Monitoring & conditions..

I woke before the nurses’ rounds, not because I meant to, but because sleep refused to settle properly in my body.

Lying still felt uncomfortable, as if something inside me was itching to come out.

When I sat up too quickly, a sharp pressure bloomed behind my eyes—late, delayed—then faded just as suddenly. I stood up, and steadied myself.

I rolled my shoulders, rotated my neck, then clenched and unclenched my hands. The movements felt… clean. Too clean. No stiffness. No lingering fatigue. My body obeyed instantly, without complaint, without hesitation, like it hadn’t been through anything traumatic at all.

Slowly, memories surfaced—things I hadn’t thought about in years. Things I used to ignore because they never seemed to matter to someone like me.

Back at the academy, they drilled this into us relentlessly.

Magic is defined by five distinct affinities.

Manipulation — Controlling elements with mana. Like Hammer Head Oji-san’s Water Hammer. Manipulation affinity is divided into six sub-categories based on the element.
Fire.
Water.
Wind.
Earth.
Light.
Dark.

Only one element is accessible to a user from birth, and while mixtures exist—rare combinations formed from the six original elements—they are almost always unstable, or so specialized that most mages never make practical use of them.

Because of its sheer range and adaptability, Manipulation has become the most common magical affinity in the world. Flexible. Reliable. Safe.

I never had much talent for it.

Endurance — Strengthening one’s own body and nearby objects through mana reinforcement. Like Instructor Lee. Endurance has a steep learning curve and demands rigid, often brutal training to master.

Most people who awaken with this affinity fail to utilize its full potential. They reinforce poorly, overexert, or burn through their mana too quickly.

However, those with discipline—and a mentality capable of enduring pain and monotony—have risen to top-ranking mage status in a shockingly short amount of time with Endurance alone.

I remembered watching Instructor Lee crush stone with his bare hands, breathing evenly as if it were nothing.

I remembered knowing, even then, that I didn’t have that kind of resolve.

Producer — Creation of objects out of mana.

A rare affinity. It allows the user to form a bond with specific constructs, recreating them anytime they wish. In theory, it’s limitless. In practice, it demands immense mana flow and precision.

Most people born with Producer either quit being mages altogether or fade into mediocrity. Their creations are too fragile. Too slow. Not strong enough to fight real opponents.

Geniuses are the exception. And I had never been one.

Generic — Mimicking the properties of elements or objects on one’s own body by circulating mana internally and externally.

It places notorious mental and physical strain on the user. Muscle tearing. Mana backlash. Cognitive overload. Mastery is a pipe dream for most mages who attempt it.

And then—

Rogue.

A rare affinity that’s still debated among scholars whether it even exists.

Anyone can use basic skills with enough practice—Conceal, Fast-step, Heal, various buffs. But affinities are different.

They are permanently set from birth.

However, not everyone is born with full compatibility.

It’s rare, but genetic anomalies do occur. Some people show 50–70% affinity in one category and 10–30% in another. Those people are usually labeled “unstable” and quietly pushed into support roles—or out of the system entirely.

Guild roles are structured around these affinities.
All-Rounder. Assassin. Lancer. Supporter. Ranger.

They’re interchangeable depending on guild needs, but always aligned to what a mage is allowed to be good at.

I had fit nowhere cleanly.

Back then, I assumed that was my failure.

Now, I wasn’t so sure.

I tested small movements after that. Stretching my arms. Shifting my weight from foot to foot. Nothing strenuous, nothing reckless.

The feedback was inconsistent.

Fatigue arrived late, then all at once. Pain lagged behind motion, sometimes skipping it entirely. It wasn’t that my body felt stronger.

It felt out of sync.

Like the signals were arriving out of order. Like the message and the response had been separated by a delay I couldn’t perceive.

A nurse caught me moving in the corridor and told me to get back to bed. She wasn’t angry—just confused. She glanced at my chart, then at me, as if the two didn’t agree.

“You shouldn’t be walking yet,” she said carefully.

“I feel fine,” I replied.

She hesitated, then nodded slowly. “Still. Orders are orders.”

Another staff member made a note without saying anything. His eyes lingered on me longer than necessary. I apologized and complied, but the feeling stayed with me.

My body was being watched. Measured.

And still, no one seemed certain what they were looking at.

Later, alone again, I pushed a little further than I should have.

Not training—just curiosity.

I stood near the bed and bent my knees slightly, testing balance. Then a little deeper. Then one-legged. I didn’t feel strain, so I went further.

I misjudged it.

My legs gave out without warning, and I barely caught myself before collapsing. There had been no gradual burn. No clear sign to stop.

Just failure.

For a moment, I couldn’t tell whether I’d gone too far, or whether my body had simply stopped telling me when I was supposed to.

The pain faded faster than it should have. Not in a way that felt relieving—but hollow, as if something had been skipped. Like a sentence missing its middle.

I stayed seated long after it was gone, staring at my hands, trying to remember what my limits were supposed to feel like.

If I couldn’t sense them anymore, I wasn’t sure how I was meant to avoid crossing them.

That thought scared me more than the idea of pain ever had.

That night, I lay awake in the quiet hospital room. The city lights outside flickered faintly through the curtains. Machines hummed softly. Somewhere down the hall, someone coughed.

My body felt fine.

Too fine.

The pendant lay untouched on the bedside table. Time hadn’t frozen. Nothing unusual had happened.

And yet, I felt less certain of myself than I had the day before.

As if something essential had shifted without asking my permission.

As if the clock hadn’t just turned back—

But rewired the way I moved forward.