Blessed Visor

The warm, sulfurous air of the small clearing, a stark contrast to Oakhaven's biting chill, hung heavy around them. Steam hissed from the nearby hot spring, veiling the far side of the field in a ghostly shroud.

"Haven't you heard of undead?" Victor had asked, his voice a low, resonant rumble. He'd removed the plague doctor's mask, revealing a face etched with the harsh lines of time, framed by tightly bound black braids. Now, he began his explanation. "Mana," he said, his voice measured and deliberate, "is like the wind. Some feel it as pressure, others as heat. A rare few even claim to taste it – a metallic tang, or the sharp bite of ozone. I perceive it as a subtle shift in the air, a whisper of scent that changes with its nature." He closed his eyes briefly, as if inhaling an invisible fragrance. "Here, it smells of earth and fire, a potent mix."

David frowned, feeling nothing but the damp chill seeping into his bones.

Victor noticed his unease. "You don't perceive it?"

"Not like that," David admitted.

Victor exchanged a glance with Stark, who leaned against a nearby boulder, his golden gauntlet gleaming in the weak sunlight that pierced the steam. Victor then placed a calloused hand on David's chest, and a jolt of warmth, like a sudden fever, shot through him. It was then that David saw it. Not as wind or scent, but as a swarm of minuscule, shimmering particles, like dust motes caught in a sunbeam, swirling and flowing through his body. They clung to everything – his skin, his clothes, the very air around him – creating an invisible web of connections.

"This…" David began, his voice hushed with awe, "It's like… atoms. Positive and negative charges, creating forces. But also like a gas, diffuse, spread out. You can't really *use* it unless you compress it, concentrate it. Like turning air into liquid, or freezing water into ice. The more compressed, the easier to manipulate."

Victor and Stark exchanged bewildered looks.

"Compress it?" Victor repeated slowly, his brow furrowed.

David gestured vaguely. "Yeah, like… pressure. Force. You need to bring it together to make it do anything." He pointed to Victor's chest. "That… your core. It's like a magnet, attracting and concentrating the mana."

Stark pushed himself off the boulder, a wry grin playing on his lips. "The core *is* the source, old man. Where the power originates. Basic stuff."

"No," David countered, his voice gaining confidence. "The core just gathers it. The mana's everywhere, but it needs something to draw it in. And there are these… lines, these pathways, like pipes or wires, directing the flow." He traced invisible lines in the air with his finger. "Like an architecture, a network inside your body. Depending on where the mana flows—in, out, around—it changes the effect, accelerates or decelerates the… the force."

Victor's eyes narrowed, the scar on his cheek seeming to deepen. "Force? Architecture? These are… unorthodox terms."

David continued, oblivious to their growing confusion, lost in his own explanation. "And it's connected to the mind, too. Your neural network. It fuses with the core, affecting how you imagine the… the attack, the spell. That's what I think you call 'silent casting.' You just… think it, and it happens. But if you can't do that, you need chants, circles, other stuff to create the right… environment."

Victor sighed, rubbing his temples. Stark just chuckled, shaking his head.

"These… physical concepts… are beyond my ken," Victor admitted finally. "But I wished to ascertain your affinity." He produced a crystal ball, about the size of a clenched fist. It pulsed with a soft, ethereal light, the mana within swirling like a miniature nebula. "This will show us your connection to the Network."

He held the crystal ball out to David. "Focus your mind upon it. The way the mana interacts with your essence will reveal your affinity."

Before David could reach for the sphere, the peaceful quiet of the clearing was shattered by the crunch of heavy boots on the grass. Harsh voices, thick with a rough, distinctly British accent, cut through the air.

"There he is! The stranger! Seize him!"

Several figures, clad in mismatched pieces of rough leather and iron armor, burst into the clearing. They were rough-looking men, their faces scarred and weathered, their eyes hard and unforgiving. One, larger than the others, with a thick, bristling beard and a cruel glint in his eye, stepped forward, brandishing a rusty halberd.

"By order of Chief Elmsworth," he barked, his voice thick with a northern English accent, "you're under arrest! And don't try any funny business, or you'll find yourselves acquainted with the business end of this." He gestured with the halberd, the blade glinting menacingly.

David blinked, utterly bewildered. He hadn't even touched the crystal ball. He looked at Victor and Stark, a silent plea for help in his eyes. Stark simply raised an eyebrow, a sardonic grin spreading across his face. "Well, looks like your tutorial is going to have to wait, old man."

Victor sighed, his expression grim. "It seems our… discussion has been interrupted." He looked at David with a look of concern. "It seems you've drawn some unwanted attention."