he reached the deck, someone stepped into his path.

Naethan sighed. It was time to start over.

He gave in to the pull.

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The loop began like every other. Naethan already knew what would happen—every move, every word, even the sound of Felix’s laughter when his attempt at theft failed. But this time, something was different. The pull still tugged at him, but it felt weaker, almost patient. It was as though something inside him had grown stronger.

Naethan left the inn early in the morning. The streets were damp with fog that had rolled in overnight, and the salty scent of the harbor tickled his nose. As he walked through the alleys, he closed his eyes briefly, reaching inward. His mana core, the small spark deep within him, pulsed faintly but steadily. Had it truly grown?

The thought made him pause. Every loop, every exhaustion, every emptiness—could it all be making him stronger in the end? Naethan shook his head, brushing the thought aside. He didn’t have time for this. Today, he had to succeed.

At the harbor, he found shelter in the shadow of a stack of crates. The scene was familiar: guards patrolling, merchants unloading goods, and sailors carrying crates onto a large merchant ship. But Naethan had memorized their routines by now. He knew when the guards were distracted and which routes the sailors preferred.

His eyes followed one of the harbor guards, a broad-shouldered man with a scratchy beard who always looked toward the bell whenever it rang.

The bell tolled, and, as expected, the guard turned away. Naethan held his breath. Now was the moment. He slipped from his hiding spot, moving as quietly and smoothly as a shadow. The ramp of thick wooden planks stretched before him, each step a small risk. The box in his pocket pressed uncomfortably against his hip, as if to remind him of all he had to lose.

But then he was at the top. The deck of the ship stretched out before him, wide and sturdy, the intricately carved railings gleaming in the faint morning light. Naethan paused, his gaze sweeping over the towering masts that stood like silent sentinels against the sky.

An actual merchant ship, he thought, awestruck. Impressive. The thought was so unexpected that it almost made him smile. His fingers rested on the box in his pocket, but his eyes continued to wander. The water below sparkled, the sound of waves soothing. Maybe I could travel like this... see the world.

He shook his head, banishing the thought. “Focus,” he muttered to himself, making his way toward the cargo hold. The scent of tar and damp wood greeted him as he descended the ramp. The shadows were deep, and the sounds of the harbor were muffled here.

He found a hiding spot behind a large crate, sitting on the cold floor with his back against the wood. His heart still beat fast, but this time, it wasn’t fear he felt. It was relief—and something new.

He closed his eyes and reached inward. His mana core was still small, but there was a difference. He felt… steadier. Stronger. Am I really growing through all this loss? The thought almost made him laugh, but he knew better than to celebrate too soon. The pull was still there, albeit weaker. The loop wouldn’t let him rest for long.

Suddenly, he heard footsteps above him, the dull thud of boots on the planks. He pressed himself deeper into the shadows, holding his breath as the sounds grew closer. A sailor appeared at the entrance to the cargo hold—a slender man with sharp eyes. He glanced around briefly before picking up a crate and carrying it up the ramp. Naethan didn’t breathe again until the footsteps faded.

The ship began to sway gently as it left the harbor. Naethan felt the movement beneath him and knew there was no turning back—not in this loop, at least. He leaned against the crate that concealed him and took a deep breath.

“Valmor,” he murmured softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m coming.”