The Power of Creation
Copyright© 2026 by Vasantrutu
Chapter 3: Mining Part 1
I made my way back home as the sun climbed higher into the sky. When I entered, I found my entire family already gathered, waiting for me to have breakfast with them. The smell of warm bread and herbs filled the room. I washed my hands and face, then took my place at the table and began the first meal of the day.
My parents asked me many questions—about what I had felt, what I had discovered, and what I had done through the night. I explained everything honestly, except for one thing. I said nothing about my spatial magic. About that, I remained silent.
Father listened carefully, his expression shifting between concern and amazement. When I spoke about my mana capacity, his eyes widened slightly. He did not fully understand it, but he was clearly proud—and relieved.
After breakfast, we gathered at the center of the village to await the arrival of the priest.
When he arrived, he seated himself at the head table with the elders. All the children who had awakened their talents during the previous month were called forward. There were twenty of us in total. We stood in a loose line, some nervous, some excited.
Except for me.
Every other child wished to leave for the city.
The priest looked at us one by one, his gaze distant and indifferent, as though we were items on a list rather than people. When his eyes passed over me, my heart skipped—but he did not pause. He simply swept his gaze across the group and nodded once.
I felt a quiet wave of relief.
After sharing a small drink with the elders and exchanging a few brief words, the priest departed—taking the chosen children with him. Just like that, the future of many families changed forever.
For the rest of us, the day continued as usual.
I accompanied my father toward the mine entrance, the familiar sounds of metal, stone, and distant echoes greeting us as we approached. The air smelled of dust and ore, heavy and sharp.
Father looked around and called out to a man known as Iron Hauler—a broad-backed worker with years of mining etched into his posture. After a short exchange, Father instructed him to take me under his care and teach me the basics: how to identify ores and crystals, how to recognize veins, and how to mine safely.
I made sure to show genuine interest.
Mining, after all, would be useful to me.
Because of that, I was placed directly under Iron Hauler’s supervision. He knelt slightly to my level, gave me a long look, then nodded as if satisfied.
First, he fitted me with a sturdy helmet sized for my head. Then he handed me a small pickaxe—light enough for my arms, but properly balanced. Finally, he gave me a woven basket to carry whatever ore I managed to extract.
“Mining isn’t about strength,” he said gruffly. “It’s about knowing where to strike—and where not to.”
Holding the tools in my hands, I felt a quiet excitement settle in my chest.
This was my first step.
Not toward power.
But toward foundation.
The moment I stepped into the mine, I was stunned.
For an instant, a memory surfaced—of a cave I had once visited as a tourist in my previous life on Earth. Back then, it had felt vast, mysterious, and safe. This place was different. The air was heavier, thick with dust and the metallic scent of ore. The walls seemed closer, the darkness deeper, and the echoes sharper.
Before I could stand still long enough to take it all in, a firm shove hit my back.
“Kid,” Iron Hauler growled, “never stand in one place unless you’re mining or gathering ore.”
That was the first rule he taught me.
I nodded quickly and followed him deeper inside.
We stopped at a section of the tunnel where a cluster of dark metal jutted out from the stone wall. The ore was black with faint silver streaks running through it.
“Iron,” he said, pointing at it. “Hit there.”
He handed me the pickaxe and then turned away, resuming his own work as though I no longer existed.
I didn’t complain.
Instead, I watched.
I observed the angle of his swings, the rhythm of his breathing, the way he tested the stone before striking. When I raised my pickaxe and copied his movements, the result was ... disappointing. The pick struck the ore again and again, producing nothing but dull metallic sounds.
I glanced toward Iron Hauler, but he was busy, entirely focused on his task.
So I kept swinging.
My arms burned. My grip weakened. Sweat dripped down my face. And then—after nearly an hour—a small piece finally broke free.
It wasn’t much.
A single, modest iron cluster.
But it was mine.
I held it in my hands with quiet pride. My first ore.
From that day onward, the rest of the month became a lesson in survival as much as labor.
Iron Hauler taught me how the tunnels were laid out—main paths, side veins, and dead ends. He drilled safety rules into me relentlessly. Never mine directly above your head. Always test the ceiling before striking the wall. If dust begins to fall without cause, retreat immediately. If you hear stone groaning, stop moving. If an alarm sounds, drop everything and run—never look back.
He showed me the emergency exits, the secondary escape routes, and the markings carved into the walls that only miners understood. Three slashes meant an unstable ceiling. A circle meant a beast sighting in nearby tunnels. A broken line meant a collapsed route.
For the entire month, I followed him wherever he went.
Because I was new, he showed me everything—safe tunnels I was allowed to enter, dangerous ones I was forbidden from approaching, and the difference between a tunnel that looked safe and one that truly was. I learned how sound traveled differently through hollow rock, how air currents could warn of open caverns or beast movement, and why miners never worked alone in unfamiliar sections.
By the end of the month, I had gained a basic understanding of mining—how ore formed, how tunnels were maintained, and how easily mistakes could turn fatal.
My hands were rough and covered in calluses. My arms ached every night. There were days when I could barely lift the pickaxe by the end of a shift.
But I was satisfied.
The pain was real, but so were the results.
And whenever the aches became too much, my mother was there—quietly applying her salves, easing the strain from my muscles without a word of complaint.
This was only the beginning.
But even in that first month, deep underground, I learned something important.
The mine did not forgive carelessness.
And it rewarded patience.
When Iron Hauler was finally satisfied that I had memorized the basic safety rules and could read the markings without hesitation, he moved on to the next lesson.
Stress lines.
He explained that the mine did not collapse randomly. Stone always gave warnings—if one knew how to read them. A thin crack in a wall could extend upward, branching invisibly into the ceiling. A harmless-looking line could be carrying the weight of tons of rock above it.
“Stone doesn’t fall,” he told me. “It’s released.”
He showed me how stress lines often spread outward from old impacts, how ceilings fractured in patterns that were easy to miss if one was careless or tired. A single strike in the wrong place could cause the entire structure to give way.
One day, he took me to an abandoned tunnel that had long been declared unsafe.
“Watch,” he said.
He raised his pickaxe and struck a faint line etched into the wall with all his strength. For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then the ceiling groaned.
A rock the size of a barrel tore free and crashed to the ground, exploding into fragments where we had been standing moments earlier.
“That,” Iron Hauler said calmly, “is why miners die.”
After that, he made me trace stress lines with my fingers, forced me to point them out before I was allowed to strike, and corrected me without mercy when I missed even the faintest crack.
It was during this period that I noticed another child working in the mine.
He was around my age, thin and quick, assigned to lighter work just like me. We began exchanging words during breaks, then conversations while mining. To pass the long hours underground, we shared half-made stories and childish dreams—things neither of us truly believed in, but enjoyed pretending were possible.
One day, while we were talking, he raised his pickaxe and struck the wall beside him.
I saw it instantly.
A hairline crack—barely visible—ran from where his pick landed and vanished into the ceiling. A soft hiss followed, and dust began to fall.
“Move!” I shouted.
I didn’t think. I lunged.
I slammed into him and dragged him down with me, rolling us both across the stone floor just as the ceiling gave way. A slab of rock crashed down where he had been standing, shattering and sending debris flying.
We lay there, stunned, dust filling the air.
If we had been a step closer, the fall would have crushed our legs.
Or worse.
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