"If I really want to master Dragon Tongue Magic... I’ll need more than just knowing the words. I’ll need the kind of heart that can support it. A heart that can move mana like dragons do. Otherwise..."
He stopped mid-sentence, slowly clenching his fist.
"...this kind of power will destroy me from the inside. For dragons, mana is the same as life. But for humans like me? It’s not. We use it up. We burn through it. We run out. They live through it. But for us... it’s dangerous."
Fenric fell quiet for a long time. He stared at his own hand, watching how small traces of mana glowed faintly along his veins. It looked cool—shining like magic—but it was still a weak copy of what real dragons had.
"They’re not like us," he whispered. "They’re completely different from every other living creature."
Most living beings had two separate systems in their body. Blood flowed through veins to keep them alive. Mana had its own path—it moved through spirit channels or magic veins, sometimes through a core. The two systems only met at certain points, and that too in a limited way.
"But dragons... they don’t split it up like that," Fenric said with a quiet awe in his voice. "They’ve evolved differently."
In a dragon’s body, the heart wasn’t just a pump for blood. It was the center of their whole existence.
"One heart. One network. One stream. Their blood is mana, and mana is their blood. Every drop moving through their body holds life and magic at once. That’s why dragons don’t need chants or fancy circles. Their body is already full of magic—always active, always ready."
And that was the main difference.
"Dragon Tongue Magic doesn’t just need mana. It needs mana-infused blood. Vital energy that’s deeply mixed with magic. You can’t fake it with shortcuts or cheap tricks."
He leaned back in his chair, thinking hard, going over the facts in his mind.
"For a human, casting magic means gathering mana, shaping it, then releasing it. That whole process takes effort, time, and skill. But dragons? They just speak the words. Their mana is already flowing in their blood, moving through every part of them. The spell activates the moment they speak. No delay. No failure."
Fenric’s fingers slowly tightened over the edge of the tome.
"If I want to use this kind of magic the right way... I’ll have to change how my body works."
The Sloth Dragon King’s blood inside him gave him a starting point. A seed of potential from a dragon. But that potential was sleeping, slow to move. It needed time. It needed something to stir it up—like training, strong emotions, maybe even a special ritual.
"I’ll have to build a mana-blood network in my own body. Reroute how my energy flows. Maybe even change how my heart works."
But so was reading a dragon’s ancient magic book inside a secret dimension left behind by a legendary Grandmaster.
And yet, here he was.
A quiet smile crossed his face.
"Alright. If the price of gaining this power is changing what I am... then I’ll pay it. I’ve already left the normal path behind."
His eyes narrowed with quiet resolve.
"Becoming a king wasn’t meant for ordinary humans anyway."
Fenric exhaled slowly, letting the thoughts fade like mist from the surface of the lake. There would be time for theory—later. For now, practice was king.
He rolled his shoulders, stood up, and took a few measured steps across the grassy clearing, settling into a stable stance. The tome floated beside him, flipping to the elemental page like a dutiful servant.
"Alright," he said, flexing his fingers. "Back to the basics."
He held out his left hand, focusing not on power—but precision.
A stream of water burst upward from his palm like a miniature fountain, dancing briefly in the air before falling harmlessly into the grass. The spell wasn’t strong—but it was smooth, stable, almost playful in how it obeyed.
"Nice. Let’s try something else."
The moment the words left his mouth, vines of solid earth surged from the ground, wrapping around an invisible target before crumbling gently into dust.
"Too soft," he muttered, already adjusting his posture. "Stronger intent."
This time, the vines came thicker, sharper—binding tight before snapping back like a coiled whip. Fenric nodded in approval.
A gust of wind swept forward in a cone, rustling the plains grass ahead like a living wave. It kicked up dust, disturbed a few startled birds, and then settled once more.
The rhythm was settling in now. The feedback loop between word and effect was growing tighter. His brain was starting to associate sensation with syllables, a new language being etched into his nerves.
A spear of pure shadow jutted forward from his fingertips—silent, sleek, cold. It faded almost instantly, but the chill it left behind crawled over his skin like a whisper from the void.
"...That’s going to need caution."
Then he raised both hands this time.
A bubble of radiant light shimmered into existence around him—like a soft sun forged into a shield. It blocked the wind, glowed warmly, and slowly dimmed into nothing as he let go of the command.
He exhaled, blinking rapidly as a bit of sweat rolled down his temple.
His heartbeat had picked up, and his limbs were a little heavier.
The book had warned him.
Don’t practice more than five spells per session when starting out.
He could feel the drag on his energy—not quite exhaustion, but that edge of strain where pushing further might backfire.
Fenric sat down again, dropping into the grass with a quiet thud.
The lake glimmered at his side, still undisturbed. The floating tome hovered down beside him, closing its current page with an approving hum.
He let his head tilt back, staring up at the sky.
"Not bad for a beginner," he murmured, lips curling faintly. "But this... this is just the foundation."