Peace. Peace. Inner peace."

  I chanted the words like a mantra, sitting cross-legged on the damp, rotting roots of a massive tree.

  Who am I kidding? How the hell am I supposed to find 'peace' in this goddamn forest?

  The place was a nightmare. The canopy was so thick it strangled the sunlight, leaving the forest floor in a perpetual, gloomy twilight. Every snap of a twig sounded like a gunshot; every rustle in the bushes sounded like a predator licking its chops. It was creepier than hell, and frankly, I was half-expecting a jump scare at any moment.

  "Focus, Ragna," I muttered, squeezing my eyes shut. "Meditate. Find your center."

  Growl.

  "Shut up, stomach. We’re doing spiritual stuff."

  Giving up on meditation for the moment, I sighed and opened my eyes. Survival first. Enlightenment later. I looked down at the small leather pouch my father had pressed into my hand just before the banishment. It looked pathetic—a tiny thing, barely large enough to hold a handful of coins.

  But when I tugged the drawstring open, I felt the unmistakable hum of spatial magic.

  "A Spatial Bag," I whispered. "Old man, you spoil me."

  I reached inside. My hand disappeared into the impossible depth of the pouch.

  First, I pulled out a sword. It wasn't a toy. It was a sleek, lethal blade made of dark steel, perfectly balanced for my current size. I gave it a few experimental swings. Swish. Swish. Nice.

  Next came two envelopes and a small, heavy wooden box.

  I picked up the first letter. On the front, in my father’s strong, jagged handwriting, it read: "For Ragna." The second one was sealed with red wax and marked: "Open when you are 10."

  I stashed the second letter back into the bag and broke the seal on the first.

  My Dear Ragna,

  I knew. From the moment you turned four and we checked your spiritual world, I knew you didn't have a core. I saw the emptiness.

  Your grandfather... he is a man of tradition. He did not look at you with kindness. But I saw something else. When I watched you in the garden, wielding a sword with a mastery that no child should possess, I was not just surprised. I was awestruck.

  You are different, my son. And different can be dangerous. But it can also be great.

  I cannot stop the banishment. The laws of the Crimson family are absolute. But I can give you a fighting chance. In this box, you will find what you asked for. I have moved mountains to find them.

  Remember this: Talent is a spark, but hard work is the fire. You can achieve anything if you possess the will to burn for it.

  These items are precious. They are dangerous. Whatever you plan to do with them... do it carefully.

  Do not die.

  Your Father,

  Akira Crimson

  I stared at the paper, my vision blurring slightly. "Stupid dad," I sniffed, wiping my nose on my sleeve. "Writing sentimental crap like that. Trying to make me cry?"

  I folded the letter carefully and placed it in my pocket, right next to my heart.

  "Alright," I said, my voice hardening. "Let's see the goods."

  I placed the wooden box on the mossy ground. It was heavy, made of ironwood and bound with runic seals. I undid the latch. Click.

  As the lid creaked open, a wave of heat and power blasted into my face.

  "Woah..."

  I scrambled back, shielding my eyes. The aura radiating from the box was suffocating. It was dense, heavy, and ancient. The air around the box shimmered, distorting the light.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  I leaned in, peering through the magical haze. Inside lay a single feather, burning with an internal, undying light, and a scale that seemed to absorb all the light around it.

  "What the freaking goddamn heck!" I yelped, my elite vocabulary failing me completely. "This aura is too dense. This isn't just a high-tier item. This is not a normal phoenix wing."

  My hands trembled as I reached out.

  "This... This…”

  "This... This is Phiona’s Wing! And that... that is Mizuki’s Scale!"

  My hands shook so hard I almost dropped the box. How the hell did he get these? Did my father rob a museum of the gods?

  Phiona, the Phoenix Empress. She isn't just a bird; she is the mother of the Four True Phoenixes. Her essence gave birth to the entire race. Looking closely at the feather, I could see why. It wasn't just purple; it was a deep, cosmic violet, swirling with patterns that looked like starry galaxies trapped in silk.

  And Mizuki. The Invincible Dragon. One of the Four True Dragons. He’s the serpentine progenitor, the father of all Chinese-style dragons. His scale was the color of deep, ancient jade, shimmering with a power that felt heavy, like the weight of a mountain.

  "This is insane," I whispered, wiping sweat from my forehead. "I asked for rare items. I didn't ask for pieces of deities."

  But as the shock wore off, a gears-turning grin spread across my face.

  If I don't have a core, that means my Qi is really faint right now. It makes me effectively excluded from using Mana. A normal person would give up. A normal person would accept their fate as a cripple.

  But if I use the science of my previous world?

  I know, I know. I sound absurd. 'Ragna, how are you going to make something that is biological and spiritual using physics?'

  But you know what? I’m the protagonist. Or something like that. I have the power of modern memories—science that these magic-obsessed locals never bothered to learn because they could just wave a wand. And, let’s be honest, I definitely have plot-bending powers. The writer clearly favors me.

  (I think he favors me. If not, I’m screwed. Ha ha ha.)

  "I have to merge them," I muttered, my eyes locking onto the two artifacts. "I will use my faint Qi to force a fusion. A nuclear fusion of spiritual energy. I’ll act as the containment field. I'll forge a core myself, and then... I'll merge it into my own soul."

  It was suicide. It was madness. It was perfect.

  I sat down on the mossy roots, placing the feather in my left hand and the scale in my right. I closed my eyes.

  "Time to cook."

  The Forging of the Void

  The forest grew silent. The birds stopped singing. The wind stopped blowing.

  Ragna Crimson, a child of six, sat motionless in the twilight. To a casual observer, he looked like he was sleeping. But inside his consciousness—in the spiritual world—a war was beginning.

  He drew upon the faint threads of his own life force, the meager Qi that sustained his existence, and wrapped them around the two calamitous artifacts.

  It didn't start with a flash. It started with pain.

  Day 3

  The pain was a dull throb at first, a headache that wouldn't go away. But as Ragna tried to push the opposing energies of the Phoenix and the Dragon together, the headache turned into a migraine that felt like a hot iron spike being driven into his skull.

  In his mind, he was trying to push two repelling magnets together. The Galaxy-Purple fire of Phiona wanted to consume him; the heavy Green pressure of Mizuki wanted to crush him.

  Month 2

  The physical toll became visible. Ragna hadn't moved. His breathing was shallow, ragged.

  His skin began to crack. Thin, spiderweb fractures appeared on his arms and neck, glowing with a faint, eerie light. He was bleeding, but the blood didn't drip; it sizzled and evaporated against the heat radiating from his skin.

  He was using his own life force as the glue. It was agonizing. Every second felt like his soul was being put through a meat grinder. But he held on. His will was iron. He refused to let the energies separate.

  Year 1

  The boy was barely recognizable. He was a statue of dried blood and grime. Vines had started to grow over his legs.

  Inside the spiritual world, the two artifacts were no longer solid. They had liquefied under the pressure of Ragna’s relentless will. A swirling vortex of Purple and Green was forming, fighting the merger, trying to tear Ragna’s mind apart.

  Blood flowed freely from his closed eyes, his ears, his nose. His body trembled violently, muscles tearing and re-knitting in a cycle of torture. But the rotation of the energy was stabilizing. The sphere was forming.

  Year 2: The Completion

  Ragna’s hair had grown long, cascading down his back in a wild, white mane. His clothes were rags.

  In the depths of his soul, the final barrier shattered.

  With a mental scream that echoed only in the void, Ragna slammed the two energies together. The Phoenix fire and the Dragon might fused.

  BOOM!

  A pillar of light erupted from the forest. It pierced the canopy, shooting straight into the stratosphere, shaking the very tectonic plates of the region.

  Miles away, at the Southern Gate, Akira Crimson froze. The soldiers around him stumbled as the ground lurched.

  Akira looked toward the forest, his face draining of color. He felt it. A pressure so ancient, so terrifying, that his knees buckled.

  "That aura..." he whispered, his hand gripping the stone railing until it cracked. "That is the Empress Phiona... and the Invincible Mizuki."

  "Sir! Is it an invasion?" a lieutenant cried, unsheathing his sword with trembling hands.

  "Stand down," Akira ordered, his voice tight. "If those two are fighting, we are already dead."

  He watched the light fade, his heart pounding. For a split second, a wild, impossible thought crossed his mind.

  Ragna?

  He shook his head violently. No. Impossible. He is a child without a core. He would be vaporized instantly.

  Akira turned away, dismissing the thought.

  Back in the forest, the light vanished. The silence returned.

  Ragna sat there. His skin was pale, translucent. His long white hair floated around him as if he were underwater. Slowly, agonizingly, he opened his eyes.

  They were glowing brighter than ever before. But the light faded quickly as his body registered the trauma.

  He coughed—a wet, hacking sound—and spewed a mouthful of dark blood onto the forest floor.

  "Heh..."

  His vision went black. His body tipped over, hitting the moss with a soft thud. He had done it. He had forged the impossible. But the price was total exhaustion.

  The boy slept.