Aurora stood frozen by the car door, her hand gripping the handle so hard her knuckles turned white. She stared at her son, her mouth slightly agape, completely stripped of her usual corporate poise.
Blake didn't even look up from his tablet as he climbed into the plush leather seat, his voice dropping into that terrifyingly calm, analytical tone he used for quarterly earnings reports.
"It's basic hereditary mana-density theory, Mom," he continued, his thumb scrolling through a digital chart. "If we look at the historical census of Free Forest City, the correlation between parental rank and offspring awakening is nearly linear. Since you're an Intermediate Mage rank 2, specifically and my father is... well, let's just say 'statistically absent,' the 20% threshold is actually a generous estimate. I'm essentially betting on a mutation at this point."
Aurora felt a cold shiver run down her spine. If only he knew, she thought, her heart hammering against her ribs. If he knew his father wasn't 'absent' but a Saint-rank powerhouse, he'd realize his probability isn't 20% it's a guaranteed, catastrophic 100%.
"Blake..." she started, her voice breathy and uncertain. "It's... It's not all just numbers. Magic is"
"Magic is a biological energy processed through a spiritual conduit, which can be inherited through DNA and soul-resonance," Blake interrupted, finally looking up with a flat, bored expression. "If the 'Solis' line only has one active engine you then the fuel injection for my own core is likely insufficient. I'd have better luck investing in a startup that turns rat-monster tails into silk."
Aurora remained speechless. She had spent a decade carefully layering seals and dampening charms on his soul, praying he would stay "mortal" and invisible to the Saint-level enemies who hunted his father's bloodline. She had worked so hard to make him believe he was ordinary.
And here he was, using the very "ordinariness" she had faked to argue why he should skip his own destiny and go to a board meeting.
"Just... just get in the car, Blake," she finally managed to whisper, her golden eyes shimmering with a mix of guilt and pride.
"Fine," Blake grumbled, settling back into the seat. "But if the stone stays grey, I'm calling the Chief Financial Officer the second I walk out. We're over-budget on the mana-wheat irrigation, and I need someone to blame who isn't me."
As the car pulled away from the white-and-blue mansion, Aurora watched him through the tinted glass. She didn't know whether to laugh at his stubbornness or cry at the fact that her brilliant, "mortal" son was about to walk into a room specifically designed to tear down the very lies she had told him to keep him alive.
Aurora stood on the steps of the white-and-blue mansion, her hand pressed against the cold stone of a decorative pillar. The silence of the courtyard felt heavy as she watched the car disappear into the morning traffic of Free Forest City.
A single, hot tear finally escaped, trailing down her cheek.
"You're too smart for your own good, Blake," she whispered, her voice cracking in the empty air. "You calculate your life based on the lie I fed you. You think you're a 20% gamble because you think I'm just an Intermediate Mage. You think your father is some 'statistical absence' in your DNA."
She closed her eyes, and for a split second, she let her true aura flicker. The air around her didn't just warm; it vibrated with a terrifying, ancient density.
If Blake knew the variables, his "cost-benefit analysis" would have looked like a death warrant:
That both his parents weren't just mages they were Saints.
At the Saint level, the "Awakening" isn't a probability; it's an inheritance. Blake shouldn't just be a mage; he should be a Primal-Tier talent, a "top-tier" monster whose magic-resonance would shatter the Awakening Stone the moment he touched it.
"I can't let it happen," she breathed, clutching the pendant hidden beneath her silk blouse.
In this urban magic world, an unawakened "mortal" was a ghost. They lived in high-rise apartments, ran massive corporations like the Vitas Group, and died of old age in their beds. But a Saint-Blood Mage? They were targets. They were weapons.
"Stay 'mortal,' Blake," she prayed, watching the distant skyline where the Academy's spires reached for the clouds. "Stay a 'high-functioning' CEO. Run your companies, build your cities, and argue about spreadsheets. It's a boring life, a 'mortal' life... but it's a life where I don't have to bury you."
She had spent eleven years weaving seals into his subconscious, dampening his natural resonance, and encouraging his obsession with business anything to keep his mind away from the "Magic" he was so statistically certain he wouldn't have.
She turned back into the mansion, her golden eyes dimming as she reinforced the invisible wards around their home. She had worked so hard to turn a 100% miracle into a 0% failure.
"Forgive me, little star," she whispered to the empty hallway. "I'm not stifling your fire. I'm just trying to keep the world from seeing the smoke."