Awakening in The World of Gods

A month and a half had passed since that day. Poll lay sprawled on his bed, staring at the ceiling like it held the answers to the universe. His injuries had finally healed, and he could move freely again. Still, the memory of the explosion—and the consequences of his genius—lingered.

Why did it take so long for my wounds to heal, even with healing magic? he mused, scratching his chin. Maybe it was.... some kind of radioactive interference in my Mana circuits ?

He sighed and shifted his gaze to his hand, flexing it experimentally. It was surreal. He remembered the chaos vividly—his mana flaring wildly near a literal nuclear explosion.

Oh yeah, that's when I had the brilliant idea to combine mana with nuclear energy. He winced. Nice job, me.

His mind drifted back to his past life, poring over papers about nuclear reactors. He'd been a man of science then, methodical, logical… and clearly, none of that stuck.

Now I know what happens when you try casting dangerous spells without a staff. He groaned and flopped an arm over his face. My first spell was way too OP. A low chuckle escaped him. "I'm a walking disaster."

But as much as the memory made him cringe, it also excited him. The sheer power, the potential! "Mana and science together… if I can figure that out, I'll be unstoppable. Or at least less likely to blow myself up again."

His eyes narrowed. And maybe I can find out what kind of books Mom's been hiding from me. She totally thinks I learned that spell from her library. Classic Mom logic.

Poll finally dragged himself out of bed, stretching until his joints popped. The sunlight filtered through the window, bathing the room in a warm glow. It was one of those mornings that felt… hopeful. He made his way downstairs, practically bouncing with energy.

"Good morning, Father!" he called, flashing a grin as he entered the dining room.

Eryndor looked up from a stack of papers, his usual stern expression softening slightly. "Good morning, Poll. How are you feeling today?"

Poll gave a thumbs up. "Good as new! No more pain, and I can move around without any issues." He struck a triumphant pose, clearly enjoying his newfound mobility.

Eryndor smirked. "That's good to hear. Though, I suppose you've got something serious on your mind?"

Poll's grin faltered for a second. "Yeah… about that spell. I think I messed up—big time."

Eryndor set his papers aside, his expression turning thoughtful. "Ah, so you're ready to talk about it?"

Poll nodded. "Yeah, but I'm still piecing things together. I don't think I understand magic as much as I thought I did."

Eryndor chuckled. "We'll discuss it over dinner. Your mother should be here for that conversation."

"Where is Mom, anyway?"

"She went shopping."

Poll blinked. "Shopping? Again? She's like a treasure hunter with a grocery list."

Eryndor shook his head, amused. "She's thorough, I'll give her that."

After a quick breakfast, Poll stepped into the courtyard, basking in the warmth of the sun. The breeze carried the scent of fresh grass and flowers, the kind of peaceful morning vibe that clashed hilariously with his inner turmoil.

He eyed the wooden sword leaning against the wall. Picking it up, he gave it a few experimental swings. His muscles, still a bit stiff, protested at first but soon fell into rhythm.

I could practice a small spell, he thought, temptation tugging at him. But then he remembered the promised dinner discussion. Nah, better wait. Mom would definitely bust me if she found out.

He focused on his swordwork instead, running through the drills his father had taught him: careful strikes, quick footwork, and precision. Each swing felt better, more natural, as if his body was waking up after a long nap.

From the house, Eryndor watched through the window, arms crossed. A rare, quiet smile touched his lips.

Good. He's not rushing into magic, he thought, nodding to himself. He's starting to learn restraint.

Poll, blissfully unaware of his dad's silent approval, continued his practice, each swing of the wooden sword filled with determination.

His thoughts, however, weren't nearly as composed.

Maybe I should name this sword… he mused. Like, "Slicer of Vegetables" or "The Wooden Wonder."

The wind caught his hair as he imagined his opponent falling. Poll grinned, twirling the sword once more. "Fear me, world! For I am Poll—Master of Magic and Science! Slayer of Explosions! Eater of Mom's Pancakes!"

The birds paused their chirping for a moment, as if collectively deciding that this human was a little too much.

Poll stopped, lowering the sword. "Yeah, maybe I should just stick to training. Save the drama for dinner."