Paris, Winter, Anno Domini 1000.

The city, known then as Frankia, was cloaked in a heavy blanket of snow. Under the rule of the Capetian dynasty, Paris was evolving into a significant commercial and religious center, with the Île de la Cité housing the royal palace and the new cathedral of Notre-Dame, begun in 1163 .

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Life was arduous. The common folk subsisted on a meager diet of bread, porridge, and occasional vegetables. Women, regardless of their social standing, were expected to manage households and bear children. Children faced a grim reality, with half not surviving past their first year.

Yet, amidst this stark existence, a burst of energy darted through the bustling market near the Seine.

"Make way!" a voice rang out, accompanied by the swift patter of feet.

A boy, no older than twelve, weaved through the crowd with practiced agility. His tattered garments flapped as he moved, revealing a silver cross gleaming against his chest.

"Catch him!" a vendor shouted, shaking a fist. "That rascal snatched an apple!"

The boy grinned, tossing the apple into the air and catching it deftly. "Just ensuring it's ripe!" he called back, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

This was Hugo Bonaparte, a spirited lad of Italian descent. His parents, immigrants from the southern regions, had passed away, leaving him to navigate the streets of Paris alone.

Hugo's laughter echoed as he turned a corner, narrowly avoiding a group of monks.

"Watch it, child!" one exclaimed.

"Apologies, brothers!" Hugo replied, not breaking stride.

He finally slowed near the grand cathedral, its spires reaching towards the heavens. The bells tolled, signaling the end of Sunday prayers.

Children gathered outside, their breath visible in the cold air. Hugo approached, his presence immediately drawing their attention.

"Story time?" a little girl asked, her eyes wide.

Hugo nodded, settling on a stone bench. "Gather 'round, and I'll tell you of a warrior from the East."

The children huddled close, eager for tales of adventure.

"In a land far beyond our own," Hugo began, "there lived a man who could command the very winds. With a staff that could stretch to the heavens, he battled demons and protected the innocent."

The children's eyes widened.

"Did he have a name?" one asked.

Hugo smiled. "Names are powerful. But what's important is his heart. He believed in justice, in standing up for those who couldn't."

As the story unfolded, the children were transported to distant lands, their imaginations ignited by Hugo's vivid descriptions.

After the tale, the children dispersed, their faces alight with wonder.

Hugo stood, brushing snow from his clothes. He entered the cathedral, the warmth and incense enveloping him.

He approached the altar, the silver cross around his neck catching the candlelight.

"Guide me," he whispered, eyes closed.

And there, in the stillness, Hugo Bonaparte stood at the crossroads of destiny, staring at the altar that had a small painting of the virgin Mary holding a baby Jesus in her arms, he’d feel a sense of comfort coming from the altar.

The candles flickered before the altar, their glow casting long shadows across the cathedral's painted walls. The scent of incense clung to the air like a ghost that had overstayed its welcome.

Hugo Bonaparte knelt at the foot of the Holy Trinity. His silver cross gleamed softly on his chest as he clasped his hands and bowed his head. He inhaled deeply, eyes closing.

“Pater noster, qui es in caelis…” he began softly. “Sanctificetur nomen tuum. Adveniat regnum tuum…”

He continued in Latin, a prayer learned by listening to monks, bishops, and every old woman who lived in constant fear of demons:

“…Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo, et in terra. Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie… et dimitte nobis debita nostra, sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris… et ne nos inducas in tentationem… sed libera nos a malo…”

(“Our Father, who art in Heaven… hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread… and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us… and lead us not into temptation… but deliver us from evil…”)

“…Especially the evil that drools fire and wants to rip my soul from my body,” he added quickly, mumbling the last part under his breath.

With a quiet amen, Hugo stood up, gave the Trinity an awkward little salute, and turned on his heel.

“Alright,” he said to no one in particular. “Time for rooftop acrobatics.”

He sprinted down the center aisle of the cathedral, past rows of wooden pews that creaked as if disapproving his speed. An elderly priest coughed and raised a finger in protest, but Hugo had already vaulted out the main door and into the snowy streets.

Moments later, he was halfway up the side of a tavern.

See, Hugo wasn’t just your average medieval orphan with a tragic backstory and suspiciously clean teeth. No, Hugo had mana.

“I can hear you asking what mana is,” Hugo said, breaking the fourth wall as he landed gracefully on a snow-dusted rooftop.

“Let me explain while I do this backflip—”

He backflipped. Perfect form. 10/10. The audience (both literal and imaginary) applauded.

“Mana is basically the gooey stuff inside all living things. It’s not blood, but it might as well be. It fuels magic, miracles, and the occasional fireball to the face. Everyone’s got it. Even that guy in the bakery who smells like cabbage. But most humans? Pfft—barely a drop.”

He slid across the rooftop tiles and did a dramatic superhero pose. A loose tile slipped under his boot, sending him flying backward into a chimney. It echoed like a church bell.

“…Ow,” he groaned.

“Anyway,” he continued while brushing soot off his tunic, “the big exception to the low mana rule? Church people. Popes, bishops, cardinals—they're stacked. They train in secret. Massive mana pools. Battle rituals. Exorcisms. Sword-wielding nuns—well, maybe that one’s just a rumor. But the point is, they’re the frontline against demons. Guess who’s not?”

He pointed both thumbs at himself.

“Me. I’m twelve, I have zero training, and my only spell is the one I accidentally used last year that made a chicken explode.”

A puff of blue mist danced around his fingertips. Hugo wiggled them.

“But I do have this.”

He sat cross-legged on the roof and focused. The mist gathered and coalesced into a tiny orb of shimmering white-blue light—his mana.

It pulsed softly.

“Pretty, right? This is raw mana. Feels like warm water, looks like fairy vomit. Right now, I can’t do much with it. For actual spells—like barrier magic, holy incantations, or summoning a divine sword from the heavens—I’d need a grimoire.”

He made a dramatic gesture with his hand.

“A big, dusty, dramatic book that opens with a loud choom sound and starts glowing. Like… CHOOM!” He jumped up, mimicking a magical light show. “Grimoires are your training wheels until your mana is strong enough to do spells solo.”

He paused.

“…Or you’re just so good at faking it, everyone assumes you’re a prodigy. Which is also a strategy.”

The snow started to fall heavier now, dusting his brown hair. Hugo extended his hand and absorbed the falling flakes into the ball of mana.

“Oh, yeah, forgot to mention. Mana interacts with the world. Nature responds to it. Snow, rain, light, sound—they all bend a little around strong users.”

A bell chimed from the nearby abbey. Hugo looked toward it, then sighed.

“I should go home. Except I don’t have one.”

His voice softened slightly. The mana in his hand dimmed.

“But that’s okay. I’ve got stories. I’ve got a silver cross. And…” He looked down over the market square. “I’ve got work to do.”

Then he struck a ridiculous martial arts pose with one hand glowing blue, the other mimicking a sword.

“The demons out there don’t stand a chance!”

Just as he said that, the roof tile under his foot slipped again.

“OH COME ON—!”

He slid down the roof and crashed into a hay cart below with a loud thump.

A farmer leaned over and stared at him.

“Boy, you alright?”

Hugo raised a thumbs-up from the hay pile. “Perfect landing. I meant to do that.”

The farmer blinked. “Uh-huh”

France — or rather, Frankia, as it was still called in the year of our Lord 1000 — awoke beneath a sky painted pearl-white with frost. The Seine shimmered like glass. The bells of Notre Dame tolled six times, echoing through narrow stone alleys and snow-covered rooftops.

Atop one of those rooftops, a twelve-year-old boy sat cross-legged in the snow, legs numb and backside thoroughly soaked.

He was reading the Bible.

“...and lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world. Amen,” Hugo murmured, tapping the page thoughtfully with one gloved finger.

He closed the book gently, his silver cross bouncing lightly on his chest.

“I dunno, Matthew,” he muttered, glancing heavenward. “The end of the world might be sooner than you think. Especially if this city keeps feeding children pickled herring for breakfast.”

He sighed dramatically, holding the book aloft.

“Chapter Six, verse thirty-four: Do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Spoken like someone who’s never been to a mana selection day!”

He leapt to his feet, wobbling slightly on the icy tiles. In the distance, the northern watchtower of Paris stood like a stony tooth against the pale sky.

The Watchtower of the Grimoire Ceremony.

A yearly tradition, held on the first Saturday of the new year — and, this time, the first Saturday of the new millennium.

It was the day when every person in Paris born with mana above the peasant average (i.e., more than “candle spark” level) was summoned to the tower. There, among towering walls lined with thousands of floating grimoires, each individual would receive the spellbook that resonated with their soul.

Hugo, naturally, was not invited.

“Twelve-year-olds who sleep on bakery roofs don’t usually get ceremonial scrolls,” he said aloud, hopping down from his perch with the Bible tucked under his arm. “But when has ‘not invited’ ever stopped me?”

—

At the base of the watchtower, a procession was already forming.

Priests in long crimson and ivory robes ushered boys and girls of various ages into the tower's great hall. They were examined, tested, whispered over. Some had their hands measured; others had their mana scanned by floating golden relics that hummed like beehives.

Most kids looked unimpressed. One boy was actively picking his nose.

Hugo, by contrast, slipped in through a second-floor window like a spider monkey, landing behind a stack of dusty candlesticks.

He dusted himself off and whispered, “Alright, step one: don't get caught. Step two: pretend I belong here. Step three: don’t let anyone notice I brought the Holy Scriptures to a place crawling with borderline atheists.”

He emerged from behind the candlesticks just in time to walk smack into a bishop.

The bishop — a stern man with an aquiline nose and unnervingly pale eyes — looked down at him with thinly veiled suspicion.

“You. Boy. Who are you?”

“Uh…” Hugo looked down at his peasant clothes. “I’m the… mana torch boy?”

The bishop narrowed his eyes. “There is no torch boy.”

“Then I’m very efficient,” Hugo grinned.

Before the bishop could excommunicate him on the spot, another priest stepped forward — a kindly older man with robes dusted in mana-sparkling snowflakes.

“Wait… is that a Bible?”

Hugo blinked. “Uh… yes?”

“You’re reading it?”

“Yes?”

“Of your own free will?”

“…Yes?”

A gasp rippled through the clerical staff. One nun fainted. A junior deacon choked on his incense.

“A twelve-year-old… who actually reads the Holy Scriptures,” the old priest whispered, crossing himself. “It’s a miracle.”

The bishop stared at Hugo as if he were an entirely new species. “You… believe in God?”

“Well, yeah,” Hugo said, shrugging. “I talk to Him all the time. He doesn’t say much back, but I figure He’s just a good listener.”

More gasps. One acolyte began to cry.

The old priest clapped his hands together. “Bring him into the hall. Let’s see what kind of grimoire seeks him out.”

The bishop frowned. “That is irregular—”

“So is divine intervention,” the priest shot back.

—

The Great Grimoire Hall was an enormous domed chamber, lined with towering walls covered in floating spellbooks. There were thousands — leather-bound, gold-edged, rust-covered, wrapped in chains, glowing with celestial light or smoldering with demonic heat.

Each new initiate stood in the center of the circle, and the grimoires would begin to glow, vibrate, or flat-out fly across the room to choose their master.

Hugo stepped into the circle. Everyone stared.

He rubbed his hands together.

“Alright, tower of magical death-books, let’s see what you got.”

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then — a rumble.

A dozen grimoires rattled.

Thirty more began to glow.

Then the chamber erupted in chaos.

Grimoires from every category — Normal, Abnormal, Divine, and even a few smoking Demonic ones — all shot out of their niches, circling Hugo like a tornado of arcane madness.

One priest screamed. Another began chanting prayers.

Hugo stood in the middle, blinking.

“Is this… good?”

Then — silence.

Every book dropped to the floor like a brick. All except one.

It floated down slowly, pages fluttering open, a soft golden aura emanating from it. It looked humble — old leather, cracked spine, worn ribbon. But its energy pulsed like a heartbeat.

It stopped in front of Hugo.

He reached out and took it.

The priests stared.

“That… that’s not a normal grimoire,” someone whispered.

“It’s not Demonic either.”

“It’s…”

“Divine,” the bishop finished, awestruck.

Hugo blinked. “Cool. Does it shoot fire?”

The book vibrated.

A flaming halo appeared above it.

“YES!” Hugo shouted, holding it aloft. “I AM THE HOLY FLAME!”

The bishop muttered something about heresy and walked away.

—

Outside the tower, Hugo ran into the snowy streets, his new grimoire tucked under one arm, Bible under the other, cross gleaming on his chest.

“I’d say that went well,” he said cheerfully. “No demons. No incineration. No exploding chickens.”

The grimoire flared.

“…Yet.”

He paused and looked up at the sky.

“Thanks for the backup, God,” he said.

Then, laughing, he vanished into the fog.