"So" continued the teacher, returning to his usual bored tone, "since with the white level you can't use medium, high, master or professional spells, you'll need to increase the level of your magic rune."
Nothing surprising there. It was already becoming clear that, as things stood, I was nothing more than a glorified beginner.
"Pay close attention now" said the teacher, walking slowly around the room while keeping his hands behind him. "During meditation, the main aim is not just to calm the mind, but to consciously direct the mana. You should start by channeling the energy around the core, forming a kind of outer layer. The denser this layer becomes, the more effective the process will be."
He paused, watching the students.
"When this density reaches a critical point" he continued. "the nucleus begins to react. It absorbs this compressed layer of mana and, at that moment, an internal change takes place: the magic rune engraved on the core evolves. It's as if it were rewritten at a higher level."
The teacher then pointed to a diagram on the blackboard, where a glowing core was surrounded by concentric layers.
"This advancement not only raises your magic level, but also significantly expands the maximum capacity of mana that your body is able to store. It's a delicate process that requires practice, patience and absolute control over the flow of your energy."
He then looked directly at the students in the front row.
"And remember: forcing the density beyond what you can control can cause instability in the core... and nobody here wants to deal with a magical collapse, right?"
Some students laughed nervously, others swallowed.
I understood what he was saying - he was technical, methodical, but above all, mechanical. He spoke like someone teaching someone how to fill a canteen: no emotion, just procedure.
"When you reach the yellow level," he said, and then his voice finally changed, with a hint of reverence. "a protective film of many forms around the wizard's body. A layer that cannot be pierced or cut by ordinary weapons."
There was silence for a moment. That was impressive. Imagining it reminded me of legendary warriors enveloped by an invisible aura of absolute power.
"That's why..." added the professor. "that mages have been considered stronger than warriors since ancient times."
But that last sentence sounded... wrong. Or perhaps too arrogant.
Stronger than warriors?
It was at that moment that, without warning, the memory of my old sensei emerged like a bolt of lightning in the middle of the calm. I remembered what he always said, with a smile that was half crooked, half mischievous:
'There's nothing you can't cut.'
I remembered with clarity the moment he proved it. We were standing in silence in the woods when he wielded his katana and unceremoniously cut down a tree trunk so thick that two grown men couldn't hold it. With a single clean, dry, direct blow.
It was there, in that instant frozen in time, that I began to suspect that my teacher wasn't just a man. That... that was something else. It was as if he was conspiring with the forces of the invisible. As if he knew mana, even though he had never spoken about it. As if he breathed it.
And after that day, he showed up with shiny new katanas and simply said:
'Now it's up to you. I want you to do the same.
Most of them laughed. Others backed away. I, for some reason, tried.
I concentrated my breathing, focused all my senses, aligned my mind with the edge of the blade. I could hear my own blood rushing.
And then... I cut.
Not the whole torso, of course. But ten centimeters. A deep, clean opening in the wood. I felt the impact echo in my arm, in my bones, like a wave going through my body. A fissure opening up between what I thought was possible and what really was.
That day, for the first time, I realized that perhaps more than one teacher was in cahoots with this "something bigger".
The truth is that, after that first cut, the sensei began to really train me. Not the basics. Not in the trivial. But in the essence of what it meant to cut.
He kept repeating a phrase that ended up engraved in me, like a secret rune:
'The blade must not move even a micron outside its flight path'.
It sounded technical at first glance - and it was - but over time I realized the philosophical weight of that phrase.
It wasn't just about firmness. It was about intention. About purity of movement.
If the blade wavered, even for an instant, it wasn't a cut. It was an attempt. A slap.
And the sensei didn't accept attempts.
"If you step out of line" he would say with an almost pitying smile. "It will be a slash, not a cut. And blows don't kill. Cuts do."
I practiced with everything I had. I even used a dull knife over and over again against paper, wood, even fallen leaves on the ground.
The knife ricocheted, groaning against the friction. But that was the point: if I could make a clean cut with a dull blade... well, then, when I had a sharp one in my hands, it would cut itself.
That's what he said, at least.
And, deep down, I believed it.
Of course, there were other things.
Things that the others ignored.
The way to find the central axis of the weapon, the balance between the weight of the blade and the direction of intention. The grip - which varied by millimeters depending on the technique.
And, perhaps most esoteric of all, something he called "spiritual flow".
At first, it sounded like cheap mysticism. But one day he brought into class a kind of anatomical figure - a wooden doll, with lines and dots traced along its body - that made me freeze.
I knew it.
It was in one of my mother's old books.
Books that I wasn't allowed to touch, but which I would sneak through, fascinated by the strange illustrations and texts in languages that seemed to mix science and faith.
At that moment, I knew for sure: the sensei wasn't just a swordsman. He knew something we weren't taught.
While the others laughed and whispered, calling him a weirdo, a crazy old man full of crackpot theories, I...
I respected him.
For me, he was the impossible fusion between a good uncle - the one who brings you a hidden sweet when your mother is angry - and a silent god, the kind who doesn't ask for faith, just practice.
He had a look that saw through skin. He saw you not as you were, but as you could be.
And, come to think of it, I think he even replaced my father at times.
Not that my biological father was bad. He was... something else.
He was more like a partner. An accomplice in small, unimportant adventures.
The kind of man you'd call over for coffee, to chat, to discuss who would win in a fight between samurai and cyborgs.
He was a programmer. An addict of computers, screens, code and hardware.
But he never taught me how to cut.
He didn't teach me where the spirit ends and the blade begins.
The sensei did.
And now, with this new world of mana, runes and breathless meditation, I'm starting to wonder:
Did he always know this world existed? Did it come from him?
Or was he - like me - just waiting for the chance to finally understand what he had always felt in the depths of his soul?
The memories come back, yes.
But not only them.
So does doubt.
And along with it... a strange expectation.
Something tells me that my real apprenticeship hasn't even begun yet.