It turns out that when you’re locked in a silent, mana-steeped meditation cell for an unknown number of days with nothing but your thoughts and a stack of scrolls and books for company, your mind does… things.

  Terrible things.

  Like introspection.

  By day three, I had finished reading the available scrolls twice. By day four, I had started annotating them. By day five, I was arguing with them. Loudly. To no one. I’d like to say it was a form of scholarly discourse, but let’s be honest—I was spiraling in sacred isolation.

  One of the scrolls was titled “The Veil and the Mirror: On the Nature of Awakening”, and it opened with the very comforting line:

  [“To awaken is to risk madness. To look inward is to challenge the lie of self.”]

  Oh. How very lovely.

  I read it anyway. Because what else was I going to do? Stretch? Meditate? Have a spiritual epiphany while doing downward dog? No thank you.

  The scrolls were varied. Some read like poems, others like military debriefings. All tried to capture what it meant to “awaken.” And if you think there’s a standard format to becoming a conduit of divine mana, let me assure you, there is not.

  One record described a knight who awoke during a sandstorm, blinded and lost in the wastes. He said mana revealed itself to him as a single path through the storm. After that, he could sense outcomes. Not all of them, but some. Just enough to win every duel he ever fought.

  Another? A nun who described it as “a thousand birdsong threads binding her limbs.” After that, she could silence a room with a whisper. Literally. As in, she made actual sound vanish.

  Some perceived mana in the wind. Others in color, vibration, rhythm. There was even a cryptic line in one scroll from a long-dead high priest:

  [“One heard it in laughter, but never his own.”]

  That one kind of scared me. Maybe because it sounded like a horror story.

  But what unnerved me most were the records where people awakened into nothing. No light. No song. No vision. They didn’t go mad, they just… lost the ability to sense mana at all.

  And yet, paradoxically, they became more powerful than ever. Interacting with the world as how they perceived it, mana-less.

  The scrolls emphasized that awakening wasn’t about learning to cast spells. Anyone could do that eventually—throwing fireballs, shaping barriers, calling light to their paws. That was the technical side of mana. What awakening unlocked was something deeper. Personal. Something extra.

  Every awakened person walked away with a resonance, a unique ability shaped by the soul, not study.

  One scroll told the story of Inquisitor Quarroth himself, back when he still had two eyebrows and hadn’t yet stared judgment into the marrow of a thousand criminals. When he awakened, he saw a scale.

  A real one. Hovering before him, glimmering with celestial weight.

  He claimed he could measure a person’s karma against his own; good, bad, or indifferent. And if they had done less good than him, if they fell short of his inner balance?

  He terrified them.

  Like, spine-melting, soul-shriveling fear. Not because he was cruel. Because their conscience trembled under the weight of his righteousness. He didn’t just instill fear in the wicked. He instilled fear in those who weren’t good enough.

  I thought I understood myself. I thought I knew what my awakening would look like.

  I mean, I’ve got layers. I’m self-aware. Introspective. Mentally agile for someone with a snub nose and a wobble when I walk. I figured I’d already done the hard part.

  Apparently not.

  Because one scroll hit me like a slap disguised as wisdom:

  [“The unexamined soul does not remain dormant. It rots.”]

  Rude.

  Still, I kept reading. Kept digging. Trying to find a clue as to what my own awakening might be.

  I was hoping for a manual somewhere. But instead, I got philosophy and mild existential dread.

  I sighed and stretched out on the meditation cushion. The runes beneath it tingled faintly against my fur.

  Still… as much as I overthought it, and believe me, I overthought it like it owed me food, I couldn’t help it.

  I was excited.

  Mana. Magic. That thing I’d seen in my old life only through screens.

  Back on Earth, my human used to play RPGs and otome games on her phone for hours. I’d curl up next to her while she tapped away at sparkly dialogue choices or unleashed ridiculous pixelated spells. I couldn’t read the text then—being a dog and all—but I felt the tension, the drama, the boss battles; mainly because of her excitement.

  I don’t want to name it, mostly because I’m not sure Sq*are E*ix lawyers exist in this world, but why tempt fate? Let’s just say it was F*are and involved a lot of emotional trauma.

  The idea that I might be able to do something even half as cool?

  Come on.

  I may be stuck in a body built like a magical bread roll, but that doesn’t mean I’m not itching to throw a little fire around. Tasteful fire. Educational fire. Heroic, destiny-affirming fire. With good lighting.

  But first: food.

  A silent priest-servant brought in a small dish while I was neck-deep in a scroll about metaphysical shadow echoes. No eye contact, no words, just a respectful nod and a quick exit. They left behind a wooden bowl of something grayish and damp that smelled faintly of rice and regret.

  I sniffed it. Then poked it with a paw. Then sniffed it again just in case.

  It wasn’t bad. Just… bland. Like someone had made food while apologizing for the idea of flavor. I ate it anyway. Slowly. It was warm, at least. And my stomach didn’t protest.

  Still, it made me wonder.

  Maybe they didn’t season it on purpose. Maybe too much sensory distraction interfered with the soul? Or maybe the clerics were just terrible cooks. Honestly, hard to tell. The line between “spiritually cleansing” and “culinary war crime” is thinner than you’d think.

  I licked the bowl clean anyway. Not because I’m spiritually enlightened. Just because I’m still a dog.

  The silence returned after that. Pressed close. Heavy again.

  And, as usual, it brought memories with it.

  I thought back to Earth.

  Back to her.

  My human.

  I don’t even remember her name. Isn’t that cruel? I remember the scent of her shampoo and the shape of her hands. I remember the exact timbre of her voice when she called me “Mr. Tater.” I remember how she’d tuck the blanket over me like I was royalty. How she’d let me sleep in late. How she never once made me feel like too much or not enough.

  Here, it’s different.

  In this life, I’m surrounded by holiness. Technically respected. Revered, even.

  But I’m not loved.

  Not really.

  Not by the clerics, who flinch when I snort too loud. Not by the steamblood nobles, who bow to my siblings and pretend I’m part of the furniture. And not even by my mother.

  Lady Aurelith was awe. She was gravity in fur. She watched me with those molten eyes like I was a strange equation she couldn’t quite solve. Not warm. Not cruel. Just… observant.

  I was her child, yes. But never her favorite. Maybe not even her choice.

  And there’s something hollow in realizing that the only time you felt truly cherished was in another life, one where you were ordinary and loved for it.

  Just for a little bit, I curled up on the cushion. Let the candlelight sway against the wall.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Her fingers were warm.

  That was all that mattered.

  They moved slowly through the fur between my ears in a rhythm older than thought. No intention, no ceremony; just the habitual grace of someone who had scratched this exact spot so many times that her hand knew it by muscle memory. That particular arc, that perfect pressure. I leaned into it without meaning to.

  And I didn’t question it.

  Why would I?

  The couch creaked softly beneath us. The kind of old, loyal furniture that didn't so much support you as remember you. Its cushions had long since flattened into familiar valleys. The blanket draped over her knees smelled like detergent, dust, and the slow warmth of idle evenings.

  I was curled into her lap, head on her thigh, half-on, half-sliding, all contentment. Her hoodie sleeve was bunched at the elbow, the fabric worn soft by time. Her phone was in one hand, angled down toward her chest, glowing faint blue. Her thumb tapped at the screen, swiping through menus and dialogue boxes with casual intensity.

  An otome game, obviously. I recognized the telltale aesthetic: pastel lighting, overly symmetrical faces, and the kind of narration that thought breathing near a man was the pinnacle of courtship. One of the suitors had white hair. One had an eyepatch. Of course they did.

  I watched the screen flicker with lovingly drawn pixel art. I understood every word. Understood the mechanics. I even remembered the soundtrack, vaguely annoying but weirdly catchy. It looped in the background like a memory that had never stopped playing.

  None of this struck me as strange.

  I didn’t marvel at the fact that I could comprehend a dating sim now. Didn’t question why my thoughts were forming in full sentences instead of instinctive urges. Instinctively, my body felt smaller somehow, but I didn’t look down. I didn’t want to.

  Because this?

  This was safe.

  Her hand moved from between my ears to behind my jaw, fingers tracing a line down my neck before scratching at the place where my collar used to sit.

  “Good boy, Mr. Tater,” she said, voice so gentle I could fold into it.

  I didn’t cry.

  But something inside me closed its eyes.

  And for a little while, I stopped being anything except loved.

  When I blinked, I was lying on stone.

  Cool, smooth, rune-lined.

  The light had changed. The warmth was gone. And floating silently in the air above me was a small, gently static blue transparent screen.

  〈Pophet, The Gentle Faith That Echoes〉

  [Mana: 0 / 0]

  [Skills: 1]

  I squinted at the numbers.

  Zero.

  Out of zero.

  No fireballs. No floating. No mystical hand gestures followed by a trail of sparkling doom.

  Not even a single mana point. Not even the potential for one. Just an empty promise and a system that had already decided, mathematically, that I didn’t qualify for the magical arts.

  I stared at it a moment longer, hoping maybe a hidden menu would open. A tooltip. A hint. Anything that might suggest my inner mage was just waiting to be toggled on.

  Nothing.

  The screen was very clear.

  I had no mana.

  I had the exact opposite of mana.

  Which meant all those dreams—of casting glowing circles in the air, shouting cool phrases like “Infernal Bloom” or “Celestial Chains” while I struck a dramatic pose—died a quiet, whimpering death in front of a floating system prompt.

  Still, part of me stared at it not in confusion, but in recognition.

  This was how I saw mana.

  Not glowing threads in the wind. Not songs or scales or light.

  A small screen. A self-updating game interface.

  Almost like every RPG I’d ever watched her play.

  Of course it would look like this.

  Of course.

  I let out a breath that came out more like a deflating bellows.

  And then my eyes dropped to the next line.

  Skill: Breath of the Lazy Heavenly Beast

  At last. Through rigorous lying down, you have unlocked a cultivation technique once whispered about by absolutely no one and practiced by even fewer. This questionably divine method draws in Qi, a subtle, ancient energy that almost nobody believes exists anymore, very slowly, almost reluctantly, during moments of complete stillness.

  I read the name again.

  Breath of the Lazy Heavenly Beast.

  My spiritual ability; my one unique resonance with the divine framework of this world, and it read like a slightly disappointed yoga pamphlet for mystical underachievers.

  I stared at it.

  Then back at the [Mana: 0 / 0].

  Then back at the skill name.

  I didn’t know if I should laugh, cry, or roll onto my back and let the non-existent wind in this room just carry me away like a particularly squishy leaf.

  I chose none of those things.

  I just laid down. Slowly. Deliberately.

  And I breathed.

  It might have been minutes. Might’ve been hours. It was hard to tell in a room built specifically to strip you of time.

  The stone was cool beneath me. The cushion just warm enough not to complain about. The blue screen had faded—not gone, just… dimmed.

  I didn’t move.

  And the world, surprisingly, didn’t demand that I did.

  Not until a knock came at the door.

  Three measured taps. Not urgent, but official.

  I blinked. Sat up. My joints made a sound that suggested I’d been lying there longer than I thought. The door creaked open slightly, and a tall figure leaned in.

  High robes. Gold trim. A face that looked like it had been carved out of dry bark and then asked to frown professionally for the rest of time.

  A high-ranked priest.

  “Has the venerable shown any resonance signs?” he asked. His voice was flat, clipped, like he was dictating a grocery list to a very judgmental scribe.

  I stared at him, still half-fogged from wherever I’d been drifting mentally.

  “I’ve awakened,” I said. “I’d like to remain here, though. If that’s allowed, for the rest of the two weeks.”

  A pause. The priest studied me the way one might study a very sleepy rock that just claimed it had written a book.

  “…Very well. I will inform the High Vicar.”

  He left without another word.

  The door shut gently behind him.

  I exhaled. A long, slow breath that somehow felt like more than just an exhale.

  When the priest relayed the report, the High Vicar barely looked up from his ledger.

  “He wishes to remain?”

  “Yes, Grand Solar Vicar.”

  The Vicar turned one page. Ink scratched. “It is not unusual for one to further study themselves and their newfoundness. He may remain.”

  That was that.

  No suspicion. No tests. Just another Godbeast folding neatly into the shape of tradition.

  No one asked what my awakening had actually been.

  Because I had said the words.

  And sometimes, in this place, words were enough.

  At least… for the people at the top.

  For the ones further down the stairs, closer to the ground—closer to me—words had a different weight.

  Especially when they didn’t come with spectacle.

  The boy was young.

  Probably an acolyte, or something lower. Barely a novice. You could still see the uneven hems of his sleeves, the way he tugged at them like they didn’t fit right, probably because they didn’t. Too big. Maybe handed down from someone taller, holier, and more important.

  He came in with the morning meal.

  Bowl in both hands. Kept his head down.

  He didn’t speak. But he didn’t immediately leave either.

  Set the food down. And wqaited for a moment.

  Watched.

  I didn’t move. I was lying on my side, halfway between nap and meditation. I could feel his eyes on me, darting between my stillness and the cushion, between the barely-touched scroll beside me and the way I breathed like I had nowhere else to be.

  Then, with the sound of the soft scuff of slippers on polished stone, he left.

  The next day, he lingered again.

  Just long enough to watch me shift slightly. Enough to see me yawn—unapologetically—and curl tighter into the cushion like a perfectly seasoned dumpling awaiting marination.

  He didn’t say anything.

  But I saw the way his lips tightened. Like he’d swallowed a sentence he thought might bite back.

  By the tenth day, I heard it.

  Outside the chamber. Young voices that didn’t know how to whisper properly yet, especially not ones still learning which information mattered.

  “I don’t think he did.”

  “Did what?”

  “Awaken.”

  “You were there?”

  “I brought his food. He’s just lying down and sleeping. Every time.”

  A pause.

  “Maybe he’s sick.”

  “I think he failed.”

  The clink of dishes. A quick shuffle. Then:

  “I think he lied to the High Priest.”

  They said it like it wasn’t even a big deal.

  Just a passing thought. But that’s the thing about words in sacred places—once spoken, they seep into stone.

  And what they said… stuck.

  I didn’t hear the rest. The clink of dishes faded, and with it, the scuffle of slippered feet retreating down the hall.

  "I think he lied."

  Not shouted. Not declared. Just spoken plainly, like one might say a door was stuck, or the weather was changing.

  The following morning, a different boy brought my food.

  Older. More starched in posture. He slid the bowl a few inches farther than usual, like my proximity might discredit him. He didn’t even look straight at me in the eye.

  I knew then the first boy had told someone.

  Not officially. Probably not even on purpose.

  I didn’t need ears pressed to walls to know the shape of the story that was forming. It lived in glances. In the way footsteps hesitated outside my door now.

  By the eleventh day, I became a curiosity.

  Servant-priests stopped pretending not to peer in. They’d linger for half a second longer before withdrawing, long enough to confirm I was still there. Still lying on the same cushion. Still unmoved, unglowing, unremarkable.

  They didn’t knock.

  They didn’t ask.

  Because they already had their answer.

  And it was easier to pity a lie than it was to question a truth that made them uncomfortable.

  I sometimes heard them passing near the meditation chambers meant for my siblings.

  “I heard someone saw flames from Venerable Saphiel’s room.”

  “I heard that someone witnessed Venerable Gorran’s fur turn into a shade of dark.”

  “What about the runt?”

  “What about him?”

  “Still in there.”

  “Still?”

  A shrug. “Probably trying to figure out how to say he didn’t actually awaken.”

  Laughter, soft and fleeting, like they felt guilty for finding it funny.

  I remained still.

  Not out of defiance. Not out of shame.

  But because stillness had become my only clear answer.

  They expected motion. They expected light, noise, symbols, echoes of the divine.

  And I had given them none.

  Only breath.

  Only the echo of a name I had chosen in a voice only I had heard.

  Pophet.

  The Gentle Faith That Echoes.

  How ironic, then, that even in awakening, I could not raise a single ripple in their perception of me