Unrelenting Practice

In the weeks that followed, Jet Enagelista's life was tightly wound in a web of strict routines.

From dawn to dusk, ensconced in his infant guise, he focused unwaveringly on perfecting the art of controlled breathing and delving into the secrets of his family's ancestral language.

When night cast its shadow, Jet's journey through the world of magic commenced. He'd tinker with spells until the weariness of his efforts finally lulled him into slumber. At the crack of dawn, it all began anew, just as Elina's day was dawning.

He attempted brief respites, but those moments of reprieve were fleeting. In the guise of an infant, life was anything but easy; in fact, it was a symphony of stress.

He remained voiceless, withholding his grasp of language to prevent arousing suspicion. Immobility was his state, his actions limited to observation, sleep, nourishment, and, well, managing his bodily functions.

The transition from his former self to this vulnerable infant proved jarring. The loss of autonomy, the surrender of self-reliance—these were harsh blows to a once independent soul.

Idle time? That was a luxury he couldn't afford. The precipice of insanity beckoned, should he embrace leisure. So, he threw himself into the practice, tirelessly adapting to his surreal existence.

As Jet's mastery over magic grew, so did his command over its fickle nature. Weeks transformed him from novice to journeyman, his courage soaring enough to engage earth and water magics.

He treaded cautiously, summoning but droplets of water and modest portions of soil. Mid-air levitation, sculpting elements through the drain of his mana—it was a dance he tirelessly orchestrated.

Nightly pursuits transitioned from raw power to finesse. Mana was a limited currency, and Jet cherished its judicious expenditure over flamboyance. Flying under the radar was paramount; the world wouldn't welcome a baby with supernatural abilities with open arms, that much he was sure of.

For all the world's familiarity with magic, the idea of a spell-flinging infant was bound to raise eyebrows, or more dramatically, elicit screams.

The specter of abandonment loomed, a terror eclipsed only by the dread of exposure and possible extinction.

In a twist of fate, Jet had found himself afraid of dying again—this time with his stakes exponentially higher. What were the odds of reincarnating into yet another world that held magic, born anew into a family of warmth and love?

Slim to none, he figured. Precisely zero.

This hand he'd been dealt, he had to play close to the vest. Before revealing even a whiff of his magical prowess, he needed to gauge this world's norm. The threshold between prodigy and monster, that was a line he couldn't blur.

His thoughts swirled in an anxious dance, a relentless waltz only eased by his ceaseless practice.

Three months later, Jet's mastery of silent spells paved the way for fiery ambition. The fireplace beckoned as his canvas. Amidst breakfast bustle, he dared the flames to sway to his will, a bold gambit that fizzled out—the flames proved mightier than his fledgling power.

Still, he persisted. The magic flowed, though its effect remained frail, akin to a whisper in the tempest of fire. Yet, each attempt expanded his mastery, broadened his sense of mana, and sharpened his understanding of the arcane.

The grumbling belly was an inevitable side effect of this prodigious training. Fortunately, Elina was seasoned in nurturing voracious younglings, her milk ever abundant.

Time pressed on, another moon waxed and waned, and the process of weaning began under Elina's attentive gaze.

Two crucial lessons unfurled within this transition. The first, a revelation born of Jet's limited yet potent vocabulary, revealed that sustenance was a precious commodity in his household. The distress etched on his parents' faces spoke volumes, though words failed him.

For all his cynicism and emotional barricades, guilt crept in. The disconnect between his calculating nature and their genuine love, it tugged at something deep within him.

The exceptions stood out starkly: Elina and Eliza, his sister. They shattered the fortress around his heart with unwavering devotion, their affection dissolving the icy demeanor that was once his armor.

In their embrace, Jet's definition of family expanded, and the lines blurred between puppeteer and participant.

And thus began Jet Enagelista's endeavor to rein in his training, a feat of balancing skill and sustenance.

Perfecting this balance proved a trial and error, for too little training meant anxiety-inducing concern, while excessive practice strained already meager resources.

But amidst these trials, Jet's journey revealed game-changing revelations.

His magical pursuits curtailed, he directed his newfound free time towards refining the "Accumulation" breathing technique. It was as though his inner energies, his "mana core," responded to his dedication by surging forward, but not without a bottleneck in sight.

Strangely, Jet's miniature form couldn't accommodate an infinite reservoir of mana. A size and strength mismatch, or perhaps a conjunction of both, prevented this unquenchable magic vessel. Such an observation never presented itself when he was growing at a human rate; his mana core expanded in tandem.

Now, this harmony was shattered, and every session of Accumulation seemed to morph into an agonizing ordeal. Jet grappled with the harsh truth of his limitations, forced to halt his practice.

Thankfully, his appetite remained hearty and development progressed apace. So even though he couldn't flex his physical muscles, these bottlenecks weren't bound to persist.

His second revelation dawned during the ban on magic and Accumulation. A deviation emerged within the breathing technique—removing the breath-holding step restructured the flow of world energy. Inundation and release of this energy invigorated him akin to a night's restorative sleep.

He christened this evolution "Invigoration."

Multiple trials unveiled that the world's mana could fuel days of wakefulness, though not an indefinite stretch. With each application of Invigoration, its potency dwindled, only a night's slumber able to reset its rejuvenating force.

As luck would have it, the most crucial discovery was a product of serendipity.

Fine-tuning his food intake, Jet's foremost adversary became an incessant hunger. Not the casual craving conquered by a snack, nor the morning munchies after a rigorous workout. No, this was an unending hunger that lurked even post-meal.

While Jet wasn't exactly starving, it was an unfamiliar sensation. Amidst all the tribulations of his past life, never had food scarcity been a concern. He'd savored meals to his heart's content, picky palate in tow.

Now, this hunger raged so intensely that he devoured every morsel, pausing only due to his infantile limitations. If allowed, he might have licked his plate clean.

On better days, when portions were substantial, the hunger was like background noise—annoying, but bearable. But during lean times, whether due to restricted rations or mana-consuming magical training, it became a thorn in his consciousness. It transformed into a ceaseless headache, rendering him light-headed, unfocused, and tethered to thoughts of food.

He was not alone in this famished state. Elina was an exception, as were his siblings Orpal and Eliza, tasked with feeding him.

Eliza's compassion mirrored her mother's, a sincere desire to care for him. Orpal, on the other hand, simmered with increasing resentment, a discontent stoked by hunger and resentment.

In his mind, he harkened back to the days when he and Jet were the sole occupants of their parents' attention. Now, in addition to daily battles for parental affection, they also struggled for food, clothing, and more.

A once private room now yielded to sharing with Trion, and it was just a matter of time before Jet would claim what little personal space remained.

Orpal's confusion was palpable. In a family financially stretched, why continue to bring children into a world they couldn't provide for?

The grip of winter further strained their resources. Little work could be done in the cold, and thus, the food stockpiles needed to last until spring.

For farmers' families, winter proved the harshest time, with not just humans but also livestock relying on their sustenance.

Orpal had reached a breaking point, his patience exhausted by watching Jet consume food without bounds. He bestowed upon Jet the nickname "Leech," symbolic of the sustenance Jet drained from their household.

Thus, on the day when both parents were away, occupied by a cow suffering from frostbite, Orpal took charge of feeding Jet. With a plate of creamy soup before him, Orpal decided to taste the spoils himself, taking a defiant gulp.

And in response, Jet's wails pierced the air. However, there was no audience to hear, no cavalry to come to his aid.

"Cry all you want, Leech," Jet understood the words, the venom dripping from Orpal's tone. "Today, it's just you and me. No shining-armored mom to rescue you." Another deliberate spoonful disappeared down Orpal's throat.

A maddening sensation engulfed Jet. Once again, powerless, his mastery of magic rendered moot in his hour of need. What recourse remained, except to surrender, to reveal himself?

"Fan him? Drench him? Flames are too risky, not worth burning down the place for a single meal," Jet Enagelista mused.

Hunger gnawed at him, rage fanning the flames of his irritation, surpassing even his own expectations.

"You little... you think you're something, stealing from a child?" His internal monologue screamed with a venomous force. "You're a real tough guy, huh?"

His gaze fixated on the third spoonful, more than half of his food disappearing toward Orpal's self-satisfied grin.

Jet's fury reached an apex, his ire now an inferno.

"You're not my brother," he seethed inwardly, his voice sharp as a blade. "You're a filthy thief, lower than dirt!" It was as if a bolt clicked in his psyche, something within breaking like a dam buckling under the pressure of surging waters.

"I HOPE THAT SPOON CHOKES YOU, YOU PIECE OF...!" Jet's arm slashed out against Orpal, a final desperate stand. Then, in that instant, it happened.

A surge of mana coursed from Jet's being, converging on the spoon that had dared to invade his meal. A push, unyielding and powerful, forced the spoon deeper into Orpal's mouth.

Orpal's throat constricted, choked sounds escaping as he gagged and retched. The spoon was dislodged, but not without consequence, as he heaved in nauseous response.

For a moment, Jet was too stunned to even consider his wrath or the persistent pang of hunger. In this revelation, he glimpsed something incredible, a power that seemed exclusive to him in this family.

He had uncovered spirit magic!