If we were to rank the greatest mysteries of our world, placing them in a list from the most profound to the least, most commoners, and even the majority of mages and knights, would instinctively place mana at the very top. And, frankly, it would be hard to argue against them. After all, mana is the very essence of life itself. It is the foundation upon which our civilisation, our magic, and our very survival are built.
Mana is infinite. The mysteries surrounding its behaviour, its origin, and its will—yes, its will—are countless. Some say it flows like water. Others say it listens, chooses, punishes, and bestows. It grants power to some, withholds it from others, and never once explains why. Elemental affinities, natures, resonance patterns, the inexplicable variety in mana types across different regions and individuals—none of it has ever been fully understood, nor has it ever followed a universal law. All we know is that mana is present, it is active, and it is meant to be utilised.
And yet…
If you were to ask a scholar, a true scholar—or perhaps a researcher who's spent their life at the edge of magic and madness, or even one of the saints, the legendary few who walk the path closest to the divine… their answer might surprise you.
They would not place mana at the top of that list.
They would place the mind—our brain, the throne of thought, memory, and perception—as the greatest mystery known to mankind. And the wise ones among them? The ones who have experienced both the blessings and the burdens of knowledge? They would not hesitate for even a moment.
Because the mind does not merely allow us to live. It allows us to command.
It is the singular organ that controls, coordinates, and dictates every action of our existence—from the unconscious rhythm of our heartbeat to the complex sequences of a spell's activation. Even the mana core, that pulsating, ever-churning source of our energy, obeys the mind's will. It is the mind that interprets mana, manipulates it, and makes sense of the chaotic currents flowing through the world.
And with all this power, comes an unbearable burden.
Any mana-related activity—whether it be something as simple as reinforcing a limb, a weapon, or as subtle as cloaking one's presence, or as demanding as sensing one's surroundings—relies upon just two components: the mana core… and the mind.
The core? It's built for it. It is mana. It was designed—by nature or by divinity—to channel, to burn, to resonate, having an infinite source.
But the brain? The brain was never meant to be a multitool.
Unlike the mana core, the brain is not an infinite source, nor does it have one to rely upon. It doesn't regenerate on command. It's a living, breathing, vulnerable thing—already burdened with keeping the heart pumping, the lungs breathing, the body moving. Piling magical computation on top of that? Dangerous. Reckless. Fatal, if left unchecked.
And yet, we do it. Again and again. Every day.
Because we must.
And that's where the trouble begins.
You see, when we overuse our senses—when we stretch them out, push them beyond their natural range, let them scan kilometres of terrain, creatures, and threats—we are not just burning mana.
We are burning our minds, metaphorically and literally.
And the price for that? Which easily turns into overuse?
It's called the Crashdown.
We, the sentient and warm-blooded beings, naturally radiate heat. It's why our bodies sweat when we fight, or train, or move too fast. It's a built-in mechanism, a natural cooling system that prevents us from overheating, protects our muscles, and preserves our stamina. This heat signature, when combined with the raw presence of our mana, creates a hybrid, a mana signature—a pulse of energy, a kind of magical fingerprint.
Now imagine what happens when we push ourselves too far—when we fight with everything we've got, physically and mentally.
We don't just sweat. We drain.
We dehydrate. Our energy depletes. Our thoughts grow sluggish, our reactions dulled. We feel exhausted—and not just in our muscles, but in our very thoughts. Our instincts begin to fail.
It's easy to manage the body. The heart is a muscle—it can be trained, refined, and honed. There are techniques, ancient arts, breathing patterns, and postures passed down through generations that allow us to control our heartbeats in battle. Meditation, yoga, mana harmonisation, all of it helps create what is known as the mind-muscle connection—an understanding between the conscious and the unconscious. Through this, even the pulse can be commanded. Fear can be quieted. Panic can be suppressed.
And the mana core? It spins, it pulses, it breathes mana like lungs breathe air. It, too, can be slowed, calmed, and made to rest, which is just slowing down it's rotation, which in turn slows the circulation, as a result.
Now shift this lens from the physical to the mental, especially during combat, where both are pushed to the extreme.
While the mana core and the heart can be voluntarily controlled, we can consciously manage our heartbeat, stop it from spiking when things get tense. All of this matters—because in life-or-death scenarios, the small things compound.
And they're not small anymore.
They become the difference between victory and death. Between standing tall and crashing down. Between surviving... or not.
But the brain? The brain is neither muscle nor mana.
It's fire—pure, uncontained, burning fire. It's fragile in a way that no sword or shield can defend. It does not send traditional warnings. It does not scream until it breaks.
And when it does?
That's when the initial crashdown begins.
Each and every training method we've developed over the centuries to manage the heart or the mana core—every breathwork sequence, every meditative chant, every physical maneuver or internal rhythm—we owe all of it to one thing: the brain. It's the brain that initiates. The brain that controls. The brain that adjusts. You want to lower your heart rate mid-battle? The brain enables it. You want to stabilize your mana rotation under pressure? The brain does the math, controls the current, holds the rhythm.
But here's the irony.
There exists no such system—no perfect spell, technique, or ancient art—that can directly regulate the brain itself. You can soothe the body. You can temper the mana core. But the brain?
The brain suffers alone.
And that's exactly where the process we now call Cooldown comes in—not as something we invented, but something our bodies, through thousands of years of bloodshed, terror, war, and survival, evolved.
After all, we're a species notorious for one thing above all: resilience. We outlast. We adapt. We recover.
But even resilience has limits.
From simple incantations like a basic mana arc to terrifyingly powerful spells—like manifesting a pure elemental nature into a tangible form—each spell requires multiple processes to run simultaneously. You're not just channeling mana. You're regulating it. Shaping it. Stabilizing it. Controlling it. All while moving, fighting, sensing, predicting, defending. And to add insult to injury, you're also absorbing ambient mana the entire time, actively replenishing as you deplete.
That's five to six simultaneous high-level mental processes.
No rest.
No reprieve.
And the moment you lose control of even one? The brain does what it always does. It compensates.
Until it can't.
Eventually, the mind overheats—literally. Its internal temperature rises, quietly at first, unnoticed in the heat of battle… until the burden builds to the breaking point. If left unchecked, this leads to a phenomenon we call Crashdown—a critical early warning system. The mind's desperate plea. It's version of screaming:
"SLOW THE HELL DOWN AND LET ME BREATHE."
Crashdown isn't just mental. Its effects are felt across the entire body, like a sudden tremor beneath the skin. Your limbs start lagging. Your reaction time slips. Every movement feels heavy, every thought delayed by a fraction of a second… and in a fight, that's all it takes.
But if that cry for help is ignored… the next phase begins.
The Meltdown.
A terrifying, irreversible collapse.
During a meltdown, the brain, already overburdened, overclocked, and overheated, starts to melt.
No, not literally dripping like wax… but biologically, structurally, internally—it begins to break down, cell by cell. Neuron by neuron. And worse than the damage is the experience itself. It's slow, it's painful, and it's inescapable. Your consciousness burns inside your own skull. You're aware of every second—hyper-aware, in fact—but you cannot stop it. The only thing your body allows you to do in that moment… is scream.
And scream you will.
Because once it begins, there's nothing you can do for yourself. No technique, no mantra, no breathing pattern will work. You cannot concentrate. You cannot reason. Your thoughts scatter like ash in a storm. You're trapped in a furnace made of your own failing thoughts.
Only external intervention can save you then.
But even that doesn't come without a price.
Those few—very few-who've lived through a Meltdown and emerged on the other side with their lives intact, say the same thing every time: they would have rather lost their mana core, would have chosen to never cast again, than suffer even a second of that torment.
Because the aftermath… is permanent.
The damage to the brain—the cracks in its ability to regulate, interpret, or command—is irreversible. No spell, no potion, no saint's blessing has been able to restore it. Not yet. Perhaps never.
It leaves scars deeper than mana-death. It leaves you hollow.
'The mastermind, huh? No wonder…'
Of course, she would know this. Of course, she'd take time for her Cooldown. Forza wasn't just a fighter. She wasn't just fast or skilled or powerful.
She was a researcher, and more importantly, smart and sensible than the rest, cautious than most.